Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [105]
Fall took a long time before answering: “You turn my stomach, Brighton. Know that? I ain’t for sale. The Republican Party ain’t for sale. The U.S. army ain’t for sale. I’m not going to let Harding get bogged down in Mexico, and I’m not going to use the army to take care of your business.”
“You won’t help Americans in Mexico?” asked Brighton.
“They’re your employees,” replied Fall. “You help them.”
Brighton looked confused, at a loss. “Is that all?”
“You bet that’s all. Now git.” Fall took Brighton by the arm and ushered him into the other room, from which Littlemore heard Brighton asking if anyone knew where Samuels was.
“I’ll be going too, Mr. Fall,” said Littlemore when the Senator returned.
“I asked you a question, Littlemore,” replied Fall. “Will you show me your evidence if you tie the bombing to the Russians?”
“I can’t promise that, Mr. Senator. But I’ll think about what you said.”
On the steps of the Senate Office Building, Mrs. Cross—seeing Littlemore out—said, “Well, didn’t you charm the Senator?”
“Is that right?” asked Littlemore.
“That’s right. You stood up to him. He likes that. You could go far in this town. If you learned how to dress.”
“Something wrong with how I’m dressed?”
She reached out and fixed his jacket collar, one wing of which was saluting rather than lying down flat. “What party are you, Agent Littlemore?” she asked. “Are you a Democrat, like Secretary Houston? Or a Republican, like Senator Fall?”
“I don’t belong to any party, ma’am.”
“No? Well, who do you like, Cox or Harding?”
“Haven’t decided. My wife likes Debs.”
“How interesting,” said Mrs. Cross. “I wouldn’t mention that again, if I were you.”
“Which—that I have a wife, or that she’s for Debs?”
“That depends on whether you’re talking to a woman or a man. Good-bye, New York.” The well-heeled Mrs. Cross walked in what might have been described as a businesslike sashay, the graceful motions of which, when viewed from behind, defied any man, even a married man, to turn away. Littlemore watched her disappear liltingly into the Senate Office Building.
No sooner had Mrs. Cross sashayed out of sight than a man’s voice called out, “Detective Littlemore, is that you? Samuels was out here all along, waiting for me.” It was Brighton, standing next to a luxurious car with a closed passenger compartment and a roof that stuck out over the driver. Brighton seemed to consider his private secretary’s whereabouts a cause of public concern. “Why would he a do a thing like that?”
“I’m guessing it’s because you told him to, Mr. Brighton,” said Littlemore, descending the steps.
“Really?” Brighton stuck his head below the protruding roof. When he reemerged, he said, “By Jove, you’re right. I did ask him to. How did you know?”
“Wild guess.”
“It’s so fortunate I ran into you. Samuels reminded me what I wanted to thank you for. It was for Samuels himself. Your report cleared him of wrongdoing after that unfortunate shooting of the mad girl. You saved me no end of trouble. I couldn’t manage without Samuels, you know—not for a day.”
“Just doing my job, Mr. Brighton,” said Littlemore. “The girl had a knife. The witnesses said she attacked first. Your man acted lawfully.”
“How is she?”
“Still in the hospital. Been there ever since she was shot.”
“Not her,” said Brighton. “I meant Miss Rousseau. Such a lovely girl. I nearly fainted when that madwoman assaulted her.”
“Miss Colette’s fine, so far as I know.”
“Is she poor?”
“Poor?” asked Littlemore.
“I’m not like you, Detective. No woman will ever fall in love with me for my personal qualities. My father told me so many years ago, after I took over the business. I’m looking for a girl who will marry me for my money.”
“I know a couple hundred girls like that.”
“Really?” Brighton blinked as if he couldn’t believe the detective’s good luck. “You couldn’t introduce me to them, could you?”
“Sure. My wife loves to match-make.”
“How strange,” Brighton reflected. “The only girl I can think of at present is Miss Rousseau. So comely. Do you know where she went? She promised to come to Washington