'How'd you know that, son?'
'You got shell packing paper next to your wastebasket, Senator Fall, which tells me you were recently loading a weapon. On your right thumb is an oil stain, from cleaning it. You're not carrying, so it's somewhere in your office. Desk's the most likely place. Second drawer's slightly open.'
'If I'm not Sam Hill's mother,' said Senator Fall. 'That's damn good, Littlemore. What else do you know?'
'I know I'm not crazy about politicians telling the rest of the country we can't drink while they got brand-new bottles of the stuff on their shelves. And I know I don't back down. I'll take that whiskey, ma'am, thank you.'
Littlemore drained the tumbler and returned it to her.
'Well, well, well,' said Fall. 'Looks like we got a man here after all, Mrs Cross. All right, Agent Littlemore, let me put my cards on the table. Houston's got you convinced you're dealing with a robbery. Ain't I right?'
Littlemore said nothing.
'Oh, I know all about the gold,' Fall went on. 'General Palmer told me about it. So let me see if I have this straight. The bombing was a robbery, so the nation's not at war. That it? I'll tell you what — we Western folks must be too plain, because I don't follow that Washington logic. There was a raid on the nation's treasure, on top of an attack on our biggest bank, on top of a massacre of the American people — and that means we're not at war?'
'The robbery looks like an inside job, Mr Senator,' said Littlemore. 'So no, it doesn't look like we're at war.'
'Let me tell you something, Agent Littlemore,' said Fall. 'The one thing, the one good thing, that Washington does for a man — other than setting him temporarily free from the Missus — is that it makes him an American. I ain't a New Mexican here, and you ain't a New Yorker. We're Americans. You can open your eyes now, see the big picture, do something for your country.'
'I don't follow you, Mr Senator.'
'Look around the world today. It's Bolshevik terrorists everywhere. They took down the Tsar. They took over Germany. Hungary, Austria. They're crawling all over France and Spain and Italy. Lenin says he's coming for us. Nobody listens. They already got Mexico, right next door. Now how do the bolshies work? Stand up and fight against you? No. Reason with you? No. They infiltrate. They bomb — and they bribe. That's their means. That's what they did in Russia, and it sure worked there. That's what they're doing here.'
'You're saying the bombers were foreign, but they paid off someone in our government to help them?'
'You don't think the Feds can be bribed?'
'To help foreigners bomb us? That would be treason, Mr Fall.'
'You got no idea what this town is like, Agent Littlemore. Gaudy and statesmanlike on the outside, rotten to the core on the inside. Ten grand will buy you a US congressman. We senators are a little pricier. Everybody in this town's got an angle. Everybody's looking to make out. Even Mrs Cross here is looking to make out, aren't you, honey?'
Fall extended his empty shot glass in Mrs Cross's direction. She refilled it — and topped it off with milk. He drank it, grimacing.
'This is war, Littlemore. We're under attack. They blew us to hell on September sixteenth. They blew us to hell!' Fall slammed his fist on his desk; the sound echoed between the bookcases. He lowered his voice: 'And they'll do it again. Why wouldn't they?'
'You think Russia is behind the bombing, Senator?' asked Littlemore.
'You bet I do. Who else would dare to make war against the United States of America? They know we sent our army into Siberia last year. Why, they practically got the right to attack us back. What other country has a motive? What other country would want to bring us down?'
'I don't know, Mr Fall.'
'Well, I do,' said Fall. 'Listen to me. I'm going to tell you how history should go, son — how the history of the rest of this century should go. We got a million-plus army of soldiers, trained, ready to be mobilized right now. We could take down this Soviet dictatorship. This is the time. This is the only time. They just got whipped in Poland. They got a civil war on their hands. The Russian people don't want a dictatorship. Why, Lenin's got fifty, sixty thousand people in jail already just for speaking up against Bolshevism. The Russian people want freedom. We can help them. And if we don't, son, nobody will be able to stop this red juggernaut. We got a little window here, and it's closing fast. These communists don't just want Russia. They're mean, nasty sons of bitches — you mark my words — and they want to rule the world. That's right: they want to rule the world. They hate freedom. They hate Christ. They will fill the world with darkness for a hundred years. And there ain't no one in this government doing a damn thing about it. Wilson's a cripple. Only thing he cared about was his League of Nations. Palmer's on his way out. Bill Flynn's an idiot. Houston's a moneychanger. Who's protecting the country, goddamn it? Who's protecting the world?'
