Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [75]
Littlemore said nothing.
“An eighty-six—the plain grilled rib-eye,” explained Speyer. “The one they always used to run out of. Now it’s the only thing you can get. Because everything else is Prohibited.”
“We don’t make the laws, mister,” said Littlemore. “I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”
“Very well,” said Speyer. “But not here. If you must, let’s go to my car.”
Speyer paid his bill and led the detective out onto Forty-fourth Street. A silver four-seater was parked outside. “Nice, isn’t she?” said Speyer. He opened a rear door; the driver started the engine. “After you, Officer.”
Littlemore climbed inside. The chauffeur, meeting the detective’s eyes in the rearview mirror, turned round and asked him who he was.
“It’s all right,” said the detective. “I’m with Mr. Speyer.”
“Speyer? Who’s that?” asked the driver.
The door that Speyer had graciously opened for the detective was still ajar.
“You’re kidding me,” said Littlemore to no one in particular. The detective got out of the vehicle. There was no sign of James Speyer. Disgusted with himself, Littlemore went back into the restaurant and called his men Stankiewicz and Roederheusen.
On Monday morning, September 20, Edwin Fischer arrived at Grand Central Terminal on a train from Canada, in the custody of two New York City policemen. Reporters from every newspaper in the city were waiting for them, together with a considerable crowd.
The good-looking, tow-headed Fischer did not disappoint. He replied to questions with dauntless good cheer, while admonishing his greeters that he had been forbidden to discuss the bombing. Evidently overheated, Fischer removed his cream-colored suit jacket, folded it neatly, and handed it to a nonplussed policeman—revealing a second jacket below the first, this one navy blue.
“How come the two jackets, Fischer?” one reporter called out. “Cold up in Canada?”
“I always wear two,” Fischer replied brightly, displaying the waistline of a navy blue pair of pants below his outer pair of cream trousers. “Two full suits, everywhere I go.”
The newsmen exchanged knowing winks: everyone had heard that Fischer was a lunatic. One of them asked why he wore two suits. Fischer explained that as an American, he liked to sport casual attire, while as a member of the French consular establishment, he had to be prepared for greater formality. With a sparkle in his eye, he then exhibited a third outfit below the first two, which appeared to consist of cotton whites suitable for an outdoor gambol. Asked the reason, he responded that shortly after the last time he won the Open, a pushy fellow had challenged him to a game, which he’d had to decline for lack of appropriate costume. After that, he decided always to be ready for a match.
“The Open?” someone asked. “What Open was that, Ed?”
“Why, the United States Open, of course,” said Fischer.
Titters greeted this assertion. “You won the U.S. Open, did you, Eddie?” someone called out.
“Oh, yes,” said Fischer with a broad smile. He had excellent teeth. “Many times.”
Laughter circulated more broadly.
“How many?”
“Lost count after three,” he answered happily.
“Get going,” said one of the policemen, shoving the cream-colored suit jacket back into Fischer’s arms.
From Grand Central, Fischer was taken to police headquarters for questioning by Commissioner Enright, Chief Inspector Lahey, and Assistant District Attorney Talley. Captains from the bomb squad and from Homicide, including Littlemore, sat in an array of hard chairs along a wall. Fischer had sociable words for everyone. With the District Attorney, he was especially effusive, asking after not only Talley’s own health but that of Mrs. Talley as well.
“You know each other?” Commissioner Enright asked.
“We’re old friends,” replied Fischer. “Isn’t that right, Talley?”
“I’ve never met the man, Commissioner,” Talley replied to Enright.
“Listen to that,” said Fischer, smiling broadly and clapping Talley on the back. “Always the jokester.”
Commissioner Enright shook his head and ordered the interrogation