The Death Instinct (42 page)

    'But then in good cells, radioactivity would - it would-'

    'Turn the switch off,' said Younger. 'Make the cells stop dying. Cause cancer.'

    'Radium doesn't cause cancer.'

    'How do you know?'

    'One medicine can't both cure a disease and cause it. That's impossible.'

    'Why?'

    'Do you know why you are so suspicious of radioactivity?' asked Colette. 'I think it's because you didn't discover it. If you had been the first to think of God, you'd believe in Him, too.'

    In her antiseptic room, the girl with long red hair knew what it meant when the man in the white coat came in. She strained against the leather straps; she tried to scream, but the gag muffled her mouth.

    She also knew from the man's presence that she would soon feel the pinprick of a needle in her arm, and after that the gratifying warmth that would spread so comfortably up and down her limbs.

    Soon the other man was brushing her teeth again, upper and lower, front and back, taking his time.

    A folded note slid under Younger's hotel room door well after midnight. Younger read it, threw on some clothes, and went down to the front desk. 'You're out late,' he said.

    'What's the world's strongest acid?' asked Jimmy Littlemore, chewing his toothpick.

    'Strongest for what purpose?' asked Younger. 'Cutting through metal.'

    'Aqua regia. It's a mixture of nitric and sulfuric acids.' 'Can you travel with it?' asked Littlemore. 'You know, bring it with you?'

    'It's safe enough in glass. Why?'

    'I might need some help,' said Littlemore. 'Could be a little dangerous. You around tomorrow night?' Younger looked at him. 'It's important, Doc.' 'To whom?' asked Younger. 'To the country. To two countries.' Younger still didn't answer. 'The war,' added Littlemore.

    'The war's going to be a mismatch,' said Younger. 'A single division of ours is larger than the entire Mexican army. Our generals could go in blindfolded, and we'd still win it.'

    'Not trying to win it,' said Littlemore. 'Trying to stop it.'

    The front pages of the newspapers the next morning were full of the escalating crisis in Mexico. President-elect Obregon had not been seen in public for two days. On the border, the United States army, Second Division, had beaten to full war strength. American warplanes had begun crossing into Mexican airspace, patrolling south all the way to Mexico City.

    The
Wall Street Journal
demanded an immediate invasion to protect American interests. So did the governor of the great state of Texas. In Washington, high-ranking gentlemen in the Wilson Administration, together with men whose offices would be correspondingly lofty under Harding, issued a joint statement addressed to General Obregon, President-elect of Mexico. The statement set forth the conditions necessary to a peaceful resolution of the crisis, including an amendment to the Mexican Constitution prohibiting confiscation of American-owned subsoil interests.

    According to rumors circulating on both sides of the border, the American war was to commence the next day, with the goal of occupying Mexico City by November twenty-fifth, the day of General Obregon's inauguration. It was widely asserted that the Americans would allow the inauguration to go forward - but with an individual of their own choice taking office.

    Younger accompanied Colette once again to Mrs Meloney's house on West Twelfth Street, where a car was waiting to take them to Mr Brighton's luminous-paint factory in Orange, New Jersey. The driver was the redoubtable Samuels. Younger said goodbye, waiting on the curb until he was sure no one had followed them. Then he took the subway uptown. The day was brisk and overcast.

    Passing warehouses and slaughterhouses, Younger walked to Tenth Avenue, where he entered Columbia University's College of Physicians and Surgeons, the medical school attached to the Sloane Hospital for Women. Younger knew two researchers who worked there. He found one of them - his name was Joseph Johanson - in his laboratory. Younger asked him to call the hospital to see if he could pull the charts on a female patient named McDonald under the care of Dr Frederick Lyme.

    'There's no Dr Lyme at Sloane,' replied Johanson.

    'There was yesterday,' said Younger. 'I talked to him.'

    Johanson looked dubious but made the call. Presently they learned that there was indeed a patient file for a Quinta McDonald, but that all her charts were gone, having been removed on instructions from the family. What remained was a death certificate, which indicated that the patient had died five days previously from syphilis.

