The Death Instinct

'Did you tip him off that I was going to ask him when he first got wind of the bombing?'

'I mentioned there was a policeman interested in that information, yes.'

'I should have known,' declared Littlemore. 'He had me thinking he pulled off one of his magic tricks. Thanks, Dr Prince. That's all I needed.'

'I feel you are expressing skepticism about Mr Fischer's gifts, Captain.'

'Why would I be skeptical about a guy who thinks he's a Secret Service agent and the Popes are out to get him?'

'The gifted often feel persecuted, Captain. They are often unstable. It doesn't make their premonitions less valid.'

'Sorry, Dr Prince, I'm not buying.'

'Then how do you explain his foreknowledge of the bombing?'

Littlemore answered with a vituperation that surprised himself: 'I can't explain it,' he barked. 'But you know what? I don't care if he's the ghost of Christmas future. He's no use to me.'

The Willard Hotel, on Pennsylvania Avenue just down the street from the White House, used to be President Ulysses S. Grant's favorite watering hole when he needed a brandy after a long day at the office. Businessmen or their hirelings would lie in wait for the President in the flush hotel lobby, pouncing on Grant to make their case, ply him with liquor, and in general explain how much they could do for his Administration if only some vital permit were issued or lucrative contract signed. Grant called them 'lobbyists.'

Littlemore was making his way across this high-ceilinged lobby when a familiar, tall female figure approached him, clad in a well-fitted feminine version of a man's suit.

'Enjoying Washington, Agent Littlemore?' she asked below a sparkling chandelier.

'Evening, Mrs Cross,' said Littlemore.

'New necktie?'

Littlemore looked down. He was ordinarily a bow tie man, but in his first weeks on the job, Littlemore hadn't seen a single other Treasury agent who wore one. He'd mentioned this to Betty, who gave him a full-length tie as a present. 'You're going to tell me it's not tied right?' he asked.

'It's tied just fine. A little too tight.' She loosened it; he was able to breathe easier. 'That's better. Senator Fall wants to see you. I'm here to take you to him.'

Without waiting for an answer, Mrs Cross turned and walked toward the hotel's front door. Littlemore followed her sashaying form, first with his eyes, then with his legs. Outside, she climbed behind the wheel of a waiting car.

'You're the driver?' asked Littlemore, seating himself beside her.

'I'm the driver.' She started the car. 'Does that make you nervous?'

'I'm not nervous.'

Mrs Cross drove Littlemore along the Mall. Just before the Capitol, she turned and entered a poor neighborhood similar to the one into which he had mistakenly wandered his first day in Washington. She came to a halt behind another car in a small, unlit street sandwiched claustrophobically between opposing walls of brick row houses. Lights were on in several windows, but curtains made it impossible to see within. 'Maine Avenue,' said Mrs Cross. 'Used to be called Armory Place. Also known as Louse Alley. Good luck.'

From the car in front of them, the driver emerged and opened a passenger door, allowing Senator Fall to stretch himself out onto the street, a white ten-gallon hat over his drooping white mustache.

Littlemore stepped into the alley and joined him. Mrs Cross remained in her car, engine humming softly.

'Like 'em colored, Littlemore?' asked Fall. 'Best colored girls in the city are in this street. That's how come I love this town. Just three blocks from the Capitol.'

'Why are we meeting here, Mr Senator?'

'Seems your boss, Secretary Milksop, complained to President Wilson today that I was interfering with his investigation. I figured we should find a more out-of-the-way place to powwow.' Fall began walking up the street, with Littlemore at his side and the Senator's car following slowly behind them. 'What do you know about these two boys that Flynn's after?'

'What two boys?' asked Littlemore.

'Couple of Italians up in Boston. What the hell are their names? All I can think of is a sack of spaghetti.'

'Sacco and Vanzetti?'

'That's it,' said Fall.

'They were arrested for murdering a payroll clerk,' said Littlemore. 'What's Flynn got to do with them?'

'He thinks they're the political prisoners from the anarchist circulars.'

'That's crazy,' said Littlemore. 'When Reds say political prisoners, they mean Debs and the other anti-war guys Palmer and Big Bill put behind bars. Everybody knows that. You'd have to be some kind of boneheaded anarchist to say "Free the political prisoners" if you wanted to free two guys arrested for killing a payroll clerk in Boston. Nobody would know what you meant.'

'Well, Flynn's got something on them,' said Fall. 'He's planted an informant in their cell.'

'Where's he getting these ideas? He's not smart enough to be that stupid all by himself.'

'I was hoping you'd know. Now this house here — ' Fall pointed to a large but run-down corner house — 'this one used to belong to a gal named Hall. Served Piper champagne in crystal glasses. Rich as us senators. They still tell stories about her girls. Well, it all played out like I said, didn't it? You found out the Russians were involved in the bombing, and Secretary Milksop buried it.'

'I didn't find Russian involvement, Mr Senator.'

'If the bombers used even a few bars of Russian metal to trick Customs, that's Russian involvement. How do you think the bombers got their hands on Soviet gold? I'll bet the whole crew of that Swedish ship turns out to be Russian.'

'Do you know everything I say to Mr Houston?' asked Littlemore.

'Pretty much. Walls have ears in this town, Littlemore. Got to know what the other guy knows if you want to stay ahead of him.'

'We're not sure the Swedish ship has the stolen gold,' said Littlemore.

'And Houston ain't going to lift a finger to find out, is he? Well, I am. I already talked to Baker, the Secretary of War. He'll speak with his old friend Daniels, the Navy Secretary. I'll have a couple of warships on that Swedish ocean liner within forty-eight hours. We'll know soon enough what she's carrying.'

Littlemore chewed his toothpick. 'That's impressive, Mr Senator.'

'We're the United goddamn States of America. What are we supposed to do after they bomb the crap out of us? Wring our hands? Turn the other cheek? Hope they just go away?' Fall signaled his driver and spat on the pavement, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. 'This damn Mexican situation's heating up. They're too greedy, these Mexicans. What do they want to take all our oil for? It's going to take some serious ambassadoring to keep Harding out of trouble.'

'What will Harding want to do, sir?'

'Whatever I tell him. 'The Senator stepped into his car. 'I'll let you know what we find on the Swede. Mrs Cross will give you a lift back. You should get to know her. Not as tough as she pretends.'

'How long you been working for Senator Fall?' Littlemore asked Mrs Cross as she drove past row after row of the bunker-like, concrete, 'temporary' War and Navy buildings squatting on the Mall — temporary by official description, permanent by appearance.

'A few years. I work for several of the senators. Mr Harding, for example.'

'For Harding? Wow.'

'I do quite a lot for Mr Harding. On loan from Senator Fall, of course.'

'You could end up in the White House.'

'I've ended up in the White House many times.'

Littlemore thought that over. 'You got a first name, Mrs Cross?'

'Grace.'

'Nice name.'

'It's a state I left long ago. Everyone leaves their home state when they come to Washington. Here we are. The Willard Hotel. Good night, New York.'