Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [178]
“The Treasury owed me millions,” McAdoo protested. “That’s all I ever said. It was a purely hypothetical—”
“Shut up, Mac,” interrupted Fall sharply. His countenance softened into a broad smile: “Mr. Fischer, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. You’re the tennis champion, am I right? Heard a lot of fine things about you. Albert Fall’s the name. You ever been introduced to me, son? Or to Mr. McAdoo here?”
“Never,” replied Fischer, sticking out his hand, “but I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”
The Senator didn’t shake Fischer’s hand: “Then you can’t be sure it was us you heard back in July—especially if the voices you heard were whispering.”
“I didn’t say I was sure,” replied Fischer candidly. “But your voices certainly sound similar.”
Fall laughed again. “Congratulations,” he said to Littlemore. “Your evidence is a lunatic who never saw us before but thinks maybe possibly he heard voices similar to ours whispering something last summer. You couldn’t indict a flea with that evidence. Mac, Mrs. Cross—time to go.”
“If I’d been trying to indict you, Fall,” replied Littlemore. “I would have waited and brought you down when I had more. Instead I just blew my whole case against you.”
As Mrs. Cross draped his overcoat on him, Fall asked, “And why would you do that?”
“Because I need something from you.”
The Senator chuck led: “Boy, are you ever mixed up. In future, when you want something from me, I’d recommend you try a different tactic.”
“Really?” said Littlemore. “I got two witnesses here, one of whom is the Commissioner of the New York Police Department, who will confirm that Fischer could hear you and Mr. McAdoo from all the way across the hall and that Fischer recognized your voices as the ones he heard talking about the Wall Street bombing three months before it happened. Not enough to convict, but plenty enough for a newspaper. Especially when people start looking into your Mexican documents. It’ll take a while to prove the forgery, but we will. You’ll deny you knew they were forged, but my witnesses will tell the papers they heard you say you didn’t care if the documents were forged or not. How do you figure the headlines will read? Senator Fall Takes Country to War on Tissue of Lies?”
Fall didn’t reply.
“That kind of story could put a serious crimp in a man’s legal career, Mr. McAdoo,” Littlemore continued. “Not to mention his getting back into politics.”
“Let’s hear what the detective wants,” said McAdoo.
“Meantime,” continued Littlemore, “those three senators and Mr. Houston—the ones who, according to your forged documents, were taking bribes from the Mexican government—I’m guessing they won’t let you off the hook so easy, Mr. Senator. When they find out what you did, they’ll want to hold hearings or something, won’t they? With all that going on, I can’t see President Harding naming you to his Cabinet. Can you, Mrs. Cross?”
“No, I can’t,” she agreed.
Fall took a long draw at his cigar. “What is it you want me to do?”
“Call off the war.”
“I don’t make that kind of decision,” said Fall gruffly. “Harding isn’t even president yet.”
“You better find a way, Mr. Senator,” said Littlemore. “Otherwise, you can kiss your Cabinet position good-bye.”
A piece of tobacco leaf was caught between Fall’s front teeth. He sucked it in and spat it out to the floor of Grand Central Terminal. He looked at McAdoo, who nodded. “There will be no war,” said Fall. “Hope you’re proud of yourself, boy.”
The Senator buttoned his overcoat. He turned to go.
“The one thing I’ll never understand,” said Littlemore, “is how you could kill so many of your own countrymen. You didn’t need to pick noon. You could’ve done the bombing anytime—at night. You’re not just a traitor, Fall. You’re some kind of monster.”
The Senator faced the detective.