Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [146]
“They say it broke his heart. Mr. McAdoo was a member of Mr. Wilson’s Cabinet at the time. But Mr. Wilson let him go and then, last June, took the Democratic nomination away from him. I believe Mr. McAdoo might have been our next president otherwise. Poor Eleanor. I wonder how she feels now.”
“Wilson fired his own daughter’s husband from the Cabinet?”
“Oh, Mr. McAdoo came out all right. He’s a very prominent lawyer. He’s here because he knows the location of the biggest oil wells in Mexico, which belong to one of his clients. I believe Mr. Brighton is an acquaintance of yours? You rode his train to New York. It’s quite nice, isn’t it?”
“How does everybody know what I’m doing?” asked Littlemore.
“Were there any girls on Mr. Brighton’s train?”
“No, there weren’t.”
“Too bad. There were the one time I was invited. Well, I’m taking a rest.” It was past two in the morning. At the foot of the stairs, she turned: “Would you mind coming upstairs, Agent Littlemore? I need to ask you something.”
Senator Fall’s apartment had two floors. Evidently the bedrooms were upstairs. Littlemore went to the stairwell. The motion of Mrs. Cross’s figure ascending a flight of steps was even harder to turn away from than it was on flat ground. He followed her and found her in a guest bedroom, unfastening her earrings. “Close the door,” she said.
“Why?” asked Littlemore.
“I told you—I need to ask you something.”
He closed the door. She undid her blonde hair and shook it out. “What’s your question, Mrs. Cross?” he asked.
She approached very near him. With her heels, she was almost exactly his height. “Does Mrs. Littlemore know how important her husband’s going to be?”
“Does Mr. Cross know how his wife spends her nights?”
“There is no Mr. Cross anymore. He died in the war.”
“I’m sorry about that, Grace, and I’m flattered, I really am, but I can’t. There are rules about this kind of thing.”
“Rules?” She slipped off her shoes, one at a time, and looked up at him, putting her hands on his chest. “This is Washington, Agent Littlemore. The rules don’t apply here.”
“Maybe not,” he said, removing her hands. “But I still play by them.”
At five-thirty in the morning, the meeting broke up, and the well-dressed gentlemen took their leave. There was little talk, and much seriousness of expression, as the long dark overcoats made their way out of Senator Fall’s apartment.
“I’m too old for this,” said Fall to Littlemore after all had departed, pouring himself another drink and easing himself into a chair. “The war order will go out tomorrow. It’ll take a while to get the troops to the border. I told them we’ll need half a million soldiers.”
“A half million?” repeated Littlemore.
“Baker thinks we can do it with a fifth as many, because he’s not thinking about what we’re going to be doing after we win. We’re going to have a country to run, for Christ’s sake.” Fall took a drink, grimaced. “Where’s Grace? I need milk. Wilson’s people don’t want to make it public yet that Mexico bombed Wall Street. That’s what I was fighting with them about. They’re afraid the people will panic if they realize that the enemy can blow the hell out of our cities. I told them the American people aren’t a bunch of sissies. They’ll demand war when they find out. Anyway, for now Baker’s not going to say anything about the bombing. They’re going to play it in the papers as a response to Obregón grabbing our mines.”
“What are they going to do about Mr. Houston and the three senators?”
“Nothing yet.”
“I thought they wouldn’t. All we’ve got is an authorization from the Mexicans to transfer funds. It’s not proof any money ever changed hands. It’s not proof of any crime at all. We need more.”
“You’ve done your country a great service, son.”
“Thank you, Mr. Senator,” said Littlemore.
The sun was rising when Littlemore left. The November air was sharp and clean; the smell of burning leaves was everywhere. Littlemore walked the two miles back to his hotel. When he got there, he showered, trying to figure out how he would