Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [1]
In front of that bank, an old bay mare pawed at the cobblestones, hitched to an overloaded, burlap-covered cart—pilotless and blocking traffic. Horns sounded angrily behind it. A stout cab driver exited his vehicle, arms upraised in righteous appeal. Attempting to berate the cartman, who wasn’t there, the taxi driver was surprised by an odd, muffled noise coming from inside the wagon. He put his ear to the burlap and heard an unmistakable sound: ticking.
The church bells struck twelve. With the final, sonorous note still echoing, a curious taxi driver drew back one corner of moth-eaten burlap and saw what lay beneath. At that moment, among the jostling thousands, four people knew that death was pregnant in Wall Street: the cab driver; a redheaded woman close by him; the missing pilot of the horse-drawn wagon; and Stratham Younger, who, one hundred fifty feet away, pulled to their knees a police detective and a French girl.
The taxi driver whispered, “Lord have mercy.”
Wall Street exploded.
Two women, once upon a time the best of friends, meeting again after years apart, will cry out in disbelief, embrace, protest, and immediately take up the missing pieces of their lives, painting them in for one another with all the tint and vividness they can. Two men, under the same conditions, have nothing to say at all.
At eleven that morning, one hour before the explosion, Younger and Jimmy Littlemore shook hands in Madison Square, two miles north of Wall Street. The day was unseasonably fine, the sky a crystal blue. Younger took out a cigarette.
“Been a while, Doc,” said Littlemore.
Younger struck, lit, nodded.
Both men were in their thirties, but of different physical types. Littlemore, a detective with the New York Police Department, was the kind of man who mixed easily into his surroundings. His height was average, his weight average, the color of his hair average; even his features were average, a composite of American openness and good health. Younger, by contrast, was arresting. He was tall; he moved well; his skin was a little weathered; he had the kind of imperfections in a handsome face that women like. In short, the doctor’s appearance was more demanding than the detective’s, but less amiable.
“How’s the job?” asked Younger.
“Job’s good,” said Littlemore, a toothpick wagging between his lips.
“Family?”
“Family’s good.”
Another difference between them was visible as well. Younger had fought in the war; Littlemore had not. Younger, walking away from his medical practice in Boston and his scientific research at Harvard, had enlisted immediately after war was declared in 1917. Littlemore would have too—if he hadn’t had a wife and so many children to provide for.
“That’s good,” said Younger.
“So are you going to tell me,” asked Littlemore, “or do I have to pry it out of you with a crowbar?”
Younger smoked. “Crowbar.”
“You call me after all this time, tell me you got something to tell me, and now you’re not going to tell me?”
“This is where they had the big victory parade, isn’t it?” asked Younger, looking around at Madison Square Park, with its greenery, monuments, and ornamental fountain. “What happened to the arch?”
“Tore it down.”
“Why were men so willing to die?”
“Who was?” asked Littlemore.
“It doesn’t make sense. From an evolutionary point of view.” Younger looked back at Littlemore. “I’m not the one who needs to talk to you. It’s Colette.”
“The girl you brought back from France?” said Littlemore.
“She should be here any minute. If she’s not lost.”
“What’s she look like?”
Younger thought about it: “Pretty.” A moment later, he added, “Here she is.”
A double-decker bus had pulled up nearby on Fifth Avenue. Littlemore turned to look; the toothpick nearly fell out of his mouth. A girl in a