Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [132]
A message was waiting for Littlemore when he returned to his office in the Sub-Treasury on Wall Street, informing him that Senator Fall had called for him from Washington. Littlemore rang the operator.
“That you, Littlemore?” asked Fall some minutes later over the static.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Senator.”
“We intercepted the Swedish ship. No gold.”
“You mean no Treasury gold?” asked Littlemore.
“No Treasury gold, no Russian gold, no fool’s gold,” answered Fall. “No gold at all. The Captain said the harbor authorities in New York told him to leave it on the dock.”
“He’s lying. Secretary Houston made them take it back. Did the navy guys search the ship?” asked Littlemore.
“Of course they searched the ship. High and low.”
“But—”
“I’m too busy, Littlemore,” said Fall. “You figure it out. Get back to me when you do.”
Fall rang off. It made no sense, Littlemore thought. Why would they leave the gold on the dock—wherever the gold came from? Could someone in Customs be working with the thieves? Littlemore put his coat on. He’d have to go down to the harbor himself. As he was leaving, his telephone rang again. A Mr. James Speyer was asking for him downstairs.
What can I do for you, Mr. Speyer?” asked Littlemore in the rotunda of the Sub-Treasury.
“You can give me my painting back,” answered Speyer in his German accent. “At the police station they didn’t know what I was talking about. They told me you worked at the Treasury now.”
Littlemore apologized, explaining that he had put the Rembrandt in a special lockup to ensure its safety. “We could go over and get it now, if you want,” he said.
“Excellent. My driver can take us.”
Inside Speyer’s car, Littlemore asked, “How’s the wife?”
“Better, thank you.”
“Business in Hamburg work out okay?”
“Capitally,” said Speyer. “The funds are all in Mexico now—despite the Morgan people’s best efforts.”
“I hear things in Mexico are getting pretty hot.”
“They certainly are,” agreed Speyer. “Bad for Arnold Brighton; good for me.”
“You know Brighton?”
“I know his oil fields in Mexico are worth hundreds of millions. I just returned from Mexico City, as a matter of fact. Peculiar to be somewhere where America is so hated. More than even in Germany. I suppose we might feel the same way about them if they’d occupied our capital and taken half our country.”
“We did that to Mexico?” asked Littlemore.
“The Mexican-American War, Detective. Or the American Invasion, as they call it south of the border. My Rembrandt had better not be damaged.”
At police headquarters on Centre Street, Littlemore led Speyer to a special safe room in the evidence storage locker. Once the layers of protective wrapping were peeled away, the painting itself looked small and fragile. “Undamaged, Mr. Speyer?”
“Undamaged,” Speyer agreed.
The men stared at the self-portrait. It was from the artist’s older age, showing him wrinkled and red-cheeked, with pouches under wise, misty eyes.
“How’d he do that?” asked Littlemore.
“Do what?”
“He looks like he knows he’s going to die,” said Littlemore. “Like he—like he—”
“Accepts it?”
“Yeah, but at the same time like he isn’t ready to go yet. If they hate Americans so much, why don’t they hate you down in Mexico, Speyer?”
“Because they think I’m German,” replied Speyer with a smile, pronouncing the last word Cherman.
At the harbor, Littlemore spoke with a Customs agent, who denied that the Swedish ship had left its contraband gold on the dock. “You’re sure?” asked Littlemore. “The Swede sailed out of the harbor with all the gold on board?”
“Wouldn’t know about that,” said the agent. “When we find dirty goods, we alert the departments. Maybe the goods get impounded, maybe they get destroyed, maybe they go back on board. That’s up to the department.”
“What department?”
“If it’s guns, the War Department. Liquor, the Revenuers. This was gold, so Treasury.”
“Who do you notify at Treasury?”
“All’s I do, Mister,