The Senator was roused again. His fist shook in the air. The sound of applause — a single pairs of hands, slowly clapping — surprised Littlemore. It was Mrs Cross.
'You cut that out,' Fall said to her, calming down. 'She thinks I take myself too seriously. Maybe I do. Here's the point. You want to get somewhere in this town? You got to hitch yourself to the right horse. Warren Harding's going to be elected president in three weeks. Houston's not going to be secretary of shee-it after that. I am. You want to do something for your country? Houston only cares about the gold. I care about freedom. I care about whether our citizens are going to be able to walk their streets in peace or get blown up by our enemies. That jackass Flynn with his Italian anarchists! It was the Russians, damn them, and if we can prove it, the country will go to war. That's why I need you, Littlemore. If you show Houston evidence — hard evidence — proving the Russians did it, know what he'll do? Nothing. He'll bury it. Just let me in on at that evidence if you find it. That's all I ask. Will you do that?'
Littlemore had not answered when they heard a knock at the main door to the Senator's chamber. The door opened, revealing a harried secretary and a well-dressed man behind her, straining to get past her. The woman had managed only to say, 'I'm sorry, Mr Senator, I told him you were busy,' when the man, completely bald except for a tuft of hair behind each of his ears, pushed brazenly and clumsily past her.
It was Mr Arnold Brighton, owner of factories, oil wells, and mines, who had contributed twenty-five thousand dollars to the Marie Curie Radium Fund.
'My people are being run out of Mexico,' declared Brighton without introduction. 'They're Americans, Fall. They're in danger.'
'Day late, nickel short, Brighton,' said Fall. 'Make an appointment. Get in line.'
'I tried to make an appointment,' complained Brighton, sounding genuinely aggrieved. 'They said you were busy.'
'I am busy,' shouted Fall. 'We're electing a president here, in case you haven't noticed.'
'I guess I'll be leaving,' said Littlemore.
'Wait just a minute, Littlemore,' said Fall. 'We didn't finish.'
'Is that Detective Littlemore?' asked Brighton. 'I've been meaning to thank you, Detective. Without your help, I–I — what was it again? Oh, my. I've forgotten. What was it I wanted to thank Detective Littlemore for?'
'How the hell would we know what you were going to thank him for?' roared Fall.
'Where's Samuels?' asked Mr Brighton plaintively. 'Samuels is my assistant. He would remember. Does anyone know where Samuels is?'
Fall seemed to exercise a great power of self-restraint in order to lower his voice: 'I'm in the middle of an important conversation, Brighton. Step outside and talk to my secretary.'
'But this Obregon fellow is taking over my mines in Mexico,' said Brighton. 'The oil wells will be next. Everything. He's sending in soldiers — with guns, for heaven's sakes! These are American workingmen. There have been beatings and death threats. You've got to do something. I know I didn't give money to Harding. It's not my fault. Everyone told me the other man, Cox, was going to win. I'll give now. Whatever amount you ask. Tell me where to send it. Just
drop a few bombs on Mexico City — perhaps on their capitol and in the nicer parts of town — I'm sure they'll see the light.'
Fall took a long time before answering: 'You turn my stomach, Brighton. Know that? I ain't for sale. The Republican Party ain't for sale. The US army ain't for sale. I'm not going to let Harding get bogged down in Mexico, and I'm not going to use the army to take care of your business.'
'You won't help Americans in Mexico?' asked Brighton.
'They're your employees,' replied Fall. 'You help them.'
Brighton looked confused, at a loss. 'Is that all?'
'You bet that's all. Now git.' Fall took Brighton by the arm and ushered him into the other room, from which Littlemore heard Brighton asking if anyone knew where Samuels was.
'I'll be going too, Mr Fall,' said Littlemore when the Senator returned.
'I asked you a question, Littlemore,' replied Fall. 'Will you show me your evidence if you tie the bombing to the Russians?'
