The Death Instinct

Chapter Twenty-one

Colette wandered, lost in thought, onto the factory floor, a large high-ceilinged open room, where rows and rows of young women, hunched over long tables, used fine-pointed brushes to dab luminescent paint onto the razor-thin hands of fashionable watches. Between every two girls, an electric lamp hung suspended by a long wire from the ceiling, throwing harsh light onto their close and arduous work. But the girls' studious hush was probably due less to concentration than to the entrance of Mr Brighton, their employer, a few minutes before.

Colette herself contributed to their silence as well. A young lady in a diamond choker and elbow-length white gloves — who came in with the owner — was not a typical sight for the working girls. They eyed her warily as she passed among them.

Colette didn't notice. She had only one thought in her head: ten grams of radium. It would change Madame Curie's life. It would save countless people from death. Devoted to science, rather than watch dials or cosmetics, it could yield discoveries about the nature of atoms and energy heretofore undreamed of.

To be sure, it was absurd that Mr Brighton should propose to marry her, having met her only three times in his life. Or was it? She had known she wanted to marry Younger the first day she met him, when he brought the old French corporal out of the battlefield.

Of course she could never marry Mr Brighton. She wasn't obliged to do that, not even for Madame Curie — was she? She owed Madame everything: Madame Curie had taken her in, given her a chance at the Sorbonne, saved her when she was starving. But that didn't mean Colette had to sacrifice her life and happiness for her — did it?

True, she didn't hate Mr Brighton. He might even be a little endearing in his forgetfulness, his childlike enthusiasms. And he was obviously generous. But she would be dreadfully unhappy if she married him. She would die from such unhappiness. No, she wouldn't die. And what did her happiness count against the lives that would be saved, the scientific progress that could be achieved, if she said yes? What right did she have to say no, to live for herself, when millions of young men had given more than their happiness — had given their lives — in the war?

'Don't, Miss,' said one of the girls close by her.

'I'm sorry?' said Colette.

'Don't lean on that,' said the girl. 'It's the lights for the whole factory. Some of us got work to finish. You want us all to be in the dark?'

Colette looked behind her. In the middle of the wall was a metal bar with a red wooden handle — a master light switch, apparently, which she had been on the verge of accidentally shutting off. When she turned round again, Colette became conscious that all the girls were staring at her, and not welcomingly. Several were chewing gum. One or two wiped hair from their eyes with smudged wrists, the better to see Colette's slender arms and her pretty neck effulgent with diamonds. The girl who had spoken seemed the least interested in her. She returned to her work, snipping a stray hair from her paintbrush with the curving blades of a pair of scissors. Then the girl dabbed the brush into a dish of green paint, placed its tip between her lips, and drew it out again, nicely pointed.

'Stop!' cried Colette.

'Who — me?' answered the girl.

'Don't put that in your mouth,' said Colette.

'That's how they teach us, honey,' said the girl. 'You point the brush with your mouth. Sorry if it ain't refined.'

The girls, Colette now saw, were all pointing their brushes the same way — with their lips. 'Where are your gloves?' she asked. 'Don't they give you protective gloves?'

'Only one of us in this room got gloves,' said the girl.

A loud bell rang. The girls jumped from their chairs. Amid an eruption of female talk and laughter, they cleared their desks, putting away paints and brushes and unfinished watch dials. As the girls hurried to the coat rack and made for the door, one of them stopped next to Colette. She glanced furtively about and said, 'Some of us are afraid, ma'am. A couple of girls took ill. The company doctors say it's because they got the big pox, but they weren't the types. They weren't the types at all.'

'What?' said Colette, not understanding the girl's idiomatic English. But the girl hurried away. Colette tried to pull off her leather gloves; they fit her too tightly. She tried to undo the diamond choker, but couldn't find its clasp. She gave up in frustration, and as the working girls emptied out of the factory she ran to Brighton's office, calling out his name.

'Yes, Miss Rousseau?' replied Brighton eagerly as she neared him. 'Are you going to make me the happiest man on earth?'

'The girls are putting the brushes in their mouths,' said Colette.

'Of course they are. That's the secret to our technique.'

'They're swallowing the paint.'

'How wasteful,' replied Brighton. 'Do you remember which ones? Samuels will make a note of it.'

'No — it will poison them,' said Colette.

'You mean the paint?' cried Brighton. 'Not at all. Don't be silly. How could I sell a product to the public if it were too dangerous for my girls to work with?'

'Do you monitor the radiation levels here — as you do at your paint factory?'

'There's no need, my dear.'

'But you can't let them put it in their mouths. It will get into their jaws. It will get into their teeth. It could She broke off in mid- sentence, her breath stopping cold as a series of images cascaded through her mind: a tooth wrapped in cotton, eaten away from within; a girl with a tumor on her jaw; another girl in New Haven, with a greenish aura emanating from her neck. A darkness crossed over Colette's eyes, which she tried to keep out of her voice: 'Oh, I suppose it doesn't matter. When the quantities of radium are so minute, I'm sure it does more harm than good. I mean more good than harm. It's so late, isn't it? My friends will be wondering where I am. Mrs Meloney must be very jealous.'

'Jealous?' said Brighton.

'Of all the radium your girls get on their skin.'

'Oh, yes,' he answered, laughing aloud. 'She would be green with-'

'She knows, sir,' said Samuels, drawing a gun.

No one spoke.

'Oh, my,' said Brighton. 'What does she know, Samuels?'

'Everything.'

'Are you quite sure?' asked Brighton. 'She said Mrs Meloney would be jealous of our girls.'

'She was lying,' said Samuels, gun pointed at Colette.

Brighton shook his head in disappointment. 'It's useless to lie, Miss Rousseau. Samuels can always tell. How he knows is a mystery to me. I never have any idea myself. Samuels, would you please put your gun very close to Miss Rousseau?'

Samuels approached Colette from behind and pressed his gun against the small of her back. Brighton came to her, his body strangely large and poorly knit together. He touched the shiny nail of his little finger to her chin and gently angled her face to one side, so that he could better see her diamond-studded neck. Colette tried not to react.

'Look,' said Brighton appreciatively. 'So clean.'

He stroked the underside of Colette's jaw; he ran his fingernail down her breastbone; he cupped his palms and shaped them around the outside of her chest. Colette, horrified, remained immobile.

'Does she like it, Samuels?' asked Brighton. 'I think she may be nervous. I wish I were better with facial expressions, Miss Rousseau. I have a great deal of trouble understanding them. If only Lyme were here. He has a relaxant that makes girls much more receptive to me. Have you ever been kissed, Miss Rousseau? On the mouth?'

Colette made no response.

'Can you make her answer?' Brighton asked Samuels.

