Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [179]
“Don’t ask me,” replied McAdoo. “I wasn’t responsible.”
“Maybe the bombers were told to do their work at a minute after midnight on the sixteenth,” said Fall, “when the Mexicans would be celebrating their puny independence. Maybe nobody was supposed to die. But maybe the bombers were told 12:01, and maybe where they came from, 12:01 doesn’t mean a minute after midnight.”
Littlemore whistled. “Your boys blew the bomb twelve hours late. That’s why Fischer was off on the date. He heard you say the bomb would go off the night of the fifteenth.”
“Our boys?” asked Fall. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Littlemore. I was just speculating. But let me tell you what ain’t speculation: you’re handing the Reds the biggest victory they ever had. Oil is mother’s milk, son. The countries that have it are going to be big and strong. The ones that don’t are going to wither and die. Know how much oil we Americans produced yesterday? One million two hundred thousand barrels. Know how much we consumed? One million six hundred thousand barrels. That’s right—every day, we’re short four hundred thousand barrels of oil. Where’s that extra oil coming from? Mexico. We’ll get our oil; trust me on that. One way or the other, we’ll get it. This country has enemies, Littlemore. I ain’t one of them. Evening, Commissioner.”
Enright said good-bye to the Senator.
Unseen by anyone else, Mrs. Cross winked at Littlemore. “Good night, New York,” she said. “You do play by the rules, don’t you?”
You really can’t connect them?” Commissioner Enright asked Littlemore a few minutes later. “To the bombing?”
“We’ve got nothing on them,” said Littlemore. “The only witness who can tie Fall to the bombing is Fischer here, and no judge will let him testify.”
“How about the gold?” asked Enright. “Can’t we prosecute them for theft?”
“There’s no theft if the owner won’t admit his property was taken,” said Littlemore. “Secretary Houston’s going to deny that the Treasury got robbed. I saw him do it tonight.”
“I know what to do!” interjected Fischer. “I’ll tell Wilson. He’ll be very unhappy with Senator Fall. I’m one of the President’s advisers, you know.”
“You did good tonight, Eddie,” replied Littlemore. “Thanks.”
“You’re most welcome. By the way, the Popes are trying to condemn me again.”
“The Popes?” asked Enright.
“I know what he means, Commissioner,” said Littlemore. “It’s okay, Eddie. I’ll help you out.”
“Well, perhaps all this will make good crime fiction someday,” observed Enright. “I might do something with it myself. Mr. Flynn is publishing my work, you know.”
“I’m sorry?” said Littlemore. “Big Bill Flynn?”
“His days as Chief are numbered now that the Republicans are in,” said Enright. “He’s starting a literary magazine. Intends to call it Flynn’s. I’m to be his first writer. I’ll have several detective stories for him. Set in New York.”
Littlemore had no reply for a moment. Then he said, “Don’t put that in one of your stories, sir.”
“Don’t put what?” said Enright.
“That the Police Commissioner of New York City is going to write detective stories for the fat-headed Chief of the federal Bureau of Investigation, who’s starting a literary magazine and naming it after himself after botching the biggest investigation the country’s ever seen. Nobody would believe it.”
The Washington Square Hospital was a small, comfortable private facility with only two floors, connected by a wide central marble staircase. Littlemore was taking those stairs two at a time when he came upon Colette on the landing, looking out a large window. She saw him in the reflection and turned to him; the diamond choker, still on her neck, sparkled brilliantly.
“Glad to see you’re okay, Miss,” said Littlemore before taking in her expression. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she answered. “Everything’s fine. He’s going to be fine.”
“Who?”
At that moment a surgeon came slowly down the steps, cleaning his hands with a long wet cloth. His sleeves were bloodied.