Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [97]
“How much did you lose?”
“We still don’t know exactly,” Houston answered. “It takes time to recount 138,000 bars. In addition to the gold on the bridge, I lost a man too—the man whose name we want off your lists. He may have gone onto the bridge to try to save the gold.”
“Riggs,” said Littlemore. “So if the bombing was a robbery, why is Big Bill Flynn chasing anarchists?”
“Nearly no one knows about this robbery, Captain,” said Houston. “Senator Fall, for example, does not know of it. Neither does Chief Flynn.”
Littlemore thought about that: “You’re afraid the Bureau has a leak.”
“Only a handful of people knew the date on which we were transferring the gold. There are men in the Bureau who knew. Someone betrayed us.”
“Could have been someone inside Treasury,” said Littlemore. “Could have been Riggs.”
“I can’t rule that out,” replied Houston.
“You must know more or less how much they got away with.”
“Oh, more or less, certainly,” replied Houston. “A paltry amount. We will hardly notice it, even if we never get it back. Five or six hundred bricks, give or take.”
“Which comes to?” asked the detective.
“In dollars? Perhaps four.”
“Four thousand?”
“Four millions,” said Houston.
The number hung in the air for a moment, echoing. “What is it you want from me, Mr. Secretary?” asked Littlemore.
“Why, just to refrain from telling the press about the robbery. It wouldn’t do for the public to learn the United States Treasury has been breached—and certainly not that there are people inside the government with the will and wherewithal to steal the nation’s gold. Wouldn’t do at all.”
“Too late,” said Littlemore. “I already told a couple of reporters there was something they might find interesting at the Treasury. Something to do with gold.”
“I know,” said Houston. “We’ve received inquiries. That much is all right. I don’t mind telling them the gold is here. The financial world is already aware of it. I don’t even mind telling the press we’ve been moving the gold to the Assay vaults. I intend simply to let it out that my men happened to take their lunch break just before the explosion. A simple story. It was noon; the men had shut the doors for lunch; they heard the bomb go off; that was all. A coincidence. The great point is that there was no robbery, no breach in security, no loss of gold. Lunchtime.”
“Think anyone will buy that?” asked Littlemore.
“The gullibility of the common man constantly surprises, Captain. If everyone tells the reporters the same thing, I think we’ll be all right. Especially if you tell them. You’ll be doing your country a service.”
Littlemore weighed the Secretary’s request. “I want in on your investigation—who knew the gold was being moved, everything you’ve got on Riggs, who’s selling bullion on the black market.”
“Why not?” said Houston. “You might help. Unlike my other officers, you at least are not a suspect.”
“And one more thing. Get Flynn off my back. Any of Flynn’s men come within spitting distance of my wife’s family, I tell the press everything I know.”
“That will be more difficult. The Bureau is not under my control.”
“No deal then.” Littlemore put his hat back on and snapped its brim.
It was Houston’s turn to weigh his options. “Consider it done,” he said. “I’m speaking with General Palmer tonight.”
Colette uttered not a word. She turned away and waved for a porter, who quickly loaded the three tattered suitcases onto his hand truck. The porter set off. Colette, followed by Luc, walked slowly into the crowd.
Younger, lighting a cigarette, gazed past the Welshman to the vast black George Washington, memories boiling up. It had been a great ship once. It had brought Freud to America. It had taken Woodrow Wilson to Europe. It had carried kings and queens and heads of state. Now it was relegated to commercial passenger