The Death Instinct

Chapter Twenty

On late November evenings a change comes to the air of lower Manhattan. Biting currents from the Atlantic pour into the harbor at the southern tip of the island. There, the massive skyscrapers function as wind tunnels, channeling and compressing the turbulent air until its force is so great it will halt a grown man in his tracks and, if he doesn't put his shoulders to it, send him reeling.

Littlemore, passing the dark Sub-Treasury Building in the shadows of Wall Street, was used to that wind. The sign of this acquaintance was that he walked at a sixty-degree angle when facing it and never took his hand from his hat. Secretary Houston, arriving by car at the neighboring, brilliantly lit Assay Office, still guarded by a platoon of federal troops, was not used to it. The sign of this unfamiliarity was that he lost his top hat the moment he stepped out of his long black- and-gold Packard.

Another well-dressed gentleman emerged from the car as well. Although their conversation was in whispers, the wind carried snatches to Littlemore, who could hear Houston assuring the man that payment would be forthcoming. The gentleman shook Houston's hand and crossed the street to the Morgan Bank.

Secretary Houston surveyed the rank of infantrymen in the glare of military klieg lights. His top hat lay only a foot from one of the soldiers, who stood at sharp attention, making no motion to come to the Secretary's haberdashery assistance. Houston strode to the building's steps to retrieve his hat, but as if the Secretary were the straight man in a vaudeville prank, at the moment he bent to pick it up, a malicious wind plucked up the hat and spun it into the shadows of the street. It happened to come to rest near the detective, who dusted it off and, stepping into the light, offered it to the Treasury Secretary.

'Agent Littlemore,' said Houston. 'Lurking in wait is becoming habitual with you. I don't think I approve. How did you know I would be here?'

'From your calendar,' replied Littlemore.

'You went through my private calendar?'

'Your secretary left it open on the desk. Was that Mr Lamont, sir?'

'Yes. The bankers are gathering in force tonight. Never a good sign.'

'The war with Mexico?'

'Obviously.'

'Worried about it, Mr Houston?'

'Blast it — why does everyone keep asking me that? I'm worried to the extent that the nation's treasure will be called on. What do you know about this Mexican business? More than what you read in the papers, I think. Where are you getting your information, Littlemore? And what are you doing here?'

'Just wanted to have a look inside the Assay Office, Mr Houston.'

'Why?'

'Maybe the stolen gold's hidden inside there. That would explain why no one saw the getaway truck. They wouldn't have seen a getaway truck if there was no getaway truck.'

'Nonsense. I've been in the Assay Office a dozen times since September sixteenth. The gold's not here.'

The detective scratched the back of his head. 'With nearly a billion dollars of gold in this building, sir, you can tell that the four million we're looking for isn't here?'

'Yes, I can. I can also tell that the period of your usefulness to me has come to an end. But that won't disturb you, since you haven't been working for me for some time already. You're Senator Fall's man, aren't you? What did he promise you?'

'Did you happen to look for the gold in the hidden safe room on the second floor, Mr Houston? The one behind the wall of the superintendent's office?'

A new expression flashed momentarily in Houston's eyes. Littlemore's practiced eye recognized it at once: guilt. Houston whispered angrily: 'How do you know about that room?'

'From the architectural plans, Mr Secretary. You gave them to me. I also found the work order you signed, authorizing Riggs and the rest of your boys to start moving the gold on the night of September fifteenth.'

'What is that supposed to prove?'

'Nothing. Mind if I come with you into the building, sir?'

Houston turned his back to Littlemore and, braving the wind, mounted the stairs, calling out to the two soldiers posted closest to the imposing front door, 'No one enters this building, do you understand me? No one.'

The Secretary's voice sounded strangely thin in the wind-rent air. The soldiers threw each other a glance. As Houston neared the front door, they stepped into his path and blocked hm.

'What is this — a joke?' asked Houston. 'I meant no one else enters the building. Stand aside.'

The soldiers didn't budge.