Samuels thrust the gun harder into her spine.

'Yes, I've been kissed,' said Colette.

'But you've never — you've never — ?'

Colette didn't reply.

'No, don't answer,' said Brighton. 'You're right not to. The words would dirty your lips. I'm sure you never have. You're purity itself. Now, Miss Rousseau, I'm going to get started. I want to so very badly, and I no longer think we're going to be married. I hope you don't mind that Samuels sees us; just put him right out of your head. Please don't make any violent movements. Samuels might shoot.'

Brighton leaned down, evidently to kiss her. Colette waited as long as she could bear it, even until Brighton's mouth was actually upon her, before she thrust an elbow into Samuels's stomach, pushed Brighton with all her strength — causing the ungainly man to fall to the floor — and bolted from the office. The factory floor was empty now; she rushed through it to the main door. But the doorknob wouldn't turn; it was locked. Desperately, Colette looked around, and she saw something that gave her an idea. If she'd been able to run, she could have reached it in a moment. But a voice froze her.

'Stop where you are, Miss Rousseau,' ordered Brighton. 'Please don't make Samuels shoot you.'

Colette turned. 'Miss McDonald worked here,' she said, 'didn't she?'

'You mean the one with that — thing on her neck?' said Brighton. 'Yes, she did. A lovely girl. I thought for a time she might be my wife, before that hideousness grew on her.'

As Brighton and Samuels came nearer, Colette took a step back from them, along the wall, as if out of fear. 'Radium got into her jaw,' said Colette. 'You knew. You kept it a secret to sell your watches.'

'No, my dear,' replied Brighton earnestly. 'I don't care about the watches. It's the radium itself. If the public were to learn that radium causes that sort of thing to grow on a girl's neck, no one would want any radium products anymore. The price of radium would fall ninety percent — back to what it used to cost. For a mine-owning man like me, that would be a substantial loss. Very substantial.'

'Amelia worked here too,' said Colette, taking another step backward. 'She was losing her teeth.'

'Yes. Most unattractive. I was very angry at her. She was almost your undoing, you know. Samuels was certain Amelia had told you all our secrets. That's why we had to — to take action against you.'

'You had me kidnapped,' she said, still backing away.

'It was the most efficient thing in the world. We had some foreigners in town for another task — Serbs, weren't they, Samuels? — very well suited for the job.'

'You tried to kill me — and then proposed to me?'

'That is one of my great strengths, Miss Rousseau. I admit my mistakes. I learn from them. It was all a misunderstanding. Do you know why Amelia tried to see you at your hotel? It's because some of the girls overheard you at our factory in Connecticut saying that my company was killing people. But you didn't mean my paint was doing any harm. You meant that luminous watches divert radium from medical uses. How preposterous — that misunderstanding nearly killed you! It was I who came to your rescue. You owe your life to me, Miss Rousseau. I saw Samuels's mistake immediately after I heard you at the church. That's why I ordered the attacks against you to stop.' Brighton shook his head ruefully. 'But now look how things have turned out. What a pity. Samuels, can we keep her in the infirmary? If I can't marry her, that would be my second choice.'

'They'll come for her,' said Samuels.

Brighton sighed: 'You're right, as always.' While Samuels kept his gun trained on Colette, Brighton went to a metal barrel positioned on top of a worktable. Opening a tap at its base, he filled a glass measuring cup with greenish paint. 'Since you aren't receptive to me, Miss Rousseau, would you mind at least opening your mouth and holding quite still? Please say you'll cooperate. It will make things so much easier.'

Colette didn't answer. She was touching the wall with her hands behind her back, feeling for something. Where was it?

'Does your silence mean yes?' asked Brighton. 'I would be very impressed with you. Girls are usually so unreasonable. Most people are. I remember as a boy I would propose something perfectly sensible, and my parents would say it was "wrong." They would get that look on their faces. What does it mean — wrong? It's as if they were suddenly speaking in tongues. I don't believe the word has any meaning. I've asked people many times to explain it to me; no one can. They just give examples. It's gibberish. I look at people sometimes, Miss Rousseau, and honestly I think they're all cattle. I may be the only one with a mind of his own. Samuels, open Miss Rousseau's mouth.'

'You're going to make me drink your paint?' asked Colette, aghast, taking another step back

'Please don't be concerned,' said Brighton. 'We've done it before; it works splendidly. The paint will make you sick, and we'll rush you to the Sloane Hospital for Women, where a specialist named Lyme will treat you. He'll give you something that will keep you from speaking. You'll get weaker, and your hair may fall out. That will make you very unattractive, but it's all right — I won't come to visit. You'll be diagnosed with syphilis, I imagine. Then you'll die. It all goes very smoothly, I promise you. Won't you please open your mouth? You'll be doing me a great favor.'

'Mr Brighton, I beg you,' she said, turning her back to him. 'Shoot me now. Get it over with.'

'But I can't,' answered Brighton. 'If we shot you, Miss Rousseau, either your body would have to disappear, which would raise all sorts of questions, or else we'd have to turn you over to the police with bullets in you, which would raise even more. I assure you, the paint is much — '

Brighton never finished this sentence. Colette, her back to the two men, had taken hold of the red wooden handle of the light switch the master switch, which the working girl had warned her of earlier and she plunged the factory into darkness. Immediately she dropped to all fours as shots rang out and bullets ricocheted off the metal plate above her.

'Stop shooting!' ordered Brighton. 'There's nowhere she can go. Get the lights back on.'

Colette could see nothing except the glass measuring cup of radio- luminescent paint in Brighton's hands, glowing greenish yellow, casting an eerie light on his nose and chin. She darted to him, seized the cup with both hands, and threw the paint in his face.

'Get it off me!' yelled Brighton. 'Get it off!'

Colette rushed to the far wall, which had four great windows in it. The dimmest hint of light was coming back to the factory floor. Samuels had thrown the master switch, but the overhead lamps, with their thick filaments, only gradually came to life. Samuels stood next to Brighton with a handkerchief, trying vainly to rub the glowing paint off his employer's face.

'Never mind!' said Brighton. 'Where is she?'

Colette picked up one of the girls' stools and smashed it into the windowpanes, opening a gaping hole. Samuels fired in her direction, but the darkness saved her. She scrambled out of the window, the leather gloves preventing the glass shards from cutting her too deeply, and let herself drop to the street below. Heedless of direction, heart pounding, Colette ran from the factory. She didn't hear anyone pursuing her; still she ran on.

Turning a corner, she found herself on a short, narrow, empty street without a single streetlight. She came to a small park. She ran across it, under several trees, until she reached an old, high, massive stone building with wooden doors. It was Trinity Church. She was at a side entrance: the doors were locked. Breathing hard from running, she beat on the doors with all her might, but no one answered. Again she ran off into the night.

