Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [106]
“Couldn’t tell you.” This was doubly true. Littlemore neither knew where Colette was, nor would he have told Brighton if he did.
“That other creature—the madwoman.” Brighton shuddered. “I’ve never seen anything so hideous. Did she tell anyone what’s wrong with her?”
“No. She’s been unconscious since the shooting.”
“How can I thank you for Samuels? What about five thousand dollars?”
“I’m sorry?”
“His freedom is worth much more than that to me, I promise you.”
“You can’t give me money in exchange for police work,” said Littlemore.
“I don’t see the logic in that,” replied Brighton, removing a thick wallet from his breast pocket and withdrawing a single large-sized Federal Reserve note with a blue seal and a picture of James Madison on it. “Where’s the incentive to do good work if a man can’t be rewarded for it? Surely you could use five thousand dollars.”
Littlemore took a deep breath through his nostrils, thinking of his daughter Lily. “I can’t take it, Mr. Brighton. I can’t take a dime.”
“How absurd. Well, what about a ride? At least I can offer you a ride. I’m on my way to the train station. Can I take you somewhere?”
Littlemore, who was going to the station himself, accepted. When Brighton discovered that Littlemore too was destined for New York that evening, he beamed and insisted they travel together.
Samuels pulled the limousine up at a loading dock in the rear of Union Station. Brighton explained that this was the only way to get the automobile onto the train.
“They let you bring your car onto the train?” asked Littlemore as they stepped out of the vehicle.
“I can bring anything I like,” answered Brighton. “It’s my train. I have a parlor car, a bedroom car, a billiards car, a kitchen car, and a car car—hah, hah—a car car, isn’t that good? We’ll have great fun, Detective. No one ever rides with me.”
“Afraid I can’t, Mr. Brighton.”
“What? Why not?”
“If I ride your private train,” said Littlemore, “I’m accepting a pretty fancy service from you. It’s like you’re buying something for me.”
“But what good is my money if I’m not allowed to buy things with it?”
“Some things you can’t.”
“That’s ludicrous,” said Brighton. “The Commissioner of Police, Mr. Enright, has taken my train. The Attorney General has taken it. Senator Harding rode it three weeks ago.”
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
“Because—” Littlemore began before interrupting himself. “I don’t know why, to tell you the truth. But that’s the way it is.”
“I have an idea. You could you do extra work for me—you know, when you’re off-duty. That can’t possibly be against the law, can it?”
“No,” Littlemore acknowledged reluctantly. “A lot of the men moonlight.”
“There we are then! You’ll do something useful for me, and I’ll pay you five thousand dollars for it. What do you say? The ride to New York will be your interview. We’ll figure out what service you can render me. I’m not sure what; Samuels is so good at everything. He used to be a Pinkerton man, you know. But there must be some valuable service you can perform.”
Littlemore watched Samuels steer the limousine up a wide ramp. “I guess I might be able to do something,” said the detective.
“What about my people in Mexico?” asked Brighton. “You know it was quite true what I told Senator Fall. I own hundreds of thousands of very productive acres in Mexico, and their government is trying to take it all away from me.”
“I don’t doubt it, Mr. Brighton.”
“Didn’t I hear Senator Fall say you work for the federal government now? Perhaps you can help me with Mexico. Confiscation is theft, you know—outright theft. Could you send some federal policemen in?”
“Listen, Mr. Brighton. First of all, I got no jurisdiction over Mexico. Second, whatever I do for you, it can’t have anything to do with my government work. Third, I’m not taking any money today. I’ll just ride up to New York with you, and we’ll see if we can figure out something you need that I could do for you. Okay?”
“I know: Let’s play billiards,” declared Brighton. “Come on—it’s only good when