Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [157]
Lyme put his clipboard to his chest: “Miss McDonald never took any radium treatments, and cancer did not cause her tumor. Syphilis did. Surely you’re aware that third-stage syphilis produces gummas—granulomas, growths—which can appear anywhere on the body. Syphilis was also the cause of her dementia. She had already begun raving. She had delusions of persecution. Perhaps she said something?”
“No.”
“Syphilis was found in 1913 to be the cause of general paresis,” said Lyme. “Or don’t you keep up with the literature?”
“I’m familiar with the finding,” said Younger. “Dr. Lyme, I took X-rays of the girl.”
“How? When?”
“When she was at Bellevue. The X-rays clearly indicated the presence of radium.”
“Ridiculous. Your X-ray machine was obviously malfunctioning. Either that or you didn’t know how to operate it.”
“I’ve confirmed the diagnosis with Madame Curie herself in Paris. There was no malfunction; radium produces the specific fluoroscopic pattern I found on her X-rays. At least open up the tumor and have a look. It can’t hurt her.”
“It can’t help her either,” said Lyme. “She’s dead. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
When he finally reached his office on Wall Street, Littlemore had the operator ring Senator Fall’s chambers in Washington. It took over an hour before he managed to speak with the Senator. “What if the Mexican government didn’t order the bombing, Mr. Fall?” asked the detective. “What if it was just one or two rogue Mexican officers?”
“You’re not getting cold feet, are you, son? The war’s going to be a cake-walk. Our boys will be home by Christmas.”
“Obregón says Torres had no connection to the Mexican government,” said Littlemore.
“What do you expect him to say after what you found in Torres’s room?” the Senator replied.
“There’s no proof, Mr. Fall.”
“Courtroom talk. Wars aren’t fought in courtrooms. You keep your eye on the ball, son. We got the signature of the Mexican financial minister on letterhead paper and a goddamn terrorist boot camp run by their military. That’s more proof than we need.”
“What if it was just some bad apples, not the whole government?”
“I’ll be honest with you,” said Fall. “I don’t care if the bombing was ordered by El Presidente de la Republico or El Ministerio de la Financio. What difference would it make? We still got to clean out Mexico City. Hunt down the sons of bitches who bombed us. Wipe out that boot camp. If Obregón wasn’t behind it, that means he can’t control his bad apples, so we got to put in somebody who can—before they spoil the whole damn barrel.”
Static filled the line.
“Tell you what, son,” said Fall. “I’m coming up your way to meet with Bill McAdoo on Saturday. Got to figure out what we’re going to do about Houston. Tricky business funding a war when your Secretary of the Treasury is being paid off by your enemy. We always have dinner at the Oyster Bar. Why don’t you meet us there?”
“The Oyster Bar?” said Littlemore.
“You know the Oyster Bar—in the terminal?”
“Sure, I know it. Sounds good, Mr. Fall.”
A short while later, Littlemore was still standing by the telephone.
Younger knocked at the door of Mrs. William Meloney’s townhouse on West Twelfth Street, which was filled with purring cats and shelves full of testimonials to Marie Curie.
“These are letters,” Mrs. Meloney explained to Younger, “from cancer patients who have been cured with radium therapy. I’m collecting them for Madame Curie when she arrives. One is from a botanist who wants to send Madame Curie an entire hothouse of flowers. We must raise the rest of the money. We simply must.”
“It’s all arranged,” said Colette with excitement. “We’re going to visit Mr. Brighton’s luminous-paint factories tomorrow—one in New Jersey, one in Manhattan. Mrs. Meloney says there’s a chance at a very large donation.”
“Mr. Brighton,” said the older woman knowingly, “is very close to contributing an even larger amount than he did before. As much as seventy-five thousand dollars. He told me so himself. All it will take is a little feminine push.”
“Seventy-five thousand dollars—can you believe