'Got to go to Grand Central,' said Littlemore to Younger as they walked down Wall Street toward the subway station at the corner of Broadway, where, directly facing them at the end of Wall Street, the dim Gothic spires of Trinity Church loomed up in the night sky. 'Want to come?'

'I'm meeting Colette,' said Younger. 'Here at the church.'

'Hope you aren't planning to take her some place fancy,' said Littlemore, looking at Younger's scarred clothing.

'Strange — where is she? She should have been here by now.' They were still a half block from the church, but there was a streetlamp outside its entrance, where Younger had expected Colette to be waiting.

'Say, how's the Miss doing?' asked Littlemore. 'Wasn't she meeting some bigwig tonight?'

'Arnold Brighton.'

'No kidding. You know, I wonder if-'

Littlemore had not finished this sentence when Colette came running frantically around the side of the church. She stopped at the iron lamppost, body heaving for lack of breath. Younger called out her name.

'Stratham?' she answered, full of alarm. Although Colette was visible to the two men, they were in darkness, invisible to her. She set off toward the sound of Younger's voice. 'Thank God.'

The twin doors of Trinity Church burst open, revealing an arched portal flooded with light from within the church. Beneath that arch stood Arnold Brighton, his face a glowing chartreuse orb, his eyes starkly white by contrast. Next to him was Samuels.

'There she is!' cried Brighton, pointing to the figure running down Wall Street. 'Shoot her!'

Samuels fired. Colette disappeared from below one streetlight and reappeared below the next. She hadn't been hit. Younger stepped forward to gather her in, trying to put his back between her and the gunfire even as Samuels fired twice more. Colette fell hard into Younger's arms. He whirled her off her feet and carried her into the darkness of a storefront alcove.

Littlemore had taken cover behind a mailbox, checking all his pockets for a gun, but he had none, having lost his firearm underground. Now he scrambled on all fours to Younger as Samuels's bullets flew over his head. 'Is she all right?' he asked.

'I'm fine,' answered Colette, still in Younger's arms. Samuels held his fire, evidently unable to see his targets.

'You with the girl,' said a different voice directly behind them, boyish but trying to sound commanding. 'Let her go.'

Younger turned. The speaker was a fresh-faced soldier who had come running to investigate the gunshots. He pointed a rifle nervously at Younger, its bayonet much closer to his chest than Younger liked.

'Are you there, Miss Rousseau?' Brighton called out from the glaringly illuminated arch. 'Samuels, do you see her?'

'Oh, give me that,' muttered Younger to the soldier. In one motion, he set Colette on her feet, seized the boy's rifle, kneeled, took aim at the doorway of Trinity Church, and fired. His shot hit Samuels in the joint of his shoulder, nearly amputating his arm.

'You got him, Doc,' said Littlemore.

'Did I?' Younger shifted his aim just slightly.

Samuels fell to his knees, blood flowing prodigiously from his subclavian artery.

'What's the matter with you?' asked Brighton, looking down at his secretary with a mixture of perplexity and indignation. 'It's only one arm. Shoot with the other.'

Younger fired again.

Brighton's eyes opened wide. A dark red circle appeared in the middle of his green forehead. 'Oh, my,' said Brighton, before collapsing.

Younger threw the rifle to the soldier's feet. 'How quickly can you get us an ambulance?' he asked Littlemore. 'Colette's hurt.'

She was in fact badly cut on her legs, and her long-sleeved gloves were ripped in several places, revealing lacerations to her palms and forearms.

'I'll find a car,' said Littlemore, sprinting away. Within a minute, a dozen soldiers were running down Wall Street toward Trinity Church, where the bodies of Brighton and Samuels lay bleeding, and Littlemore had returned in Secretary Houston's Packard. Younger made Colette get inside.

'But they're only scratches,' she protested.

'We're going to a hospital,' said Younger, lowering himself next to her in the backseat.

She looked at him and smiled. 'All right. If you think we should.'

'Which hospital, Doc?' asked Littlemore, behind the wheel.

'Washington Square,' said Younger. 'Wait — I thought you were going to stop a war tonight. Did you?'

'Not yet,' answered Littlemore.

'Well, go stop it.' The two men looked at each other. 'Someone else can drive. She'll be all right. Go.'

'Thanks,' said Littlemore, who persuaded Houston's chauffeur to drive the car.

As they set off, Colette rested her head on Younger's shoulder. She didn't see him wince. 'It's finally over, isn't it?' she asked.

'Yes,' he answered. 'I think it is.'

It wasn't until Younger had failed to respond to the next several things she said that she noticed his closed eyes and touched the back of his shirt and felt it dampening with blood. Colette screamed at the driver to hurry.

At Grand Central Terminal, under the celestial ceiling of the main concourse, Littlemore found Officer Stankiewicz in plain clothes, together with Edwin Fischer, waiting for him at the round central information booth, which was capped by a gold sphere with clocks on all four sides. Littlemore shook hands with Stankiewicz, thanking him for doing unofficial duty. 'Everything okay?' asked Littlemore.

'So far, so good,' said Stankiewicz.

'Anybody make you?' asked Littlemore.

'Hard to tell up here, Cap. Too many people.'

Littlemore nodded. The station was bustling with the comers and goers of a Saturday night in New York City. A constant din of loudspeaker crackle filled the concourse with announcements of train numbers, destinations, and tracks.

'Okay, Stanky,' said Littlemore, 'you're going to Commissioner Enright's place. He's expecting you. Here's the address. And bust it; there's no time to lose. When you get back, meet me downstairs exactly where I showed you. Fischer, you're coming with me.'

Littlemore glanced around the concourse, then tapped his knuckles on the information counter. The attendant, whom the detective greeted by name, shuffled to a gate and let Littlemore and Fischer in.

'Why are we going in the information booth?' asked Fischer. 'Are we looking for information?'

'We're going down to the lower level. If they've got people watching the stairs and ramps, they won't see us.'

In the center of the round booth was a gold pillar with a sliding door, which Littlemore opened. The detective cleared away boxes of old schedules, revealing a narrow spiral staircase.

'A hidden stairwell,' said Fischer. 'I didn't know this was here.'

'You're in for a lot of surprises tonight,' replied Littlemore.

The spiral stairs led past a landing littered with empty liquor bottles. When they arrived at the bottom, they were behind another, smaller information window. Littlemore opened it and joined the throng of passengers in Grand Central's lower level. He led Fischer to an intersection of two broad and crowded corridors, where Officer Roederheusen, also in plain clothes, was waiting in an inconspicuous corner under a tiled, vaulted ceiling. Across the gallery was the Oyster Bar.

