The Death Instinct

'Are you aware,' asked Lamont, 'that James Speyer is profiting from the Mexican confiscation of American property in Mexico?'

'Not my problem,' said Littlemore.

'But the man's anti-American. Surely you see it now. Why haven't you arrested him in connection with the bombing?'

'Come off it. I'm not arresting somebody just because he's your competition in Mexico.'

'We've been over and over this, Littlemore,' said Lamont. 'Speyer threatened me. He threatened to retaliate against the Morgan Bank. Two weeks before the bombing.'

'It wasn't Speyer,' said Littlemore. 'I told you: it was a man named Pesqueira, and it didn't have anything to do with the bombing.'

'It was Speyer. Did you ever talk to Pesqueira? Talk to him. You'll see that Speyer's lying. James Speyer’s a traitor. He wouldn't care how many American lives were lost. A year ago I got a cable from Mexico. It was the middle of September 1919. Speyer was in Mexico City celebrating their Independence Day. He was urging the Mexican government to seize American mines and oil wells, telling them that he would provide the funds to keep them in operation.'

'Mr Lamont,' said Littlemore. 'This is the last time I'm going to say it: not my problem. So long.'

Chapter Sixteen

Their train broke down north of Vienna, coming to a halt in the woods. Hours and hours went by. Finally another train — every seat of which was already occupied — pulled up next to them; they rode the rest of the way to Vienna upright and jam-packed. When they finally arrived, it was evening. In the motorized taxi they took from the station, Younger ordered the driver to stop in front of the opera house, about a block short of the Hotel Bristol.

'What is it?' asked Colette. Then she saw: a knot of policemen was gathered in front of the hotel, eyeing everyone who entered or exited. Younger instructed the driver to make inquiries, explaining, truthfully, that he didn't want to check into a hotel where they might be in danger.

From across the avenue, still in the taxi, they watched their driver consult with an officer and nod in comprehension as he received an account of what the police were doing there.

'They can't be looking for us,' said Colette.

'No?' said Younger.

Their taxi driver was now pointing an accusatory finger at his own automobile. The officer peered in their direction through the darkness. Then he and a colleague began walking slowly toward them.

'Well — shall we give ourselves up?' asked Younger.

'But we've done nothing wrong,' said Colette.

'Nothing at all,' said Younger. 'Leaving a pile of dead bodies next to Prague castle, fleeing the country — we can explain everything. If they don't believe us, we can show them Hans Gruber's dog tag as proof.'

Colette's hand went to her throat, where Hans Gruber's military tag had been clasped for six years. The police officers were getting close. 'The engine's still running,' she said.

Younger jumped into the front seat, put the car in reverse, and floored the gas pedal. The policemen broke into a run, chasing them.

'Where will we go?' Colette asked, holding on to Luc in the backseat.

'One catastrophe at a time,' answered Younger, turning the car around. Tires screaming, they roared off down the Ringstrasse. The policemen, panting, abandoned the chase.

Sigmund Freud, opening his door at 19 Berggasse, took a long puff at his cigar before speaking. Younger's face bore several cuts, and his overcoat looked as if he had rolled down a mountainside in it and then smashed through a car's windshield for good measure. Colette's cheek was bruised. Only Luc, scrupulously washed and brushed by his sister on board the train, was no worse for wear, although his knees were skinned and his brown wool suit, with short trousers, gave him a strangely provincial look.

Freud addressed Younger: 'I assume you and Miss Rousseau didn't give each other your injuries?'

'The police-'Younger began.

'Are looking for you — I know,' said Freud. 'Your friend Count Kinsky came by to warn you. He says the police believe you may have killed a man in Prague.'

'Three,' said Younger.

'I beg your pardon?' asked Freud.

'I killed three men.'

'I see,' said Freud. 'Miss Rousseau, tell me Younger didn't kill your fiancй in a fit of jealous rage.'

'He wasn't my fiancй,' said Colette.

Freud raised both eyebrows: 'Younger killed the wrong men?'

'No,' she answered. 'He killed the right men.'

'I see,' said Freud again.

'Dr Freud,' said Younger, 'I should warn you it may not be wise to let us in. I don't know how things are here, but in America it's a crime to take a murderer into your house.'

'Did you commit murder?' asked Freud.

'I may have,' said Younger. 'I believe I did.'

'It wasn't murder,' Colette replied sharply. 'And if it was, I only wish you could have murdered him a thousand more times.'

'Ah,' said Freud. 'Well, don't just stand there. Come in.'

A fire crackled in an old-fashioned porcelain stove in the Freuds' sitting room. Younger and Freud were drinking brandy. Tea had been served to Colette, but she ended up taking brandy as well, out of Younger's snifter. They had told Freud the entire story, and silence had fallen.

'What a lovely tablecloth,' said Colette.

'Is it?' asked Freud.

'The lace,' she answered. 'It's lovely.'

'I'll tell Minna you said so; she sewed it,' replied Freud. 'Would you like a blanket, my dear?'

Colette was holding herself as if outside on a chill night. 'Why didn't I kill him?' she asked with sudden animation. 'Why was I such a weakling?'

'You don't know?' said Freud.

'No.'

Freud began trimming a cigar, watching Colette out of the corner of his eye. He offered one to Younger, who declined. 'The conventional answer,' said Freud, 'would be that your conscience rebelled at the last moment, convincing you that revenge is a sin.'

'Revenge is a sin,' she said.

'Everyone wants revenge,' answered Freud. 'The problem is that we usually seek it against the wrong person. At least you sought it against the right one. But your religious compunctions — they're not the reason you didn't kill him.'

'I know,' she agreed. 'I believed it was the right thing to do — with all my heart. I still do. I shouldn't, but I do. But then why couldn't I pull the trigger?'

'For the same reason, I suspect, your brother doesn't talk.'

Colette looked at Freud, perplexed.

'Do you have something else to tell us, my dear?' asked Freud.

'What do you mean?'

'Your brother has something to say,' said Freud. 'As a result of which he says nothing.'

'I — you know what's wrong with my brother?' asked Colette.

'I know exactly what's wrong with him,' said Freud, drawing on his cigar. 'But first things first. You have only two options, as I see it. Turn yourselves in or leave the country.'

'We can't turn ourselves in,' said Younger. 'We'd be handed over to the police in Prague and jailed for who knows how long. Eventually they'll find Gruber's mother, so they'll learn we were looking for him. They'd ask us why. If we told them the truth, they'd conclude that Colette was bent on a revenge killing, which would be true — and which would be murder, even if we could prove what Gruber did in the war, which we can't. If we refused to tell them why we were looking for him, they'd know we were hiding something, and then they probably wouldn't believe anything else we said. Either way, we might end up convicted.'

'Then you have to get out,' said Freud. At that moment, the lamps in the room flickered. 'Blast it — we're going to lose power again. It happens at least once a week.'

Freud waited, cigar poised in the air. The flickering abated; the lights stayed on.