The Death Instinct (43 page)

    A few minutes later, Younger rose and took up a crowbar, offering the other to Littlemore. They strained to wrench loose the manhole cover, but with no success. 'Maybe the acid's not strong enough,' said Littlemore.

    The two men stood over the manhole cover. Littlemore gave it a stomp with one foot. As he was about to administer another, Younger said, too late, 'I wouldn't do-'

    Littlemore s shoe punched loose the acid-cut manhole cover. They could hear it rushing away from them, as if sucked down into a vacuum. For an instant Littlemore remained poised over the now-open manhole, one foot already inside it, body twisting and wavering, struggling for balance. Then he said, 'Shoot' - and fell in.

    As Littlemore disappeared down the hole, his flailing arms grabbed Younger's ankle. Younger was almost able to arrest their fall, but he couldn't hold on, and a moment later he too vanished down into the earth, leaving only a crowbar lying across the manhole.

    Younger found himself sliding down a chute at an alarming speed. There was no light at all. There was, however, sound: that of his own body smashing into curved walls, and that of Littlemore yelling in front of him. They flew around hairpin bends and sailed over bumps, plummeting downward in the sightless black.

    Mr Brighton kept them in suspense all day about his plans for the Radium Fund. Every time Mrs Meloney veered round to the subject, he deflected it - whether artfully or absent-mindedly, Colette couldn't tell.

    They dined in the Garret Restaurant, high over the southern tip of Manhattan, overlooking a sanguine sunset on the Hudson. On their way down the elevator, Mrs Meloney declared herself a nervous wreck from eating in so lofty a perch and insisted she must go home. Colette said that she would go as well.

    'Don't be silly, dear,' said Mrs Meloney. 'You must visit Mr Brighton's dial factory. He is especially proud of it - and justly so.'

    'Please say you will,' said Brighton.

    'Is there time?' asked Colette. 'Dr Younger will be waiting for me at Trinity Church at nine-thirty.'

    'Waiting at the church?' asked Brighton. 'Why - are you - you're not getting married, are you, Miss Rousseau?'

    'Getting married tonight?' laughed Mrs Meloney. 'Mr Brighton, girls do not marry at night. And if they did, they would not spend the day of their wedding visiting paint factories. Not to mention the fact that Trinity Church will be good and locked up at this hour.'

    'Oh, dear,' said Brighton. 'There's so much I don't know. But I do have keys to Trinity Church. I'm on the board of directors. Would you like to see the interior, Miss Rousseau? It's very fine.'

    'I've seen it, Mr Brighton,' said Colette, who had spent several hours inside the church on September sixteenth.

    'Miss Rousseau doesn't want to see the church, Mr Brighton. She wants to see your factory.' Mrs Meloney turned to Colette: 'There's plenty of time, my dear. The factory is quite close by. And from the factory, the church is only round the corner. Now don't disappoint him - or me. Please.'

    Mrs Meloney left in a taxi. 'Do you like to walk, Miss Rousseau?' asked Brighton.

    Colette was suddenly tongue-tied. So long as Mrs Meloney had been there, Colette had not quite understood herself to be spending time with a man solely in pursuit of his money. Now she did feel that way, and it seemed to infect everything she said or didn't say with a false and hypocritical tinge. 'I like walking very much,' she replied.

    Brighton offered her his arm. Colette pretended not to see it, but Brighton didn't see her not seeing it, and left his elbow suspended so long that Colette was obliged finally to take it. Brighton seemed strangely tall walking next to Colette; their gait never managed to synchronize. Samuels maintained a respectful distance behind them.

    'We'll be right on time,' said Brighton cheerily. 'My second shift of girls is just finishing up. I do want you to see the factory in action. But you must be cold, Miss Rousseau.'The wind had kicked up bitterly; Colette had not dressed for it. 'Here - I brought another little present for you. They will help keep you warm.'

    Brighton drew a gift box from his coat. Inside was a double-tiered diamond necklace matching the stickpin he had given her earlier.

    'Oh, dear,' said Brighton, 'it's the choker. I meant to give you the gloves first. Never mind. May I?'

