The Death Instinct

by Jed Rubenfeld

  But I also have wonderful news! I dared to wire Dr Freud in Vienna, and he has wired back. He says he will see Luc again, and also that he is very eager to see you as well. He says he has a great deal to tell you.

  Please, please come. I need you there with me.

  Affectionately,

  Colette

  Younger returned by himself that night to Littlemore's waterfront clip joint. A woman in red lipstick and an orange dress approached while he drank the foul whiskey. 'What about it, handsome?' she said.

  'No thanks,' he replied.

  Chapter Eleven

  The ordinarily genial Police Commissioner Enright liked to drop in on the men he wanted to see. Written summonses appeared only in cases of severest displeasure; they struck dread in the Commissioner's subordinates. On Friday morning at police headquarters, Littlemore received such a summons.

  'Is it the Rembrandt in the evidence locker, sir?' asked Littlemore as he walked into the Commissioner's office. 'I can explain.'

  Enright, behind his mahogany desk, raised his eyebrows: 'You have a Rembrandt in the evidence locker?'

  'Was it the horseshoe, Mr Enright? I couldn't let Flynn get away with that story about Haggerty.'

  'I didn't ask you here to play horseshoes, Mr Littlemore, or to discuss portraiture.' Enright got up, his gold watch chain glinting on an extensive waistline, his wavy gray hair abundant over a fleshy, good- natured face. A prodigious reader, an eloquent speaker, and largely self-educated, Enright had the eyes of a man who loved reciting poetry from memory. 'You remember Mayor Hylan, I'm sure, and Mr McAdoo, the President's adviser?'

  Littlemore turned and saw those two important gentlemen at the other end of the office. McAdoo was seated, cross-legged, in an armchair, staring imperturbably at the detective, taking his measure. Hylan, standing and fidgeting with a glass object he'd picked up from Enright's bookcase, studiously avoided eye contact.

  'Mayor Hylan received a visit from an attorney yesterday, Littlemore,' Enright continued. 'You were the subject of that visit.'

  'Me, sir?'

  'I want him fired, Enright,' declared Mayor Hylan.

  'The attorney,' Enright continued, 'is a man of considerable reputation, well connected to the political establishment of this city. A client of his is currently a guest in one of our custodial facilities.'

  'I said I want him fired,' repeated the Mayor, who had decidedly less poetry about him than did the Commissioner. Hylan was a short personage, greasy hair falling over his forehead in continual need of a comb, eyes darting like a squirrel's. A favorite occupation of Mayor Hylan's was railing from a podium, which he did often and poorly. He wore an air of perpetual embattlement, as if enemies were constantly casting outrageous aspersions on his good name. Prior to becoming Mayor of New York, he was an engineer with the Brooklyn Elevated Railroad Company, which discharged him after he nearly ran a locomotive over a supervisor. He had ascended to the mayoralty from nowhere, politically speaking, dredged up from obscurity by Tammany Hall, the doyens of which rightly estimated him a man they could trust. 'And I want that man out of jail. Today.'

  'Unfortunately, Mr Mayor,' said the Commissioner, 'much as I wish I could execute your orders without question, I am subservient to another master as well — the law.'

  'Don't law me,' retorted Hylan. 'I know the law. Don't forget who you're talking to, Enright. I could have you fired too.'

  'That's your prerogative,' answered Enright.

  'Let's keep our tempers,' said McAdoo mildly, 'and hear the facts, shall we?'

  'This is none of Washington's business,' snapped Mayor Hylan. 'It's city business.'

  'On September sixteenth,' answered McAdoo without raising his voice, 'New York City's business became Washington's business. I haven't reached the President today, but my wife thinks Wilson would not be pleased if the Captain were fired.'

  'His wife?' asked the Mayor, incredulous. 'His wife? How about your wife, Enright — does she have an opinion? Excuse me, I'll go ask my wife what the President wants.'

  'For heaven's sake, Hylan,' said the Commissioner. 'McAdoo's wife is the President's daughter.'

  There was a momentary silence.

  'Daughter,' Mayor Hylan humphed and wiped his brow with a soiled handkerchief.

  Littlemore cleared his throat: 'Um, would I be the Captain everybody's talking about firing?'

