Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [9]
“The window shattered right in front of us,” answered that gentleman, a diminutive well-dressed man with a nasty cut on one arm and a staggered, uncomprehending expression on his otherwise bland face. “We might have been killed. How could this happen?”
“What did happen?” Mayor Hylan asked Littlemore.
“Don’t know yet, sir,” said Littlemore. “Working on it.”
“What are we going to do about Constitution Day?” whispered the Mayor anxiously.
“Tomorrow is September seventeenth, Littlemore—Constitution Day,” said Commissioner Enright. The Commissioner was a man of imposing and appealing girth, with abundant waves of gray hair and unexpectedly sensitive eyes. “The celebrations were to take place right here tomorrow morning, in front of the Exchange. Mayor Hylan wants to know if the plaza will be ready by then.”
“She’ll be clear by eight this evening,” said Littlemore.
“There you are, Hylan,” replied Enright. “I told you Littlemore would get the job done. You can hold the celebration or not, just as you wish.”
“Will it be safe—safe for a large gathering?” asked the Mayor.
“I can’t guarantee that, sir,” said Littlemore. “You can never guarantee safety with a big crowd.”
“I just don’t know,” replied Mayor Hylan, wringing his hands. “Will we look foolish if we cancel? Or more foolish if we proceed?”
McAdoo answered: “I haven’t reached the President yet, but I’ve spoken at length with Attorney General Palmer, and he urges you to carry on. Speeches should be given, citizens should assemble—the larger the assembly, the better. Palmer says we must show no fear.”
“Fear?” asked Hylan fearfully. “Of what?”
“Anarchists, obviously,” said McAdoo. “But which anarchists? That’s the question.”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” said Enright.
“Palmer will give a speech himself,” said McAdoo, a handsome, slender, tight-lipped man with a fine strong nose and hair still black despite his age, “if he arrives in time.”
“General Palmer’s coming to New York?” asked Littlemore.
“I expect he’ll want to head the investigation,” said McAdoo.
“Not my investigation,” said Commissioner Enright.
“There can be only one investigation,” said McAdoo.
“If we’re having a big event here tomorrow morning, Mr. Enright,” said Littlemore, “we’ll need extra men on the street. Three or four hundred.”
“Why—is there going to be another explosion?” exclaimed the alarmed Mayor.
“Calm down, Hylan,” said Enright. “Someone will hear you.”
“Just a precaution, Mr. Mayor,” said Littlemore. “We don’t want a riot.”
“Four hundred extra men?” said Mayor Hylan incredulously. “At time and a half for overtime? Where’s the money going to come from?”
“Don’t worry about the money,” said Lamont, pulling himself to his full diminutive height. “The J. P. Morgan Company will pay for it. We must all go about our business. We can’t have the world thinking Wall Street isn’t safe. It would be a disaster.”
“What do you call this?” asked Hylan, gesturing around them.
“How are your people, Lamont?” said Enright. “How many did you lose?”
“I don’t know yet,” said Lamont grimly. “Junius—J.P. Jr.’s son—was right in the way of it.”
“He wasn’t killed, was he?” asked Enright.
“No, but his face was a bleeding mess. There’s only one thing I know for certain: the Morgan Bank will open for business as usual tomorrow morning at eight o’clock sharp.”
Commissioner Enright nodded. “There we are then,” he said. “Business as usual. That will be all, Captain Littlemore.”
When Littlemore returned to the table where his men were interviewing witnesses, Stankiewicz was waiting for him with a businessman who was sweating profusely. “Hey, Cap,” said Stankiewicz, “you better talk to this guy. He says he has evidence.”
“I swear to you I didn’t know,” said the businessman anxiously. “I thought it was a joke.”
“What’s he talking about, Stanky?