'I can't promise that, Mr Senator. But I'll think about what you said.'
On the steps of the Senate Office Building, Mrs Cross — seeing Littlemore out — said, 'Well, didn't you charm the Senator?'
'Is that right?' asked Littlemore.
'That's right. You stood up to him. He likes that. You could go far in this town. If you learned how to dress.'
'Something wrong with how I'm dressed?'
She reached out and fixed his jacket collar, one wing of which was saluting rather than lying down flat. 'What party are you, Agent Littlemore?' she asked. 'Are you a Democrat, like Secretary Houston? Or a Republican, like Senator Fall?'
'I don't belong to any party, ma'am.'
'No? Well, who do you like, Cox or Harding?'
'Haven't decided. My wife likes Debs.'
'How interesting,' said Mrs Cross. 'I wouldn't mention that again, if I were you.'
'Which — that I have a wife, or that she's for Debs?'
'That depends on whether you're talking to a woman or a man. Goodbye, New York. 'The well-heeled Mrs Cross walked in what might have been described as a businesslike sashay, the graceful motions of which, when viewed from behind, defied any man, even a married man, to turn away. Littlemore watched her disappear liltingly into the Senate Office Building.
No sooner had Mrs Cross sashayed out of sight than a man's voice called out, 'Detective Littlemore, is that you? Samuels was out here all along, waiting for me.' It was Brighton, standing next to a luxurious car with a closed passenger compartment and a roof that stuck out over the driver. Brighton seemed to consider his private secretary's whereabouts a cause of public concern. 'Why would he a do a thing like that?'
'I'm guessing it's because you told him to, Mr Brighton,' said Littlemore, descending the steps.
'Really?' Brighton stuck his head below the protruding roof. When he reemerged, he said, 'By Jove, you're right. I did ask him to. How did you know?'
'Wild guess.'
'It's so fortunate I ran into you. Samuels reminded me what I wanted to thank you for. It was for Samuels himself. Your report cleared him of wrongdoing after that unfortunate shooting of the mad girl. You saved me no end of trouble. I couldn't manage without Samuels, you know — not for a day.'
'Just doing my job, Mr Brighton,' said Littlemore. 'The girl had a knife. The witnesses said she attacked first. Your man acted lawfully.'
'How is she?'
'Still in the hospital. Been there ever since she was shot.'
'Not her,' said Brighton. 'I meant Miss Rousseau. Such a lovely girl. I nearly fainted when that madwoman assaulted her.'
'Miss Colette's fine, so far as I know.'
'Is she poor?'
'Poor?' asked Littlemore.
'I'm not like you, Detective. No woman will ever fall in love with me for my personal qualities. My father told me so many years ago, after I took over the business. I'm looking for a girl who will marry me for my money.'
'I know a couple hundred girls like that.'
'Really?' Brighton blinked as if he couldn't believe the detective's good luck. 'You couldn't introduce me to them, could you?'
'Sure. My wife loves to match-make.'
'How strange,' Brighton reflected. 'The only girl I can think of at present is Miss Rousseau. So comely. Do you know where she went? She promised to come to Washington with me, but Mrs Meloney says she simply vanished.'
'Couldn't tell you.' This was doubly true. Littlemore neither knew where Colette was, nor would he have told Brighton if he did.
'That other creature — the madwoman.' Brighton shuddered. 'I've never seen anything so hideous. Did she tell anyone what's wrong with her?'
'No. She's been unconscious since the shooting.'
'How can I thank you for Samuels? What about five thousand dollars?'
'I'm sorry?'
'His freedom is worth much more than that to me, I promise you.'
'You can't give me money in exchange for police work,' said Littlemore.
'I don't see the logic in that,' replied Brighton, removing a thick wallet from his breast pocket and withdrawing a single large-sized Federal Reserve note with a blue seal and a picture of James Madison on it. 'Where's the incentive to do good work if a man can't be rewarded for it? Surely you could use five thousand dollars.'
Littlemore took a deep breath through his nostrils, thinking of his daughter Lily. 'I can't take it, Mr Brighton. I can't take a dime.'
'How absurd. Well, what about a ride? At least I can offer you a ride. I'm on my way to the train station. Can I take you somewhere?'
