The Death Instinct

'I got news for you, hotshot,' he said. 'I don't take orders from Secretary Houston either. I take my orders from General Palmer. Get out of here.'

Littlemore took another letter from his pocket. This one was signed by Attorney General A. Mitchell Palmer.

'Son of a bitch,' said Flynn. He spoke to his deputies again: 'Okay, you boys clear out.'

'Have one of them pick up my badge first,' replied Littlemore.

'What are you goons standing around for?' Flynn said to his deputies. 'Pick up the man's badge.'

'Okay, so I hired him,' Flynn acknowledged several minutes later. 'So what? The guy was a nut-ball.'

'How'd you meet him?'

Big Bill Flynn, whose barrel chest and gut didn't need any additional fortification, unwrapped a red-and-white-striped candy from the bowl of treats that sat on his desk. 'Fischer starts sending letters to Wilson in 1916, okay? Your usual anti-war garbage. But there's something funny about them, like he knew the President personally. So I send a couple of my boys to check him out and tell him to knock it off if he doesn't want to end up in jail. You know.'

'Sure.'

'So my boys tell me the guy is soft in the head, but he works for the French in one of their outfits.'

'The French High Mission.'

'That's it — leave it to the Frogs to hire a nut-ball, huh?' Flynn's torso heaved with mirth at his riposte.

'Only a moron would hire a nut-ball,' agreed Littlemore.

'Yeah, that's a good one, only a moron would-' Flynn interrupted himself, comprehension dawning. 'Why, I ought to-'

'How'd you get involved?'

Flynn grumbled, but continued: 'When I heard where Fischer worked, I figured it couldn't hurt to have somebody planted in French governmentary circles. So I played the guy, buttered him up, told him he could be an agent for the Secret Service. Told him he was a spy. You know, the whole drill. When I took over the Bureau, I kept him on the string. But the guy was cracked. I never got anything from him. Saw him no more than half a dozen times. Total waste.'

'Where would you meet him?' asked Littlemore.

'Why?'

'Just answer the question, Flynn.'

'Here in New York. Train station.'

'When was the last time?'

'This summer. June or July. After the Convention. General Palmer sent McAdoo to meet with some Republicans at Grand Central to see if they could work something out. Fischer was totally off the deep end. Never saw him again.'

'Did Fischer say anything to you about Wall Street?' asked Littlemore.

'Are you kidding?'

'I'm not kidding.'

'No, he didn't say nothing about Wall Street. You think I would have let the NYPD have him if he knew anything? I'll tell you the funniest thing. After the bombing, Fischer's brother-in-law, a guy named Pope, he calls the Bureau. Says that Fischer is claiming to be an undercover federal agent. Wants to know if there's any truth to it. I get on the phone and say it's a crock. Pope thanks me, says he just wanted to be sure, and has Fischer locked up the next day. He's been in the loony bin ever since. Ain't that a laugher?'

A message was waiting for Littlemore when he returned to his office in the Sub-Treasury on Wall Street, informing him that Senator Fall had called for him from Washington. Littlemore rang the operator.

'That you, Littlemore?' asked Fall some minutes later over the static.

'Yes, sir, Mr Senator.'

'We intercepted the Swedish ship. No gold.'

'You mean no Treasury gold?' asked Littlemore.

'No Treasury gold, no Russian gold, no fool's gold,' answered Fall. 'No gold at all. The Captain said the harbor authorities in New York told him to leave it on the dock.'

'He's lying. Secretary Houston made them take it back. Did the navy guys search the ship?' asked Littlemore.

'Of course they searched the ship. High and low.'

'But-'

'I'm too busy, Littlemore,' said Fall. 'You figure it out. Get back to me when you do.'

Fall rang off. It made no sense, Littlemore thought. Why would they leave the gold on the dock — wherever the gold came from? Could someone in Customs be working with the thieves? Littlemore put his coat on. He'd have to go down to the harbor himself. As he was leaving, his telephone rang again. A Mr James Speyer was asking for him downstairs.

'What can I do for you, Mr Speyer?' asked Littlemore in the rotunda of the Sub-Treasury.

'You can give me my painting back,' answered Speyer in his German accent. 'At the police station they didn't know what I was talking about. They told me you worked at the Treasury now.'

Littlemore apologized, explaining that he had put the Rembrandt in a special lockup to ensure its safety. 'We could go over and get it now, if you want,' he said.

'Excellent. My driver can take us.'

Inside Speyer's car, Littlemore asked, 'How's the wife?'

'Better, thank you.'

'Business in Hamburg work out okay?'

'Capitally,' said Speyer. 'The funds are all in Mexico now — despite the Morgan people's best efforts.'

'I hear things in Mexico are getting pretty hot.'

'They certainly are,' agreed Speyer. 'Bad for Arnold Brighton; good for me.'

'You know Brighton?'

'I know his oil fields in Mexico are worth hundreds of millions. I just returned from Mexico City, as a matter of fact. Peculiar to be somewhere where America is so hated. More than even in Germany. I suppose we might feel the same way about them if they'd occupied our capital and taken half our country.'

'We did that to Mexico?' asked Littlemore.

'The Mexican-American War, Detective. Or the American Invasion, as they call it south of the border. My Rembrandt had better not be damaged.'

At police headquarters on Centre Street, Littlemore led Speyer to a special safe room in the evidence storage locker. Once the layers of protective wrapping were peeled away, the painting itself looked small and fragile. 'Undamaged, Mr Speyer?'

'Undamaged,' Speyer agreed.

The men stared at the self-portrait. It was from the artist's older age, showing him wrinkled and red-cheeked, with pouches under wise, misty eyes.

'How'd he do that?' asked Littlemore.

'Do what?'

'He looks like he knows he's going to die,' said Littlemore. 'Like he — like he — '

'Accepts it?'

'Yeah, but at the same time like he isn't ready to go yet. If they hate Americans so much, why don't they hate you down in Mexico, Speyer?'

'Because they think I'm German,' replied Speyer with a smile, pronouncing the last word Cherman.

At the harbor, Littlemore spoke with a Customs agent, who denied that the Swedish ship had left its contraband gold on the dock. 'You're sure?' asked Littlemore. 'The Swede sailed out of the harbor with all the gold on board?'

'Wouldn't know about that,' said the agent. 'When we find dirty goods, we alert the departments. Maybe the goods get impounded, maybe they get destroyed, maybe they go back on board. That's up to the department.'

'What department?'

'If it's guns, the War Department. Liquor, the Revenuers. This was gold, so Treasury.'

'Who do you notify at Treasury?'

'All's I do, Mister, I send in the piece of paper. You want more, talk to Treasury.'

On Wall Street late that afternoon, as Littlemore mounted the steps to the Greek facade of the Treasury Building, a messenger boy from the Morgan Bank tapped him on the shoulder.

'Detective Littlemore?' said the boy.

'Yeah?' said Littlemore.

'Mr Lamont wants to see you right away. In his office.'

'Good for him,' said Littlemore, continuing up the steps.

'But he wants you now, sir,' said the boy. 'You're supposed to follow me.'

'Tell Lamont he can come to my office,' answered Littlemore.

The phone was already ringing when he got upstairs.

'Let me guess, Lamont,' said Littlemore into the mouthpiece. 'Your man tailing Speyer told you I met with him today.'