Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [172]
“You had me kidnapped,” she said, still backing away.
“It was the most efficient thing in the world. We had some foreigners in town for another task—Serbs, weren’t they, Samuels?—very well suited for the job.”
“You tried to kill me—and then proposed to me?”
“That is one of my great strengths, Miss Rousseau. I admit my mistakes. I learn from them. It was all a misunderstanding. Do you know why Amelia tried to see you at your hotel? It’s because some of the girls overheard you at our factory in Connecticut saying that my company was killing people. But you didn’t mean my paint was doing any harm. You meant that luminous watches divert radium from medical uses. How preposterous—that misunderstanding nearly killed you! It was I who came to your rescue. You owe your life to me, Miss Rousseau. I saw Samuels’s mistake immediately after I heard you at the church. That’s why I ordered the attacks against you to stop.” Brighton shook his head ruefully. “But now look how things have turned out. What a pity. Samuels, can we keep her in the infirmary? If I can’t marry her, that would be my second choice.”
“They’ll come for her,” said Samuels.
Brighton sighed: “You’re right, as always.” While Samuels kept his gun trained on Colette, Brighton went to a metal barrel positioned on top of a worktable. Opening a tap at its base, he filled a glass measuring cup with greenish paint. “Since you aren’t receptive to me, Miss Rousseau, would you mind at least opening your mouth and holding quite still? Please say you’ll cooperate. It will make things so much easier.”
Colette didn’t answer. She was touching the wall with her hands behind her back, feeling for something. Where was it?
“Does your silence mean yes?” asked Brighton. “I would be very impressed with you. Girls are usually so unreasonable. Most people are. I remember as a boy I would propose something perfectly sensible, and my parents would say it was ‘wrong.’ They would get that look on their faces. What does it mean—wrong? It’s as if they were suddenly speaking in tongues. I don’t believe the word has any meaning. I’ve asked people many times to explain it to me; no one can. They just give examples. It’s gibberish. I look at people sometimes, Miss Rousseau, and honestly I think they’re all cattle. I may be the only one with a mind of his own. Samuels, open Miss Rousseau’s mouth.”
“You’re going to make me drink your paint?” asked Colette, aghast, taking another step back
“Please don’t be concerned,” said Brighton. “We’ve done it before; it works splendidly. The paint will make you sick, and we’ll rush you to the Sloane Hospital for Women, where a specialist named Lyme will treat you. He’ll give you something that will keep you from speaking. You’ll get weaker, and your hair may fall out. That will make you very unattractive, but it’s all right—I won’t come to visit. You’ll be diagnosed with syphilis, I imagine. Then you’ll die. It all goes very smoothly, I promise you. Won’t you please open your mouth? You’ll be doing me a great favor.”
“Mr. Brighton, I beg you,” she said, turning her back to him. “Shoot me now. Get it over with.”
“But I can’t,” answered Brighton. “If we shot you, Miss Rousseau, either your body would have to disappear, which would raise all sorts of questions, or else we’d have to turn you over to the police with bullets in you, which would raise even more. I assure you, the paint is much—”
Brighton never finished this sentence. Colette, her back to the two men, had taken hold of the red wooden handle of the light switch—the master switch, which the working girl had warned her of earlier—and she plunged the factory into darkness. Immediately she dropped to all fours as shots rang out and bullets ricocheted off the metal plate above her.
“Stop shooting!” ordered Brighton. “There’s nowhere she can go. Get the lights back on.”
Colette could see nothing except the glass measuring