  Commissioner Enright answered: 'Is it true, Littlemore, that you took a man out of the hospital last week and jailed him even though he had just received major surgery for compound facial fractures?'

  'That guy?' responded Littlemore. 'That guy has a fancy lawyer?'

  'Yes. His name, I'm told, is Mr John Smith. I'm also told that Mr Smith's assailant is a very close friend of yours. And that you personally secured your friend's release on bail.'

  'How'd the lawyer know that?'

  'I take it these facts are true.'

  'Yes, sir. I think the guy's real name is Drobac, Mr Enright, and I think he may be the Woolworth rooftop killer.'

  'May be the killer?' repeated Hylan scornfully. 'Anyone may be the killer.'

  'No, sir, Mr Mayor. There are only about fifty people who could be the Woolworth killer. That's how many were on the observation deck at the time of the murder, and over a dozen of them were kids. This guy was there, and he was recognized by an eyewitness as a wanted kidnapper.'

  'Allegedly recognized, Captain,' corrected Enright. 'By the man who assaulted him. Whom you released. Your friend. Who is himself charged with attempted murder.'

  'Dr Younger's helped the force before, sir,' said Littlemore. 'He's a Harvard man. And he fought in the war.'

  'The war,' repeated Enright darkly. 'You know as well I do, Littlemore, that many men who fought have behaved unaccountably and committed criminal assaults since returning home.'

  'Not this man,' said Littlemore.

  'Enright, ask your Captain,' interjected Hylan, 'what proof he has that Smith committed the Woolworth murder. I'm told there's no evidence whatsoever.'

  'Littlemore?' asked Enright.

  The detective shifted uncomfortably: 'Okay, I don't have any proof — for now. But Dr Younger definitely identified him as Drobac, who committed a kidnapping and another killing the night before.'

  'Bosh — the kidnapped girl herself doesn't recognize the man,' added Hylan. 'Not to mention the fact that she's left the state.'

  'She's only in Connecticut,' said Littlemore.

  'Yes, in New Haven, I know,' said the Commissioner. 'Is it true that she failed to recognize the man?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Can you identify him, Littlemore?' asked Enright. 'You rescued the kidnapped girl. Could you testify that the man in jail was one of her kidnappers?'

  'No, sir,' conceded Littlemore. 'He's a little — uh — banged up at the moment.'

  'You see, Enright?' declared Hylan. 'Your own officer can't identify him.'

  'Would you say you have probable cause, Littlemore?' asked the Commissioner.

  'Probable cause? You're not talking about letting him go, are you, Mr Enright? This guy's dangerous. He's gone after the French girl twice. He might kill her if we let him out.'

  Enright sighed: 'You can't presume guilt, Littlemore, and you can't hold a man without probable cause. You know that.'

  'We've held plenty of men on a lot less than this, sir,' objected Littlemore. 'We've held them for months.'

  'Yes, but in those cases, the men we were holding — well — ' Enright did not finish his sentence.

  Littlemore did: 'Didn't have a lawyer fancy enough to get a meeting with the Mayor.'

  'That's the way of the world,' said the Commissioner.

  'Give me a few weeks, sir. I'll nail him.'

  'A few weeks?' said Hylan. 'An outrage. I won't tolerate it. I've always stood up for the common man against the interests. There's only one true threat to this Republic — the international bankers, the moneymen, like a giant octopus spreading their slimy legs over all our cit
ies. As long as I'm Mayor, the interests won't rule this city. The common man will have his rights.'

  His back to Hylan, Commissioner Enright rolled his eyes. 'I'm sorry to say it, Littlemore,' said Enright, 'but your conduct merits an immediate suspension. Releasing from jail a personal friend charged with attempted murder. Imprisoning his victim without probable cause. Really. You should know better.' The Commissioner was one of those men who, when standing, like to bob up and down on the balls of their feet, hands behind the back. 'However, Mr McAdoo happened to be in my office at the very same time Mayor Hylan came in. As fate would have it, McAdoo was also speaking to me about you. He gave me this.' The Commissioner picked up from his desk several pieces of typed stationery. 'It's a copy of a letter delivered today to President Wilson and every member of his Cabinet in Washington, DC. The letter is from Senator Fall of New Mexico. Do you know Senator Fall?'

  'No, sir.'