'I said stand aside,' repeated Houston.

'Sorry, sir,' said one of the infantrymen. 'Orders.'

'Whose orders?'

'Mr Baker's, sir.'

Even from behind, and notwithstanding the Secretary's overcoat, Littlemore could see Houston's entire body realign. 'Mr Baker — the Secretary of War?'

'Yes, sir.'

'You must be mistaken.'

'No, sir.'

'This is an outrage. This is my building. The Secretary of War has no authority to keep the Secretary of the Treasury out of a United States Assay Office.'

'He has authority over us, sir.'

Houston strode forward, daring the soldiers to stop him. They did. Houston attempted to push through; they thrust him bodily backward — two uniformed young men manhandling the sixty-year-old Secretary, who was clad in black tie and tails. Houston fell to the ground, top hat rolling onto the cement, then sailing away once again into the night. When he stood, his face was darkly colored. Houston descended the steps, unsteadily, and made for his car. The driver hurried out and opened the back door. Houston climbed in without a word. Littlemore put his hand on the door as the driver was about to close it.

'I know what you're guilty of, Mr Houston,' said the detective.

'You're fired,' said the Secretary. 'Give me your badge. That's an order.'

Littlemore handed over his badge. This one wasn't as hard to part with as the last.

'Now get away from my vehicle,' ordered Houston.

'And I know what you're not guilty of,' added Littlemore, pressing a large, folded piece of paper into Houston's hand. 'Be there, Mr Secretary. Bring some men.'

Once Houston's car was out of sight, Littlemore walked from the Assay Office to the corner of Broad and Wall Streets. He stopped when he reached Younger, who was leaning against a corner of the Equitable Building, hatless, cigarette smoldering in the sharp wind.

'What was that about?' asked Younger. He was holding two covered paper cups of coffee, which he handed to the detective.

'Just getting myself fired,' said Littlemore. 'I guess it's better this way. Now it won't be a disgrace to the federal government if you and I get arrested.'

'We're committing a crime?'

'Want to pull out? You can.'

'One question,' said Younger. 'Are we going down an elevator into an underwater caisson which is about to be flooded, leaving us no way out except to turn ourselves into human geysers?'

'Nope.'

'Then count me in.'

'Thanks.' The two men headed back down Wall Street toward the Sub-Treasury, leaning into the wind. 'I got to say,' said Littlemore, 'I like this city.'

'What are we doing, exactly?' asked Younger.

'See that little alleyway between the Treasury and the Assay Office? That's where we're going.'

'The soldiers are going to let us through?'

'No chance,' said Littlemore. 'They're not letting anybody in. The alley's locked off" by a fifteen-foot wrought-iron gate. There's another gate just like it at the other end, on Pine Street. More soldiers on that side too.'

'So how do we get there?'

'Got to go up before you come down.' Littlemore led Younger up the Sub-Treasury steps. No soldiers stood guard there; the Treasury Building had been emptied of its gold and would soon be decommissioned. But a night watchman remained outside its doors, and Littlemore greeted the man by name, handing him a cup of coffee. Thanking Littlemore, the guard rapped on the door, which a few moments later was opened by another lonely guard, to whom Littlemore gave the second cup of coffee. Then Littlemore took Younger through the rotunda to a staircase in the rear.

'What do those men think you're doing?' asked Younger.

'I work here,' said Littlemore. 'I'm a T-man, remember? Leastways, I was until a few minutes ago.'

After climbing four and a half flights of stairs Younger and Littlemore stepped out onto a flat rooftop. The wind was so strong it knocked them sideways. They went to a parapet facing the Assay Office, which was only about three yards from them. At their feet were several long coils of rope, attached to the stone crenellations adorning the parapet. Next to the rope was a pile of additional equipment: crowbars, pulleys, friction hitches — all deposited there by Littlemore the night before.

