The Death Instinct

by Jed Rubenfeld

  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 sh
oot 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.