'Don't get it in your eyes,' said Younger.
By the time he was halfway around the manhole cover, Younger had exhausted the beaker's supply. He had to mix another few ounces of the aqua regia, requiring him briefly to hand over to Littlemore the two glass vials, unstoppered, while he took apart his apparatus. At that moment, a particularly savage gust of wind blew through the alley.
'Shoot,' whispered Littlemore. Younger looked up. White bubbles were sudsing on the top of the detective's black shoe. Somehow keeping his voice to a whisper, Littlemore gasped, 'It's going through my shoe! Do something, Doc — it's on my foot. It's burning into the bone!'
'That's not my acid,' said Younger.
Littlemore's gasping came to an abrupt halt.
'What is that,' asked Younger, 'baking soda?'
'Anyone else would have fallen for that,' said Littlemore, genuinely annoyed. 'Anyone. How'd you know it was baking soda?'
Younger looked at Littlemore a long time. 'Give me those,' he said, referring to the glass vials in the detective's hands. Soon the entire perimeter of the manhole cover was seething with corrosion. 'Now we wait.'
A few minutes later, Younger rose and took up a crowbar, offering the other to Littlemore. They strained to wrench loose the manhole cover, but with no success. 'Maybe the acid's not strong enough,' said Littlemore.
The two men stood over the manhole cover. Littlemore gave it a stomp with one foot. As he was about to administer another, Younger said, too late, 'I wouldn't do-'
Littlemore s shoe punched loose the acid-cut manhole cover. They could hear it rushing away from them, as if sucked down into a vacuum. For an instant Littlemore remained poised over the now-open manhole, one foot already inside it, body twisting and wavering, struggling for balance. Then he said, 'Shoot' — and fell in.
As Littlemore disappeared down the hole, his flailing arms grabbed Younger's ankle. Younger was almost able to arrest their fall, but he couldn't hold on, and a moment later he too vanished down into the earth, leaving only a crowbar lying across the manhole.
Younger found himself sliding down a chute at an alarming speed. There was no light at all. There was, however, sound: that of his own body smashing into curved walls, and that of Littlemore yelling in front of him. They flew around hairpin bends and sailed over bumps, plummeting downward in the sightless black.
Mr Brighton kept them in suspense all day about his plans for the Radium Fund. Every time Mrs Meloney veered round to the subject, he deflected it — whether artfully or absent-mindedly, Colette couldn't tell.
They dined in the Garret Restaurant, high over the southern tip of Manhattan, overlooking a sanguine sunset on the Hudson. On their way down the elevator, Mrs Meloney declared herself a nervous wreck from eating in so lofty a perch and insisted she must go home. Colette said that she would go as well.
'Don't be silly, dear,' said Mrs Meloney. 'You must visit Mr Brighton's dial factory. He is especially proud of it — and justly so.'
'Please say you will,' said Brighton.
'Is there time?' asked Colette. 'Dr Younger will be waiting for me at Trinity Church at nine-thirty.'
'Waiting at the church?' asked Brighton. 'Why — are you — you're not getting married, are you, Miss Rousseau?'
'Getting married tonight?' laughed Mrs Meloney. 'Mr Brighton, girls do not marry at night. And if they did, they would not spend the day of their wedding visiting paint factories. Not to mention the fact that Trinity Church will be good and locked up at this hour.'
'Oh, dear,' said Brighton. 'There's so much I don't know. But I do have keys to Trinity Church. I'm on the board of directors. Would you like to see the interior, Miss Rousseau? It's very fine.'
'I've seen it, Mr Brighton,' said Colette, who had spent several hours inside the church on September sixteenth.
'Miss Rousseau doesn't want to see the church, Mr Brighton. She wants to see your factory.' Mrs Meloney turned to Colette: 'There's plenty of time, my dear. The factory is quite close by. And from the factory, the church is only round the corner. Now don't disappoint him — or me. Please.'
Mrs Meloney left in a taxi. 'Do you like to walk, Miss Rousseau?' asked Brighton.
Colette was suddenly tongue-tied. So long as Mrs Meloney had been there, Colette had not quite understood herself to be spending time with a man solely in pursuit of his money. Now she did feel that way, and it seemed to infect everything she said or didn't say with a false and hypocritical tinge. 'I like walking very much,' she replied.
Brighton offered her his arm. Colette pretended not to see it, but Brighton didn't see her not seeing it, and left his elbow suspended so long that Colette was obliged finally to take it. Brighton seemed strangely tall walking next to Colette; their gait never managed to synchronize. Samuels maintained a respectful distance behind them.
'We'll be right on time,' said Brighton cheerily. 'My second shift of girls is just finishing up. I do want you to see the factory in action. But you must be cold, Miss Rousseau.'The wind had kicked up bitterly; Colette had not dressed for it. 'Here — I brought another little present for you. They will help keep you warm.'
Brighton drew a gift box from his coat. Inside was a double-tiered diamond necklace matching the stickpin he had given her earlier.
'Oh, dear,' said Brighton, 'it's the choker. I meant to give you the gloves first. Never mind. May I?'
He clasped the necklace on Colette, who, wishing Mr Brighton had spent the money on the Radium Fund instead, stammered out a thank-you, sensing to her dismay that if she didn't accept his gifts, he would never make another contribution to the Fund. It was the first time Colette had ever worn diamonds; they felt cold against her neck. Perhaps she might sell it later and donate the money in his name?
Brighton handed her a second box. This one contained a pair of thin, long-sleeved gloves, the color of fresh cream and made of a leather suppler than any she had touched before. 'Try them on,' he said.
'I can't, Mr Brighton. They're much too-'
'Too long to put on without taking your coat off? Yes of course. Allow me.'
He removed her light overcoat. Not wanting to give offense, she pulled on the gloves, which came up past her elbows. 'My coat, Mr Brighton,' said Colette.
'Yes?'
'Would you please put it back on? I'm cold.'
'Cold — of course — how absurd,' said Brighton. 'There you are. Do you like them?'
She looked at her elegant fingers, clad in ivory leather. 'I don't know what to say.'
'The pleasure is mine, I assure you. Now if I can speak frankly, Miss Rousseau, I know what you want most in the whole world. Mrs
Meloney told me. You want me to help buy radium for Madame Curie. Don't you?'
'Yes, if you're willing, Mr Brighton.'
'I'm most willing!' he cried. 'I'll buy the entire gram myself.'
'You will?' she said excitedly.
'If you will,' he said.
'If I will what?' she asked, excitement giving way to consternation.
'Marry me,' replied Brighton.
Colette didn't know whether to burst into laughter or tears.
'I know I'm not what girls consider handsome,' said Brighton. 'But I'm very rich. I can give you everything you desire. Think about that. Everything is no little thing.'
'We don't even know each other, Mr Brighton.'
'That's not true. I know you perfectly, because you are perfection itself. I don't ask you to love me. That doesn't matter at all. Let me worship you. Say yes, and I will wire one hundred thousand dollars to Mrs Meloney's account this minute.'
The staggering sum hung momentarily in the air. 'But surely you will consider a donation even if I say no?' she asked.