Below them, at street level, was the alleyway between the Treasury and Assay buildings. To the right and left, at either end of the alley, illuminated by klieg lights, infantrymen manned the wrought-iron gate. The soldiers were facing out to the street, their backs to the alley. Gesturing to the pulleys and hitches, Littlemore asked quietly, 'You know how to use this stuff, Doc?'

Younger nodded.

'All right then,' said Littlemore.

The two men knelt down and fitted rope ends through the pulleys. Rappelling is not very difficult even without special equipment; with a friction hitch, which allows the descending man to play out rope at his discretion, it's simple. Younger, who had learned the skill in the army, formed a loop with a short length of his rope and stepped into it with his heel.

Littlemore, picking up the crowbars, followed suit.

The two men rappelled down the side of the Treasury Building, kicking off the wall every ten feet or so in the darkness. The welloiled pulleys made almost no sound as the rope played through them, but it wouldn't have mattered if they had creaked. The wind's howling would have covered the noise in any event.

'Over here,' whispered Littlemore when they reached the cobblestones. He led Younger to a large manhole cover, which he had first seen the day of the bombing. 'Let's try the crowbars.'

The manhole cover bore the familiar logo of the New York City sewer department.

'We're going into the sewers?' asked Younger.

'This is no sewer,' whispered Littlemore. 'I checked the city maps yesterday. This is how they got rid of the gold — down this hole. That's why there was no getaway truck.'

The manhole cover had two small slats into which Younger and

Littlemore each inserted the bent tip of a crowbar. They tried to pry it up, but the iron circle wouldn't budge.

'Didn't think that would work,' whispered Littlemore. 'It's locked from the inside; you can't open her up from out here.'

'Hence the acid,' replied Younger.

'Yeah — hence,' said Littlemore.

Younger withdrew three slim cases from his coat. The first contained an empty glass beaker, a pencil-thin glass tube, and a pair of laboratory gloves. Inside each of the other two cases, lined with crushed blue velour, was a well-stoppered vial of transparent liquid. Wearing the gloves, Younger opened these vials and poured a portion of each into the beaker, creating the acid he'd described to Littlemore. No chemical reaction attended this admixture — no change of color, no precipitation, no smoke. To the mouth of the beaker Younger now attached the burette — the thin tube — and began drizzling the acid along the perimeter of the manhole cover. Angry bubbling commenced at once on the iron surface, with an accompanying acrid reddish smoke.

'Don't get it in your eyes,' said Younger.

By the time he was halfway around the manhole cover, Younger had exhausted the beaker's supply. He had to mix another few ounces of the aqua regia, requiring him briefly to hand over to Littlemore the two glass vials, unstoppered, while he took apart his apparatus. At that moment, a particularly savage gust of wind blew through the alley.

'Shoot,' whispered Littlemore. Younger looked up. White bubbles were sudsing on the top of the detective's black shoe. Somehow keeping his voice to a whisper, Littlemore gasped, 'It's going through my shoe! Do something, Doc — it's on my foot. It's burning into the bone!'

'That's not my acid,' said Younger.

Littlemore's gasping came to an abrupt halt.

'What is that,' asked Younger, 'baking soda?'

'Anyone else would have fallen for that,' said Littlemore, genuinely annoyed. 'Anyone. How'd you know it was baking soda?'

Younger looked at Littlemore a long time. 'Give me those,' he said, referring to the glass vials in the detective's hands. Soon the entire perimeter of the manhole cover was seething with corrosion. 'Now we wait.'

A few minutes later, Younger rose and took up a crowbar, offering the other to Littlemore. They strained to wrench loose the manhole cover, but with no success. 'Maybe the acid's not strong enough,' said Littlemore.

The two men stood over the manhole cover. Littlemore gave it a stomp with one foot. As he was about to administer another, Younger said, too late, 'I wouldn't do-'

Littlemore s shoe punched loose the acid-cut manhole cover. They could hear it rushing away from them, as if sucked down into a vacuum. For an instant Littlemore remained poised over the now-open manhole, one foot already inside it, body twisting and wavering, struggling for balance. Then he said, 'Shoot' — and fell in.

