The Death Instinct

'They didn't collect that stuff, Cap,' whispered Stankiewicz to Littlemore. 'We gave it to them.'

Littlemore motioned him to be quiet.

'In other words, the horse and wagon shoed by Mr Haggerty three weeks ago was the exact same horse and wagon employed by the anarchists to transport their incendiary device here on the sixteenth. The individual who brought that horse into Mr Haggerty's stable was approximately five foot seven inches in height, slight of build, poorly shaven, and very dirty and low in appearance. Ain't that right, Haggerty?'

The stableman nodded gravely.

'And this is the kicker, boys,' added Flynn: 'The individual was

Eye-talian and gave his name as something in the nature of Trescati or Trescare. Ain't that right, Haggerty?'

'Could be,' said Haggerty.

'"Could be"?' whispered Stankiewicz.

'Shh,' said Littlemore.

'In other words,' Flynn went on, 'a spitting description of Carlo Tresca, just like I been saying all along. Okay, boys, take your pictures.'

Flynn shook Haggerty's hand. Cameras popped. The reporters asked Haggerty his age (which was sixty-four), what else he remembered about Tresca (which was very little), and so on. Haggerty answered in gruff monosyllables, addressing each reporter as 'sir.' In short order, Flynn brought matters to a close and moved to take the stableman away.

'Mr Haggerty,' called out Littlemore, 'you a union man?'

'Conference over,' shouted Flynn, recognizing the detective. 'No more questions.'

'But Mr Haggerty must be a union man, Big Bill,' said Littlemore innocently. 'Everybody knows an HSIU label was on the horse's shoes. It was in the papers on Saturday, wasn't it, fellas?'

The members of the press agreed that it was.

Flynn cleared his throat. 'An NYPD detective checking up on the Bureau, huh? That's fresh. How's the Fischer investigation going, Policeman? Heard any voices out of the air lately?'

Several of the reporters laughed.

'Okay, Haggerty,' said Flynn, 'the policeman here wants to know if your shop is union. Is it?'

'Yes, sir – HSIU,' answered Haggerty.

'And you put that label on your shoes, right?' asked Flynn.

'Yes, sir – every one.'

Flynn smiled broadly. 'Got any more smart questions, NYPD?'

'Just one,' called Littlemore, stepping forward through the crowd, carrying⁸ a numbered canvas evidence bag tied with twine. 'I'd like to show Mr Haggerty the actual shoe – the one we pulled out of the

bomb crater. He can tell us if the union label matches the one his shop uses.'

The reporters fell quiet. Flynn hesitated. He obviously wanted to take Haggerty away, but his reluctance to appear doubtful of his own witness's story kept him in place.

Littlemore untied the bag and handed the horseshoe to Haggerty. 'You can see a union label on that shoe, can't you, Mr Haggerty?' asked the detective.

'Yes, sir. HSIU. Same one we use in my shop.'

'There you go!' said Flynn triumphantly, taking the horseshoe from the stableman. 'I'll keep this. Federal evidence. Now let's get going. I'm hungry'

'Which means, Mr Haggerty,' said Littlemore in a loud voice all could hear, 'the shoe that Chief Flynn is holding, the one from the actual bombing, isn't from the horse and wagon you serviced in your shop three weeks ago – am I right?'

'Yes, sir. You're right,' said Haggerty.

The reporters burst into confusion. Flynn shouted above them, 'What's he talking about? The label's a match.'

'The HSIU label on a horseshoe is a surface mark,' said Littlemore. 'Wears away in no time at all. After a few hours, it's barely visible. But the HSIU label on the actual shoe is mint clean. The horse that brought the bomb to Wall Street was new-shod the morning of the attack – the day before at most. Not three weeks ago. Am I right, Mr Haggerty?'

'Yes, sir.'

The following evening, Younger joined Littlemore at a dingy waterfront bar built on a derelict pier near the harbor, where unintimidated rats picked at refuse among the pilings and the detective had to give a password to gain entry. The smoke was so thick, and the lighting so poor, Younger could hardly see the bar counter. 'They got a trapdoor in the back,' said Littlemore as they took a small table in a dark corner. 'Opens right onto the water. When they get raided, they dump all their liquor into a boat and off she goes. Cops never find a thing. If the tide's in, they just dump the liquor into the water. Divers bring it up later.'

'I don't think I've ever seen you break the law before,' said Younger.

'I'm not breaking any laws,' answered Littlemore. 'I'm getting a sassafras.'

'Then why are we here?'

'So you can get a drink,' said Littlemore. 'Looks like you could use one.'

Younger considered the proposition and found it accurate. All day long he had kept checking the hotel desk for a letter or wire from Colette. Every time the clerk informed him that there were no messages, Younger was furious at himself for caring about the girl at all.

Littlemore ordered his soft drink; Younger ordered a whiskey. The waiter brought him a fifth – just the unopened bottle – along with a 'setup,' which was a glass of ice and soda.

'You pour yourself the drink,' Littlemore instructed. 'Then you put the bottle in your coat pocket. If the law comes in, they say they only serve sodas. They can't help it if their customers bring liquor in.'

Younger poured himself a double. He and Littlemore toasted silently. Younger felt vaguely louche with the bottle of whiskey in his pocket – if in fact it was whiskey, which Younger doubted, because it tasted more like rubbing alcohol. He finished his glass and poured himself another. 'Boisterous little place,' he said. 'I like the atmosphere.'

At the bar, men hunched over their drinks, speaking in low voices. Even the bartender was taciturn. A solitary woman wearing a boa nursed a cocktail at one end of the counter; no one approached her. Near the door, the man keeping watch handled a pack of cards by himself at a table – not playing, just shuffling and reshuffling.

'It's the same all over town,' said Littlemore. 'Everybody's still spooked from the bombing. Only place they're not spooked is the Bankers and Brokers Club. They were having a ball when I went there a couple nights ago. I think it was relief – that they weren't the ones who got hit. Guess what: a doctor came to Bellevue today for Two-Heads. He heard about the shooting in the church and recognized her description. Her name's Quinta McDonald. I found out what's wrong with her. The doctor said it was confidential, but I got it out of him. She has syphilis. Apparently syphilis can cause a growth on your body?'

'Tertiary syphilis can,' agreed Younger. He thought about it. 'It could have made her demented as well.'

'That's what her doctor said. It got into her brain. Gave her delusions.'

'I did some work on syphilitic dementia a few years ago. If that's what she has, there's no reversing it and no cure for it.'

'So here's what I'm thinking,' said Littlemore. 'There may not be anything left for the Miss to worry about.'

'How's that?'

'Well, let's start with Amelia, the girl who left the tooth at your hotel. Amelia's in some kind of trouble, and she needs to leave a tooth with somebody she knows to get them to help her. But the clerk delivers the tooth to Colette by mistake. Meanwhile, Drobac's following Amelia. He's hunting whoever she's trying to leave the tooth with. When the tooth gets delivered to Colette, Drobac thinks Colette is his target. So he and his two pals kidnap her. After that, Amelia gets killed by the bomb, Drobac's two pals get killed when we rescue Colette, and Drobac himself is behind bars. That leaves only Two-Heads, the McDonald girl. We don't know why she came after Colette – probably she's just crazy from her syphilis – but it doesn't matter because now she's in a coma. So everybody's either dead, jailed, or otherwise out of commission. Case closed.'

'What about the other redhead?' asked Younger. 'There were two of them outside the police station.'