    He clasped the necklace on Colette, who, wishing Mr Brighton had spent the money on the Radium Fund instead, stammered out a thank-you, sensing to her dismay that if she didn't accept his gifts, he would never make another contribution to the Fund. It was the first time Colette had ever worn diamonds; they felt cold against her neck. Perhaps she might sell it later and donate the money in his name?

    Brighton handed her a second box. This one contained a pair of thin, long-sleeved gloves, the color of fresh cream and made of a leather suppler than any she had touched before. 'Try them on,' he said.

    'I can't, Mr Brighton. They're much too-'

    'Too long to put on without taking your coat off? Yes of course. Allow me.'

    He removed her light overcoat. Not wanting to give offense, she pulled on the gloves, which came up past her elbows. 'My coat, Mr Brighton,' said Colette.

    'Yes?'

    'Would you please put it back on? I'm cold.'

    'Cold - of course - how absurd,' said Brighton. 'There you are. Do you like them?'

    She looked at her elegant fingers, clad in ivory leather. 'I don't know what to say.'

    'The pleasure is mine, I assure you. Now if I can speak frankly, Miss Rousseau, I know what you want most in the whole world. Mrs

    Meloney told me. You want me to help buy radium for Madame Curie. Don't you?'

    'Yes, if you're willing, Mr Brighton.'

    'I'm most willing!' he cried. 'I'll buy the entire gram myself.'

    'You will?' she said excitedly.

    'If you will,' he said.

    'If I will what?' she asked, excitement giving way to consternation.

    'Marry me,' replied Brighton.

    Colette didn't know whether to burst into laughter or tears.

    'I know I'm not what girls consider handsome,' said Brighton. 'But I'm very rich. I can give you everything you desire. Think about that. Everything is no little thing.'

    'We don't even know each other, Mr Brighton.'

    'That's not true. I know you perfectly, because you are perfection itself. I don't ask you to love me. That doesn't matter at all. Let me worship you. Say yes, and I will wire one hundred thousand dollars to Mrs Meloney's account this minute.'

    The staggering sum hung momentarily in the air. 'But surely you will consider a donation even if I say no?' she asked.

    'I will not,' declared Brighton forthrightly. 'I've given twenty-five thousand dollars already, and I did that only to be present at your lecture. Why would I give money to a Frenchwoman I've never met? I have no reason to. But if you marry me, my dear Miss Rousseau, your wish will be my command. Say two grams if you like. Say ten.'

    'Ten grams of radium?' she repeated, unable to believe what she had heard.

    'From my own mines. Why not? The market value would be a million dollars, but for me the cost would be much less.' When Colette didn't answer, Brighton added, 'Oh my, is all this considered immoral? Am I acting immorally?'

    Colette shook her head, her dark brows frowning severely.

    'Thank goodness. I never know what's going to be thought immoral. They say people should marry for love. I don't know what they're talking about. I want you to share my home, Miss Rousseau. To travel with me on my train. To be on my arm when I dine with the President. Is it unreasonable that I should want the most beautiful, intelligent, innocent creature on earth to be my wife - or that I should offer her whatever I can to induce her to consent? Here we are at my factory.' Samuels opened the door for them. 'Come in, please. Ah, look at all the girls leaning into their work. What a beautiful sight. But what was I saying? Oh yes. Ten grams of radium, to be used as you direct. Samuels! Prepare a money wire for the account of Mrs William Meloney. I have a telegraph machine here in my office. Say you'll marry me, and I'll wire a hundred thousand at once. Samuels has advised me against it, I want you to know. He says it's rash to pay money in return for your mere promise. In fact Samuels had a very strong misimpression of you at first, Miss Rousseau. I can't begin to tell you what he thought. But if you give me your word, I know you'll keep it. What - are you crying? May I hope with tears of joy?'

    Colette begged Mr Brighton for some time by herself.

    'Certainly, my dear,' said Brighton. 'Samuels will need a few minutes to prepare the wire.'