As Littlemore disappeared down the hole, his flailing arms grabbed Younger's ankle. Younger was almost able to arrest their fall, but he couldn't hold on, and a moment later he too vanished down into the earth, leaving only a crowbar lying across the manhole.

Younger found himself sliding down a chute at an alarming speed. There was no light at all. There was, however, sound: that of his own body smashing into curved walls, and that of Littlemore yelling in front of him. They flew around hairpin bends and sailed over bumps, plummeting downward in the sightless black.

Mr Brighton kept them in suspense all day about his plans for the Radium Fund. Every time Mrs Meloney veered round to the subject, he deflected it — whether artfully or absent-mindedly, Colette couldn't tell.

They dined in the Garret Restaurant, high over the southern tip of Manhattan, overlooking a sanguine sunset on the Hudson. On their way down the elevator, Mrs Meloney declared herself a nervous wreck from eating in so lofty a perch and insisted she must go home. Colette said that she would go as well.

'Don't be silly, dear,' said Mrs Meloney. 'You must visit Mr Brighton's dial factory. He is especially proud of it — and justly so.'

'Please say you will,' said Brighton.

'Is there time?' asked Colette. 'Dr Younger will be waiting for me at Trinity Church at nine-thirty.'

'Waiting at the church?' asked Brighton. 'Why — are you — you're not getting married, are you, Miss Rousseau?'

'Getting married tonight?' laughed Mrs Meloney. 'Mr Brighton, girls do not marry at night. And if they did, they would not spend the day of their wedding visiting paint factories. Not to mention the fact that Trinity Church will be good and locked up at this hour.'

'Oh, dear,' said Brighton. 'There's so much I don't know. But I do have keys to Trinity Church. I'm on the board of directors. Would you like to see the interior, Miss Rousseau? It's very fine.'

'I've seen it, Mr Brighton,' said Colette, who had spent several hours inside the church on September sixteenth.

'Miss Rousseau doesn't want to see the church, Mr Brighton. She wants to see your factory.' Mrs Meloney turned to Colette: 'There's plenty of time, my dear. The factory is quite close by. And from the factory, the church is only round the corner. Now don't disappoint him — or me. Please.'

Mrs Meloney left in a taxi. 'Do you like to walk, Miss Rousseau?' asked Brighton.

Colette was suddenly tongue-tied. So long as Mrs Meloney had been there, Colette had not quite understood herself to be spending time with a man solely in pursuit of his money. Now she did feel that way, and it seemed to infect everything she said or didn't say with a false and hypocritical tinge. 'I like walking very much,' she replied.

Brighton offered her his arm. Colette pretended not to see it, but Brighton didn't see her not seeing it, and left his elbow suspended so long that Colette was obliged finally to take it. Brighton seemed strangely tall walking next to Colette; their gait never managed to synchronize. Samuels maintained a respectful distance behind them.

'We'll be right on time,' said Brighton cheerily. 'My second shift of girls is just finishing up. I do want you to see the factory in action. But you must be cold, Miss Rousseau.'The wind had kicked up bitterly; Colette had not dressed for it. 'Here — I brought another little present for you. They will help keep you warm.'

Brighton drew a gift box from his coat. Inside was a double-tiered diamond necklace matching the stickpin he had given her earlier.

'Oh, dear,' said Brighton, 'it's the choker. I meant to give you the gloves first. Never mind. May I?'

He clasped the necklace on Colette, who, wishing Mr Brighton had spent the money on the Radium Fund instead, stammered out a thank-you, sensing to her dismay that if she didn't accept his gifts, he would never make another contribution to the Fund. It was the first time Colette had ever worn diamonds; they felt cold against her neck. Perhaps she might sell it later and donate the money in his name?

Brighton handed her a second box. This one contained a pair of thin, long-sleeved gloves, the color of fresh cream and made of a leather suppler than any she had touched before. 'Try them on,' he said.

'I can't, Mr Brighton. They're much too-'

'Too long to put on without taking your coat off? Yes of course. Allow me.'

