Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [131]
Back in New York, the next day, Littlemore paid another visit to the federal Bureau of Investigation’s temporary field offices at the Astor Hotel.
“Look what the cat drug in,” said Bill Flynn, Chief of the Bureau. “It’s Littleboy.”
“I need to ask you some questions, Flynn. About Ed Fischer.”
Flynn addressed the two large, dark-suited men who, as always, stood on either side of his desk. “A New York cop wants to ask me questions? Is this jerk-off looking to get his head busted in?”
“Hey jerk-off,” inquired one of Flynn’s deputies, “are you looking to get your head busted in?”
Littlemore displayed his United States Treasury badge.
“Let me see that,” said Flynn. He inspected the badge. “World’s going down the toilet, that’s all I got to say.” He threw the badge onto the floor at Littlemore’s feet. “Too bad I don’t answer to T-men.”
“You’ll answer to me, Flynn.” Littlemore handed him a letter, signed by Secretary David Houston of the United States Treasury, instructing Flynn to respond fully to any questions Special Agent Littlemore might ask concerning Flynn’s tenure as Director of the Secret Service. Flynn read the letter, then let it too fall to the floor.
“I got news for you, hotshot,” he said. “I don’t take orders from Secretary Houston either. I take my orders from General Palmer. Get out of here.”
Littlemore took another letter from his pocket. This one was signed by Attorney General A. Mitchell Palmer.
“Son of a bitch,” said Flynn. He spoke to his deputies again: “Okay, you boys clear out.”
“Have one of them pick up my badge first,” replied Littlemore.
“What are you goons standing around for?” Flynn said to his deputies. “Pick up the man’s badge.”
Okay, so I hired him,” Flynn acknowledged several minutes later. “So what? The guy was a nut-ball.”
“How’d you meet him?”
Big Bill Flynn, whose barrel chest and gut didn’t need any additional fortification, unwrapped a red-and-white-striped candy from the bowl of treats that sat on his desk. “Fischer starts sending letters to Wilson in 1916, okay? Your usual anti-war garbage. But there’s something funny about them, like he knew the President personally. So I send a couple of my boys to check him out and tell him to knock it off if he doesn’t want to end up in jail. You know.”
“Sure.”
“So my boys tell me the guy is soft in the head, but he works for the French in one of their outfits.”
“The French High Mission.”
“That’s it—leave it to the Frogs to hire a nut-ball, huh?” Flynn’s torso heaved with mirth at his riposte.
“Only a moron would hire a nut-ball,” agreed Littlemore.
“Yeah, that’s a good one, only a moron would—” Flynn interrupted himself, comprehension dawning. “Why, I ought to—”
“How’d you get involved?”
Flynn grumbled, but continued: “When I heard where Fischer worked, I figured it couldn’t hurt to have somebody planted in French governmentary circles. So I played the guy, buttered him up, told him he could be an agent for the Secret Service. Told him he was a spy. You know, the whole drill. When I took over the Bureau, I kept him on the string. But the guy was cracked. I never got anything from him. Saw him no more than half a dozen times. Total waste.”
“Where would you meet him?” asked Littlemore.
“Why?”
“Just answer the question, Flynn.”
“Here in New York. Train station.”
“When was the last time?”
“This summer. June or July. After the Convention. General Palmer sent McAdoo to meet with some Republicans at Grand Central to see if they could work something out. Fischer was totally off the deep end. Never saw him again.”
“Did Fischer say anything to you about Wall Street?” asked Littlemore.
“Are you kidding?”
“I’m not kidding.”
“No, he didn’t say nothing about Wall Street. You think I would have let the NYPD have him if he knew anything? I’ll tell you the funniest thing. After the bombing, Fischer’s brother-in-law, a guy named Pope, he calls the Bureau. Says that Fischer is claiming to be an undercover federal agent. Wants to know if there’s any truth to it. I get on the phone and say it’s a