The Death Instinct (44 page)

    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.

    In a single motion, Littlemore slapped the new cartridge into his gun, caught the manhole cover, and turned to face the three gunmen just as the furnace fell completely away from him. All three gunmen fired repeatedly at Littlemore, but the manhole cover stopped their bullets, and Littlemore returned fire, killing one, then another, but not the third - Drobac - who slammed into the detective shoulder-first. Littlemore fell hard on his back with the heavy manhole cover on top of his chest, and Drobac on top of the manhole cover.

    Littlemore's arms were pinned. Drobac had a knee on the manhole cover, pressing it down on the detective while he brought his gun to Littlemore's temple. Drobac smiled and squeezed the trigger. His gun, however, didn't fire; he too was now out of bullets. Cursing, he threw his gun to the side. 'Is all right,' he said. 'I have other.'

    Drobac drew a second gun from his jacket.

    'Goodbye, policeman,' he said.

    'Hey, Drobac,' said Younger, standing next to the collapsed furnace and kicking at the iron half-pipe sticking out from it.

    Drobac turned at the sound of Younger's voice. It's unlikely he understood what he saw: a cast-iron half-pipe, dripping with molten gold, one end attached to the furnace, the other end swinging toward him. The pipe struck him square in the forehead. The blow would have been no more than an annoyance if liquid gold, at a temperature of two thousand degrees, had not coursed down his forehead, his nose, his cheeks, his neck. Drobac tried to scream, but what came out was nothing like a human scream: the yellow metal stream had already burned through the flesh of his cheeks and entered his mouth. He raised his hands to his bubbling face, tried to scream again, fell backward, and, with black smoke rising from his head, lay twitching, smoldering, on the dirt floor.

    Littlemore squirmed out from under the manhole cover and scrambled to his feet, staring at the convulsing Drobac. 'Think I should arrest him?' asked Littlemore.

    'I think we should get out of here,' said Younger, gesturing toward the fallen iron beast of a furnace. It was glowing red and seemed to be getting redder by the instant. The heat in the room was appalling.

    'Jesus - she's going to blow,' said Littlemore. 'There's got to be a door somewhere on the other side of that gold.'

    They ran around the mountain of gold bars, passed a table covered with playing cards and whiskey glasses and, at the other end of the subterranean chamber, came to a steel door. There was no knob or handle or latch. They pushed at the door - threw their shoulders into it - but it wouldn't open.

    From the furnace, a low sound began to issue, so deep it was like the note of a cathedral organ. Then the note grew deeper still. Out of the two men's sight, a smoldering body, cheekless, lipless, stretched out a hand and grasped a gun lying on the floor nearby

    'That's not good,' said Younger, referring to the organ sound filling the air. 'I don't think that's good.'

    'Wait a second,' replied Littlemore. He ran back to the card table, grabbed one of the chairs, and returned just as quickly. 'We're going to be all right. I told Houston to listen for us.'

    He smashed the chair against the door and did it again and again. The chair broke into pieces, but the door didn't budge.

    Next to the furnace, the faceless creature rose slowly to its feet in the pulsing crimson light of the overheated furnace. Several of Drobac's teeth, along with a fragment of his jawbone, were visible.

    The low note pulsing from the furnace grew so deep that no man- made musical instrument could have made it. It also began to swell in volume. Littlemore smashed the remains of the broken chair against the door.

    Drobac staggered to the side of the mountain of gold. The bellow from the furnace had become so loud that it vibrated the floor and shook Littlemore up and down. Leaning against the gold bricks, Drobac caught sight of Younger at the far door. He raised his pistol with two hands, arms wavering, unsteady.

    Littlemore, unable to bear the noise, covered his ears with hands. The steel door remained shut. He and Younger looked at each other.

    The gun in Drobac's trembling hands grew still. He squeezed the trigger.

    All at the same moment, the furnace exploded, the gun fired, and the door swung open. Younger and Littlemore were blown through the doorway into a corridor crowded with men, as a bullet flew somewhere above their heads. In the furnace room, Drobac's body slammed into the gold bricks and burst into flame, while the wood beams supporting the walls and ceiling were engulfed in fire as well. The beams collapsed; the ceiling caved in. The room was an inferno.

    'Shut that damned door,' ordered Secretary Houston at the top of his voice as tongues of fire lashed into the corridor.

    The steel door was slammed and bolted, suddenly muffling the deafening rage of fire. The corridor was silent. Younger and Littlemore, rising, found themselves stared at by a half-dozen Secret Servicemen and an equal number of well-dressed bankers, including Thomas Lamont.

    'What's in there, Littlemore?' asked Houston.

    Lamont, not Littlemore, answered: 'It's nothing but an old abandoned foundation. We closed it up long ago. No one's been in there for decades. I don't know how you even knew where to find it, Houston.'

    'I didn't; my man Littlemore told me where to go,' said Houston. 'And he told me to bring Secret Servicemen in case you tried to stop me, Lamont. What did you find, Littlemore?'

    'Just some gold,' said Littlemore. 'I'd say about four million dollars' worth.'

    There was a buzzing among the well-heeled bankers.

