Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [95]
“Uh-huh,” said Littlemore. “Or maybe you just wanted to kill somebody.”
“Maybe.”
They shook hands and parted. After Younger’s taxi had driven off, another vehicle pulled up beside Littlemore—a black-and-gold Packard. At the same time, two large men in suits converged on the detective from the steps of the Tombs. The rear passenger window of the Packard rolled down. “Would you mind getting in, Captain?” said a voice from within.
“Depends who’s asking,” said Littlemore.
The man nearest the detective put his hand between Littlemore’s shoulder blades to guide him into the car. He opened his jacket just enough to let Littlemore see the butt of a gun holstered within.
“That supposed to scare me?” asked Littlemore, reaching with astonishing quickness into the man’s jacket, pulling the gun out of his holster, and pointing it at his chin—while at the same time, with his other hand, drawing his own gun from his belt and aiming it at the other man. “Where do they train you Bureau guys anyway?”
“Please, please, put your weapons away,” said the voice within the car. “I assure you there’s no need. These men are not from the Bureau of Investigation. They work for me.”
“And who would you be?” asked Littlemore.
“I’m the secretary.”
“Whose secretary?” asked Littlemore.
“President Wilson’s, I suppose. My name is David Houston. I’m Secretary of the Treasury. Please come in, Captain. There’s something we need to discuss.”
Littlemore got in the car.
At the harbor, Younger found Colette and Luc waiting on a pier, near the berth of the steamship Welshman. Beside them were three forlorn, ragged-edged pieces of brown leather luggage. The air had already begun to cool; it would be a brisk autumn evening. The ship was boarding.
After they’d greeted one another, Colette described the events of the previous night. “It’s strange,” she said. “When I first saw her, I was frightened, but later I felt there was nothing to be afraid of.”
Silence hung in the air.
“I didn’t expect you,” said Colette, brushing a lock of hair from her face. “Your telegram said Jimmy.”
Younger nodded. He handed her the tickets.
“They let him out of jail?” she asked. “The killer?”
“No, he’s back in,” said Younger. “And he won’t be coming out for a long time. It doesn’t matter. You want to take this ship.”
She looked down at her hands. “You—” she said.
“We took a wrong turn a long time ago, you and I,” answered Younger. “All my fault. Better this way. I doubt your soldier deserves you, but you deserve to find out.”
Her gaze fell on the tickets. “These are for Bremen, not Hamburg.”
Younger had bought a second set of tickets, on a different ship, the George Washington, when he arrived at the port an hour earlier. Drobac’s attorney, Gleason, seemed to know that Colette was bound for Hamburg. If so, that meant Colette’s pursuers would be expecting her to board the Welshman.
“A first-class cabin,” added Colette, still looking at the tickets. “We don’t need that.”
Younger handed her two more white envelopes. “This one,” he said, “has ready money for the trip. The other contains a draft on my accounts in England that you can negotiate at any serious bank in Vienna. No, take it. You can’t live on nothing.”
She shook her head and tried to return the envelopes, but Younger wouldn’t take them back. He crouched and extended his hand to Luc. The boy hesitated a moment, then held out his own.
“He did it,” said Younger. “Ruth hit his fiftieth. And fifty-first.”
Luc nodded: he knew it already.
“Take care of your sister,” said Younger. He winked: “Every girl needs a man taking care of her.”
Secretary Houston led Littlemore up the marble steps, past the soldiers standing at attention, into the Treasury Building. Houston was a gracious and handsome man in his early fifties, his genially crinkled eyes suggesting a friendliness contradicted by everything else about him, particularly the cold soft intelligence of his Southern voice. The detective followed the top-hatted Houston through the rotunda, then down several narrow stairwells.