Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [160]
“Why would a physiologist,” asked Younger, “be treating a patient in your hospital?”
Colette and Mrs. Meloney, received like dignitaries by Mr. Arnold Brighton at his luminous-paint factory in New Jersey, were each presented with a diamond stickpin—a token, Brighton said, of his appreciation. Mrs. Meloney was delighted. Colette tried to look it.
The factory, Brighton proudly showed them, operated under the scrupulous supervision of laboratory scientists, who took care that precisely measured micrograms of radium were properly added to the drums of blue and yellow paint, which were then sealed and spun to ensure uniform hue and dilution. Lead screens separated the radium-infused paint from the rest of the factory floor. Radioactivity detectors were located in various spots to sound an instant alarm in case of a radiation leak.
Mrs. Meloney brought up the subject of the Marie Curie Radium Fund.
“Yes, Marie Curie,” said Brighton reverently. “You can’t quantify what the world owes that woman. Even Samuels would have difficulty measuring it. He’s a gifted accountant, my Samuels. You wouldn’t guess it from looking at him. It just shows you can’t judge a man by his cover. Isn’t that right, ladies?”
Colette and Mrs. Meloney agreed that you could not.
“Was I saying something?” asked Brighton.
“Our debt to Madame Curie,” prompted Mrs. Meloney.
“Yes, of course. The profit from my radium mines in Colorado, the profit from my luminous-paint sales—I owe it all to Marie Curie. Of course, I do own a few other little things here and there.”
“Mr. Brighton,” Mrs. Meloney explained to Colette, “is one of our nation’s great oilmen.”
“That’s how we discovered radium in Colorado,” said Brighton cheerfully. “We were sinking exploratory lines for oil.”
Mrs. Meloney gently reminded Brighton of the Fund.
“Fund?” he asked. “What Fund?”
“The Radium Fund, Mr. Brighton.”
“The Fund, the Fund, of course,” he said. “Marvelous idea, yes—I can’t wait to meet Madame Curie. And I can’t wait for you to see my factory in Manhattan, where we put the paint on the watch dials. I am one of the largest employers of women in New York, Miss Rousseau, did you know that?”
Colette politely denied such knowledge. With a theatrical sigh, Mrs. Meloney declared, “What a pity that Madame Curie will not be coming to America after all. The Fund is still woefully short of what it needs. Sixty-five thousand dollars short, despite the magnanimous contribution with which you started us off, Mr. Brighton.”
“Sixty-five thousand dollars short,” repeated Brighton, with strange good cheer. “It would be a great relief to know whether I will be making another donation, wouldn’t it?”
“We are most eager to know, Mr. Brighton,” replied Mrs. Meloney.
“No more so than I, Mrs. Meloney,” said Brighton. “No more so than I.”
Colette and Mrs. Meloney exchanged glances at this mysterious remark.
Younger called next at Columbia University’s Department of Physiology, located on the grand new campus far uptown, where one of the buildings bore his mother’s maiden name. The secretary in the small physiology building confirmed that Frederick Lyme was a member of the faculty.
“What’s his specialty?” asked Younger.
“Toxicology,” said the secretary. “Industrial toxicology.”
“Is he in?”
“Mr. Lyme is out all day with clients.”
“Clients?” repeated Younger.
“Yes—the people he consults for.”
“Who would they be?”
“I’m sorry,” said the secretary. “You’ll have to speak with Mr. Lyme about that.”
At the Sub-Treasury on Wall Street, Littlemore welcomed into his office a lean, tall, towheaded man with an infectious smile. The fellow was, according to his own estimation, very well indeed. He thanked Littlemore for dealing with the Popes and arranging his release from the Amityville Sanitarium. “What can I do for you in return, Detective?” asked Edwin Fischer.
“You can meet me uptown tonight,” said Littlemore.
TWENTY
ON LATE NOVEMBER evenings a change