The Death Instinct (21 page)

    'What we got here is a major break in the investigation. This fine American is Mr John Haggerty, a horseshoer of over forty years' experience, located by agents of the Bureau under my personal command. Get your pens out, boys; here's your story. On or about the first of this month, an individual appeared in Mr Haggerty's stable on New Chambers Street in the company of a horse and wagon, which horse and wagon was in need of new shoes, and which was outfitted with unusual brass turret rings just like the ones we collected from this plaza after the explosion. Mr Haggerty put size-four shoes on that horse, said shoes being united to said horse by means of shamrock nails and Niagara hoof pads - cooperating in every respect with the evidence we collected here.'

    'They didn't collect that stuff, Cap,' whispered Stankiewicz to Littlemore. 'We gave it to them.'

    Littlemore motioned him to be quiet.

    'In other words, the horse and wagon shoed by Mr Haggerty three weeks ago was the exact same horse and wagon employed by the anarchists to transport their incendiary device here on the sixteenth. The individual who brought that horse into Mr Haggerty's stable was approximately five foot seven inches in height, slight of build, poorly shaven, and very dirty and low in appearance. Ain't that right, Haggerty?'

    The stableman nodded gravely.

    'And this is the kicker, boys,' added Flynn: 'The individual was

    Eye-talian and gave his name as something in the nature of Trescati or Trescare. Ain't that right, Haggerty?'

    'Could be,' said Haggerty.

    '"Could be"?' whispered Stankiewicz.

    'Shh,' said Littlemore.

    'In other words,' Flynn went on, 'a spitting description of Carlo Tresca, just like I been saying all along. Okay, boys, take your pictures.'

    Flynn shook Haggerty's hand. Cameras popped. The reporters asked Haggerty his age (which was sixty-four), what else he remembered about Tresca (which was very little), and so on. Haggerty answered in gruff monosyllables, addressing each reporter as 'sir.' In short order, Flynn brought matters to a close and moved to take the stableman away.

    'Mr Haggerty,' called out Littlemore, 'you a union man?'

    'Conference over,' shouted Flynn, recognizing the detective. 'No more questions.'

    'But Mr Haggerty must be a union man, Big Bill,' said Littlemore innocently. 'Everybody knows an HSIU label was on the horse's shoes. It was in the papers on Saturday, wasn't it, fellas?'

    The members of the press agreed that it was.

    Flynn cleared his throat. 'An NYPD detective checking up on the Bureau, huh? That's fresh. How's the Fischer investigation going, Policeman? Heard any voices out of the air lately?'

    Several of the reporters laughed.

    'Okay, Haggerty,' said Flynn, 'the policeman here wants to know if your shop is union. Is it?'

    'Yes, sir - HSIU,' answered Haggerty.

    'And you put that label on your shoes, right?' asked Flynn.

    'Yes, sir - every one.'

    Flynn smiled broadly. 'Got any more smart questions, NYPD?'

    'Just one,' called Littlemore, stepping forward through the crowd, carrying
⁸
a numbered canvas evidence bag tied with twine. 'I'd like to show Mr Haggerty the actual shoe - the one we pulled out of the

    bomb crater. He can tell us if the union label matches the one his shop uses.'

    The reporters fell quiet. Flynn hesitated. He obviously wanted to take Haggerty away, but his reluctance to appear doubtful of his own witness's story kept him in place.

    Littlemore untied the bag and handed the horseshoe to Haggerty. 'You can see a union label on that shoe, can't you, Mr Haggerty?' asked the detective.

    'Yes, sir. HSIU. Same one we use in my shop.'

    'There you go!' said Flynn triumphantly, taking the horseshoe from the stableman. 'I'll keep this. Federal evidence. Now let's get going. I'm hungry'

    'Which means, Mr Haggerty,' said Littlemore in a loud voice all could hear, 'the shoe that Chief Flynn is holding, the one from the actual bombing,
isn't
from the horse and wagon you serviced in your shop three weeks ago - am I right?'

