Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [162]
The Secretary’s voice sounded strangely thin in the wind-rent air. The soldiers threw each other a glance. As Houston neared the front door, they stepped into his path and blocked hm.
“What is this—a joke?” asked Houston. “I meant no one else enters the building. Stand aside.”
The soldiers didn’t budge.
“I said stand aside,” repeated Houston.
“Sorry, sir,” said one of the infantrymen. “Orders.”
“Whose orders?”
“Mr. Baker’s, sir.”
Even from behind, and notwithstanding the Secretary’s overcoat, Littlemore could see Houston’s entire body realign. “Mr. Baker—the Secretary of War?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You must be mistaken.”
“No, sir.”
“This is an outrage. This is my building. The Secretary of War has no authority to keep the Secretary of the Treasury out of a United States Assay Office.”
“He has authority over us, sir.”
Houston strode forward, daring the soldiers to stop him. They did. Houston attempted to push through; they thrust him bodily backward—two uniformed young men manhandling the sixty-year-old Secretary, who was clad in black tie and tails. Houston fell to the ground, top hat rolling onto the cement, then sailing away once again into the night. When he stood, his face was darkly colored. Houston descended the steps, unsteadily, and made for his car. The driver hurried out and opened the back door. Houston climbed in without a word. Littlemore put his hand on the door as the driver was about to close it.
“I know what you’re guilty of, Mr. Houston,” said the detective.
“You’re fired,” said the Secretary. “Give me your badge. That’s an order.”
Littlemore handed over his badge. This one wasn’t as hard to part with as the last.
“Now get away from my vehicle,” ordered Houston.
“And I know what you’re not guilty of,” added Littlemore, pressing a large, folded piece of paper into Houston’s hand. “Be there, Mr. Secretary. Bring some men.”
Once Houston’s car was out of sight, Littlemore walked from the Assay Office to the corner of Broad and Wall Streets. He stopped when he reached Younger, who was leaning against a corner of the Equitable Building, hatless, cigarette smoldering in the sharp wind.
“What was that about?” asked Younger. He was holding two covered paper cups of coffee, which he handed to the detective.
“Just getting myself fired,” said Littlemore. “I guess it’s better this way. Now it won’t be a disgrace to the federal government if you and I get arrested.”
“We’re committing a crime?”
“Want to pull out? You can.”
“One question,” said Younger. “Are we going down an elevator into an underwater caisson which is about to be flooded, leaving us no way out except to turn ourselves into human geysers?”
“Nope.”
“Then count me in.”
“Thanks.” The two men headed back down Wall Street toward the Sub-Treasury, leaning into the wind. “I got to say,” said Littlemore, “I like this city.”
“What are we doing, exactly?” asked Younger.
“See that little alleyway between the Treasury and the Assay Office? That’s where we’re going.”
“The soldiers are going to let us through?”
“No chance,” said Littlemore. “They’re not letting anybody in. The alley’s locked off by a fifteen-foot wrought-iron gate. There’s another gate just like it at the other end, on Pine Street. More soldiers on that side too.”
“So how do we get there?”
“Got to go up before you come down.” Littlemore led Younger up the Sub-Treasury steps. No soldiers stood guard there; the Treasury Building had been emptied of its gold and would soon be decommissioned. But a night watchman remained outside its doors, and Littlemore greeted the man by name, handing him a cup of coffee. Thanking Littlemore, the guard rapped on the door, which a few moments later was opened by another lonely guard, to whom Littlemore gave the second cup of coffee. Then Littlemore took Younger through the rotunda to a staircase in the rear.
“What do those men think you’re doing?” asked Younger.
“I work here,” said Littlemore. “I’m a T-man, remember? Leastways, I was until a few minutes ago.”
After climbing four