Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [81]
“Yeah—I found out I was being used by J. P. Morgan. You were hoping I’d arrest Speyer, or at least hold him up a few days. That way he doesn’t get his money abroad, and he can’t lend it to the Mexicans.”
The line fell silent for a moment. “Speyer told you about Mexico?” asked Lamont.
“That’s right.”
“What did he tell you?”
“Enough,” said Littlemore.
“We are trying to help Mexico, Captain. A nation cannot simply default on her debt. Mexico will destroy her own future if she persists in this shortsightedness. A debt is a sacred obligation. Mr. Speyer, like so many of his kind, cannot understand that. For him a debt is only money.”
“Whereas to you it’s religion,” said Littlemore. “I offered to help you, Lamont. You tried to make me a stooge.”
“I swear to you, Captain, that was not my intention. My sole concern is whether my firm is being attacked—and if so, finding out who is behind it.”
“I don’t believe Speyer had anything to do with the bombing, and neither do you.”
“But the man threatened me. He practically warned me he was going to resort to violence. Did you ask him about that?”
“It wasn’t a threat. He was trying to warn you about a new financial guy from Mexico—maybe the same guy who came to your club the other night.”
“Who—Pesqueira? What about him?”
“I don’t know, Lamont. It’s your business, not mine.”
“You can’t just let Speyer leave the country, Captain. What if he never comes back?”
At that moment, Officer Stankiewicz poked his head through the door. “Hey, Cap,” he said, out of breath, “the Bureau—”
Littlemore silenced him with his palm. “He’ll come back,” he said to Lamont, ringing off. “What is it, Stanky?”
“The G-men found a guy who serviced the bombers’ horse and wagon,” said Stankiewicz. “They say he’s fingered Tresca. Flynn’s announcing it to the press in ten minutes.”
“Where?” asked Littlemore, putting on straw hat and jacket.
“In front of the Treasury.”
“Go get that horseshoe,” said Littlemore, setting off down the hall. “Meet me there.”
On the steps of the United States Treasury, with the statue of George Washington behind him and a phalanx of armed soldiers on either side, Big Bill Flynn of the federal Bureau of Investigation had his arm around a grizzled workman wearing an oil-stained leather apron. To a small crowd of reporters and photographers, Flynn made the following proclamation:
“What we got here is a major break in the investigation. This fine American is Mr. John Haggerty, a horseshoer of over forty years’ experience, located by agents of the Bureau under my personal command. Get your pens out, boys; here’s your story. On or about the first of this month, an individual appeared in Mr. Haggerty’s stable on New Chambers Street in the company of a horse and wagon, which horse and wagon was in need of new shoes, and which was outfitted with unusual brass turret rings just like the ones we collected from this plaza after the explosion. Mr. Haggerty put size-four shoes on that horse, said shoes being united to said horse by means of shamrock nails and Niagara hoof pads—cooperating in every respect with the evidence we collected here.”
“They didn’t collect that stuff, Cap,” whispered Stankiewicz to Littlemore. “We gave it to them.”
Littlemore motioned him to be quiet.
“In other words, the horse and wagon shoed by Mr. Haggerty three weeks ago was the exact same horse and wagon employed by the anarchists to transport their incendiary device here on the sixteenth. The individual who brought that horse into Mr. Haggerty’s stable was approximately five foot seven inches in height, slight of build, poorly shaven, and very dirty and low in appearance. Ain’t that right, Haggerty?”
The stableman nodded gravely.
“And this is the kicker, boys,” added Flynn: “The individual was Eye-talian and gave his name as something in the nature of Trescati or Trescare. Ain’t that right, Haggerty?”
“Could be,” said Haggerty.
“ ‘Could be’?” whispered Stankiewicz.
“Shh,” said Littlemore.
“In other words,” Flynn went on, “a spitting description of Carlo Tresca, just