'They still in there?' Littlemore asked.

'Yes, sir,' said Roederheusen. 'Still eating.'

'Anybody see you?'

'No, sir.'

'Good job,' said Littlemore. 'Fischer, you and I are going to wait here until the Commissioner comes. Spanky, you go down to Washington Square Hospital on Ninth and see how Miss Rousseau's doing. Just stay put there unless Doc Younger needs anything, in which case you get it for him.'

Twenty minutes later, Stankiewicz returned with Commissioner Enright.

'This had better be good, Littlemore,' said Enright.

'It will be, Commissioner,' replied Littlemore. 'Stand right here, sir. Keep an ear to the wall. You too, Fischer, just like we talked about. Don't move.'

'An ear to the wall?' repeated Enright indignantly.

'Yes, sir. Keep your ear right here.'

The detective crossed the lower-level concourse, wending through the crush of bustling passengers, many of them carrying on in extraordinarily loud voices, as New Yorkers like to do. When he got to the Oyster Bar's entrance, he turned around, confirming that he could no longer see Enright, Roederheusen, or Fischer, who, on the other side of the wide and busy gallery, must have been almost a hundred feet away. Littlemore ducked into the restaurant.

He found them at a table covered with nacreous and crustacean remains: Senator Fall, Mrs Cross, and William McAdoo, the former Treasury Secretary who was now a lawyer. No bottles were visible, but it was clear from the Senator's exuberance that considerable drink had been consumed with the repast.

'Agent Littlemore!' cried Fall. 'Savior of his country. Exposer of corruption. You've missed dinner. You've missed great tidings. You've

— you look ridiculous, son. What have you been doing, spelunking?'

'I need to talk to you, Mr Fall,' said Littlemore.

'Talk away. I think you're getting cold feet, boy, I really do.'

'Can we speak alone, Mr Senator?' replied Littlemore, still standing.

'Anything you want to say to me, Littlemore, you can say in front of my friends.'

'Not this.'

Fall was irritated, but he stood up. 'All right. I'm coming. But first give me one more dose of that dark medicine, woman.'

Mrs Cross inconspicuously removed a flask from her purse and put a splash into Senator Fall's glass. She topped off Mr McAdoo's as well. 'Whiskey, Agent Littlemore?' she asked.

The detective shook his head and, after Fall had downed his drink, led the Senator out of the crowded restaurant. He stopped at a discreet spot against the wall in the terminal concourse, a few feet from the doors of the Oyster Bar. 'I know who stole the gold, Mr Fall,' said Littlemore.

'The Mexicans,' replied Fall. 'You already figured that out.'

'Not the Mexicans, sir.'

'Houston?'

'It was Lamont,' said Littlemore.

'Impossible.'

'I saw the gold tonight. In the basement of the Morgan Bank.'

'Keep your voice down,' whispered Fall. 'You tell anybody yet?'

'Yes, sir,' said Littlemore quietly.

'Who?'

'You.'

'Apart from me, goddamn it,' said Fall.

'You mean Mr Houston?'

'Yes — did you tell Houston?'

'I came straight here, Mr Fall.'

'Good. Let's keep a lid on this, Littlemore. Don't want to cause a panic. Tell you what: Just leave it to me. I'll make sure the right people find out.'

'Got you, Mr Fall. Keep a lid on it. But somebody better talk to Mr Lamont right away.'

'Don't you worry, son — I'll talk to him.'

'What'll you say?' asked Littlemore.

'I'll tell him — why, I'll tell him-' Fall had difficulty finishing the sentence. 'Damn it, you're the one who said I should talk to him.'

'I figured you'd want to tip him off,' said Littlemore.

Fall didn't flinch. 'What did you say?'

'You know when I knew, Senator Fall? It was when you told me that you and Mr McAdoo always have dinner at the Oyster Bar. I realized that Ed Fischer was in Grand Central when you two met here a few months ago, after the Democratic Convention. A lot of people think Fischer's crazy, but everything I heard him say turned out to be true.'

'Are you drunk, Littlemore?'

'Then I saw the whole thing. Finding those Mexican documents was way too easy. Torres's apartment — it was a fake, wasn't it? A setup. That's why you had Mrs Cross come with me — to make sure I'd find the hole in the wall where the documents were hidden. What a sucker I was. Sure, a Mexican envoy is going to bring incriminating documents with him from Mexico in a cardboard tube — nothing else, no files, no suitcases, barely any clothes, just those documents — and then leave them for me in an open wall safe after I knock on his apartment door. Torres wasn't really a Mexican envoy at all, was he? You invented him. That's why Obregon denied the guy's existence.'

Fall took out a cigar. 'You're all twisted up, son. Not thinking straight.'

'From the very start,' said Littlemore, 'Lamont tried to put me onto Mexico. Every time I talked to him, something having to do with Mexico would come up. I just didn't see it. Same with you, Mr Fall. You pretended you thought the Russians were behind it, but you were steering me to Mexico the whole time. Brighton was in on it too, wasn't he? You and he staged that scene in your office for my benefit, when he was complaining about the Mexicans seizing his oil wells. Then Lamont calls me again and conveniently mentions that Mexican

Independence Day is in the middle of September. You were doing the same thing with Flynn, sending him hints about Sacco and Vanzetti, hoping he'd put together their Mexico connection, but he never did. So you had to make me think I'd found proof — the documents in Torres's wall. But they're all fakes. Forgeries.'

Fall lit his cigar, taking his time. He glanced left and right and spoke almost inaudibly: 'The Mexicans bombed us, Littlemore. Massacred us. You're the one who figured it out. Let's say those documents are fake. Let's just say. If that's what Wilson and his Secretary of War needed to see the light and send in the troops, that's the way it had to be.'

'Except the Mexicans weren't behind the bombing,' said Littlemore.

'What are you talking about?'

'You were behind it.'

Fall blew a cloud of smoke over Littlemore's head. 'You think I bombed Wall Street — killed all those people — to steal a little gold from the Treasury? You're out of your mind, boy. No one will believe you.'

'The gold was icing,' said Littlemore. 'The cake was war. Invading Mexico, getting rid of Obregon, installing your own man as president, taking the oil fields. That would have been worth maybe half a billion dollars to your pal Brighton. And a few hundred million more to Lamont. And who knows how much to you.'

'That's big crazy talk, boy. You could get in trouble talking big and crazy like that.'

'You're making a war for their oil.'

'Their oil?' Fall hissed. 'That's our oil you're talking about. We bought it, we paid for it, and now a bunch of Reds are trying to steal it. You think the Mexican people like being ordered around by a gang of God-hating, gun-toting bandits? The Mexicans'll thank us. They'll cheer our boys when we march into Mexico City.'