  'A very powerful man,' said Enright. 'He sits on the Senate Foreign Relations Committee and will soon be Secretary of State, in all likelihood, under Mr Harding.'

  'What's that got to do with me, sir?' asked Littlemore.

  'Can you enlighten Captain Littlemore, McAdoo?' said Enright.

  'Certainly,' said McAdoo, putting his fingertips together. His calm demeanor, smooth-backed hair, fine features, and long elegant face contrasted sharply with the uncombed, frowning, and overanxious Mayor. McAdoo spoke with a distinctly Eastern, well-educated accent, with only the occasional twang giving away his Tennessee roots. 'Fall's a fire-breather — and a very effective one. He's been denouncing us — the Wilson Administration, that is — for our failure to respond to the outrage on Wall Street. Fall says that an attack of this magnitude can only have been organized and carried out by a foreign power intent on our destruction — a reference, I assume, to Lenin and his Bolsheviks. He says the bombing was an act of war plainly targeting one of America's most important financial houses, while we in the Administration, far from preparing for war, proclaim that it was the work of a few disorganized Italian malcontents. And then, Captain Littlemore, Senator Fall names you.'

  'Me?'

  'You. He says that the New York Police Captain closest to the investigation — naming you personally — has in private advised Mr Thomas Lamont of J. P. Morgan and Company that the evidence refutes Flynn's theory of the case and demonstrates a purposeful attack against the Morgan firm.'

  'I didn't say demonstrates. I said it was a possibility.'

  'You are to be congratulated, Captain Littlemore,' said McAdoo.

  'I am?'

  'Yes. I share Senator Fall's views in every respect.'

  'If you'll excuse me, Mr McAdoo,' said Littlemore, 'I don't get it. I thought Senator Fall was criticizing President Wilson, and I thought you were the President's man.'

  'I don't know if I'm his man, Captain,' said McAdoo, 'but I'm certainly in his camp. The President wants this bombing solved. That's all he wants. And he doesn't, to speak frankly, have perfect confidence in Chief Flynn. Flynn works for Attorney General Palmer; together they see a cabal of Italian and Hebrew anarchists lurking everywhere, or at least so they want our citizens to believe. If you, Captain Littlemore, are willing to pursue avenues that Flynn can't or won't, the President is entirely in favor. Many of us agree with Senator Fall that this attack was of a magnitude too great for a handful of impoverished anarchists.'

  'Whoever did it wasn't impoverished — I'm pretty sure about that,' said Littlemore.

  'Why?' asked Commissioner Enright.

  'The horseshoe, sir,' said Littlemore. 'It was brand-new. You could tell from the union mark on it. Shoeing a horse isn't cheap. Nobody poor would ever put brand-new shoes on a horse they're about to blow to pieces. I'd say these guys had plenty of cash behind them.'

  'Excellent, Captain,' replied Enright. 'That's how a detective does his job.'

  'Making it more likely,' said McAdoo, 'that a foreign power was behind this outrage. If that's true, it must come out, and the enemy must be made to feel the full force of American might. Commissioner, your Captain can't be fired — or suspended. It would look as if we feared war and feared the truth. They would say we'd deliberately eliminated the one man daring to ask what enemy of this country might have massacred our people and attacked our finances. Fall would undoubtedly cast it in that light, and the story would run in every newspaper in the country.'

  'I make the decisions in this city,' said the Mayor.

  'To be sure, Hylan, to be sure,' replied McAdoo. 'I wouldn't dream of interfering. Nor would I hesitate to urge the Attorney General to revisit your statements in opposition to the late war. The Sedition Act is still in force, I believe.'

  Hylan looked stricken. 'I don't care about your Littlemore. Let him stay on. Just give me Smith.'

  'And I don't care about your Smith,' said McAdoo. 'Let him go free.'

  'I don't know what's wrong with me,' said Enright. 'I seem to be the only one who cares about both Captain Littlemore and Mr Smith. I'm not going to suspend Littlemore — '

  'Good,' said McAdoo.

  'And I'm not going to release Mr Smith,' said Enright.

  'What?' said Hylan.

  'You have until Monday, Captain,' replied Enright.

  'I'm sorry?' asked Littlemore.

  'To obtain probable cause against Smith, if that's in fact his name.'

