'I will not,' declared Brighton forthrightly. 'I've given twenty-five thousand dollars already, and I did that only to be present at your lecture. Why would I give money to a Frenchwoman I've never met? I have no reason to. But if you marry me, my dear Miss Rousseau, your wish will be my command. Say two grams if you like. Say ten.'
'Ten grams of radium?' she repeated, unable to believe what she had heard.
'From my own mines. Why not? The market value would be a million dollars, but for me the cost would be much less.' When Colette didn't answer, Brighton added, 'Oh my, is all this considered immoral? Am I acting immorally?'
Colette shook her head, her dark brows frowning severely.
'Thank goodness. I never know what's going to be thought immoral. They say people should marry for love. I don't know what they're talking about. I want you to share my home, Miss Rousseau. To travel with me on my train. To be on my arm when I dine with the President. Is it unreasonable that I should want the most beautiful, intelligent, innocent creature on earth to be my wife — or that I should offer her whatever I can to induce her to consent? Here we are at my factory.' Samuels opened the door for them. 'Come in, please. Ah, look at all the girls leaning into their work. What a beautiful sight. But what was I saying? Oh yes. Ten grams of radium, to be used as you direct. Samuels! Prepare a money wire for the account of Mrs William Meloney. I have a telegraph machine here in my office. Say you'll marry me, and I'll wire a hundred thousand at once. Samuels has advised me against it, I want you to know. He says it's rash to pay money in return for your mere promise. In fact Samuels had a very strong misimpression of you at first, Miss Rousseau. I can't begin to tell you what he thought. But if you give me your word, I know you'll keep it. What — are you crying? May I hope with tears of joy?'
Colette begged Mr Brighton for some time by herself.
'Certainly, my dear,' said Brighton. 'Samuels will need a few minutes to prepare the wire.'
Four stories below Wall Street, in a cavernous, unlit, dirt-floored chamber, two men worked an immense blast furnace. Their faces were blackened with soot; each wore a thick, heavy full-length leather apron. One stoked the furnace with large, heavy bars of gold. The other handled a set of iron molds into which flowed a stream of molten yellow metal coursing down a half-pipe from an aperture high up on the furnace. When a newly molded bar of gold was formed and ready, this man would throw it, using tongs, onto a mountain of such bars that filled the subterranean chamber in front of the furnace. Both men wore goggles; in the sparks and unnatural light thrown off by the furnace, their arms and foreheads shone with sweat.
About fifteen feet behind these workmen was a wall, and in this wall was a perfectly round hole, and from this hole came a sound that drew the workmen's puzzled attention. It was a metallic sound, echoing and distant — a faraway clanging. The noise grew louder and louder and still louder until it reached a horrendous pitch and out from the hole shot a large iron disk. It was a manhole cover with jagged edges, and it hit the dirt floor of the chamber at a dangerous speed, rolling past the legs of the astonished smelters, disappearing under their work- table, and climbing the gold bar mountain almost to its pinnacle, at which point it turned round and rolled back down, rattling to rest at the workmen's feet.
The two smelters removed their goggles. They stared down dumbfounded at the intrusive object, then looked at each other: a new sound was coming from the hole in the wall. This sound was not metallic. It was more like a tumbling, with the interspersed shouting of a human voice, and it too began quietly, distantly, only to grow nearer and louder and nearer still until Jimmy Littlemore shot feet first through the hole, followed immediately by Stratham Younger, the two men skidding and rolling in a jumble of arms and legs until they too lay at the smelters' feet.
Littlemore looked up at the two workmen, spat the remains of a toothpick as well as some dirt from his lips, and said, You're under arrest.'
Younger, lying on his stomach, did not know to whom the detective had addressed his remark, but he added, 'In the name of the law.'
Littlemore drew his gun from his shoulder holster and said, 'Drop that thing — ' this was a reference to the red-hot tongs — 'and put your hands in the air.'
The speechless smelters complied at once.
Littlemore stood, pulled a set of handcuffs from his back pocket, and tossed them to Younger while keeping his gun trained on the two workmen. 'Cuff one of these guys.'
'Which one?' asked Younger.
'I don't care. The bigger one.'
The workman who had been feeding the furnace was the larger of the two. Younger handcuffed his wrists behind his back. Littlemore turned the other smelter around and pushed him forward a step.
'March, fellas,' said Littlemore, directing them around the furnace and toward the mountain of gold bricks. 'Let's see if this place leads where I think it-' he stopped, interrupting himself. 'Did you hear that, Doc?'
'Hear what?'
Littlemore was looking at the mound of gold, which was about fifteen feet high. Suddenly, at the top of that little mountain, the heads of three men appeared, and next to each one a pistol. The one in the middle had scars running from the corners of his mouth to the corners of his eyes — as if he had recently undergone facial surgery. 'Shoot!' he shouted in a strong Eastern European accent. 'Shoot all!'
'Get down!' cried Littlemore.
The gunmen didn't have a clear shot at either Younger or Littlemore — who each had one of the smelters in front of him — but they evidently didn't care. All three fired, ripping bullets into the bodies of the two workmen as Younger and Littlemore dove for cover. Younger overturned the heavy wood worktable and sat with his back to it. Littlemore crouched behind the furnace.
'A shoot-out,' said Younger as bullets slammed into his table and ricocheted off the blast furnace. 'I'm at a shoot-out without a gun.'
Littlemore craned around the furnace and fired two shots, which kept the gunmen at bay but did nothing else. 'That guy,' he said. 'Was that who I thought it was?'
'Yes,' said Younger. 'Tell me you have another gun.'
'Nope,' said Littlemore. Incoming bullets tore pieces from the bottom of the furnace, causing it to list slightly and to emit a dreadful steam shriek. 'Any ideas, Doc? Any play we can make with Drobac?'
The massive blast furnace was held up by a three-legged base. One of these legs now gave way with a loud crack; the furnace clunked down at a crazy angle.
'Offer him reduced bail?' suggested Younger.
'Good thinking,' replied Littlemore, firing another shot at the mountain of gold.
'I don't think it's very safe,' Younger called out, 'their shooting a lot of bullets into a blast furnace.'
'That's helpful,' said Littlemore, reaching around the crooked furnace and firing his last two shots.
The detective now had to reload. Drobac knew it or guessed it. 'Charge furnace,' he yelled.
All three gunmen came scrambling over the hillock of gold. At the same time a second leg at the base of the huge furnace collapsed, and the entire iron behemoth began to topple away from Littlemore — straight at Younger — with a fantastic screech of bending and breaking metal.
Littlemore and Younger were about to die. Younger was lying exactly where the red-hot furnace, spewing molten gold, would fall to the ground. Littlemore was reloading his revolver as three gunmen rushed at him down a mountain of gold and the furnace that had provided him with cover was toppling over.
Younger saw the manhole cover at his feet. 'Shield,' he shouted, hoisting up the manhole cover and heaving it through the air before diving away as several tons of iron crashed to the dirt floor and a deadly shower of gold barely missed his legs and feet.