The Death Instinct

Littlemore had not answered when they heard a knock at the main door to the Senator's chamber. The door opened, revealing a harried secretary and a well-dressed man behind her, straining to get past her. The woman had managed only to say, 'I'm sorry, Mr Senator, I told him you were busy,' when the man, completely bald except for a tuft of hair behind each of his ears, pushed brazenly and clumsily past her.

It was Mr Arnold Brighton, owner of factories, oil wells, and mines, who had contributed twenty-five thousand dollars to the Marie Curie Radium Fund.

'My people are being run out of Mexico,' declared Brighton without introduction. 'They're Americans, Fall. They're in danger.'

'Day late, nickel short, Brighton,' said Fall. 'Make an appointment. Get in line.'

'I tried to make an appointment,' complained Brighton, sounding genuinely aggrieved. 'They said you were busy.'

'I am busy,' shouted Fall. 'We're electing a president here, in case you haven't noticed.'

'I guess I'll be leaving,' said Littlemore.

'Wait just a minute, Littlemore,' said Fall. 'We didn't finish.'

'Is that Detective Littlemore?' asked Brighton. 'I've been meaning to thank you, Detective. Without your help, I–I — what was it again? Oh, my. I've forgotten. What was it I wanted to thank Detective Littlemore for?'

'How the hell would we know what you were going to thank him for?' roared Fall.

'Where's Samuels?' asked Mr Brighton plaintively. 'Samuels is my assistant. He would remember. Does anyone know where Samuels is?'

Fall seemed to exercise a great power of self-restraint in order to lower his voice: 'I'm in the middle of an important conversation, Brighton. Step outside and talk to my secretary.'

'But this Obregon fellow is taking over my mines in Mexico,' said Brighton. 'The oil wells will be next. Everything. He's sending in soldiers — with guns, for heaven's sakes! These are American workingmen. There have been beatings and death threats. You've got to do something. I know I didn't give money to Harding. It's not my fault. Everyone told me the other man, Cox, was going to win. I'll give now. Whatever amount you ask. Tell me where to send it. Just drop a few bombs on Mexico City — perhaps on their capitol and in the nicer parts of town — I'm sure they'll see the light.'

Fall took a long time before answering: 'You turn my stomach, Brighton. Know that? I ain't for sale. The Republican Party ain't for sale. The US army ain't for sale. I'm not going to let Harding get bogged down in Mexico, and I'm not going to use the army to take care of your business.'

'You won't help Americans in Mexico?' asked Brighton.

'They're your employees,' replied Fall. 'You help them.'

Brighton looked confused, at a loss. 'Is that all?'

'You bet that's all. Now git.' Fall took Brighton by the arm and ushered him into the other room, from which Littlemore heard Brighton asking if anyone knew where Samuels was.

'I'll be going too, Mr Fall,' said Littlemore when the Senator returned.

'I asked you a question, Littlemore,' replied Fall. 'Will you show me your evidence if you tie the bombing to the Russians?'

'I can't promise that, Mr Senator. But I'll think about what you said.'

On the steps of the Senate Office Building, Mrs Cross — seeing Littlemore out — said, 'Well, didn't you charm the Senator?'

'Is that right?' asked Littlemore.

'That's right. You stood up to him. He likes that. You could go far in this town. If you learned how to dress.'

'Something wrong with how I'm dressed?'

She reached out and fixed his jacket collar, one wing of which was saluting rather than lying down flat. 'What party are you, Agent Littlemore?' she asked. 'Are you a Democrat, like Secretary Houston? Or a Republican, like Senator Fall?'

'I don't belong to any party, ma'am.'

'No? Well, who do you like, Cox or Harding?'

'Haven't decided. My wife likes Debs.'

'How interesting,' said Mrs Cross. 'I wouldn't mention that again, if I were you.'

'Which — that I have a wife, or that she's for Debs?'

'That depends on whether you're talking to a woman or a man. Goodbye, New York. 'The well-heeled Mrs Cross walked in what might have been described as a businesslike sashay, the graceful motions of which, when viewed from behind, defied any man, even a married man, to turn away. Littlemore watched her disappear liltingly into the Senate Office Building.

No sooner had Mrs Cross sashayed out of sight than a man's voice called out, 'Detective Littlemore, is that you? Samuels was out here all along, waiting for me.' It was Brighton, standing next to a luxurious car with a closed passenger compartment and a roof that stuck out over the driver. Brighton seemed to consider his private secretary's whereabouts a cause of public concern. 'Why would he a do a thing like that?'

'I'm guessing it's because you told him to, Mr Brighton,' said Littlemore, descending the steps.

'Really?' Brighton stuck his head below the protruding roof. When he reemerged, he said, 'By Jove, you're right. I did ask him to. How did you know?'

'Wild guess.'

'It's so fortunate I ran into you. Samuels reminded me what I wanted to thank you for. It was for Samuels himself. Your report cleared him of wrongdoing after that unfortunate shooting of the mad girl. You saved me no end of trouble. I couldn't manage without Samuels, you know — not for a day.'

'Just doing my job, Mr Brighton,' said Littlemore. 'The girl had a knife. The witnesses said she attacked first. Your man acted lawfully.'

'How is she?'

'Still in the hospital. Been there ever since she was shot.'

'Not her,' said Brighton. 'I meant Miss Rousseau. Such a lovely girl. I nearly fainted when that madwoman assaulted her.'

'Miss Colette's fine, so far as I know.'

'Is she poor?'

'Poor?' asked Littlemore.

'I'm not like you, Detective. No woman will ever fall in love with me for my personal qualities. My father told me so many years ago, after I took over the business. I'm looking for a girl who will marry me for my money.'

'I know a couple hundred girls like that.'

'Really?' Brighton blinked as if he couldn't believe the detective's good luck. 'You couldn't introduce me to them, could you?'

'Sure. My wife loves to match-make.'

'How strange,' Brighton reflected. 'The only girl I can think of at present is Miss Rousseau. So comely. Do you know where she went? She promised to come to Washington with me, but Mrs Meloney says she simply vanished.'

'Couldn't tell you.' This was doubly true. Littlemore neither knew where Colette was, nor would he have told Brighton if he did.

'That other creature — the madwoman.' Brighton shuddered. 'I've never seen anything so hideous. Did she tell anyone what's wrong with her?'

'No. She's been unconscious since the shooting.'

'How can I thank you for Samuels? What about five thousand dollars?'

'I'm sorry?'

'His freedom is worth much more than that to me, I promise you.'

'You can't give me money in exchange for police work,' said Littlemore.

'I don't see the logic in that,' replied Brighton, removing a thick wallet from his breast pocket and withdrawing a single large-sized Federal Reserve note with a blue seal and a picture of James Madison on it. 'Where's the incentive to do good work if a man can't be rewarded for it? Surely you could use five thousand dollars.'