He removed her light overcoat. Not wanting to give offense, she pulled on the gloves, which came up past her elbows. 'My coat, Mr Brighton,' said Colette.

'Yes?'

'Would you please put it back on? I'm cold.'

'Cold — of course — how absurd,' said Brighton. 'There you are. Do you like them?'

She looked at her elegant fingers, clad in ivory leather. 'I don't know what to say.'

'The pleasure is mine, I assure you. Now if I can speak frankly, Miss Rousseau, I know what you want most in the whole world. Mrs

Meloney told me. You want me to help buy radium for Madame Curie. Don't you?'

'Yes, if you're willing, Mr Brighton.'

'I'm most willing!' he cried. 'I'll buy the entire gram myself.'

'You will?' she said excitedly.

'If you will,' he said.

'If I will what?' she asked, excitement giving way to consternation.

'Marry me,' replied Brighton.

Colette didn't know whether to burst into laughter or tears.

'I know I'm not what girls consider handsome,' said Brighton. 'But I'm very rich. I can give you everything you desire. Think about that. Everything is no little thing.'

'We don't even know each other, Mr Brighton.'

'That's not true. I know you perfectly, because you are perfection itself. I don't ask you to love me. That doesn't matter at all. Let me worship you. Say yes, and I will wire one hundred thousand dollars to Mrs Meloney's account this minute.'

The staggering sum hung momentarily in the air. 'But surely you will consider a donation even if I say no?' she asked.

'I will not,' declared Brighton forthrightly. 'I've given twenty-five thousand dollars already, and I did that only to be present at your lecture. Why would I give money to a Frenchwoman I've never met? I have no reason to. But if you marry me, my dear Miss Rousseau, your wish will be my command. Say two grams if you like. Say ten.'

'Ten grams of radium?' she repeated, unable to believe what she had heard.

'From my own mines. Why not? The market value would be a million dollars, but for me the cost would be much less.' When Colette didn't answer, Brighton added, 'Oh my, is all this considered immoral? Am I acting immorally?'

Colette shook her head, her dark brows frowning severely.

'Thank goodness. I never know what's going to be thought immoral. They say people should marry for love. I don't know what they're talking about. I want you to share my home, Miss Rousseau. To travel with me on my train. To be on my arm when I dine with the President. Is it unreasonable that I should want the most beautiful, intelligent, innocent creature on earth to be my wife — or that I should offer her whatever I can to induce her to consent? Here we are at my factory.' Samuels opened the door for them. 'Come in, please. Ah, look at all the girls leaning into their work. What a beautiful sight. But what was I saying? Oh yes. Ten grams of radium, to be used as you direct. Samuels! Prepare a money wire for the account of Mrs William Meloney. I have a telegraph machine here in my office. Say you'll marry me, and I'll wire a hundred thousand at once. Samuels has advised me against it, I want you to know. He says it's rash to pay money in return for your mere promise. In fact Samuels had a very strong misimpression of you at first, Miss Rousseau. I can't begin to tell you what he thought. But if you give me your word, I know you'll keep it. What — are you crying? May I hope with tears of joy?'

Colette begged Mr Brighton for some time by herself.

'Certainly, my dear,' said Brighton. 'Samuels will need a few minutes to prepare the wire.'

Four stories below Wall Street, in a cavernous, unlit, dirt-floored chamber, two men worked an immense blast furnace. Their faces were blackened with soot; each wore a thick, heavy full-length leather apron. One stoked the furnace with large, heavy bars of gold. The other handled a set of iron molds into which flowed a stream of molten yellow metal coursing down a half-pipe from an aperture high up on the furnace. When a newly molded bar of gold was formed and ready, this man would throw it, using tongs, onto a mountain of such bars that filled the subterranean chamber in front of the furnace. Both men wore goggles; in the sparks and unnatural light thrown off by the furnace, their arms and foreheads shone with sweat.

