The Death Instinct (27 page)

    It was a good thing Littlemore had left the Treasury at three o'clock. He finally entered the rotunda of the Senate Office Building - which was three stories high, ringed by Corinthian columns, every wall gleaming with white marble and limestone, suffused with natural light from the glazed oculus at the apex of the richly coffered dome - at two minutes to four, just on time.

    Albert B. Fall, United States Senator from New Mexico, was a hale man of sixty, tall and hard-drinking, with a drooping Western mustache white with age. Outdoors, he liked to sport a big-rimmed Western hat, mismatching his three-piece Eastern bow-tied suit. His chambers were lavish. When Littlemore was shown in, the Senator was working on his putting stroke, aiming golf balls at an empty milk bottle at least thirty feet away. The Senator's shots were missing badly.

    'Special Agent James Littlemore,' declared Senator Fall without interrupting his practice. He had a large voice - the kind that could carry from an open-air rostrum or fill a legislative chamber. 'Glad to meet you, son. Heard a lot about you. What do you make of Washington?'

    'Big offices, sir.'

    'Big men get big offices. That's how it works. What's on your mind, boy?'

    Littlemore was about to mention that the Senator had asked to see him, not the reverse, but the question turned out to be rhetorical.

    'I'll tell you what's on your mind,' said Senator Fall. 'You're thinking why does this senator in this big office want to see me.'

    'That's about right.'

    'I'll tell you why. I want you to keep me posted on your investigation.'

    Littlemore opened his mouth to answer.

    'Don't you say anything, son,' interrupted Fall. 'I ain't put a question yet. I know what you'd say anyway. You'd say, "I'm sorry, Mr Senator, hut the investigation is confidential. You'll have to take that up with Secretary Milksop - I mean Houston.'"

    There was silence in the room as Senator Fall lined up another putting stroke.

    'Ain't I right?' said Fall.

    'Am I supposed to answer now?' asked Littlemore.

    'I'm right,' said Fall, slapping his golf ball a foot past the milk bottle into a bookcase. 'Damnation. That's it. I've had enough of this fool game. I don't play golf. Harding plays golf, so I figured I ought to give it a go. Well, he'll just have to play by himself. Mrs Cross? Get your pretty self in here.'

    A door at the far end of the room opened. A tall blonde woman entered - the same attractive woman who had met Littlemore at Union Station the day before.

    'Take this damn thing,' said the Senator, handing the woman his putter. 'And fix us a couple of drinks.'

    'Yes, Mr Senator,' said Mrs Cross without a glance at Littlemore.

    'So how's it feel 'to be a special agent, Special Agent Littlemore?' asked Fall, taking a seat behind his desk. 'Must feel pretty special.'

    Littlemore wasn't sure how ironical this remark was intended to be. 'It's all right,' he said.

    'Shouldn't be all right.' Fall leaned back in his reclining leather chair. 'Man of your age and your abilities shouldn't be content to be an agent. Got to think big. Look at that jackass Flynn. You're just as good as he is. Why shouldn't you be the director of the Bureau?'

    'Whiskey, Mr Littlemore?' asked Mrs Cross.

    'No, thank you, ma'am.'

    Fall raised his eyebrows: 'You ain't dry?'

    'No, sir.'

    'Glad to hear it. Mrs Cross, give the man some whiskey. I got to tell you, Littlemore, becoming a Treasury Agent ain't the way to investigate an act of war.'

    'I don't believe the bombing was an act of war, Mr Senator.'

    Fall shook his head. 'Maybe it's because you back down, Littlemore. Maybe that's why you haven't made more of yourself. Men who back down don't rise up. Simple rule. Never fails. You were the only one to tell the truth about this bombing. You told Tom Lamont that the Morgan Bank was the terrorists' target. He didn't want to hear it, but you told him. Lamont was impressed; told me all about it. And Lamont ain't impressed by most. But all of a sudden you got religion. You dropped Lamont and hitched yourself up to Secretary Milksop instead. I wonder what made you change your tune.'

    Mrs Cross handed a tumbler of whiskey to Senator Fall and offered another to Littlemore on a silver tray. He didn't take it. Into the Senator's glass of whiskey she poured a dollop of milk straight from a bottle.

    'For the stomach,' explained Senator Fall. 'One thing I hate to see is a good man back down. Knuckle under to the people at the top. Been fighting it my whole life. Take a seat, for Christ's sake.'

    Littlemore remained standing. 'Does every senator keep a firearm in his office, Mr Fall?'

    'What's that?'

    'You've got a pistol in your second drawer.'

    Fall crossed his arms, then smiled broadly. 'Now how'd you know that? Mrs Cross, did you tell Agent Littlemore about my gun?'

    'Would I do something like that, Mr Senator?' asked Mrs Cross.

    'You surely would.'

    'Well, I didn't.'

    '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.'