    'It's not Morgan gold, I promise you that,' declared Lamont. 'The J. P. Morgan Company has nothing to do with this.'

    'Four millions in gold are lying in a room adjoining a sub-basement of the Morgan Bank,' Houston said to Lamont, 'and you say your company doesn't know about it?'

    'It was an old foundation under Wall Street,' replied Lamont. 'We don't own the lot. We have nothing to do with it. Any number of people could have tunneled into it.'

    One of the other bankers spoke up: 'Maybe it's your gold, Houston. There have been rumors about a theft from the Treasury on September sixteenth.'

    'Treasury gold?' said Houston, affecting incredulity. 'Don't be ridiculous. Every ounce of my gold is accounted for and has been since the day I took office. Every bar and every coin. The Treasury has never been breached. Two of you men -' Houston addressed his Secret Service agents - 'stay here and guard this door. No one goes in under any circumstances. Tomorrow when the fire has burnt itself out, we'll see.

    My suspicion, Lamont, is that it's another shipment of your contraband Russian gold.'

    'I tell you Morgan has nothing to do with it,' said Lamont.

    As soon as they were back out on Wall Street, leaving the palatial Morgan Bank, Houston asked Littlemore in a hushed and anxious tone, 'Does the gold have our insignia on it - or did they melt it?'

    'Melted almost all of it,' answered Littlemore.

    'Thank heavens,' replied Houston.

    'If you don't want people to know it's Treasury gold down there, Mr Houston, you'd better plug up the hole in your alley.'

    'What hole?' asked Houston.

    Littlemore pointed across the street to the alleyway between the Sub-Treasury and the Assay Office, where the wrought-iron gate had been thrown open, and a troop of soldiers were inspecting the open manhole - from which smoke now poured out. Houston was about to hurry there with his remaining Secret Servicemen when he stopped and pulled a badge out of his pocket. 'I'm sorry I doubted you, Littlemore. Take your badge back. I'm reinstating you.'

    'No thanks, Mr Houston,' said Littlemore. 'I'm done with the Treasury for a while. Got a little police work I need to do anyway.'

    Houston rushed off, leaving Younger and Littlemore by themselves. Younger lit a cigarette. The two men sported filthy faces, dirty hair, and torn, blackened clothing.

    'At least it would be police work,' Littlemore muttered, 'if I were a policeman.'

Chapter Twenty-one

    Colette wandered, lost in thought, onto the factory floor, a large high-ceilinged open room, where rows and rows of young women, hunched over long tables, used fine-pointed brushes to dab luminescent paint onto the razor-thin hands of fashionable watches. Between every two girls, an electric lamp hung suspended by a long wire from the ceiling, throwing harsh light onto their close and arduous work. But the girls' studious hush was probably due less to concentration than to the entrance of Mr Brighton, their employer, a few minutes before.

    Colette herself contributed to their silence as well. A young lady in a diamond choker and elbow-length white gloves - who came in with the owner - was not a typical sight for the working girls. They eyed her warily as she passed among them.

    Colette didn't notice. She had only one thought in her head: ten grams of radium. It would change Madame Curie's life. It would save countless people from death. Devoted to science, rather than watch dials or cosmetics, it could yield discoveries about the nature of atoms and energy heretofore undreamed of.

    To be sure, it was absurd that Mr Brighton should propose to marry her, having met her only three times in his life. Or was it? She had known she wanted to marry Younger the first day she met him, when he brought the old French corporal out of the battlefield.

    Of course she could never marry Mr Brighton. She wasn't obliged to do that, not even for Madame Curie - was she? She owed Madame everything: Madame Curie had taken her in, given her a chance at the Sorbonne, saved her when she was starving. But that didn't mean Colette had to sacrifice her life and happiness for her - did it?

    True, she didn't hate Mr Brighton. He might even be a little endearing in his forgetfulness, his childlike enthusiasms. And he was obviously generous. But she would be dreadfully unhappy if she married him. She would die from such unhappiness. No, she wouldn't die. And what did her happiness count against the lives that would be saved, the scientific progress that could be achieved, if she said yes? What right did she have to say no, to live for herself, when millions of young men had given more than their happiness - had given their lives - in the war?

    'Don't, Miss,' said one of the girls close by her.

    'I'm sorry?' said Colette.

    'Don't lean on that,' said the girl. 'It's the lights for the whole factory. Some of us got work to finish. You want us all to be in the dark?'

    Colette looked behind her. In the middle of the wall was a metal bar with a red wooden handle - a master light switch, apparently, which she had been on the verge of accidentally shutting off. When she turned round again, Colette became conscious that all the girls were staring at her, and not welcomingly. Several were chewing gum. One or two wiped hair from their eyes with smudged wrists, the better to see Colette's slender arms and her pretty neck effulgent with diamonds. The girl who had spoken seemed the least interested in her. She returned to her work, snipping a stray hair from her paintbrush with the curving blades of a pair of scissors. Then the girl dabbed the brush into a dish of green paint, placed its tip between her lips, and drew it out again, nicely pointed.

    'Stop!' cried Colette.

    'Who - me?' answered the girl.

    'Don't put that in your mouth,' said Colette.

