The Death Instinct

'Why, I didn't know, did I?' answered Fischer. 'I only knew it would come after the closing bell on the fifteenth.'

'But how? How did you know that?'

'I got it out of the air.'

'The air?'

'Yes – from a voice,' explained Fischer informatively. 'Out of the air.'

'Whose voice?' asked Inspector Lahey.

'I don't know. Perhaps it was a fellow member of the Secret Service. I'm an agent, you know. Undercover.'

'Wait a second,' said District Attorney Talley. 'Did we meet at the Metropolitan awards dinner a few years ago?'

'Did we meet? repeated Fischer. 'We sat next to each other the whole evening. You were the life of the party.'

'Oh, for heaven's sake,' said Enright. 'Please continue.'

'Who's your contact at the Secret Service?' asked Lahey.

'You're asking for his name?' replied Fischer.

'Yes – his name.'

Fischer threw Talley a look implying that Inspector Lahey was either a little ignorant or a little addle-brained, but that it would be impolite to say so: 'Goodness, Inspector. He doesn't tell me his name. What sort of Secret Serviceman would that be?'

'How did you know about the bombing?' asked Talley yet again.

Fischer sighed: 'I got it out of the air.'

'By wireless?' asked Lahey.

'You mean radio? I shouldn't think so. I'm very close to God, you know. Some people resent that.'

After two and a half hours, Commissioner Enright brought the interrogation to an end, no further results having been produced. Fischer was committed to an asylum.

Littlemore collared District Attorney Talley before the latter left police headquarters and asked him whether it was legal for United States army troops to be stationed on a Manhattan street.

'Why not?' replied Talley.

'I never saw infantry in the city before,' said Littlemore. 'I thought they had to call out the National Guard or something – you know, with the Governor's consent.'

'Beats me,' said Talley. 'That'd be federal law. Why don't you ask Flynn's men? They'd probably know.'

Littlemore returned to his office and paced, irritated. Then he cranked up his telephone. 'Rosie,' he said to the operator, 'get me the Metropolitan Tennis Association.'

As Littlemore rung off, Officer Stankiewicz poked his head through the door, holding a sheaf of papers. 'Final casualty list, Cap,' said Stankiewicz. 'Want to see it before it goes out?'

Littlemore leafed through the unevenly typed document, which gave for every man, woman, and child killed or wounded on September 16 a name, address, age, and place of employment, if any. Page after page, hundreds and hundreds of names. Littlemore closed his eyes – and opened them at a knock on his door. Officer Roederheusen poked his head through.

'I found Speyer's ship, sir,' said Roederheusen, unshaven and red- eyed. 'There's a James Speyer booked on the Imperator, leaving tomorrow for Germany at nine-thirty in the morning. I saw the manifest myself.'

'Nice work, Spanky.'

Stankiewicz looked quizzically at Roederheusen.

'I'm Spanky now,' explained Roederheusen proudly.

Littlemore rubbed his eyes and handed the casualty list back to Stankiewicz, whom he waved out of his office. 'What's Speyer been up to?' he asked Roederheusen.

'Nothing, sir,' said Roederheusen. 'He didn't go out all night. This morning at eight he went to work. He's been there all day.'

'Who's on him now?' Littlemore went to his door and shouted, 'Hey, Stanky. Get back in here. Give me that list again.'

The phone rang.

'Two beat officers, sir,' Roederheusen replied as Stankiewicz reentered the office. 'Should I call them off?'

Littlemore answered the telephone. Rosie, the operator, informed him through the telephone that the vice president of the Metropolitan Tennis Association was on the line.

'Put him through.' Littlemore motioned to Stankiewicz to hand him the list. To Roederheusen, he said, 'No. Make sure somebody keeps an eye on Speyer all day. If he makes a move, I want to know.

If he doesn't, you meet me at his house at five tomorrow morning. Yeah, five. Now go home and get some sleep.' Littlemore cradled the receiver between chin and shoulder as he returned to the page of the casualty list devoted to government officers. 'Where's the Treasury guy, Stanky? There was a Treasury guard who died.'

'Hello?' said a man's crackling voice through the receiver.

'If he ain't on that list, Cap, he ain't dead,' said Stankiewicz.

'Hold the line,' said Littlemore into the telephone. 'Know what, Stanky? Don't argue with me today. Go check the handwritten list.'

'The, um, handwritten list?'

'Hello?' said the telephone.

'Hold the line,' Littlemore repeated. To Stankiewicz, he said, 'What do I have to do, spell it for you? You and Spanky made filing cards for all the casualties. I told you to make me a list from those cards. You wrote me the list. I saw it. Then I told you to have the handwritten list typed up. This is the typed list. I'm asking you to go back and check the handwritten list. Okay? The Treasury guy's name began with R; I saw it on his badge. Maybe you missed some others too.'

'Is anybody there?' said the telephone.

'Um, the handwritten list is gone, sir,' said Stankiewicz.

'Hold the god-busted line, will you?' Littlemore yelled into the receiver. He looked at Stankiewicz: 'What do you mean "gone"?'

Stankiewicz didn't answer.

'Okay, Stanky, you threw away the handwritten list. Nice work. How about the filing cards? Don't tell me you threw those away?'

'I don't think so, sir.'

'You better not have. Or you'll be back on patrol next week. Go through every card. This time make sure you get everybody.'

Alone in his office, Littlemore identified himself to the vice president of the Metropolitan Tennis Association and asked whether an Edwin Fischer had ever won the United States Open.

'Edwin Fischer? replied the crackling voice. 'The gentleman in all the newspapers?'

'That's the one,' said Littlemore.

'Did he ever win the United States Open?'

'I asked you first,' replied Littlemore.

'Certainly,' said the vice president.

'How many times?' asked Littlemore.

'How many times?'

'Okay, I'll bite,' said the detective. 'More than three.'

'Oh, yes, it was at least four – mixed doubles. A record, I believe. He was number nine in the country back then. Still has one the best overheads in the game. How on earth did he know about the bombing?'

Littlemore hung up. A messenger entered his office and handed the detective a package containing a written report and an envelope. Inside the envelope was a small white tooth, broken cleanly into two pieces.

Littlemore met Younger in a diner that afternoon, reporting to him over acidic coffee that the redhead at Bellevue Hospital was still unconscious.

'She should have woken up,' said Younger. 'She wasn't shot in the head. There's no injury to her skull.'

'What about her voice?' asked Littlemore. 'Colette says she sounded like a man.'

'The growth on her neck must be impinging on her vocal cords. I took X-rays of her yesterday.'

'How'd you do that?' asked Littlemore.

Younger didn't answer that question: 'The X-rays didn't go through. In fact I've never seen anything like it. I'm going to New Haven tomorrow to see what Colette thinks of the films.'

'New Haven?' answered Littlemore. 'You can't leave the state, Doc. You're on bail for a major felony, remember?'

Younger nodded, apparently unimpressed by the argument. 'This is serious,' added Littlemore. 'They can put you away for jumping bail.'

'I'll keep that in mind.'

'Let me put it this way. If you go, I don't want to know about it. And whatever you do, you got to show up for your court date in a couple of months.'

'Why?'

'Because I posted the bail bond, for Pete's sake. If you don't show, they're going to seize my bank account and everything I own to pay the bond. Plus I'll probably get fired, since a law officer isn't supposed to bail his pal out of the joint in the first place – and especially not if the pal ends up on the lam. Okay? When did you stop caring about the law anyway?'