The Death Instinct

'I don't believe Speyer had anything to do with the bombing, and neither do you.'

'But the man threatened me. He practically warned me he was going to resort to violence. Did you ask him about that?'

'It wasn't a threat. He was trying to warn you about a new financial guy from Mexico — maybe the same guy who came to your club the other night.'

'Who — Pesqueira? What about him?'

'I don't know, Lamont. It's your business, not mine.'

'You can't just let Speyer leave the country, Captain. What if he never comes back?'

At that moment, Officer Stankiewicz poked his head through the door. 'Hey, Cap,' he said, out of breath, 'the Bureau — '

Littlemore silenced him with his palm. 'He'll come back,' he said to Lamont, ringing off. 'What is it, Stanky?'

'The G-men found a guy who serviced the bombers' horse and wagon,' said Stankiewicz. 'They say he's fingered Tresca. Flynn's announcing it to the press in ten minutes.'

'Where?' asked Littlemore, putting on straw hat and jacket.

'In front of the Treasury.'

'Go get that horseshoe,' said Littlemore, setting off down the hall. 'Meet me there.'

On the steps of the United States Treasury, with the statue of George Washington behind him and a phalanx of armed soldiers on either side, Big Bill Flynn of the Federal Bureau of Investigation had his arm around a grizzled workman wearing an oil-stained leather apron. To a small crowd of reporters and photographers, Flynn made the following proclamation:

'What we got here is a major break in the investigation. This fine American is Mr John Haggerty, a horseshoer of over forty years' experience, located by agents of the Bureau under my personal command. Get your pens out, boys; here's your story. On or about the first of this month, an individual appeared in Mr Haggerty's stable on New Chambers Street in the company of a horse and wagon, which horse and wagon was in need of new shoes, and which was outfitted with unusual brass turret rings just like the ones we collected from this plaza after the explosion. Mr Haggerty put size-four shoes on that horse, said shoes being united to said horse by means of shamrock nails and Niagara hoof pads — cooperating in every respect with the evidence we collected here.'

'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, carrying^8 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.'