    'Who signed the death certificate?' asked Younger.

    Johanson relayed the question to the nurse, who reported that the signature appeared to be that of an attorney by the name of Gleason. She also said that she had never heard of a Dr Lyme at the hospital.

    'Wait a minute: Frederick Lyme - I know that name,' said Johanson after ringing off. He took down from a bookcase a large loose-leaf binder: a directory of the faculty of Columbia University. 'Let me just - here he is. He's not a doctor. He's in physiology. Not even a Ph.D.'

    'Why would a physiologist,' asked Younger, 'be treating a patient in your hospital?'

    Colette and Mrs Meloney, received like dignitaries by Mr Arnold Brighton at his luminous-paint factory in New Jersey, were each presented with a diamond stickpin - a token, Brighton said, of his appreciation. Mrs Meloney was delighted. Colette tried to look it.

    The factory, Brighton proudly showed them, operated under the scrupulous supervision of laboratory scientists, who took care that precisely measured micrograms of radium were properly added to the drums of blue and yellow paint, which were then sealed and spun to ensure uniform hue and dilution. Lead screens separated the radium-infused paint from the rest of the factory floor. Radioactivity detectors were located in various spots to sound an instant alarm in case of a radiation leak.

    Mrs Meloney brought up the subject of the Marie Curie Radium Fund.

    'Yes, Marie Curie,' said Brighton reverently. 'You can't quantify what the world owes that woman. Even Samuels would have difficulty measuring it. He's a gifted accountant, my Samuels. You wouldn't guess it from looking at him. It just shows you can't judge a man by his cover. Isn't that right, ladies?'

    Colette and Mrs Meloney agreed that you could not.

    'Was I saying something?' asked Brighton.

    'Our debt to Madame Curie,' prompted Mrs Meloney.

    'Yes, of course. The profit from my radium mines in Colorado, the profit from my luminous-paint sales - I owe it all to Marie Curie. Of course, I do own a few other little things here and there.'

    'Mr Brighton,' Mrs Meloney explained to Colette, 'is one of our nation's great oilmen.'

    'That's how we discovered radium in Colorado,' said Brighton cheerfully. 'We were sinking exploratory lines for oil.'

    Mrs Meloney gently reminded Brighton of the Fund.

    'Fund?' he asked. 'What Fund?'

    'The Radium Fund, Mr Brighton.'

    'The Fund, the Fund, of course,' he said. 'Marvelous idea, yes - I can't wait to meet Madame Curie. And I can't wait for you to see my factory in Manhattan, where we put the paint on the watch dials. I am one of the largest employers of women in New York, Miss Rousseau, did you know that?'

    Colette politely denied such knowledge. With a theatrical sigh, Mrs Meloney declared, 'What a pity that Madame Curie will not be coming to America after all. The Fund is still woefully short of what it needs. Sixty-five thousand dollars short, despite the magnanimous contribution with which you started us off, Mr Brighton.'

    'Sixty-five thousand dollars short,' repeated Brighton, with strange good cheer. 'It would be a great relief to know whether I will be making another donation, wouldn't it?'

    'We are most eager to know, Mr Brighton,' replied Mrs Meloney.

    'No more so than I, Mrs Meloney,' said Brighton. 'No more so than I.'

    Colette and Mrs Meloney exchanged glances at this mysterious remark.

    Younger called next at Columbia University's Department of Physiology, located on the grand new campus far uptown, where one of the buildings bore his mother’s maiden name. The secretary in the small physiology building confirmed that Frederick Lyme was a member of the faculty.

    'What's his specialty?' asked Younger.

    'Toxicology,' said the secretary. 'Industrial toxicology.'

    'Is he in?'

    'Mr Lyme is out all day with clients.'

    'Clients?' repeated Younger.

    'Yes - the people he consults for.'

    'Who would they be?'

    'I'm sorry,' said the secretary. 'You'll have to speak with Mr Lyme about that.'

