Chief Flynn had set up his command post. Littlemore picked up a couple of hot dogs on the way.
Inside the Astor, ignoring the protests of a secretary, Littlemore ambled directly up to Flynn's closed door, outside which his two familiar deputies were standing guard. One of them rubbed his jaw on seeing the detective.
'Big Bill around?' Littlemore asked them. Receiving no answer, Littlemore said, 'I'll just knock, if you don't mind.'
Both deputies placed their hands on Littlemore's chest. 'We mind,' said the one who had been to the detective's house.
'No problem,' said Littlemore, taking a bite of his hot dog. 'I'll come back in a few hours. Got to go to court anyway. Make out an arrest warrant. Say, you know those soldiers Big Bill stationed outside the Treasury Building? Reason I ask is the Posse Comitatus Act. You don't want a dog, do you? I got two.'
The deputies stared at Littlemore.
'See, the Posse Comitatus Act,' continued the detective, 'that's a federal law, and it says that anyone who orders any part of the United States army to deploy on US soil for law enforcement purposes — well, he's breaking the law. Anyone except the President, that is. So do me a favor. Tell Big Bill that Captain Littlemore of the New York Police Department's coming back at five o'clock with a gang of reporters and a warrant for his arrest. And tell him that the reporters are going to want to know what he's hiding inside the Treasury.'
On the fifth floor of the massive, gray, chateau-inspired jail known as the Tombs, the order was given at two-thirty Monday afternoon to unlock a temporary detention cell. The flesh around Drobac's eyes remained swollen and bruised. His mouth was wired shut, and a circular metal apparatus was clamped around his jaw and cheeks.
A well-dressed lawyer, highly satisfied with the proceedings, entered the cell the moment it was unlocked, accompanied by the murderer's surgeon. They each reached for one of the prisoner's arms to assist him from his cot. Drobac shrugged off their hands and rose on his own.
Littlemore stood a long way off, at the other end of a long corridor, chewing his toothpick, a barred door separating him from the cells. Several guards and officers milled about near him, including Roederheusen and Stankiewicz. Younger, having come down from Boston that morning, was there as well.
'You sure you want to see this?' Littlemore asked him.
Younger nodded.
At the end of the corridor, Drobac emerged from his cell, walking slowly, unaided, his wired chin held ostentatiously high. Lawyer and surgeon followed behind, chatting with each other.
'In that case I'll need your gun, Doc,' said Littlemore in a low voice.
'What gun?' answered Younger just as quietly.
'Right now,' said Littlemore.
Younger didn't move. Slanted light fell on Drobac and his coterie as they approached.
'Boys,' said Littlemore, raising his voice very slightly, 'restrain Dr Younger.'
Roederheusen and Stankiewicz stepped up behind Younger and seized his arms.
Littlemore reached into Younger's jacket, drew out a revolver, and handed it to a prison guard for safekeeping. 'Sorry, Doc. Cuff him.'
Arriving at the barred door, Drobac saw Younger being handcuffed. Their eyes met. If a man can smile with his jaw wired shut, Drobac smiled.
'Open the gate,' ordered Littlemore.
'Don't let him go,' said Younger, hands locked behind his back and arms still in the grasp of Stankiewicz and Roederheusen.
'Open it,' Littlemore repeated.
A guard opened the barred gate. Drobac's lawyer spoke: 'Thank you, Captain. I'm glad my little conversation with the Mayor was so effective, but I shudder to think of all the other impoverished men in here unconstitutionally. Do you enjoy breaking the law, Captain? Sign the release, please.'
A clerk handed Littlemore a clipboard. 'If your client's so poor,' asked the detective, 'who's footing your bill, Mr-?'
'Gleason,' replied the lawyer. 'I charge nothing for a case like this, Captain. It's pro bono publico.'
'Sure it is,' said Littlemore.
'Don't let him out,' said Younger.
'No choice,' said Littlemore, signing the release. 'The law.'
Mr Gleason accepted his copy of the release with relish. He addressed Younger: 'So you're the one who beat my client within an inch of his life. We're pressing charges, you know.'
Younger didn't reply.
'How agonizing it must be,' Gleason continued, 'to stand there believing the fantastic delusions you do. That my client is a highly trained killer. That he's going to pursue the pretty French girl no matter where she runs, from New Haven to Hamburg to the farthest ends of the earth. That one night he'll find her, slip into her bedroom, and cut her throat.'
Younger's straining at his handcuffs only caused Roederheusen and Stankiewicz to hold him more firmly. 'Not if I find him first,' he said.
'You heard that, Captain!' crowed Gleason. 'He threatened my client. I demand that you revoke his bail. He belongs behind bars. I'll have your badge, Captain, if you don't.'
'Get out,' said Littlemore.
'Very well — if you insist,' replied the lawyer. He turned to Younger again: 'My client was in jail ten days. You'll be there twenty years.'
Younger was silenced by these words. Not, however, by the threat; it was the phrase ten days that caught his attention. 'Littlemore,' he said as Gleason guided Drobac toward the stairwell that led to freedom. 'Have him take off his shirt.'
'His shirt?' replied the detective.
'The kidnapper has a mark on the front of his torso,' said Younger. 'A red mark, in the shape of a test tube.'
The guard posted at the stairwell door looked uncertainly at Littlemore, waiting to be told whether to let Drobac pass.
'This is absurd,' said Gleason.
The surgeon spoke up: 'Is the mark visible to the naked eye?'
'Yes,' said Younger.
'I operated on Mr Smith,' the surgeon continued, referring to Drobac, 'and I assure you he has no such mark on his torso.'
'Then he has nothing to fear from taking off his shirt,' said Younger.
'Don't be ridiculous,' said Gleason, pushing past the guard and opening the stairwell door himself. 'You heard the surgeon. My client has been released. Now, if you'll excuse us-'
'Littlemore,' said Younger.
Drobac started to pass through the door held open by his attorney.
'Hold it,' the detective called out. 'Take his shirt off.'
A half-dozen guards pulled Drobac back into the hallway and formed a circle around him.
'You have no authority,' said Gleason.
For the first time, Drobac spoke. 'Is all right,' he said in his Eastern European accent, the wires around his jaw glinting silver. 'I do it. Why not? I hide nothing.'
Littlemore looked at Younger, who raised an eyebrow.
Drobac calmly removed his jacket, slipped off his suspenders, and began unbuttoning his white shirt, never taking his eyes from Younger. When his chest was bare, everyone could see it: under his left ribs, below the thick hair of his chest, slightly angled from the vertical, was the perfect likeness of a test tube, inscribed in a deep red rash.
'How do you like that?' said Littlemore.
Drobac looked down, uncomprehending. 'What — what is?'
'A radium burn,' said Younger. 'They take ten days to emerge. Yours comes from a test tube you stole from the Commodore Hotel and put in your jacket pocket.' 'This is an outrage,' declared Gleason. 'The Mayor will hear of this.'
'Put "Mr Smith" back in his cage,' said Littlemore to the guards.
Drobac, still looking at the red mark on his torso, made a snort that managed to convey both grudging acknowledgment and condescension. 'Is all right,' he said, buttoning his shirt. 'Your prison? Is more like hotel.'