    'Yes, sir. You're right,' said Haggerty.

    The reporters burst into confusion. Flynn shouted above them, 'What's he talking about? The label's a match.'

    'The HSIU label on a horseshoe is a surface mark,' said Littlemore. 'Wears away in no time at all. After a few hours, it's barely visible. But the HSIU label on the actual shoe is mint clean. The horse that brought the bomb to Wall Street was new-shod the morning of the attack - the day before at most. Not three weeks ago. Am I right, Mr Haggerty?'

    'Yes, sir.'

    The following evening, Younger joined Littlemore at a dingy waterfront bar built on a derelict pier near the harbor, where unintimidated rats picked at refuse among the pilings and the detective had to give a password to gain entry. The smoke was so thick, and the lighting so poor, Younger could hardly see the bar counter. 'They got a trapdoor in the back,' said Littlemore as they took a small table in a dark corner. 'Opens right onto the water. When they get raided, they dump all their liquor into a boat and off she goes. Cops never find a thing. If the tide's in, they just dump the liquor into the water. Divers bring it up later.'

    'I don't think I've ever seen you break the law before,' said Younger.

    'I'm not breaking any laws,' answered Littlemore. 'I'm getting a sassafras.'

    'Then why are we here?'

    'So you can get a drink,' said Littlemore. 'Looks like you could use one.'

    Younger considered the proposition and found it accurate. All day long he had kept checking the hotel desk for a letter or wire from Colette. Every time the clerk informed him that there were no messages, Younger was furious at himself for caring about the girl at all.

    Littlemore ordered his soft drink; Younger ordered a whiskey. The waiter brought him a fifth - just the unopened bottle - along with a 'setup,' which was a glass of ice and soda.

    'You pour yourself the drink,' Littlemore instructed. 'Then you put the bottle in your coat pocket. If the law comes in, they say they only serve sodas. They can't help it if their customers bring liquor in.'

    Younger poured himself a double. He and Littlemore toasted silently. Younger felt vaguely louche with the bottle of whiskey in his pocket - if in fact it was whiskey, which Younger doubted, because it tasted more like rubbing alcohol. He finished his glass and poured himself another. 'Boisterous little place,' he said. 'I like the atmosphere.'

    At the bar, men hunched over their drinks, speaking in low voices. Even the bartender was taciturn. A solitary woman wearing a boa nursed a cocktail at one end of the counter; no one approached her. Near the door, the man keeping watch handled a pack of cards by himself at a table - not playing, just shuffling and reshuffling.

    'It's the same all over town,' said Littlemore. 'Everybody's still spooked from the bombing. Only place they're not spooked is the Bankers and Brokers Club. They were having a ball when I went there a couple nights ago. I think it was relief - that they weren't the ones who got hit. Guess what: a doctor came to Bellevue today for Two-Heads. He heard about the shooting in the church and recognized her description. Her name's Quinta McDonald. I found out what's wrong with her. The doctor said it was confidential, but I got it out of him. She has syphilis. Apparently syphilis can cause a growth on your body?'

    'Tertiary syphilis can,' agreed Younger. He thought about it. 'It could have made her demented as well.'

    'That's what her doctor said. It got into her brain. Gave her delusions.'

    'I did some work on syphilitic dementia a few years ago. If that's what she has, there's no reversing it and no cure for it.'

    'So here's what I'm thinking,' said Littlemore. 'There may not be anything left for the Miss to worry about.'

    'How's that?'

    'Well, let's start with Amelia, the girl who left the tooth at your hotel. Amelia's in some kind of trouble, and she needs to leave a tooth with somebody she knows to get them to help her. But the clerk delivers the tooth to Colette by mistake. Meanwhile, Drobac's following Amelia. He's hunting whoever she's trying to leave the tooth with. When the tooth gets delivered to Colette, Drobac thinks Colette is his target. So he and his two pals kidnap her. After that, Amelia gets killed by the bomb, Drobac's two pals get killed when we rescue Colette, and Drobac himself is behind bars. That leaves only Two-Heads, the McDonald girl. We don't know why she came after Colette - probably she's just crazy from her syphilis - but it doesn't matter because now she's in a coma. So everybody's either dead, jailed, or otherwise out of commission. Case closed.'