    At the Sub-Treasury on Wall Street, Littlemore welcomed into his office a lean, tall, towheaded man with an infectious smile. The fellow was, according to his own estimation, very well indeed. He thanked Littlemore for dealing with the Popes and arranging his release from the Amityville Sanitarium. 'What can I do for you in return, Detective?' asked Edwin Fischer.

    'You can meet me uptown tonight,' said Littlemore.

Chapter Twenty

    On late November evenings a change comes to the air of lower Manhattan. Biting currents from the Atlantic pour into the harbor at the southern tip of the island. There, the massive skyscrapers function as wind tunnels, channeling and compressing the turbulent air until its force is so great it will halt a grown man in his tracks and, if he doesn't put his shoulders to it, send him reeling.

    Littlemore, passing the dark Sub-Treasury Building in the shadows of Wall Street, was used to that wind. The sign of this acquaintance was that he walked at a sixty-degree angle when facing it and never took his hand from his hat. Secretary Houston, arriving by car at the neighboring, brilliantly lit Assay Office, still guarded by a platoon of federal troops, was not used to it. The sign of this unfamiliarity was that he lost his top hat the moment he stepped out of his long black- and-gold Packard.

    Another well-dressed gentleman emerged from the car as well. Although their conversation was in whispers, the wind carried snatches to Littlemore, who could hear Houston assuring the man that payment would be forthcoming. The gentleman shook Houston's hand and crossed the street to the Morgan Bank.

    Secretary Houston surveyed the rank of infantrymen in the glare of military klieg lights. His top hat lay only a foot from one of the soldiers, who stood at sharp attention, making no motion to come to the Secretary's haberdashery assistance. Houston strode to the building's steps to retrieve his hat, but as if the Secretary were the straight man in a vaudeville prank, at the moment he bent to pick it up, a malicious wind plucked up the hat and spun it into the shadows of the street. It happened to come to rest near the detective, who dusted it off and, stepping into the light, offered it to the Treasury Secretary.

    'Agent Littlemore,' said Houston. 'Lurking in wait is becoming habitual with you. I don't think I approve. How did you know I would be here?'

    'From your calendar,' replied Littlemore.

    'You went through my private calendar?'

    'Your secretary left it open on the desk. Was that Mr Lamont, sir?'

    'Yes. The bankers are gathering in force tonight. Never a good sign.'

    'The war with Mexico?'

    'Obviously.'

    'Worried about it, Mr Houston?'

    'Blast it - why does everyone keep asking me that? I'm worried to the extent that the nation's treasure will be called on. What do you know about this Mexican business? More than what you read in the papers, I think. Where are you getting your information, Littlemore? And what are you doing here?'

    'Just wanted to have a look inside the Assay Office, Mr Houston.'

    'Why?'

    'Maybe the stolen gold's hidden inside there. That would explain why no one saw the getaway truck. They wouldn't have seen a getaway truck if there was no getaway truck.'

    'Nonsense. I've been in the Assay Office a dozen times since September sixteenth. The gold's not here.'

    The detective scratched the back of his head. 'With nearly a billion dollars of gold in this building, sir, you can tell that the four million we're looking for isn't here?'

    'Yes, I can. I can also tell that the period of your usefulness to me has come to an end. But that won't disturb you, since you haven't been working for me for some time already. You're Senator Fall's man, aren't you? What did he promise you?'

    'Did you happen to look for the gold in the hidden safe room on the second floor, Mr Houston? The one behind the wall of the superintendent's office?'

    A new expression flashed momentarily in Houston's eyes. Littlemore's practiced eye recognized it at once: guilt. Houston whispered angrily: 'How do you know about that room?'

    'From the architectural plans, Mr Secretary. You gave them to me. I also found the work order you signed, authorizing Riggs and the rest of your boys to start moving the gold on the night of September fifteenth.'

    'What is that supposed to prove?'

    'Nothing. Mind if I come with you into the building, sir?'