About fifteen feet behind these workmen was a wall, and in this wall was a perfectly round hole, and from this hole came a sound that drew the workmen's puzzled attention. It was a metallic sound, echoing and distant — a faraway clanging. The noise grew louder and louder and still louder until it reached a horrendous pitch and out from the hole shot a large iron disk. It was a manhole cover with jagged edges, and it hit the dirt floor of the chamber at a dangerous speed, rolling past the legs of the astonished smelters, disappearing under their work- table, and climbing the gold bar mountain almost to its pinnacle, at which point it turned round and rolled back down, rattling to rest at the workmen's feet.

The two smelters removed their goggles. They stared down dumbfounded at the intrusive object, then looked at each other: a new sound was coming from the hole in the wall. This sound was not metallic. It was more like a tumbling, with the interspersed shouting of a human voice, and it too began quietly, distantly, only to grow nearer and louder and nearer still until Jimmy Littlemore shot feet first through the hole, followed immediately by Stratham Younger, the two men skidding and rolling in a jumble of arms and legs until they too lay at the smelters' feet.

Littlemore looked up at the two workmen, spat the remains of a toothpick as well as some dirt from his lips, and said, You're under arrest.'

Younger, lying on his stomach, did not know to whom the detective had addressed his remark, but he added, 'In the name of the law.'

Littlemore drew his gun from his shoulder holster and said, 'Drop that thing — ' this was a reference to the red-hot tongs — 'and put your hands in the air.'

The speechless smelters complied at once.

Littlemore stood, pulled a set of handcuffs from his back pocket, and tossed them to Younger while keeping his gun trained on the two workmen. 'Cuff one of these guys.'

'Which one?' asked Younger.

'I don't care. The bigger one.'

The workman who had been feeding the furnace was the larger of the two. Younger handcuffed his wrists behind his back. Littlemore turned the other smelter around and pushed him forward a step.

'March, fellas,' said Littlemore, directing them around the furnace and toward the mountain of gold bricks. 'Let's see if this place leads where I think it-' he stopped, interrupting himself. 'Did you hear that, Doc?'

'Hear what?'

Littlemore was looking at the mound of gold, which was about fifteen feet high. Suddenly, at the top of that little mountain, the heads of three men appeared, and next to each one a pistol. The one in the middle had scars running from the corners of his mouth to the corners of his eyes — as if he had recently undergone facial surgery. 'Shoot!' he shouted in a strong Eastern European accent. 'Shoot all!'

'Get down!' cried Littlemore.

The gunmen didn't have a clear shot at either Younger or Littlemore — who each had one of the smelters in front of him — but they evidently didn't care. All three fired, ripping bullets into the bodies of the two workmen as Younger and Littlemore dove for cover. Younger overturned the heavy wood worktable and sat with his back to it. Littlemore crouched behind the furnace.

'A shoot-out,' said Younger as bullets slammed into his table and ricocheted off the blast furnace. 'I'm at a shoot-out without a gun.'

Littlemore craned around the furnace and fired two shots, which kept the gunmen at bay but did nothing else. 'That guy,' he said. 'Was that who I thought it was?'

'Yes,' said Younger. 'Tell me you have another gun.'

'Nope,' said Littlemore. Incoming bullets tore pieces from the bottom of the furnace, causing it to list slightly and to emit a dreadful steam shriek. 'Any ideas, Doc? Any play we can make with Drobac?'

The massive blast furnace was held up by a three-legged base. One of these legs now gave way with a loud crack; the furnace clunked down at a crazy angle.

'Offer him reduced bail?' suggested Younger.

'Good thinking,' replied Littlemore, firing another shot at the mountain of gold.

'I don't think it's very safe,' Younger called out, 'their shooting a lot of bullets into a blast furnace.'

'That's helpful,' said Littlemore, reaching around the crooked furnace and firing his last two shots.

The detective now had to reload. Drobac knew it or guessed it. 'Charge furnace,' he yelled.

