Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [94]
“Get out,” said Littlemore.
“Very well—if you insist,” replied the lawyer. He turned to Younger again: “My client was in jail ten days. You’ll be there twenty years.”
Younger was silenced by these words. Not, however, by the threat; it was the phrase ten days that caught his attention. “Littlemore,” he said as Gleason guided Drobac toward the stairwell that led to freedom. “Have him take off his shirt.”
“His shirt?” replied the detective.
“The kidnapper has a mark on the front of his torso,” said Younger. “A red mark, in the shape of a test tube.”
The guard posted at the stairwell door looked uncertainly at Littlemore, waiting to be told whether to let Drobac pass.
“This is absurd,” said Gleason.
The surgeon spoke up: “Is the mark visible to the naked eye?”
“Yes,” said Younger.
“I operated on Mr. Smith,” the surgeon continued, referring to Drobac, “and I assure you he has no such mark on his torso.”
“Then he has nothing to fear from taking off his shirt,” said Younger.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Gleason, pushing past the guard and opening the stairwell door himself. “You heard the surgeon. My client has been released. Now, if you’ll excuse us—”
“Littlemore,” said Younger.
Drobac started to pass through the door held open by his attorney.
“Hold it,” the detective called out. “Take his shirt off.”
A half-dozen guards pulled Drobac back into the hallway and formed a circle around him.
“You have no authority,” said Gleason.
For the first time, Drobac spoke. “Is all right,” he said in his Eastern European accent, the wires around his jaw glinting silver. “I do it. Why not? I hide nothing.”
Littlemore looked at Younger, who raised an eyebrow.
Drobac calmly removed his jacket, slipped off his suspenders, and began unbuttoning his white shirt, never taking his eyes from Younger. When his chest was bare, everyone could see it: under his left ribs, below the thick hair of his chest, slightly angled from the vertical, was the perfect likeness of a test tube, inscribed in a deep red rash.
“How do you like that?” said Littlemore.
Drobac looked down, uncomprehending. “What—what is?”
“A radium burn,” said Younger. “They take ten days to emerge. Yours comes from a test tube you stole from the Commodore Hotel and put in your jacket pocket.”
“This is an outrage,” declared Gleason. “The Mayor will hear of this.”
“Put ‘Mr. Smith’ back in his cage,” said Littlemore to the guards.
Drobac, still looking at the red mark on his torso, made a snort that managed to convey both grudging acknowledgment and condescension. “Is all right,” he said, buttoning his shirt. “Your prison? Is more like hotel.”
“Glad you like it,” replied Littlemore. “You’re going to be here a long time.”
Drobac only smiled through his glinting steel wires.
Outside the Tombs, Littlemore returned Younger’s gun and invited him to the Astor Hotel, where he was going to meet with reporters and Chief Flynn. “Should be some fun,” said the detective. “Until I get myself fired.”
Younger declined, saying he had a rendezvous he couldn’t miss.
“Say, Doc, do you believe in premonitions?” asked Littlemore.
“No.”
“I’m just thinking about this guy Eddie Fischer. Everybody treats him like he’s crazy, but what if he’s really psycho?”
“Psychic.”
“Some people believe in premonitions, don’t they? Some scientists? How about when you knew the bomb was about to go off on Wall Street before anybody else did? How do you explain that?”
“Something in the air,” replied Younger.
“That’s just what Fischer says. He got it ‘out of the air.’ ”
“If you want to talk to a believer,” said Younger, “go to the American Society for Psychical Research. Their office is here in New York somewhere. They’re as good as it gets. Ask for Dr. Walter Prince.”
“Thanks. I’ll do that.”
They stood for a time without speaking.
“Sorry about the cuffs up there,” said Littlemore. “Just protocol. I know you weren’t actually going to shoot the guy.”
“I would have killed him,” said Younger.
“Christ—you can’t do that, Doc. War’s over.”
Younger nodded. “Maybe there’s always war.