    Houston turned his back to Littlemore and, braving the wind, mounted the stairs, calling out to the two soldiers posted closest to the imposing front door, 'No one enters this building, do you understand me? No one.'

    The Secretary's voice sounded strangely thin in the wind-rent air. The soldiers threw each other a glance. As Houston neared the front door, they stepped into his path and blocked hm.

    'What is this - a joke?' asked Houston. 'I meant no one else enters the building. Stand aside.'

    The soldiers didn't budge.

    'I said stand aside,' repeated Houston.

    'Sorry, sir,' said one of the infantrymen. 'Orders.'

    'Whose orders?'

    'Mr Baker's, sir.'

    Even from behind, and notwithstanding the Secretary's overcoat, Littlemore could see Houston's entire body realign. 'Mr Baker - the Secretary of War?'

    'Yes, sir.'

    'You must be mistaken.'

    'No, sir.'

    'This is an outrage. This is my building. The Secretary of War has no authority to keep the Secretary of the Treasury out of a United States Assay Office.'

    'He has authority over us, sir.'

    Houston strode forward, daring the soldiers to stop him. They did. Houston attempted to push through; they thrust him bodily backward - two uniformed young men manhandling the sixty-year-old Secretary, who was clad in black tie and tails. Houston fell to the ground, top hat rolling onto the cement, then sailing away once again into the night. When he stood, his face was darkly colored. Houston descended the steps, unsteadily, and made for his car. The driver hurried out and opened the back door. Houston climbed in without a word. Littlemore put his hand on the door as the driver was about to close it.

    'I know what you're guilty of, Mr Houston,' said the detective.

    'You're fired,' said the Secretary. 'Give me your badge. That's an order.'

    Littlemore handed over his badge. This one wasn't as hard to part with as the last.

    'Now get away from my vehicle,' ordered Houston.

    'And I know what you're not guilty of,' added Littlemore, pressing a large, folded piece of paper into Houston's hand. 'Be there, Mr Secretary. Bring some men.'

    Once Houston's car was out of sight, Littlemore walked from the Assay Office to the corner of Broad and Wall Streets. He stopped when he reached Younger, who was leaning against a corner of the Equitable Building, hatless, cigarette smoldering in the sharp wind.

    'What was that about?' asked Younger. He was holding two covered paper cups of coffee, which he handed to the detective.

    'Just getting myself fired,' said Littlemore. 'I guess it's better this way. Now it won't be a disgrace to the federal government if you and I get arrested.'

    'We're committing a crime?'

    'Want to pull out? You can.'

    'One question,' said Younger. 'Are we going down an elevator into an underwater caisson which is about to be flooded, leaving us no way out except to turn ourselves into human geysers?'

    'Nope.'

    'Then count me in.'

    'Thanks.' The two men headed back down Wall Street toward the Sub-Treasury, leaning into the wind. 'I got to say,' said Littlemore, 'I like this city.'

    'What are we doing, exactly?' asked Younger.

    'See that little alleyway between the Treasury and the Assay Office? That's where we're going.'

    'The soldiers are going to let us through?'

    'No chance,' said Littlemore. 'They're not letting anybody in. The alley's locked off" by a fifteen-foot wrought-iron gate. There's another gate just like it at the other end, on Pine Street. More soldiers on that side too.'

    'So how do we get there?'

    'Got to go up before you come down.' Littlemore led Younger up the Sub-Treasury steps. No soldiers stood guard there; the Treasury Building had been emptied of its gold and would soon be decommissioned. But a night watchman remained outside its doors, and Littlemore greeted the man by name, handing him a cup of coffee. Thanking Littlemore, the guard rapped on the door, which a few moments later was opened by another lonely guard, to whom Littlemore gave the second cup of coffee. Then Littlemore took Younger through the rotunda to a staircase in the rear.

    'What do those men think you're doing?' asked Younger.

    'I work here,' said Littlemore. 'I'm a T-man, remember? Leastways, I was until a few minutes ago.'