'Sure they will,' said Littlemore. 'They love the US of A., just like you do.'

At that moment Mr McAdoo came out of the restaurant, along with Mrs Cross, who was carrying Senator Fall's overcoat.

'What's going on, Fall?' asked McAdoo. 'Is there a problem, Mr Littlemore?'

'No problem. Senator Fall and I were just talking about how you and he planned the Wall Street bombing.'

'I beg your pardon?' said McAdoo.

'You were the one who knew about the gold,' Littlemore said to McAdoo. 'You were Secretary of the Treasury in 1917 — before you started working for Brighton. You knew exactly how and when the gold would be moved. You knew Riggs. You probably had him transferred from Washington to New York.'

'Don't answer him, Mac,' said Fall. 'Ignorant talk — that's all it is.'

'Answer him?' said McAdoo. 'I would sue him for slander if it weren't so palpably risible.'

'How much did they promise you?' Littlemore asked McAdoo. 'Or were you just getting back at Wilson?'

McAdoo bristled. 'Why would I want to "get back" at my own father-in-law?'

'Maybe because he took the nomination from you?' answered Littlemore. 'You were going to be the next president of the United States. Must have been so close you could taste it. But Wilson took it away. All because you married his little girl, thinking it was your ticket to the White House. Kind of backfired, that move. Wilson stayed a step ahead of you all the way, didn't he?'

'Let it go,' Fall said to McAdoo. 'He's just baiting you.'

'Woodrow Wilson,' replied McAdoo, 'will go down in history as a president so bedazzled with his role as Europe's peacemaker that he didn't see the war being made against us by our neighbor to the south — the first president since 1812 to permit an attack on American soil.'

'Sure, if only there had been an attack,' said Littlemore. 'But there wasn't. You just made it look that way. You figured you'd hire some men to bomb Wall Street, make it look like the Mexicans did it, rustle up a little war — and come out a billion dollars richer. Lamont owns the land across from the Treasury Building. He digs a tunnel to the one spot where the gold is vulnerable while it's being moved — the overhead bridge between the two buildings. Then on September sixteenth, Mexican Independence Day, you pulled the trigger. You covered your tracks too. Nobody knew. But you made one mistake. You were overheard by Ed Fischer.'

Fall laughed out loud. Then the Senator spoke more quietly: 'That's your evidence? We were overheard by a certified lunatic? I hate to break it to you, son, but I never talk anywhere I can be overheard.'

'You've talked here before. In this corner. Outside the Oyster Bar.'

'How would you know?' replied the Senator. 'And what if I have? Nobody can hear us.'

'Ed Fischer can,' said Littlemore. Lowering his voice to the quietest whisper, the detective added: 'Come on out, Fischer. Tell Mr Fall whether you can hear him.'

'Indeed I can!' cried Edwin Fischer's voice from across the crowded gallery. Soon they could see him practically bounding through the crowd. 'It's just like before,' he said jauntily when he reached them. 'The same voices — out of the air!'

'What on earth?' said McAdoo. 'What is this?'

Fall looked at Fischer as if he were a species of exotic bird that ought to be exterminated. 'Is this your idea of a joke, Littlemore?'

'I don't think Commissioner Enright finds it funny, Mr Senator,' said Littlemore as Fischer was followed by Enright and Stankiewicz. 'Commissioner Enright, could you hear the Senator and Mr McAdoo talking just now?'

'Every word,' said Enright.

'Stanky — did you hear them?'

'Sure did, Cap.'

'Eddie?'

'"I hate to break it to you, son,'" quoted Fischer, imitating Fall's Western twang, '"but I never talk anywhere I can be overheard.'"

'Good gracious,' said Mrs Cross. 'They really could hear you.'

'It's a trick,' said Fall, looking up at the ceiling and down to the floor. 'You got a wire here somewhere. It's a policeman's trick.'

'No wire, Mr Senator,' said Littlemore. 'It is a neat trick though. We detectives discovered it a couple of years ago, after the Terminal opened. If you stand right where we're standing now, just outside the Oyster Bar, folks on the exact opposite side of the hall can hear everything you say, loud and clear, even if you whisper and even if there's a crowd in between. I asked Fischer earlier today if that's where voices came to him.'

'It was my favorite place,' declared Fischer. 'I used to hear so much out of the air.'

'You and Mr McAdoo,' said Littlemore, 'had dinner here in July. Big Bill Flynn was with you. Flynn met Fischer that night — here in Grand Central. Afterward, Fischer came down to his spot over there and listened. The two of you must have been on your way out of the restaurant. You stopped. You whispered, positive that nobody could hear you. But you were wrong.'

'The Treasury owed me millions,' McAdoo protested. 'That's all I ever said. It was a purely hypothetical-'

'Shut up, Mac,' interrupted Fall sharply. His countenance softened into a broad smile: 'Mr Fischer, I don't believe I've had the pleasure. You're the tennis champion, am I right? Heard a lot of fine things about you. Albert Fall's the name. You ever been introduced to me, son? Or to Mr McAdoo here?'

'Never,' replied Fischer, sticking out his hand, 'but I'm delighted to make your acquaintance.'

The Senator didn't shake Fischer's hand: 'Then you can't be sure it was us you heard back in July — especially if the voices you heard were whispering.'

'I didn't say I was sure,' replied Fischer candidly. 'But your voices certainly sound similar.'

Fall laughed again. 'Congratulations,' he said to Littlemore. 'Your evidence is a lunatic who never saw us before but thinks maybe possibly he heard voices similar to ours whispering something last summer. You couldn't indict a flea with that evidence. Mac, Mrs Cross — time to go.'

'If I'd been trying to indict you, Fall,' replied Littlemore. 'I would have waited and brought you down when I had more. Instead I just blew my whole case against you.'

As Mrs Cross draped his overcoat on him, Fall asked, 'And why would you do that?'

'Because I need something from you.'

The Senator chuckled: 'Boy, are you ever mixed up. In future, when you want something from me, I'd recommend you try a different tactic.'

'Really?' said Littlemore. 'I got two witnesses here, one of whom is the Commissioner of the New York Police Department, who will confirm that Fischer could hear you and Mr McAdoo from all the way across the hall and that Fischer recognized your voices as the ones he heard talking about the Wall Street bombing three months before it happened. Not enough to convict, but plenty enough for a newspaper. Especially when people start looking into your Mexican documents. It'll take a while to prove the forgery, but we will. You'll deny you knew they were forged, but my witnesses will tell the papers they heard you say you didn't care if the documents were forged or not. How do you figure the headlines will read? Senator Fall Takes Country to War on Tissue of Lies?'