All three gunmen came scrambling over the hillock of gold. At the same time a second leg at the base of the huge furnace collapsed, and the entire iron behemoth began to topple away from Littlemore — straight at Younger — with a fantastic screech of bending and breaking metal.

Littlemore and Younger were about to die. Younger was lying exactly where the red-hot furnace, spewing molten gold, would fall to the ground. Littlemore was reloading his revolver as three gunmen rushed at him down a mountain of gold and the furnace that had provided him with cover was toppling over.

Younger saw the manhole cover at his feet. 'Shield,' he shouted, hoisting up the manhole cover and heaving it through the air before diving away as several tons of iron crashed to the dirt floor and a deadly shower of gold barely missed his legs and feet.

In a single motion, Littlemore slapped the new cartridge into his gun, caught the manhole cover, and turned to face the three gunmen just as the furnace fell completely away from him. All three gunmen fired repeatedly at Littlemore, but the manhole cover stopped their bullets, and Littlemore returned fire, killing one, then another, but not the third — Drobac — who slammed into the detective shoulder-first. Littlemore fell hard on his back with the heavy manhole cover on top of his chest, and Drobac on top of the manhole cover.

Littlemore's arms were pinned. Drobac had a knee on the manhole cover, pressing it down on the detective while he brought his gun to Littlemore's temple. Drobac smiled and squeezed the trigger. His gun, however, didn't fire; he too was now out of bullets. Cursing, he threw his gun to the side. 'Is all right,' he said. 'I have other.'

Drobac drew a second gun from his jacket.

'Goodbye, policeman,' he said.

'Hey, Drobac,' said Younger, standing next to the collapsed furnace and kicking at the iron half-pipe sticking out from it.

Drobac turned at the sound of Younger's voice. It's unlikely he understood what he saw: a cast-iron half-pipe, dripping with molten gold, one end attached to the furnace, the other end swinging toward him. The pipe struck him square in the forehead. The blow would have been no more than an annoyance if liquid gold, at a temperature of two thousand degrees, had not coursed down his forehead, his nose, his cheeks, his neck. Drobac tried to scream, but what came out was nothing like a human scream: the yellow metal stream had already burned through the flesh of his cheeks and entered his mouth. He raised his hands to his bubbling face, tried to scream again, fell backward, and, with black smoke rising from his head, lay twitching, smoldering, on the dirt floor.

Littlemore squirmed out from under the manhole cover and scrambled to his feet, staring at the convulsing Drobac. 'Think I should arrest him?' asked Littlemore.

'I think we should get out of here,' said Younger, gesturing toward the fallen iron beast of a furnace. It was glowing red and seemed to be getting redder by the instant. The heat in the room was appalling.

'Jesus — she's going to blow,' said Littlemore. 'There's got to be a door somewhere on the other side of that gold.'

They ran around the mountain of gold bars, passed a table covered with playing cards and whiskey glasses and, at the other end of the subterranean chamber, came to a steel door. There was no knob or handle or latch. They pushed at the door — threw their shoulders into it — but it wouldn't open.

From the furnace, a low sound began to issue, so deep it was like the note of a cathedral organ. Then the note grew deeper still. Out of the two men's sight, a smoldering body, cheekless, lipless, stretched out a hand and grasped a gun lying on the floor nearby

'That's not good,' said Younger, referring to the organ sound filling the air. 'I don't think that's good.'

'Wait a second,' replied Littlemore. He ran back to the card table, grabbed one of the chairs, and returned just as quickly. 'We're going to be all right. I told Houston to listen for us.'

He smashed the chair against the door and did it again and again. The chair broke into pieces, but the door didn't budge.

Next to the furnace, the faceless creature rose slowly to its feet in the pulsing crimson light of the overheated furnace. Several of Drobac's teeth, along with a fragment of his jawbone, were visible.

The low note pulsing from the furnace grew so deep that no man- made musical instrument could have made it. It also began to swell in volume. Littlemore smashed the remains of the broken chair against the door.

