Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [54]
Flynn handed around five handbills.
“Don’t paw at ’em!” Flynn barked. “Anybody damages one of these, they’re going to jail for destruction of evidence. I ain’t kidding.”
Each piece of paper was rough and cheap, about seven inches wide by eleven long, and each bore the same red ink-stamped message, the unevenness of which made plain that it had been hand-printed, one letter at a time:
Rimember
We will not tolerate
any longer
Free the political
prisoner or it will be
sure death for all of you
American Anarchist
Fighters
The newsmen copied furiously.
“Cedar and Broadway,” Flynn resumed, using his pointer again, “is four minutes by foot from the incendiary location. That leaves no doubt about what happened. The anarchists parked their animal-powered vehicle on Wall Street at approximately 0:11:54. When they reached Cedar and Broadway, they placed these circulars into the mail receptacle, three minutes before the explosion.
“It will be recalled,” Flynn went on, “that the circulars connected with the bomb outrages of 1919 looked just like these here and were signed by the same enemy organization. If any further cooperation was needed, which it ain’t, it will also be recalled that the Chicago Post Office bombing of 1918 occurred on the third Thursday”—pronounced toyd Toysday—“of September, which yesterday was too. The exact anniversary. In other words, these are the same terrorist Bolshevikis who bombed us in 1918 and 1919—Eye-talians associated with the Galliani organization. There’s your story. You print it. I will now read you the names of the wanted.” Reading from what appeared to be an arrest warrant, Flynn continued: “Carlo Tresca, anarchist leader and known terrorist; Pietro Baldesserotto, anarchist; Serafino Grandi, anarchist and revolutionary; Rugero Bacini, anarchist; Roberto Elia, anarchist.”
The newsmen kept scribbling some time after Flynn had finished his recitation. Then one of them called out, “Was J. P. Morgan hurt, Chief?”
“What are you—stupid? J. P. Morgan wasn’t even in town yesterday,” said Flynn. “This outrage was not directed at Morgan or any other individual. It was an attack on the American government and the American people and the American way of life. You put that in the papers.”
“What can you tell us about the horse and wagon, Chief?” a newsman asked.
“The witnesses thus far examined,” said Flynn, “have told us that the horse was facing east, which ain’t legal under traffic regulations. But terrorists don’t care too much about traffic regulations, do they?” Flynn’s torso heaved up and down at the last remark, which he apparently found humorous.
“So you haven’t identified the wagon?” asked a reporter.
“They blew it up, you chucklehead,” Flynn shot back, irritated. “How are we supposed to identify it? It’s in a million pieces—and so’s the horse. Any more bonehead questions?”
“What about Fischer, Chief?”
“Don’t worry about Fischer,” said Flynn.
“Have you caught him yet?”
“Who says I’m looking? NYPD wants Fischer; let them look.”
“But how did he know about the bombing?”
“Who says he knew about it? The postcard never said bomb. And it said the fifteenth, not the sixteenth. I ain’t gonna comment on Fischer. If you ask me, he’s a mental case who got lucky. Now get out of here, all of you. I got men in the field waiting for orders.”
Under vaulted gold-leaf ceilings, Younger pointed out to Colette and Luc the caricature of old Mr. Woolworth himself, carved in stone, counting his fives and dimes. They boarded the express elevator. The boy’s eyes fixed in wonder on the winking lights that indicated the breathtaking passage of floors. Only a slight rocking of the car and a whistling of air betrayed the rapidity of their ascent.
Fifty-eight stories up, they emerged through heavy oak doors into a blinding blue sunlight and a wind so fierce Younger had to take Colette around the shoulders and Luc by the hand. The three-sided observation deck was lined with sightseers, coats flapping. At a railing, Younger, Colette, and Luc—on his tiptoes