Fall didn't reply.

'That kind of story could put a serious crimp in a man's legal career, Mr McAdoo,' Littlemore continued. 'Not to mention his getting back into politics.'

'Let's hear what the detective wants,' said McAdoo.

'Meantime,' continued Littlemore, 'those three senators and Mr Houston — the ones who, according to your forged documents, were taking bribes from the Mexican government — I'm guessing they won't let you off the hook so easy, Mr Senator. When they find out what you did, they'll want to hold hearings or something, won't they? With all that going on, I can't see President Harding naming you to his Cabinet. Can you, Mrs Cross?'

'No, I can't,' she agreed.

Fall took a long draw at his cigar. 'What is it you want me to do?'

'Call off the war.'

'I don't make that kind of decision,' said Fall gruffly. 'Harding isn't even president yet.'

'You better find a way, Mr Senator,' said Littlemore. 'Otherwise, you can kiss your Cabinet position goodbye.'

A piece of tobacco leaf was caught between Fall's front teeth. He sucked it in and spat it out to the floor of Grand Central Terminal. He looked at McAdoo, who nodded. 'There will be no war,' said Fall. 'Hope you're proud of yourself, boy.'

The Senator buttoned his overcoat. He turned to go.

'The one thing I'll never understand,' said Littlemore, 'is how you could kill so many of your own countrymen. You didn't need to pick noon. You could've done the bombing anytime — at night. You're not just a traitor, Fall. You're some kind of monster.'

The Senator faced the detective. 'How do you know the bomb was supposed to go off at noon?' he asked. 'Mistakes happen in war. Don't they, McAdoo?'

'Don't ask me,' replied McAdoo. 'I wasn't responsible.'

'Maybe the bombers were told to do their work at a minute after midnight on the sixteenth,' said Fall, 'when the Mexicans would be celebrating their puny independence. Maybe nobody was supposed to die. But maybe the bombers were told twelve-oh-one, and maybe where they came from, twelve-oh-one doesn't mean a minute after midnight.'

Littlemore whistled. 'Your boys blew the bomb twelve hours late. That's why Fischer was off on the date. He heard you say the bomb would go off the night of the fifteenth.'

'Our boys?' asked Fall. 'Don't know what you're talking about, Littlemore. I was just speculating. But let me tell you what ain't speculation: you're handing the Reds the biggest victory they ever had. Oil is mother's milk, son. The countries that have it are going to be big and strong. The ones that don't are going to wither and die. Know how much oil we Americans produced yesterday? One million two hundred thousand barrels. Know how much we consumed? One million six hundred thousand barrels. That's right — every day, we're short four hundred thousand barrels of oil. Where's that extra oil coming from? Mexico. We'll get our oil; trust me on that. One way or the other, we'll get it. This country has enemies, Littlemore. I ain't one of them. Evening, Commissioner.'

Enright said goodbye to the Senator.

Unseen by anyone else, Mrs Cross winked at Littlemore. 'Good night, New York,' she said. 'You do play by the rules, don't you?'

'You really can't connect them?' Commissioner Enright asked Littlemore a few minutes later. 'To the bombing?'

'We've got nothing on them,' said Littlemore. 'The only witness who can tie Fall to the bombing is Fischer here, and no judge will let him testify.'

'How about the gold?' asked Enright. 'Can't we prosecute them for theft?'

'There's no theft if the owner won't admit his property was taken,' said Littlemore. 'Secretary Houston's going to deny that the Treasury got robbed. I saw him do it tonight.'

'I know what to do!' interjected Fischer. 'I'll tell Wilson. He'll be very unhappy with Senator Fall. I'm one of the President's advisers, you know.'

'You did good tonight, Eddie,' replied Littlemore. 'Thanks.'

'You're most welcome. By the way, the Popes are trying to condemn me again.'

'The Popes?' asked Enright.

'I know what he means, Commissioner,' said Littlemore. 'It's okay, Eddie. I'll help you out.'

'Well, perhaps all this will make good crime fiction someday,' observed Enright. 'I might do something with it myself. Mr Flynn is publishing my work, you know.'

'I'm sorry?' said Littlemore. 'Big Bill Flynn?'

'His days as Chief are numbered now that the Republicans are in,' said Enright. 'He's starting a literary magazine. Intends to call it Flynn's. I'm to be his first writer. I'll have several detective stories for him. Set in New York.'

Littlemore had no reply for a moment. Then he said, 'Don't put that in one of your stories, sir.'

'Don't put what?' said Enright.

'That the Police Commissioner of New York City is going to write detective stories for the fat-headed Chief of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, who's starting a literary magazine and naming it after himself after botching the biggest investigation the country's ever seen. Nobody would believe it.'

The Washington Square Hospital was a small, comfortable private facility with only two floors, connected by a wide central marble staircase. Littlemore was taking those stairs two at a time when he came upon Colette on the landing, looking out a large window. She saw him in the reflection and turned to him; the diamond choker, still on her neck, sparkled brilliantly.

'Glad to see you're okay, Miss,' said Littlemore before taking in her expression. 'What's wrong?'

'Nothing,' she answered. 'Everything's fine. He's going to be fine.'

'Who?'

At that moment a surgeon came slowly down the steps, cleaning his hands with a long wet cloth. His sleeves were bloodied. 'Miss Rousseau?' he asked. 'I'm very sorry, but-'

'I don't want to hear it,' Colette shouted, running upstairs. 'He's going to be fine.'

The surgeon shook his head and continued down the stairwell, leaving Littlemore by himself on the landing, trying not to believe the inferences he'd already drawn. Colette's footsteps trailed off down the corridor upstairs.

'Wait a second,' Littlemore called out half a minute later, unsure whether he was addressing Colette or the surgeon, then broke into a run downstairs. 'Wait just a darn second.'

The surgeon stopped midway down the hall: 'Are you a friend of Dr Younger's?' he asked.

'Sure, I'm a friend,' said Littlemore. 'What's wrong with him?'

'He was shot.'

Littlemore saw in his mind's eye Younger stepping between Colette and Samuels's gunfire. 'In the back,' he said.

'Twice,' agreed the surgeon. 'There's nothing I can do for him. I'm sorry. Does he have family?'

'What do you mean, nothing you can do? Operate on him.'

'I have,' said the surgeon, wiping his forehead. 'The bullets struck his ribs and lodged in the thoracic cavity. I don't dare try to extract them, because I don't know where they are. I'll tear his heart and lungs to pieces before I find them.'

'Can't you X-ray him or something?'

'X-rays are useless,' said the surgeon. 'The bullets haven't come to rest. Every breath he takes moves them. By the time we have images, the bullets will be somewhere else. They won't stabilize for at least seventy-two hours.'