    Four stories below Wall Street, in a cavernous, unlit, dirt-floored chamber, two men worked an immense blast furnace. Their faces were blackened with soot; each wore a thick, heavy full-length leather apron. One stoked the furnace with large, heavy bars of gold. The other handled a set of iron molds into which flowed a stream of molten yellow metal coursing down a half-pipe from an aperture high up on the furnace. When a newly molded bar of gold was formed and ready, this man would throw it, using tongs, onto a mountain of such bars that filled the subterranean chamber in front of the furnace. Both men wore goggles; in the sparks and unnatural light thrown off by the furnace, their arms and foreheads shone with sweat.

    About fifteen feet behind these workmen was a wall, and in this wall was a perfectly round hole, and from this hole came a sound that drew the workmen's puzzled attention. It was a metallic sound, echoing and distant - a faraway clanging. The noise grew louder and louder and still louder until it reached a horrendous pitch and out from the hole shot a large iron disk. It was a manhole cover with jagged edges, and it hit the dirt floor of the chamber at a dangerous speed, rolling past the legs of the astonished smelters, disappearing under their work- table, and climbing the gold bar mountain almost to its pinnacle, at which point it turned round and rolled back down, rattling to rest at the workmen's feet.

    The two smelters removed their goggles. They stared down dumbfounded at the intrusive object, then looked at each other: a new sound was coming from the hole in the wall. This sound was not metallic. It was more like a tumbling, with the interspersed shouting of a human voice, and it too began quietly, distantly, only to grow nearer and louder and nearer still until Jimmy Littlemore shot feet first through the hole, followed immediately by Stratham Younger, the two men skidding and rolling in a jumble of arms and legs until they too lay at the smelters' feet.

    Littlemore looked up at the two workmen, spat the remains of a toothpick as well as some dirt from his lips, and said, You're under arrest.'

    Younger, lying on his stomach, did not know to whom the detective had addressed his remark, but he added, 'In the name of the law.'

    Littlemore drew his gun from his shoulder holster and said, 'Drop that thing -' this was a reference to the red-hot tongs - 'and put your hands in the air.'

    The speechless smelters complied at once.

    Littlemore stood, pulled a set of handcuffs from his back pocket, and tossed them to Younger while keeping his gun trained on the two workmen. 'Cuff one of these guys.'

    'Which one?' asked Younger.

    'I don't care. The bigger one.'

    The workman who had been feeding the furnace was the larger of the two. Younger handcuffed his wrists behind his back. Littlemore turned the other smelter around and pushed him forward a step.

    'March, fellas,' said Littlemore, directing them around the furnace and toward the mountain of gold bricks. 'Let's see if this place leads where I think it-' he stopped, interrupting himself. 'Did you hear that, Doc?'

    'Hear what?'

    Littlemore was looking at the mound of gold, which was about fifteen feet high. Suddenly, at the top of that little mountain, the heads of three men appeared, and next to each one a pistol. The one in the middle had scars running from the corners of his mouth to the corners of his eyes - as if he had recently undergone facial surgery. 'Shoot!' he shouted in a strong Eastern European accent. 'Shoot all!'

    'Get down!' cried Littlemore.

    The gunmen didn't have a clear shot at either Younger or Littlemore - who each had one of the smelters in front of him - but they evidently didn't care. All three fired, ripping bullets into the bodies of the two workmen as Younger and Littlemore dove for cover. Younger overturned the heavy wood worktable and sat with his back to it. Littlemore crouched behind the furnace.

    'A shoot-out,' said Younger as bullets slammed into his table and ricocheted off the blast furnace. 'I'm at a shoot-out without a gun.'

    Littlemore craned around the furnace and fired two shots, which kept the gunmen at bay but did nothing else. 'That guy,' he said. 'Was that who I thought it was?'

    'Yes,' said Younger. 'Tell me you have another gun.'

    'Nope,' said Littlemore. Incoming bullets tore pieces from the bottom of the furnace, causing it to list slightly and to emit a dreadful steam shriek. 'Any ideas, Doc? Any play we can make with Drobac?'