Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [161]
Littlemore, passing the dark Sub-Treasury Building in the shadows of Wall Street, was used to that wind. The sign of this acquaintance was that he walked at a sixty-degree angle when facing it and never took his hand from his hat. Secretary Houston, arriving by car at the neighboring, brilliantly lit Assay Office, still guarded by a platoon of federal troops, was not used to it. The sign of this unfamiliarity was that he lost his top hat the moment he stepped out of his long black-and-gold Packard.
Another well-dressed gentleman emerged from the car as well. Although their conversation was in whispers, the wind carried snatches to Littlemore, who could hear Houston assuring the man that payment would be forthcoming. The gentleman shook Houston’s hand and crossed the street to the Morgan Bank.
Secretary Houston surveyed the rank of infantrymen in the glare of military klieg lights. His top hat lay only a foot from one of the soldiers, who stood at sharp attention, making no motion to come to the Secretary’s haberdashery assistance. Houston strode to the building’s steps to retrieve his hat, but as if the Secretary were the straight man in a vaudeville prank, at the moment he bent to pick it up, a malicious wind plucked up the hat and spun it into the shadows of the street. It happened to come to rest near the detective, who dusted it off and, stepping into the light, offered it to the Treasury Secretary.
“Agent Littlemore,” said Houston. “Lurking in wait is becoming habitual with you. I don’t think I approve. How did you know I would be here?”
“From your calendar,” replied Littlemore.
“You went through my private calendar?”
“Your secretary left it open on the desk. Was that Mr. Lamont, sir?”
“Yes. The bankers are gathering in force tonight. Never a good sign.”
“The war with Mexico?”
“Obviously.”
“Worried about it, Mr. Houston?”
“Blast it—why does everyone keep asking me that? I’m worried to the extent that the nation’s treasure will be called on. What do you know about this Mexican business? More than what you read in the papers, I think. Where are you getting your information, Littlemore? And what are you doing here?”
“Just wanted to have a look inside the Assay Office, Mr. Houston.”
“Why?”
“Maybe the stolen gold’s hidden inside there. That would explain why no one saw the getaway truck. They wouldn’t have seen a getaway truck if there was no getaway truck.”
“Nonsense. I’ve been in the Assay Office a dozen times since September sixteenth. The gold’s not here.”
The detective scratched the back of his head. “With nearly a billion dollars of gold in this building, sir, you can tell that the four million we’re looking for isn’t here?”
“Yes, I can. I can also tell that the period of your usefulness to me has come to an end. But that won’t disturb you, since you haven’t been working for me for some time already. You’re Senator Fall’s man, aren’t you? What did he promise you?”
“Did you happen to look for the gold in the hidden safe room on the second floor, Mr. Houston? The one behind the wall of the superintendent’s office?”
A new expression flashed momentarily in Houston’s eyes. Littlemore’s practiced eye recognized it at once: guilt. Houston whispered angrily: “How do you know about that room?”
“From the architectural plans, Mr. Secretary. You gave them to me. I also found the work order you signed, authorizing Riggs and the rest of your boys to start moving the gold on the night of September fifteenth.”
“What is that supposed to prove?”
“Nothing. Mind if I come with you into the building, sir?”
Houston turned his back to Littlemore and, braving the wind, mounted the stairs, calling out to the two soldiers posted closest to the imposing front door,