'That doesn't sound so bad,' Littlemore said, refusing to accept the grim fatality with which the surgeon spoke. 'Roosevelt kept a bullet in his chest for almost ten years.'

'The situation is like Roosevelt's,' the surgeon reflected, 'except for the infection. Dr Younger's neutrophils are at about eighty percent. He has fever. Roosevelt's wound healed with no infection at all. That was the remarkable thing about it.'

'What are you saying, Doc? Help me out here.'

'I'm saying your friend must recover from his infection,' replied the surgeon. 'We are powerless against this sort of thing. All our instruments, all our science, all our medicines — powerless. He should live through the night. We'll test his blood again tomorrow morning. If the neutrophils decrease, all may yet be well.'

Littlemore tapped at the door and entered a silent hospital room. Colette was standing by the bedside, dousing Younger's forehead with a cold compress. Younger was lying on his stomach, eyes closed, cheek lying directly on the bed, with no pillow. His breathing was shallow, his face unnaturally livid, his entire body shivering.

'How's he doing?' asked Littlemore.

'Well,' said Colette. 'Very well. He's sleeping.'

Neither spoke for a while.

'What are neutrophils, Miss? The doctor was telling me-'

'Doctors are fools,' declared Colette.

Silence again.

'Neutrophils,' said Colette, 'are white blood cells, the most common kind. When there is an infection in the body, the neutrophils increase in number to fight it. Normally, they make up about sixty-five percent of the white cells.'

'How bad is eighty percent?'

'It's not bad; it's good,' said Colette. 'It means he's fighting his infection. His neutrophils will be in the seventies tomorrow, the high seventies. You'll see. Then they will come down more and more each day until they're normal. Did Mr Brighton live?'

'No. Neither did Samuels.' Littlemore looked at Younger's shivering body. 'Did they say anything about the kind of bullets, Miss?'

'Why?'

'It can make a big difference. The worst thing is if the bullets were hollow-points. Those mushroom on contact. They're real bad. Can't even use them in warfare. It's illegal. The bullet that hit Teddy Roosevelt wasn't a hollow-point, so it didn't mushroom when it him. When we policemen heard that, we knew he'd be okay.'

Colette remained quiet a long time. 'That's the word the doctors used,' she said at last. 'They said the bullets mushroomed.'

Before dawn, string-tied stacks of newspapers hit the streets, announcing in bold headlines a reconciliation between the United States and Mexico.

The American army at the border was standing down. Confidential Mexican agent Roberto Pesqueira declared in Washington unequivocally that American investments in his country would not be nationalized. United States law enforcement officers were said to have discovered and foiled a nefarious but unspecified plot to unseat General Obregon.

Younger's blood was drawn first thing that morning. He was still unconscious, but his fever had stabilized, although his body seemed wracked, weakened. Colette was there; Littlemore had gone home to his family.

A half-hour later, the surgeon from the night before came in. 'Eighty-six percent,' he said.

'It's a mistake,' answered Colette. 'No mistake. I'm sorry.'

'It doesn't matter,' said Colette. 'The count will improve by this evening. He's doing better. Much better. I can tell.'

Littlemore and Betty came back to the hospital at sunset. They had been there, one or the other, on and off, throughout the day. Littlemore's face was deeply drawn. They ran into Colette at the front door. 'I'm buying cigarettes,' explained Colette, smiling. 'He asked for them.'

'He's awake?' said Betty.

'Wide-awake,' said Colette. 'He's so much better.'

'I'll get him the smokes, Miss,' replied Littlemore, a tremendous weight lifting from him. 'You go back upstairs.'

'No, it's fine. He said he was hoping to talk to you.'

'To me?' asked Littlemore.

'Yes.'

'Doc doesn't talk to me. He doesn't talk to anybody. His neutrophils went down?'

'They're very strong,' said Colette. 'Ninety-five percent.'

'Ninety-five?' repeated Littlemore dumbly. 'But I thought-'

'It shows how hard he's fighting the infection. It's a good sign. But I think — I think — I think maybe you should hurry, Jimmy.' Colette turned and hid her face from them, but she didn't cry. 'Is there a tobacco nearby?'

'I know a place,' said Betty, understanding the French girl's meaning. 'I'll show you.'

A nurse was preparing a syringe when Littlemore entered the room. 'This will make you much more comfortable,' she said to Younger.

Younger was still lying on his stomach. His face, resting on one cheek, was turned toward the door; he saw Littlemore. His back, exposed from the waist up, had thick plasters in two places. His shining forehead was as pale as his white sheets, and he shook badly. 'No,' he said. His voice was strong, but he made no movement. 'No shot.'

'Afraid of a little shot, a big man like you?' said the nurse. 'Don't worry. You'll feel much better soon.'

Younger tried to lift himself; his arms looked powerful, but evidently it was too painful. He closed his eyes. 'No shot,' he repeated to Littlemore.

'Ma'am,' said Littlemore, 'he doesn't want the shot.'

'It's for his pain,' answered the nurse, paying no attention.

Younger shook his head.

'Sorry, ma'am, can't let you do that,' said Littlemore.

'Doctor's orders,' she replied as if those magic words preempted all further discussion. She tapped the syringe, forced a drop of clear liquid from the needle, and was just about to inject Younger when Littlemore seized her wrist and led her, protesting, out the door.

'Thanks,' said Younger.

Littlemore noticed matches and a packet of cigarettes on a table. 'I thought you were out of smokes.'

'One left,' said Younger.

'Want it?'

'Sure, let's do all the clichйs. I reject the morphine. You put a cigarette in my mouth.'

'Is that a yes or a no?'

'No,' said Younger.

'You're not going to die on us, Doc, are you?'

'Thinking about it.'

A silence followed. Younger's teeth began to chatter. With an effort, he brought the noise to a halt.

'How's the job?' asked Younger.

'Job's good,' said Littlemore. 'Don't have one, but it's good.'

'Family?'

'Family's good.'

A steady dripping came from the intravenous tubes on the other side of the bed. They could hear traffic outside the closed window.

'That's good,' said Younger.

'You wanted to talk to me?' asked Littlemore.

'Who told you that?'

'The Miss.'

'Ridiculous,' said Younger. His teeth began to rattle again.

'I'm lighting you that cigarette,' said Littlemore. He did so, fingers not as steady as they usually were. 'There you go.'

'Thanks.' Younger smoked; it settled his clattering teeth. 'You realize there's a silver lining.'

'Oh, yeah — what?'

'If I die fast enough, you'll be in the clear at my hearing tomorrow. They can't make you pay a man's bail bond posthumously.'

