Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [159]
Afolded note slid under Younger’s hotel room door well after midnight. Younger read it, threw on some clothes, and went down to the front desk. “You’re out late,” he said.
“What’s the world’s strongest acid?” asked Jimmy Littlemore, chewing his toothpick.
“Strongest for what purpose?” asked Younger.
“Cutting through metal.”
“Aqua regia. It’s a mixture of nitric and sulfuric acids.”
“Can you travel with it?” asked Littlemore. “You know, bring it with you?”
“It’s safe enough in glass. Why?”
“I might need some help,” said Littlemore. “Could be a little dangerous. You around tomorrow night?”
Younger looked at him.
“It’s important, Doc.”
“To whom?” asked Younger.
“To the country. To two countries.”
Younger still didn’t answer.
“The war,” added Littlemore.
“The war’s going to be a mismatch,” said Younger. “A single division of ours is larger than the entire Mexican army. Our generals could go in blindfolded, and we’d still win it.”
“Not trying to win it,” said Littlemore. “Trying to stop it.”
The front pages of the newspapers the next morning were full of the escalating crisis in Mexico. President-elect Obregón had not been seen in public for two days. On the border, the United States army, Second Division, had beaten to full war strength. American warplanes had begun crossing into Mexican airspace, patrolling south all the way to Mexico City.
The Wall Street Journal demanded an immediate invasion to protect American interests. So did the governor of the great state of Texas. In Washington, high-ranking gentlemen in the Wilson Administration, together with men whose offices would be correspondingly lofty under Harding, issued a joint statement addressed to General Obregón, President-elect of Mexico. The statement set forth the conditions necessary to a peaceful resolution of the crisis, including an amendment to the Mexican Constitution prohibiting confiscation of American-owned subsoil interests.
According to rumors circulating on both sides of the border, the American war was to commence the next day, with the goal of occupying Mexico City by November twenty-fifth, the day of General Obregón’s inauguration. It was widely asserted that the Americans would allow the inauguration to go forward—but with an individual of their own choice taking office.
Younger accompanied Colette once again to Mrs. Meloney’s house on West Twelfth Street, where a car was waiting to take them to Mr. Brighton’s luminous-paint factory in Orange, New Jersey. The driver was the redoubtable Samuels. Younger said good-bye, waiting on the curb until he was sure no one had followed them. Then he took the subway uptown. The day was brisk and overcast.
Passing warehouses and slaughterhouses, Younger walked to Tenth Avenue, where he entered Columbia University’s College of Physicians and Surgeons, the medical school attached to the Sloane Hospital for Women. Younger knew two researchers who worked there. He found one of them—his name was Joseph Johanson—in his laboratory. Younger asked him to call the hospital to see if he could pull the charts on a female patient named McDonald under the care of Dr. Frederick Lyme.
“There’s no Dr. Lyme at Sloane,” replied Johanson.
“There was yesterday,” said Younger. “I talked to him.”
Johanson looked dubious but made the call. Presently they learned that there was indeed a patient file for a Quinta McDonald, but that all her charts were gone, having been removed on instructions from the family. What remained was a death certificate, which indicated that the patient had died five days previously from syphilis.
“Who signed the death certificate?” asked Younger.
Johanson relayed the question to the nurse, who reported that the signature appeared to be that of an attorney by the name of Gleason. She also said that she had never heard of a Dr. Lyme at the hospital.
“Wait a minute: Frederick Lyme—I know that name,” said Johanson after ringing off. He took down from a bookcase a large loose-leaf binder: a directory