    'What about the other redhead?' asked Younger. 'There were two of them outside the police station.'

    'Friend of the McDonald girl. Maybe her sister. Nothing to worry about.'

    'I thought you didn't make assumptions,' said Younger.

    'I don't. I was just trying it out to see how it sounded.'

    'How did it sound?'

    'Didn't make any kind of sense at all,' said Littlemore.

    The two men drank for a long while. Younger could feel the cheap alcohol beginning to work on him.

    'So the Miss is going back to Europe?' asked Littlemore.

    'You can't tell me,' answered Younger, 'that marriage makes men happy. Do you know one married man who's actually happy?'

    'I'm happy.'

    'Apart from you.'

    Littlemore thought about it. 'No. Do you know any unmarried guys who are happy?'

    'No.'

    'There you go, then,' said Littlemore.

    The men drank.

    At another table, a man tried to stand, failed, and fell to the floor, knocking his chair over with him. For a moment Younger thought the sound had been a gunshot. Then he heard more gunfire, but he knew it was inside his head. The recurring image that, ever since the bombing, he could neither forget nor interpret sprang into his mind again, this time with greater clarity. 'I know what I saw on the sixteenth,' he said. 'It wasn't a blackboard. It was someone shooting. When everyone else was running around in a panic, in the middle of all the smoke and dust, someone was firing a machine gun.'

    'At what?'

    'At a wall. Leaving marks on it.'

    'Firing a machine gun at a wall?' said Littlemore. 'In the middle of the bombing?'

    'Did I mention that I also saw the shrapnel flying through the air so slowly I could make out the individual pieces?'

    'No, you didn't tell me that, and don't mention it again. They'll lock you up with Eddie Fischer.'

    Detective Littlemore was restive as he paced the cramped offices shared

    by Homicide and Special Crimes. Overcrowded desks vied for space with overstuffed filing cabinets. Typewriters clacked. Men yelled at one another, their complaints mostly jocular. The joking irritated Littlemore. A week had passed since the Wall Street bombing, and they had made no progress. Loose threads dangled everywhere.

    There was Fischer, now confined in a sanitarium, whose prescient warnings remained unaccounted for. There was Big Bill Flynn, determined to hang the crime on Italian anarchists even though each piece of evidence Flynn came up with was thin as cheap typing paper. Then there was Attorney General Palmer - or rather,
where
was Palmer? Everything Littlemore knew about the Attorney General would have predicted Palmer's seizing control of the case, giving press conferences, taking the spotlight. Instead Palmer had passed through town for a night on his way to a family holiday - why? Finally, there was the fact that the attack seemed wholly unmotivated. If there was a target, it appeared to have been the Morgan Bank, yet Littlemore had identified no individual or organization with the right means and motives for attacking Morgan in so blunderbuss a fashion.

    'Hey, Spanky,' Littlemore called out.

    'Sir?' replied Roederheusen.

    'Go over to the Mexican consulate,' said Littlemore, 'and get ahold of a guy named Pesky something or other.
Pesky-air-uh
, I think. I want to talk to him.'

    'Say, Cap,' called out Stankiewicz from his desk, 'I found the cards.'

    'What cards?'

    'The filing cards we made on Wall Street.' Stankiewicz was holding a stack of handwritten note cards made at the scene of the bombing - one card for each of the dead. 'You remember, you thought there was somebody who was killed who should've been on the casualty list, but he wasn't on the list, so you asked me to find the cards.'

    'Give me those,' said Littlemore irritably. He flipped through the note cards. 'The guy was a Treasury guard. Name began with
R
.'

    Littlemore found what he was looking for. 'Here he is: "Riggs, United States Treasury." Now where's that casualty list?'