Drobac staggered to the side of the mountain of gold. The bellow from the furnace had become so loud that it vibrated the floor and shook Littlemore up and down. Leaning against the gold bricks, Drobac caught sight of Younger at the far door. He raised his pistol with two hands, arms wavering, unsteady.

Littlemore, unable to bear the noise, covered his ears with hands. The steel door remained shut. He and Younger looked at each other.

The gun in Drobac's trembling hands grew still. He squeezed the trigger.

All at the same moment, the furnace exploded, the gun fired, and the door swung open. Younger and Littlemore were blown through the doorway into a corridor crowded with men, as a bullet flew somewhere above their heads. In the furnace room, Drobac's body slammed into the gold bricks and burst into flame, while the wood beams supporting the walls and ceiling were engulfed in fire as well. The beams collapsed; the ceiling caved in. The room was an inferno.

'Shut that damned door,' ordered Secretary Houston at the top of his voice as tongues of fire lashed into the corridor.

The steel door was slammed and bolted, suddenly muffling the deafening rage of fire. The corridor was silent. Younger and Littlemore, rising, found themselves stared at by a half-dozen Secret Servicemen and an equal number of well-dressed bankers, including Thomas Lamont.

'What's in there, Littlemore?' asked Houston.

Lamont, not Littlemore, answered: 'It's nothing but an old abandoned foundation. We closed it up long ago. No one's been in there for decades. I don't know how you even knew where to find it, Houston.'

'I didn't; my man Littlemore told me where to go,' said Houston. 'And he told me to bring Secret Servicemen in case you tried to stop me, Lamont. What did you find, Littlemore?'

'Just some gold,' said Littlemore. 'I'd say about four million dollars' worth.'

There was a buzzing among the well-heeled bankers.

'It's not Morgan gold, I promise you that,' declared Lamont. 'The J. P. Morgan Company has nothing to do with this.'

'Four millions in gold are lying in a room adjoining a sub-basement of the Morgan Bank,' Houston said to Lamont, 'and you say your company doesn't know about it?'

'It was an old foundation under Wall Street,' replied Lamont. 'We don't own the lot. We have nothing to do with it. Any number of people could have tunneled into it.'

One of the other bankers spoke up: 'Maybe it's your gold, Houston. There have been rumors about a theft from the Treasury on September sixteenth.'

'Treasury gold?' said Houston, affecting incredulity. 'Don't be ridiculous. Every ounce of my gold is accounted for and has been since the day I took office. Every bar and every coin. The Treasury has never been breached. Two of you men — ' Houston addressed his Secret Service agents — 'stay here and guard this door. No one goes in under any circumstances. Tomorrow when the fire has burnt itself out, we'll see.

My suspicion, Lamont, is that it's another shipment of your contraband Russian gold.'

'I tell you Morgan has nothing to do with it,' said Lamont.

As soon as they were back out on Wall Street, leaving the palatial Morgan Bank, Houston asked Littlemore in a hushed and anxious tone, 'Does the gold have our insignia on it — or did they melt it?'

'Melted almost all of it,' answered Littlemore.

'Thank heavens,' replied Houston.

'If you don't want people to know it's Treasury gold down there, Mr Houston, you'd better plug up the hole in your alley.'

'What hole?' asked Houston.

Littlemore pointed across the street to the alleyway between the Sub-Treasury and the Assay Office, where the wrought-iron gate had been thrown open, and a troop of soldiers were inspecting the open manhole — from which smoke now poured out. Houston was about to hurry there with his remaining Secret Servicemen when he stopped and pulled a badge out of his pocket. 'I'm sorry I doubted you, Littlemore. Take your badge back. I'm reinstating you.'

'No thanks, Mr Houston,' said Littlemore. 'I'm done with the Treasury for a while. Got a little police work I need to do anyway.'

Houston rushed off, leaving Younger and Littlemore by themselves. Younger lit a cigarette. The two men sported filthy faces, dirty hair, and torn, blackened clothing.

'At least it would be police work,' Littlemore muttered, 'if I were a policeman.'