Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [175]
“You’re in for a lot of surprises tonight,” replied Littlemore.
The spiral stairs led past a landing littered with empty liquor bottles. When they arrived at the bottom, they were behind another, smaller information window. Littlemore opened it and joined the throng of passengers in Grand Central’s lower level. He led Fischer to an intersection of two broad and crowded corridors, where Officer Roederheusen, also in plain clothes, was waiting in an inconspicuous corner under a tiled, vaulted ceiling. Across the gallery was the Oyster Bar.
“They still in there?” Littlemore asked.
“Yes, sir,” said Roederheusen. “Still eating.”
“Anybody see you?”
“No, sir.”
“Good job,” said Littlemore. “Fischer, you and I are going to wait here until the Commissioner comes. Spanky, you go down to Washington Square Hospital on Ninth and see how Miss Rousseau’s doing. Just stay put there unless Doc Younger needs anything, in which case you get it for him.”
Twenty minutes later, Stankiewicz returned with Commissioner Enright.
“This had better be good, Littlemore,” said Enright.
“It will be, Commissioner,” replied Littlemore. “Stand right here, sir. Keep an ear to the wall. You too, Fischer, just like we talked about. Don’t move.”
“An ear to the wall?” repeated Enright indignantly.
“Yes, sir. Keep your ear right here.”
The detective crossed the lower-level concourse, wending through the crush of bustling passengers, many of them carrying on in extraordinarily loud voices, as New Yorkers like to do. When he got to the Oyster Bar’s entrance, he turned around, confirming that he could no longer see Enright, Roederheusen, or Fischer, who, on the other side of the wide and busy gallery, must have been almost a hundred feet away. Littlemore ducked into the restaurant.
He found them at a table covered with nacreous and crustacean remains: Senator Fall, Mrs. Cross, and William McAdoo, the former Treasury Secretary who was now a lawyer. No bottles were visible, but it was clear from the Senator’s exuberance that considerable drink had been consumed with the repast.
“Agent Littlemore!” cried Fall. “Savior of his country. Exposer of corruption. You’ve missed dinner. You’ve missed great tidings. You’ve—you look ridiculous, son. What have you been doing, spelunking?”
“I need to talk to you, Mr. Fall,” said Littlemore.
“Talk away. I think you’re getting cold feet, boy, I really do.”
“Can we speak alone, Mr. Senator?” replied Littlemore, still standing.
“Anything you want to say to me, Littlemore, you can say in front of my friends.”
“Not this.”
Fall was irritated, but he stood up. “All right. I’m coming. But first give me one more dose of that dark medicine, woman.”
Mrs. Cross inconspicuously removed a flask from her purse and put a splash into Senator Fall’s glass. She topped off Mr. McAdoo’s as well. “Whiskey, Agent Littlemore?” she asked.
The detective shook his head and, after Fall had downed his drink, led the Senator out of the crowded restaurant. He stopped at a discreet spot against the wall in the terminal concourse, a few feet from the doors of the Oyster Bar. “I know who stole the gold, Mr. Fall,” said Littlemore.
“The Mexicans,” replied Fall. “You already figured that out.”
“Not the Mexicans, sir.”
“Houston?”
“It was Lamont,” said Littlemore, “of J. P. Morgan and Company.”
“Impossible.”
“I saw the gold tonight. In the basement of the Morgan Bank.”
“Keep your voice down,” whispered Fall. “You tell anybody yet?”
“Yes, sir,” said Littlemore quietly.
“Who?”
“You.”
“Apart from me, goddamn it,” said Fall.
“You mean Mr. Houston?”
“Yes—did you tell Houston?”
“I came straight here, Mr. Fall.”
“Good. Let’s keep a lid on this, Littlemore. Don’t want to cause a panic. Tell you what: Just leave it to me. I’ll make sure the right people find out.”
“Got you, Mr. Fall. Keep a lid on it. But somebody better talk to Mr. Lamont right away.”
“Don’t you worry, son—I’ll talk to him.”
“What’ll you say?” asked Littlemore.
“I’ll tell him—why, I’ll tell him—” Fall had