The Death Instinct

A new expression flashed momentarily in Houston's eyes. Littlemore's practiced eye recognized it at once: guilt. Houston whispered angrily: 'How do you know about that room?'

'From the architectural plans, Mr Secretary. You gave them to me. I also found the work order you signed, authorizing Riggs and the rest of your boys to start moving the gold on the night of September fifteenth.'

'What is that supposed to prove?'

'Nothing. Mind if I come with you into the building, sir?'

Houston turned his back to Littlemore and, braving the wind, mounted the stairs, calling out to the two soldiers posted closest to the imposing front door, 'No one enters this building, do you understand me? No one.'

The Secretary's voice sounded strangely thin in the wind-rent air. The soldiers threw each other a glance. As Houston neared the front door, they stepped into his path and blocked hm.

'What is this — a joke?' asked Houston. 'I meant no one else enters the building. Stand aside.'

The soldiers didn't budge.

'I said stand aside,' repeated Houston.

'Sorry, sir,' said one of the infantrymen. 'Orders.'

'Whose orders?'

'Mr Baker's, sir.'

Even from behind, and notwithstanding the Secretary's overcoat, Littlemore could see Houston's entire body realign. 'Mr Baker — the Secretary of War?'

'Yes, sir.'

'You must be mistaken.'

'No, sir.'

'This is an outrage. This is my building. The Secretary of War has no authority to keep the Secretary of the Treasury out of a United States Assay Office.'

'He has authority over us, sir.'

Houston strode forward, daring the soldiers to stop him. They did. Houston attempted to push through; they thrust him bodily backward — two uniformed young men manhandling the sixty-year-old Secretary, who was clad in black tie and tails. Houston fell to the ground, top hat rolling onto the cement, then sailing away once again into the night. When he stood, his face was darkly colored. Houston descended the steps, unsteadily, and made for his car. The driver hurried out and opened the back door. Houston climbed in without a word. Littlemore put his hand on the door as the driver was about to close it.

'I know what you're guilty of, Mr Houston,' said the detective.

'You're fired,' said the Secretary. 'Give me your badge. That's an order.'

Littlemore handed over his badge. This one wasn't as hard to part with as the last.

'Now get away from my vehicle,' ordered Houston.

'And I know what you're not guilty of,' added Littlemore, pressing a large, folded piece of paper into Houston's hand. 'Be there, Mr Secretary. Bring some men.'

Once Houston's car was out of sight, Littlemore walked from the Assay Office to the corner of Broad and Wall Streets. He stopped when he reached Younger, who was leaning against a corner of the Equitable Building, hatless, cigarette smoldering in the sharp wind.

'What was that about?' asked Younger. He was holding two covered paper cups of coffee, which he handed to the detective.

'Just getting myself fired,' said Littlemore. 'I guess it's better this way. Now it won't be a disgrace to the federal government if you and I get arrested.'

'We're committing a crime?'

'Want to pull out? You can.'

'One question,' said Younger. 'Are we going down an elevator into an underwater caisson which is about to be flooded, leaving us no way out except to turn ourselves into human geysers?'

'Nope.'

'Then count me in.'

'Thanks.' The two men headed back down Wall Street toward the Sub-Treasury, leaning into the wind. 'I got to say,' said Littlemore, 'I like this city.'

'What are we doing, exactly?' asked Younger.

'See that little alleyway between the Treasury and the Assay Office? That's where we're going.'

'The soldiers are going to let us through?'

'No chance,' said Littlemore. 'They're not letting anybody in. The alley's locked off" by a fifteen-foot wrought-iron gate. There's another gate just like it at the other end, on Pine Street. More soldiers on that side too.'

'So how do we get there?'

'Got to go up before you come down.' Littlemore led Younger up the Sub-Treasury steps. No soldiers stood guard there; the Treasury Building had been emptied of its gold and would soon be decommissioned. But a night watchman remained outside its doors, and Littlemore greeted the man by name, handing him a cup of coffee. Thanking Littlemore, the guard rapped on the door, which a few moments later was opened by another lonely guard, to whom Littlemore gave the second cup of coffee. Then Littlemore took Younger through the rotunda to a staircase in the rear.

'What do those men think you're doing?' asked Younger.

'I work here,' said Littlemore. 'I'm a T-man, remember? Leastways, I was until a few minutes ago.'

After climbing four and a half flights of stairs Younger and Littlemore stepped out onto a flat rooftop. The wind was so strong it knocked them sideways. They went to a parapet facing the Assay Office, which was only about three yards from them. At their feet were several long coils of rope, attached to the stone crenellations adorning the parapet. Next to the rope was a pile of additional equipment: crowbars, pulleys, friction hitches — all deposited there by Littlemore the night before.

Below them, at street level, was the alleyway between the Treasury and Assay buildings. To the right and left, at either end of the alley, illuminated by klieg lights, infantrymen manned the wrought-iron gate. The soldiers were facing out to the street, their backs to the alley. Gesturing to the pulleys and hitches, Littlemore asked quietly, 'You know how to use this stuff, Doc?'

Younger nodded.

'All right then,' said Littlemore.

The two men knelt down and fitted rope ends through the pulleys. Rappelling is not very difficult even without special equipment; with a friction hitch, which allows the descending man to play out rope at his discretion, it's simple. Younger, who had learned the skill in the army, formed a loop with a short length of his rope and stepped into it with his heel.

Littlemore, picking up the crowbars, followed suit.

The two men rappelled down the side of the Treasury Building, kicking off the wall every ten feet or so in the darkness. The welloiled pulleys made almost no sound as the rope played through them, but it wouldn't have mattered if they had creaked. The wind's howling would have covered the noise in any event.

'Over here,' whispered Littlemore when they reached the cobblestones. He led Younger to a large manhole cover, which he had first seen the day of the bombing. 'Let's try the crowbars.'

The manhole cover bore the familiar logo of the New York City sewer department.

'We're going into the sewers?' asked Younger.

'This is no sewer,' whispered Littlemore. 'I checked the city maps yesterday. This is how they got rid of the gold — down this hole. That's why there was no getaway truck.'

The manhole cover had two small slats into which Younger and

Littlemore each inserted the bent tip of a crowbar. They tried to pry it up, but the iron circle wouldn't budge.

'Didn't think that would work,' whispered Littlemore. 'It's locked from the inside; you can't open her up from out here.'

'Hence the acid,' replied Younger.

'Yeah — hence,' said Littlemore.

Younger withdrew three slim cases from his coat. The first contained an empty glass beaker, a pencil-thin glass tube, and a pair of laboratory gloves. Inside each of the other two cases, lined with crushed blue velour, was a well-stoppered vial of transparent liquid. Wearing the gloves, Younger opened these vials and poured a portion of each into the beaker, creating the acid he'd described to Littlemore. No chemical reaction attended this admixture — no change of color, no precipitation, no smoke. To the mouth of the beaker Younger now attached the burette — the thin tube — and began drizzling the acid along the perimeter of the manhole cover. Angry bubbling commenced at once on the iron surface, with an accompanying acrid reddish smoke.