  'But today's Friday, Mr Enright,' said Littlemore.

  'And you've had Mr Smith in jail since last Friday, when he should have been in a hospital. By Monday you will have had ten days to collect evidence against him, Littlemore, which is more than adequate. Either you come up with hard evidence by Monday, or you let him go. Will that do, Hylan?'

  'That'll do,' grumbled the Mayor.

  'That will be all, Captain,' said Enright.

  Younger tried to write a letter to Colette, seated at his hotel room desk. How could she love a convicted criminal so devoted to the German cause that he had volunteered to serve in its army? There had to be some reality to love — surely. If a girl loved a man who wasn't the man she thought he was, she didn't really love him — did she?

  But perhaps Hans Gruber wasn't the man Younger thought he was. Why shouldn't Gruber be the sweet, devout, ailing soul that Colette remembered? Yes, he was in prison for assault on an innocent victim, but his imprisonment might be a mistake. Younger himself had been jailed for assault only last week. Worse, much worse: Didn't Gruber deserve Colette more than Younger did? Gruber had instantly seen what Younger had taken years to grasp — that his life would be void and dull and pointless and black without her.

  The letter he was trying to write, offering Colette reasons not to go to Europe, failed to flow trippingly off his pen. He started, stopped, and started again, crumpling sheets of hotel stationery and throwing them into a wastebasket. Eventually he pulled them out and burned them, one by one, in an ashtray. It had come to him that, with Freud having agreed to treat Luc, Colette would never be dissuaded from going to Vienna.

  Younger packed his bags.

  Littlemore reexamined the evidence seized from Colette's and Luc's kidnappers. He combed through every item, turned inside out every article of clothing. He looked for laundry marks, for threads of hair, for anything that would connect the jailed man, Drobac, to the kidnapping. All to no avail.

  Then he went to the police garage, where he personally re-dusted the criminals' car for fingerprints, both exterior and interior, from tailpipes to steering wheel to ashtrays. This painstaking process took many hours. It proved equally futile, revealing a host of prints, none of which matched the ones taken from the man Younger had assaulted. Frustrated but not beaten, Littlemore went home for the night.

  Even as the train conductor announced New Haven as the next stop, Younger still had not decided whether to disembark there or continue on to Boston, the city that had been his home most of his life.

  The landscape outside the train's windows had grown increasingly New England. Trees blazed with color. Eve
ry bridge over every river, every bend of the coastline, was familiar to him. He had taken the Shore Line into or out of Manhattan too many times.

  When the train pulled into New Haven, Younger stepped out on the platform. He smelled the autumn air and dropped into a mailbox a letter for Colette. Under his Boston address, the letter said:

  September 24, 1920

  I'll come to Vienna, but only on one condition: that you renounce any intention of seeing Hans Gruber.

  — Stratham

  The whistle blew, the conductor called out, and Younger returned to his seat.

  Littlemore spent the next day — Saturday — tracking down and interviewing occupants of the building where the criminals had stayed. No one had anything of value to tell him. He found the owner of that building, but the landlord was equally unhelpful. He cut through the police ropes and reentered the room where Colette and Luc had been taken. On hands and knees, he went over every inch of the room with his magnifying glass. This too was in vain.

  Younger woke up Saturday morning in his old bedroom in his old house in the Back Bay. It wasn't the house of his parents — the house he'd grown up in — but a townhouse he'd bought after returning to Boston when his marriage broke up in 1911. It was a handsome place, with fine old furniture, high ceilings, and well-proportioned rooms. Leaving the accumulated mail untouched, he went outside.

  What he liked about Boston was that it was such a small town. That was also what he didn't like about it. He walked to the Public Garden, passing rows of townhouses more or less identical to his own, and took a seat on a bench by the lake. It was so placid he could see in it an upside-down double of every swan and paddle boat plying the water. He put a cigarette in his mouth but discovered he had no matches. The fact that he was in Boston with no employment irritated him.

  After his divorce, Younger had thrown himself into his scientific work, spending days and nights in a laboratory underneath the Harvard medical school. His field in those days was microscopic infectious agents. He made his scientific name in 1913 by isolating syphilitic spirochetes in the brains of individuals who had died of general paresis, a condition previously believed to be psychiatric in origin. He saw no one. He socialized not at all.