Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [100]
“James Littlemore, I presume?” she said. “From New York?”
“That’s me,” said Littlemore.
“You look just the way they described you,” replied the blonde woman.
“How did they describe me?”
“Wet behind the ears. You’re late. You kept me waiting almost an hour.”
“And you would be?”
“I work for Senator Fall. The Senator would like to see you tomorrow in his office. At four o’clock sharp.”
“Is that right?”
“That’s right. Good luck, New York.” While they were speaking, her car had rolled up next to them. The chauffeur scurried out and opened a door for her. She climbed in, her long legs showing for a moment before they swung inside the car.
“Say, ma’am,” said Littlemore through the open window. “Think you might give me a lift to my hotel?”
“Where are you staying?” she asked.
“The Willard?”
“Very nice.”
“Secretary Houston’s picking up the tab.”
“Very nice.” She signaled the driver, who started the engine.
“What about that ride, ma’am?” asked Littlemore.
“Sorry—not in my job description.”
The car drove off, sending up a swirl of burnt orange dust that settled on Littlemore’s suit. He shook his head and inquired of a couple of gentlemen nearby if they knew the Willard Hotel. One of them pointed in a westerly direction. Littlemore set off toward the setting sun, which cast a long shadow behind him.
The next morning, Secretary Houston personally pinned the badge and administered the oath that made Littlemore a Special Agent of the United States Treasury. They were in the most luxurious office that Littlemore had ever seen—Houston’s own office in the Treasury Building. Gilt-framed mirrors surmounted burnished marble fireplaces. Velvet-roped draperies hung at the windows. The ceiling was painted in a celestial theme.
“Where we stand, Lincoln stood,” said Houston, “consulting his Secretary of the Treasury, Salmon P. Chase.”
When instructed to swear to uphold the laws of the United States, Littlemore asked if he could make an exception in the case of the Volstead Act—the law mandating Prohibition—which Secretary Houston did not find amusing. When taking the oath to support and defend the Constitution of the United States, Littlemore’s voice caught. He wished his father could have been there.
“Let me show you around, Special Agent Littlemore,” said Houston.
The divisions of the United States Treasury were surprisingly extensive. Houston pointed out with pride his gigantic bureau of internal revenue, his anti-counterfeiting unit, his bureau of engraving and printing, his bureau of alcohol enforcement, and, finally, an elegant spacious marble hall with a row of tellers along one wall, each behind an iron-grilled window. “This is where the Treasury pays money on demand to anyone presenting a valid note. We call it the Cash Room. Show me all the money you have in your pockets, Littlemore.”
“Let’s see. I got a three-cent nickel, a couple of dimes, and a fin.”
“Only the coins are money. Your five-dollar bill is not.”
“It’s a fake?” asked Littlemore.
“Not fake, but not money. It’s merely a note. A promise. You’ll find the promise in the small print on the reverse, between Columbus and the Pilgrims. Read it—where it says ‘redeemable.’ ”
“‘This note,’” Littlemore read the inscription, “‘is redeemable in gold on demand at the Treasury Department of the United States in the City of Washington, District of Columbia, or in gold or lawful money at any Federal Reserve Bank.’”
“Without those words,” said Houston, “that note would be worthless paper. No shop owner would accept it. No bank would credit it. A five-dollar bill is a promise made by the United States to pay five dollars in gold to anyone presenting that note here in the United States Treasury in Washington, D.C. Hence the Cash Room.”
“Not too many people cashing in,” said Littlemore. Only two customers were transacting business with the tellers.
“Which is as it should be.” Houston