The Death Instinct (35 page)

    'Did Fischer say anything to you about Wall Street?' asked Littlemore.

    'Are you kidding?'

    'I'm not kidding.'

    'No, he didn't say nothing about Wall Street. You think I would have let the NYPD have him if he knew anything? I'll tell you the funniest thing. After the bombing, Fischer's brother-in-law, a guy named Pope, he calls the Bureau. Says that Fischer is claiming to be an undercover federal agent. Wants to know if there's any truth to it. I get on the phone and say it's a crock. Pope thanks me, says he just wanted to be sure, and has Fischer locked up the next day. He's been in the loony bin ever since. Ain't that a laugher?'

    A message was waiting for Littlemore when he returned to his office in the Sub-Treasury on Wall Street, informing him that Senator Fall had called for him from Washington. Littlemore rang the operator.

    'That you, Littlemore?' asked Fall some minutes later over the static.

    'Yes, sir, Mr Senator.'

    'We intercepted the Swedish ship. No gold.'

    'You mean no Treasury gold?' asked Littlemore.

    'No Treasury gold, no Russian gold, no fool's gold,' answered Fall. 'No gold at all. The Captain said the harbor authorities in New York told him to leave it on the dock.'

    'He's lying. Secretary Houston made them take it back. Did the navy guys search the ship?' asked Littlemore.

    'Of course they searched the ship. High and low.'

    'But-'

    'I'm too busy, Littlemore,' said Fall. 'You figure it out. Get back to me when you do.'

    Fall rang off. It made no sense, Littlemore thought. Why would they leave the gold on the dock - wherever the gold came from? Could someone in Customs be working with the thieves? Littlemore put his coat on. He'd have to go down to the harbor himself. As he was leaving, his telephone rang again. A Mr James Speyer was asking for him downstairs.

    'What can I do for you, Mr Speyer?' asked Littlemore in the rotunda of the Sub-Treasury.

    'You can give me my painting back,' answered Speyer in his German accent. 'At the police station they didn't know what I was talking about. They told me you worked at the Treasury now.'

    Littlemore apologized, explaining that he had put the Rembrandt in a special lockup to ensure its safety. 'We could go over and get it now, if you want,' he said.

    'Excellent. My driver can take us.'

    Inside Speyer's car, Littlemore asked, 'How's the wife?'

    'Better, thank you.'

    'Business in Hamburg work out okay?'

    'Capitally,' said Speyer. 'The funds are all in Mexico now - despite the Morgan people's best efforts.'

    'I hear things in Mexico are getting pretty hot.'

    'They certainly are,' agreed Speyer. 'Bad for Arnold Brighton; good for me.'

    'You know Brighton?'

    'I know his oil fields in Mexico are worth hundreds of millions. I just returned from Mexico City, as a matter of fact. Peculiar to be somewhere where America is so hated. More than even in Germany. I suppose we might feel the same way about them if they'd occupied our capital and taken half our country.'

    'We did that to Mexico?' asked Littlemore.

    'The Mexican-American War, Detective. Or the American Invasion, as they call it south of the border. My Rembrandt had better not be damaged.'

    At police headquarters on Centre Street, Littlemore led Speyer to a special safe room in the evidence storage locker. Once the layers of protective wrapping were peeled away, the painting itself looked small and fragile. 'Undamaged, Mr Speyer?'

    'Undamaged,' Speyer agreed.

    The men stared at the self-portrait. It was from the artist's older age, showing him wrinkled and red-cheeked, with pouches under wise, misty eyes.

    'How'd he do that?' asked Littlemore.

    'Do what?'

    'He looks like he knows he's going to die,' said Littlemore. 'Like he - like he -'

    'Accepts it?'

    'Yeah, but at the same time like he isn't ready to go yet. If they hate Americans so much, why don't they hate you down in Mexico, Speyer?'

    'Because they think I'm German,' replied Speyer with a smile, pronouncing the last word
Cherman
.

    At the harbor, Littlemore spoke with a Customs agent, who denied that the Swedish ship had left its contraband gold on the dock. 'You're sure?' asked Littlemore. 'The Swede sailed out of the harbor with all the gold on board?'

    'Wouldn't know about that,' said the agent. 'When we find dirty goods, we alert the departments. Maybe the goods get impounded, maybe they get destroyed, maybe they go back on board. That's up to the department.'

    'What department?'

    'If it's guns, the War Department. Liquor, the Revenuers. This was gold, so Treasury.'

    'Who do you notify at Treasury?'

    'All's I do, Mister, I send in the piece of paper. You want more, talk to Treasury.'

    On Wall Street late that afternoon, as Littlemore mounted the steps to the Greek facade of the Treasury Building, a messenger boy from the Morgan Bank tapped him on the shoulder.

    'Detective Littlemore?' said the boy.

    'Yeah?' said Littlemore.

    'Mr Lamont wants to see you right away. In his office.'

    'Good for him,' said Littlemore, continuing up the steps.

    'But he wants you now, sir,' said the boy. 'You're supposed to follow me.'

    'Tell Lamont he can come to my office,' answered Littlemore.

    The phone was already ringing when he got upstairs.

    'Let me guess, Lamont,' said Littlemore into the mouthpiece. 'Your man tailing Speyer told you I met with him today.'

    '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 fiancé in a fit of jealous rage.'

