Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [128]
Without waiting for an answer, Mrs. Cross turned and walked toward the hotel’s front door. Littlemore followed her sashaying form, first with his eyes, then with his legs. Outside, she climbed behind the wheel of a waiting car.
“You’re the driver?” asked Littlemore, seating himself beside her.
“I’m the driver.” She started the car. “Does that make you nervous?”
“I’m not nervous.”
Mrs. Cross drove Littlemore along the Mall. Just before the Capitol, she turned and entered a poor neighborhood similar to the one into which he had mistakenly wandered his first day in Washington. She came to a halt behind another car in a small, unlit street sandwiched claustrophobically between opposing walls of brick row houses. Lights were on in several windows, but curtains made it impossible to see within. “Maine Avenue,” said Mrs. Cross. “Used to be called Armory Place. Also known as Louse Alley. Good luck.”
From the car in front of them, the driver emerged and opened a passenger door, allowing Senator Fall to stretch himself out onto the street, a white ten-gallon hat over his drooping white mustache. Littlemore stepped into the alley and joined him. Mrs. Cross remained in her car, engine humming softly.
“Like ’em colored, Littlemore?” asked Fall. “Best colored girls in the city are in this street. That’s how come I love this town. Just three blocks from the Capitol.”
“Why are we meeting here, Mr. Senator?”
“Seems your boss, Secretary Milksop, complained to President Wilson today that I was interfering with his investigation. I figured we should find a more out-of-the-way place to powwow.” Fall began walking up the street, with Littlemore at his side and the Senator’s car following slowly behind them. “What do you know about these two boys that Flynn’s after?”
“What two boys?” asked Littlemore.
“Couple of Italians up in Boston. What the hell are their names? All I can think of is a sack of spaghetti.”
“Sacco and Vanzetti?”
“That’s it,” said Fall.
“They were arrested for murdering a payroll clerk,” said Littlemore. “What’s Flynn got to do with them?”
“He thinks they’re the political prisoners from the anarchist circulars.”
“That’s crazy,” said Littlemore. “When Reds say political prisoners, they mean Debs and the other anti-war guys Palmer and Big Bill put behind bars. Everybody knows that. You’d have to be some kind of boneheaded anarchist to say ‘Free the political prisoners’ if you wanted to free two guys arrested for killing a payroll clerk in Boston. Nobody would know what you meant.”
“Well, Flynn’s got something on them,” said Fall. “He’s planted an informant in their cell.”
“Where’s he getting these ideas? He’s not smart enough to be that stupid all by himself.”
“I was hoping you’d know. Now this house here”—Fall pointed to a large but run-down corner house—“this one used to belong to a gal named Hall. Served Piper champagne in crystal glasses. Rich as us senators. They still tell stories about her girls. Well, it all played out like I said, didn’t it? You found out the Russians were involved in the bombing, and Secretary Milksop buried it.”
“I didn’t find Russian involvement, Mr. Senator.”
“If the bombers used even a few bars of Russian metal to trick Customs, that’s Russian involvement. How do you think the bombers got their hands on Soviet gold? I’ll bet the whole crew of that Swedish ship turns out to be Russian.”
“Do you know everything I say to Mr. Houston?” asked Littlemore.
“Pretty much. Walls have ears in this town, Littlemore. Got to know what the other guy knows if you want to stay ahead of him.”
“We’re not sure the Swedish ship has the stolen gold,” said Littlemore.
“And Houston ain’t going to lift a finger to find out, is he? Well, I am. I already talked to Baker, the Secretary of War. He’ll speak with his old friend Daniels, the Navy Secretary. I’ll have a couple of warships on that Swedish ocean liner within forty-eight hours. We’ll know soon enough what she’s carrying.”
Littlemore chewed his toothpick. “That’s impressive, Mr. Senator.”
“We’re the