Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [156]
It was a work order authorizing the transfer of the nation’s gold reserves from the Sub-Treasury in New York City to the adjacent Assay Office via overhead bridge commencing the night of September 15, 1920. The detective had found the order crumpled in the back of a filing drawer. It was signed, as Littlemore knew it would be, by Secretary David Houston.
Younger and Colette went to the Littlemores’ that night for dinner. “What are you doing in Washington, Jimmy?” asked Colette. “It must be very important.”
“Not much—just starting a war,” he replied. They expected him to say more, but he didn’t.
After dinner, while the women did the dishes, Younger and Littlemore sat without speaking at the table, the detective scraping his fork back and forth along his dessert plate. “Littlemore,” said Younger.
“Huh?”
“You’re out-silencing me.”
“Wars don’t always go the way they’re planned, do they?” asked Littlemore.
“They never go the way they’re planned,” said Younger.
“Remember when you said that the Wall Street bombing was a way to assassinate the people? What do they want, the assassins? How about those Serbs who assassinated that Austrian duke guy in 1914? What did they want?”
“War.”
“They got it, didn’t they?”
“Beyond their wildest dreams.”
The next morning, newspapers reported that Senator Fall, who the previous day had announced his intention to attend the inauguration of General Obregón, had been denied the visa required for entry into Mexico by confidential agent Roberto Pesqueira of the Mexican Embassy. In response to questioning, Mr. Pesqueira would say only that the Senator was an enemy of the Mexican people.
Meanwhile, the United States army was massing on the Mexican border. Dispatches from Mexico City asserted that President-elect Obregón had come down with a sudden and unexplained illness, preventing him from attending his scheduled preinaugural events.
Colette had arranged a meeting that morning with Mrs. William B. Meloney, chairwoman of the Marie Curie Radium Fund. Younger made her pack her things before they left.
“Why?” asked Colette.
“We’re changing hotels.” In part this move was precautionary. Younger hadn’t told anyone but Freud where he and Colette would be staying, but someone keeping an eye on the harbor might conceivably have spotted them. Or someone monitoring the transatlantic cables might possibly have seen Freud’s wires. Younger’s chief motivation, however, was pecuniary. He needed cheaper lodging.
They took the subway to Mrs. Meloney’s house on West Twelfth Street. Younger insisted on accompanying Colette there. Then he headed uptown, making Colette swear not to leave before he returned.
When Littlemore came down from the elevated train on his way to work that morning, he was so deep in thought that he got out at his old station, Grand Street, by mistake. He was halfway to police headquarters before realizing his error. There was something the detective didn’t like, but he didn’t know what it was.
At the Sloane Hospital for Women on Fifty-ninth Street, Younger gave his name and asked for Dr. Frederick Lyme. A short time later, Younger was greeted by a man of about forty, prematurely gray, with wide-rimmed glasses, a clipboard, and a stethoscope over his white jacket.
“What can I do for you, Dr. Younger?” asked Lyme, taking his glasses off and placing them in a pocket.
“I’m here about the McDonald girl. You spoke with a policeman named Littlemore; I’m the one who sent him. The girl has radium inside her neck. She needs an operation immediately.”
“Radium,” said Lyme lightly. “How could Miss McDonald possibly have gotten radium inside her? I already told the policeman the idea was quite absurd. I have nothing further to say. Good day.”
“Cancer,” said Younger, “is the most likely cause of the growth on her neck. If she was diagnosed with cancer, she could very well have taken a radium treatment for it. I believe the needle of radium is still