Littlemore, who was going to the station himself, accepted. When Brighton discovered that Littlemore too was destined for New York that evening, he beamed and insisted they travel together.
Samuels pulled the limousine up at a loading dock in the rear of Union Station. Brighton explained that this was the only way to get the automobile onto the train.
'They let you bring your car onto the train?' asked Littlemore as they stepped out of the vehicle.
'I can bring anything I like,' answered Brighton. 'It's my train. I have a parlor car, a bedroom car, a billiards car, a kitchen car, and a car car — hah, hah — a car car, isn't that good? We'll have great fun, Detective. No one ever rides with me.'
'Afraid I can't, Mr Brighton.'
'What? Why not?'
'If I ride your private train,' said Littlemore, 'I'm accepting a pretty fancy service from you. It's like you're buying something for me.'
'But what good is my money if I'm not allowed to buy things with it?'
'Some things you can't.'
'That's ludicrous,' said Brighton. 'The Commissioner of Police, Mr Enright, has taken my train. The Attorney General has taken it. Senator Harding rode it three weeks ago.'
'That's different.'
'Why?'
'Because — ' Littlemore began before interrupting himself. 'I don't know why, to tell you the truth. But that's the way it is.'
'I have an idea. You could you do extra work for me — you know, when you're off-duty. That can't possibly be against the law, can it?'
'No,' Littlemore acknowledged reluctantly. 'A lot of the men moonlight.'
'There we are then! You'll do something useful for me, and I'll pay you five thousand dollars for it. What do you say? The ride to New York will be your interview. We'll figure out what service you can render me. I'm not sure what; Samuels is so good at everything. He used to be a Pinkerton man, you know. But there must be some valuable service you can perform.'
Littlemore watched Samuels steer the limousine up a wide ramp. 'I guess I might be able to do something,' said the detective.
'What about my people in Mexico?' asked Brighton. 'You know it was quite true what I told Senator Fall. I own hundreds of thousands of very productive acres in Mexico, and their government is trying to take it all away from me.'
'I don't doubt it, Mr Brighton.'
'Didn't I hear Senator Fall say you work for the federal government now? Perhap
s you can help me with Mexico. Confiscation is theft, you know — outright theft. Could you send some federal policemen in?'
'Listen, Mr Brighton. First of all, I got no jurisdiction over Mexico. Second, whatever I do for you, it can't have anything to do with my government work. Third, I'm not taking any money today I'll just ride up to New York with you, and we'll see if we can figure out something you need that I could do for you. Okay?'
'I know: Let's play billiards,' declared Brighton. 'Come on — it's only good when the train's at rest. Samuels is bunk at billiards. I could pay you for being my billiards partner!'
The Sixth Avenue Elevated rattled by a half block away, shaking the floors and the bed in which Littlemore and his wife were lying.
'What's the matter?' asked Betty, seeing her husband's open eyes.
'Nothing.'
'It's after two, Jimmy.'
'I feel like I took my first bribe.'
'You mean because you rode in Mr Brighton's train? You're the only policeman in New York who would think there was anything wrong with that.'
'He offered me five thousand dollars. Enough for Lily. He put it in my hand.'
'Did you take it?'
'No.'
The noise of the train receded into the distance. The bedroom was completely silent.
'What did he want you to do?' asked Betty at last.
'Nothing. He wanted to pay me for something I already did.'
'He offered you five thousand dollars for nothing?'
'It was for police work,' said Littlemore. 'I'm sorry, Betty. I couldn't take it.'
'You listen to me, James Littlemore,' said Betty, sitting up. 'Don't you take any dirty money. Not for me, not for Lily, not for anything.'
Littlemore shut his eyes. 'Thanks,' he said.
Betty lay down again. A long while passed.
'Did I make enough of myself, Betty?' asked Littlemore.
'Enough? Nobody works harder than you. You put food on our table every day. You got us an apartment on Fourteenth Street.'
'Mayor Mitchel was mayor of New York City at thirty-four,' said Littlemore. 'Teddy Roosevelt was Police Commissioner at thirty-eight. I can't even afford to fix my own daughter's hearing.'
The Death Instinct Page 24