    After climbing four and a half flights of stairs Younger and Littlemore stepped out onto a flat rooftop. The wind was so strong it knocked them sideways. They went to a parapet facing the Assay Office, which was only about three yards from them. At their feet were several long coils of rope, attached to the stone crenellations adorning the parapet. Next to the rope was a pile of additional equipment: crowbars, pulleys, friction hitches - all deposited there by Littlemore the night before.

    Below them, at street level, was the alleyway between the Treasury and Assay buildings. To the right and left, at either end of the alley, illuminated by klieg lights, infantrymen manned the wrought-iron gate. The soldiers were facing out to the street, their backs to the alley. Gesturing to the pulleys and hitches, Littlemore asked quietly, 'You know how to use this stuff, Doc?'

    Younger nodded.

    'All right then,' said Littlemore.

    The two men knelt down and fitted rope ends through the pulleys. Rappelling is not very difficult even without special equipment; with a friction hitch, which allows the descending man to play out rope at his discretion, it's simple. Younger, who had learned the skill in the army, formed a loop with a short length of his rope and stepped into it with his heel.

    Littlemore, picking up the crowbars, followed suit.

    The two men rappelled down the side of the Treasury Building, kicking off the wall every ten feet or so in the darkness. The well- oiled pulleys made almost no sound as the rope played through them, but it wouldn't have mattered if they had creaked. The wind's howling would have covered the noise in any event.

    'Over here,' whispered Littlemore when they reached the cobblestones. He led Younger to a large manhole cover, which he had first seen the day of the bombing. 'Let's try the crowbars.'

    The manhole cover bore the familiar logo of the New York City sewer department.

    'We're going into the sewers?' asked Younger.

    'This is no sewer,' whispered Littlemore. 'I checked the city maps yesterday. This is how they got rid of the gold - down this hole. That's why there was no getaway truck.'

    The manhole cover had two small slats into which Younger and

    Littlemore each inserted the bent tip of a crowbar. They tried to pry it up, but the iron circle wouldn't budge.

    'Didn't think that would work,' whispered Littlemore. 'It's locked from the inside; you can't open her up from out here.'

    'Hence the acid,' replied Younger.

    'Yeah - hence,' said Littlemore.

    Younger withdrew three slim cases from his coat. The first contained an empty glass beaker, a pencil-thin glass tube, and a pair of laboratory gloves. Inside each of the other two cases, lined with crushed blue velour, was a well-stoppered vial of transparent liquid. Wearing the gloves, Younger opened these vials and poured a portion of each into the beaker, creating the acid he'd described to Littlemore. No chemical reaction attended this admixture - no change of color, no precipitation, no smoke. To the mouth of the beaker Younger now attached the burette - the thin tube - and began drizzling the acid along the perimeter of the manhole cover. Angry bubbling commenced at once on the iron surface, with an accompanying acrid reddish smoke.

    'Don't get it in your eyes,' said Younger.

    By the time he was halfway around the manhole cover, Younger had exhausted the beaker's supply. He had to mix another few ounces of the aqua regia, requiring him briefly to hand over to Littlemore the two glass vials, unstoppered, while he took apart his apparatus. At that moment, a particularly savage gust of wind blew through the alley.

    'Shoot,' whispered Littlemore. Younger looked up. White bubbles were sudsing on the top of the detective's black shoe. Somehow keeping his voice to a whisper, Littlemore gasped, 'It's going through my shoe! Do something, Doc - it's on my foot. It's burning into the bone!'

    'That's not my acid,' said Younger.

    Littlemore's gasping came to an abrupt halt.

    'What is that,' asked Younger, 'baking soda?'

    'Anyone else would have fallen for that,' said Littlemore, genuinely annoyed. 'Anyone. How'd you know it was baking soda?'

    Younger looked at Littlemore a long time. 'Give me those,' he said, referring to the glass vials in the detective's hands. Soon the entire perimeter of the manhole cover was seething with corrosion. 'Now we wait.'