'I already talked to the DA,' said Littlemore. 'He dropped the charges against you.'

'Ah. Excellent. Then my death will be completely pointless.'

There was a long pause.

'Good thing I'm not a believer,' said Younger, smoke curling into his eyes.

Another silence.

'Not even to my own family,' said Younger.

'What's that?' asked Littlemore.

'Nothing,' said Younger. 'Ash?'

Littlemore took the cigarette, tamped it into an ashtray, and returned it to Younger's mouth.

'I wasn't kind, Jim,' said Younger quietly.

'What are you talking about?'

'I was never kind. Not to one person. Not even to my family.'

'Sure you were,' said Littlemore. 'You took care of your mom when she got sick. I remember.'

'No, I didn't,' said Younger. 'And my father. All he ever wanted from me was a show of respect. That's all. Never gave it to him.' He laughed through the smoke. 'Funny thing was I did respect him. I wasn't like you. You visit your father every weekend. You make him part of your life. You talk about Washington.'

'My dad?' said Littlemore.

'Yes.'

'My dad?'

Younger looked at him.

'My dad's a drunk,' said Littlemore. 'He's been a drunk his whole life. He cheated. And he was crooked. Got kicked off the force for taking bribes. They took his badge, took his gun. Everything I ever said about him was a lie.'

'I know.'

'I know you know,' said Littlemore. 'But you let me tell my lies.'

Neither spoke.

'That was kind,' added Littlemore.

Younger grimaced. His head jerked back; his teeth clenched. The cigarette broke off, and the lit end flew in a little arc like a miniature rocket, bouncing off the sheet near his chin, then falling to the floor. At the same time, the door to the room opened.

'I'll get that,' said Colette, hurrying in, brushing a hot red ember off the sheet and cleaning up the floor. She placed her palm wordlessly below Younger's lips. From his mouth, he let slip the unsmoked butt end of the cigarette, which fell into her hand. He began to shake again and sweat.

No one said anything.

At last Littlemore asked, 'You in a lot of pain, Doc?'

'I never understood it,' said Younger.

'What?' asked Littlemore.

'Why I was alive. Why any of us were.'

'You understand now?' asked Colette.

Younger nodded. 'Not happiness. Not meaning. It's just-'

He stopped.

'What?' asked Colette.

'War.'

'Only some people aren't fighting,' said Littlemore, remembering something Younger had once said to him.

'No. Everyone's fighting. And I know what it's between, this war.' He looked at Colette.

'What?' asked Littlemore.

'Too late,' said Younger. He lost control of his torso, which began to convulse. Fresh blood appeared on his bandages. Whether the expression on his face was another grimace or a smile, Littlemore couldn't tell.

Colette stared. Betty called for the nurse.

In the middle of the night, Colette knelt alone at Younger's bed. A candle burned on the table. 'Can you hear me?' she whispered.

His eyes were closed. He was still prone, his back rising and falling so shallowly there was hardly any respiration at all. His forehead was drenched. A hollow light glowed in his cheeks.

'If you die,' she said quietly, 'I'll never forgive you.'

He lay there.

Abruptly she stood, letting go his hand. 'Go ahead and die then if you're so weak,' she cried. 'I thought you were strong. You're a weakling. Nothing but a weakling.'

'Not very sympathetic,' he said softly, without opening his eyes.

She gasped and covered her mouth. She took his hand again and whispered in his ear. 'If you live,' she said, 'I'll do anything you want. I'll be your slave.'

'Promise?'

'I promise,' she whispered.

His eyes blinked open — and shut again. 'Incentive. That's good. Nevertheless, I'm dying. You have to go.'

'I'm not going anywhere.'

'Yes, you are,' he said, making a great effort to speak. 'I need to tell you what to do. I won't be awake long enough. Get Littlemore. Tell him to take you to a fishing tackle store.'

'What?'

'Break in if you need to. They'll have maggots — for bait. I should have thought of it before. Make sure they're from blowflies. Anything else will eat me alive. Tell the surgeon to open me up where the bullets entered. Cut as far down as he can. Drop the maggots in. Keep the incision open — use clamps. There's got to be plenty of air. Drain the wounds every couple of hours. After three days, clean them out.'

Dr Salvini, chief surgeon of the Washington Square Hospital, initially objected vigorously to the idea of embedding fly larvae to feast next to his patient's heart. But he knew Younger was dying, and in any event Colette gave him no choice.

'Um, what if they lay eggs in there?' Littlemore asked Colette early the next morning, peering at the seething stew in the troughs of Younger's back.

'First we have to hope they clean out the infection,' she answered quietly.

'I know,' said Littlemore, 'but what if the eggs hatch after he's sewed up?'

'They're larvae,' said Colette. 'They can't lay eggs. They only eat.'

'Oh — sounds good,' said Littlemore, swallowing.

How Younger held on over the next forty-eight hours, no one knew. His fever reached a hundred and five. He had no food, nearly no drink. They had to tie him to the bed rails because his convulsions were so violent.

On the third day, his fever broke. When the engorged maggots were flushed out of the wounds, Salvini was astonished to find clean, pink, healthy tissue, with all the necrotic detritus and seepage gone.

They took another set of X-rays. This time, Colette herself computed the depth and location of the bullet fragments — correctly to within a tenth of a centimeter. The bullets had indeed mushroomed, but they were stable and largely intact. Salvini didn't even have to break any more of Younger's ribs to extract them.

The following morning, fresh air and dappled sunlight poured in through the window of Younger's hospital room, the curtains of which were now thrown open, affording a pleasant view of Washington Square Park and its autumnal trees. Younger was awake, propped up by pillows. He had lost weight, but his skin had regained its color, and he could move again.

Colette came in, radiant, carrying a baguette and a paper bag filled with other groceries. 'I found a French bakery,' she said. 'I brought you croissants. Can we live here?'

'Where did you get those diamonds?' he asked, looking at her choker.

Colette shook her head, breaking the baguette. 'These hideous diamonds. I can't get them off. I've even taken my baths with them.'

'I like you in them,' replied Younger. 'I command you to keep them on. Day and night.'

'But I don't want to,' she said. 'Some slave,' he answered. 'Come here.'

She bent to him. Younger reached behind her and — with infuriating male handiness — unclasped the necklace. She kissed his lips. He handed her a telegram brought by Officer Roederheusen from the Commodore Hotel. Colette read it:

26 NOV. 1920

BOY CURED. HAVE BOOKED CABIN FOR HIM S.S. SUSQUEHANNA

ARRIVING NEW YORK 23 DECEMBER IN COMPANY OF YOUR

FRIEND OKTAVIAN KINSKY. PLEASE ADVISE IF THIS PLAN SUITABLE.

FREUD