    'He wasn't my fiancé,' 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.

    'Perhaps we'll be all right,' he resumed.

    'Please, Dr Freud,' said Colette. 'Can you explain what's the matter with my brother?'

    'I'll tell you what I know, Fraulein, but the concepts will be new to you and strange. Brandy?' Taking his time, Freud refilled his own and Younger's glasses.

    'Well, where to begin?' said Freud. He was seated again, his legs crossed, in one hand a cigar, in the other his brandy. 'Twenty-five years ago, I discovered a path to unseen provinces of our mental life, which I may have been the first mortal ever to enter. There I found a hell of inexpressible fears and longings, for which men and women might have burned in earlier eras. A man cannot expect such insight more than once in a lifetime. But last year, I made a new discovery that, in my more vainglorious moments, I think might even surpass the first. No one will believe it, but that will be nothing new. It came to me from studying the war neuroses - indeed in part from studying your brother, Miss Rousseau. Not that your brother has a neurosis, strictly speaking, but his condition is similar. I want to be clear about one thing: he requires treatment. Wherever you go next, you should not simply leave him as he is. His case is straightforward enough. I could cure him myself, I expect, in - I don't know - eight weeks.'

    'Cure him?' repeated Colette. 'Completely?'

    'I should think so.'

    Colette didn't know how to respond.

    'You sent us to Jauregg,' said Younger. 'Why?'

    'Many choose to treat their psychological disorders mechanistically. Miss Rousseau has to decide if she really wants her brother analyzed. I'm not sure she does. Twice now, she has brought her brother to Vienna but refused to commit herself to the time an analysis would require. And perhaps she's right: after all, it may not be pleasant for her.'

    'For me?' asked Colette. 'Why?'

    'I told you last year,' said Freud. 'The truths that psychoanalysis unearths are never irrelevant to other family members. Fraulein, you know what it is to yearn for revenge. Your brother is taking revenge too - by not speaking.'

    'On whom?' asked Colette.

    'Perhaps on you.'

    'Whatever for?'

    'You can't tell us?' asked Freud.

    'I can't imagine what you're talking about,' answered Colette.

    'It's just speculation, my dear. I don't know the answer.'

    'But you said you knew what was wrong with him,' said Colette.

    'I do. I understood it last summer, two months after you left. It was child's play, as a matter of fact. Younger, what is the boy's most revealing symptom?'

    'I have no idea,' said Younger.

    'Come - I just gave it away.'

    Younger chafed at Freud's habit of luring him with analytic conundrums, particularly under the present circumstances, but all the same, the lure took. Child's play? 'His game,' said Younger. 'Something to do with his fishing reel game.'

    'Exactly,' said Freud. 'Miss Rousseau told me that her grandmother played a German hide-and-seek game with her brother when he was little. He is saying fort and da when he unspools and rewinds his reel - gone and there. What does it mean?'

    Younger thought about it: 'When did he start?'

    'In 1914,' said Freud.

    'He's reliving the death of his parents,' said Younger.

    'Obviously. Over and over. But why?'

    'To undo the feeling of loss?'

    'No. He isn't undoing anything. He's making himself experience the single worst moment of his life again and again.'

    Cigar smoke had filled the candlelit room with its heavy, heady odor.

    'It's the key to the riddle,' said Freud. 'All the war neurotics repeat. They have a kind of compulsion - a repetition compulsion - a need to reenact or reexperience the trauma that has given rise to their condition. And they're all repeating the same thing: death, or the moment when they came closest to it. Normally, we have defenses - fortifications, physiological and psychological - that keep our mortality away from us, out of our consciousness. If these fortifications are breached, if in a moment of unexpected trauma, mortality punctures these defenses, its terror rushes in and starts a kind of mental conflagration - a fire very difficult to extinguish - but a fire to which a man wants to return again and again. The shell-shocked man will relive his trauma when asleep; or in broad daylight, he will conjure a bomb going off in the noise of a door slamming; he may even reenact the episode through bodily symptoms.'

    'Why?' asked Younger. 'To discharge the fear?'

    'For a long time I tried to understand it that way,' replied Freud. 'Discharging fear would be pleasurable. At least it would lessen displeasure. Every psychological phenomenon, I thought, was motivated at bottom by the drive to increase pleasure or lessen displeasure. But I was trying to fit facts to theory, when I should have been fitting theory to facts. I had just begun to understand it when you were last here. The war taught me something I should have seen ages ago: we have a drive beyond the pleasure principle. Another instinct, as fundamental as hunger, as irresistible as love.'

    'What instinct?' asked Colette.

    'A death instinct. More tea, Miss Rousseau?'

    'No, thank you.'

    'You mean a desire to kill?' asked Younger.

    'That's one side of it,' said Freud. 'But fundamentally it's a longing for death. For destruction. Not only someone else's; also our own.'

    'You think people want to die?' asked Colette.

    'I do,' said Freud. 'It's built into our cells, our very atoms. There are two elemental forces in the universe. One draws matter toward matter. That is how life comes into being and how it propagates. In physics, this force is called gravity; in psychology, love. The other force tears matter apart. It is the force of disunification, disintegration, destruction. If I'm correct, every planet, every star in the universe is not only drawn toward the others by gravity, but also pushed away from them by a force of repulsion we can't see. Within an organism, this force is what drives the animal to seek death, as moths seek a flame.'