Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [127]
“We’re not at war now, Littlemore. It’s very delicate these days. Tensions are high. We don’t want an international incident, for heaven’s sake.”
“Then just board her, Mr. Houston. Open the crates of gold. Check the bars and make sure they’re Russian. That’s all.”
“Don’t tell me how to do my job,” said Houston. “We’re talking about a passenger ship. A thousand people aboard. It would be in every newspaper all over world if I were wrong. And what would I say I was looking for? Stolen Treasury gold—and let everyone know about the theft?”
“You don’t have to say. People will think you’re looking for arms or something.”
“It’s pure speculation. I’m not going to send the United States Navy on a wild-goose chase.” He drummed his fingers on his desk. “What did Fall want from you?”
“To let him know if I found evidence linking the robbery to Russia.”
“He’d like that, wouldn’t he?” Houston grunted contemptuously. “Warmonger.”
It was a privilege of federal officials that they received priority over civilians when placing long-distance telephone calls. For example, an agent making a call to New York from the Treasury in Washington could usually reach his party in less than a quarter-hour. More important, ever since the federal government seized control of the nation’s telephone companies in 1918 and began dictating rates, such calls were essentially free of charge.
Littlemore took advantage of these perquisites to call the American Society for Psychical Research. A short time later, an operator rang him back with Dr. Walter Prince on the line.
“Question for you, Doctor,” said Littlemore. “Did you by any chance talk to Ed Fischer after I met you in your office?”
“Certainly,” said Dr. Prince, his voice distant and broken up by the accumulated static of two hundred miles of telephone wire. “I visited him at the sanitarium later that very day.”
“Did you tip him off that I was going to ask him when he first got wind of the bombing?”
“I mentioned there was a policeman interested in that information, yes.”
“I should have known,” declared Littlemore. “He had me thinking he pulled off one of his magic tricks. Thanks, Dr. Prince. That’s all I needed.”
“I feel you are expressing skepticism about Mr. Fischer’s gifts, Captain.”
“Why would I be skeptical about a guy who thinks he’s a Secret Service agent and the Popes are out to get him?”
“The gifted often feel persecuted, Captain. They are often unstable. It doesn’t make their premonitions less valid.”
“Sorry, Dr. Prince, I’m not buying.”
“Then how do you explain his foreknowledge of the bombing?”
Littlemore answered with a vituperation that surprised himself: “I can’t explain it,” he barked. “But you know what? I don’t care if he’s the ghost of Christmas future. He’s no use to me.”
The Willard Hotel, on Pennsylvania Avenue just down the street from the White House, used to be President Ulysses S. Grant’s favorite watering hole when he needed a brandy after a long day at the office. Businessmen or their hirelings would lie in wait for the President in the flush hotel lobby, pouncing on Grant to make their case, ply him with liquor, and in general explain how much they could do for his Administration if only some vital permit were issued or lucrative contract signed. Grant called them “lobbyists.”
Littlemore was making his way across this high-ceilinged lobby when a familiar, tall female figure approached him, clad in a well-fitted feminine version of a man’s suit.
“Enjoying Washington, Agent Littlemore?” she asked below a sparkling chandelier.
“Evening, Mrs. Cross,” said Littlemore.
“New necktie?”
Littlemore looked down. He was ordinarily a bow tie man, but in his first weeks on the job, Littlemore hadn’t seen a single other Treasury agent who wore one. He’d mentioned this to Betty, who gave him a full-length tie as a present. “You’re going to tell me it’s not tied right?” he asked.
“It’s tied just fine. A little too tight.” She loosened it; he was able to breathe easier. “That’s better. Senator Fall wants