    'That's how they teach us, honey,' said the girl. 'You point the brush with your mouth. Sorry if it ain't refined.'

    The girls, Colette now saw, were all pointing their brushes the same way - with their lips. 'Where are your gloves?' she asked. 'Don't they give you protective gloves?'

    'Only one of us in this room got gloves,' said the girl.

    A loud bell rang. The girls jumped from their chairs. Amid an eruption of female talk and laughter, they cleared their desks, putting away paints and brushes and unfinished watch dials. As the girls hurried to the coat rack and made for the door, one of them stopped next to Colette. She glanced furtively about and said, 'Some of us are afraid, ma'am. A couple of girls took ill. The company doctors say it's because they got the big pox, but they weren't the types. They weren't the types at all.'

    'What?' said Colette, not understanding the girl's idiomatic English. But the girl hurried away. Colette tried to pull off her leather gloves; they fit her too tightly. She tried to undo the diamond choker, but couldn't find its clasp. She gave up in frustration, and as the working girls emptied out of the factory she ran to Brighton's office, calling out his name.

    'Yes, Miss Rousseau?' replied Brighton eagerly as she neared him. 'Are you going to make me the happiest man on earth?'

    'The girls are putting the brushes in their mouths,' said Colette.

    'Of course they are. That's the secret to our technique.'

    'They're swallowing the paint.'

    'How wasteful,' replied Brighton. 'Do you remember which ones? Samuels will make a note of it.'

    'No - it will poison them,' said Colette.

    'You mean the paint?' cried Brighton. 'Not at all. Don't be silly. How could I sell a product to the public if it were too dangerous for my girls to work with?'

    'Do you monitor the radiation levels here - as you do at your paint factory?'

    'There's no need, my dear.'

    'But you can't let them put it in their mouths. It will get into their jaws. It will get into their teeth. It could She broke off in mid- sentence, her breath stopping cold as a series of images cascaded through her mind: a tooth wrapped in cotton, eaten away from within; a girl with a tumor on her jaw; another girl in New Haven, with a greenish aura emanating from her neck. A darkness crossed over Colette's eyes, which she tried to keep out of her voice: 'Oh, I suppose it doesn't matter. When the quantities of radium are so minute, I'm sure it does more harm than good. I mean more good than harm. It's so late, isn't it? My friends will be wondering where I am. Mrs Meloney must be very jealous.'

    'Jealous?' said Brighton.

    'Of all the radium your girls get on their skin.'

    'Oh, yes,' he answered, laughing aloud. 'She would be green with-'

    'She knows, sir,' said Samuels, drawing a gun.

    No one spoke.

    'Oh, my,' said Brighton. 'What does she know, Samuels?'

    'Everything.'

    'Are you quite sure?' asked Brighton. 'She said Mrs Meloney would be jealous of our girls.'

    'She was lying,' said Samuels, gun pointed at Colette.

    Brighton shook his head in disappointment. 'It's useless to lie, Miss Rousseau. Samuels can always tell. How he knows is a mystery to me. I never have any idea myself. Samuels, would you please put your gun very close to Miss Rousseau?'

    Samuels approached Colette from behind and pressed his gun against the small of her back. Brighton came to her, his body strangely large and poorly knit together. He touched the shiny nail of his little finger to her chin and gently angled her face to one side, so that he could better see her diamond-studded neck. Colette tried not to react.

    'Look,' said Brighton appreciatively. 'So clean.'

    He stroked the underside of Colette's jaw; he ran his fingernail down her breastbone; he cupped his palms and shaped them around the outside of her chest. Colette, horrified, remained immobile.

    'Does she like it, Samuels?' asked Brighton. 'I think she may be nervous. I wish I were better with facial expressions, Miss Rousseau. I have a great deal of trouble understanding them. If only Lyme were here. He has a relaxant that makes girls much more receptive to me. Have you ever been kissed, Miss Rousseau? On the mouth?'

    Colette made no response.

    'Can you make her answer?' Brighton asked Samuels.

    Samuels thrust the gun harder into her spine.

    'Yes, I've been kissed,' said Colette.

    'But you've never - you've never -?'

    Colette didn't reply.

    'No, don't answer,' said Brighton. 'You're right not to. The words would dirty your lips. I'm sure you never have. You're purity itself. Now, Miss Rousseau, I'm going to get started. I want to so very badly, and I no longer think we're going to be married. I hope you don't mind that Samuels sees us; just put him right out of your head. Please don't make any violent movements. Samuels might shoot.'

    Brighton leaned down, evidently to kiss her. Colette waited as long as she could bear it, even until Brighton's mouth was actually upon her, before she thrust an elbow into Samuels's stomach, pushed Brighton with all her strength - causing the ungainly man to fall to the floor - and bolted from the office. The factory floor was empty now; she rushed through it to the main door. But the doorknob wouldn't turn; it was locked. Desperately, Colette looked around, and she saw something that gave her an idea. If she'd been able to run, she could have reached it in a moment. But a voice froze her.

    'Stop where you are, Miss Rousseau,' ordered Brighton. 'Please don't make Samuels shoot you.'

    Colette turned. 'Miss McDonald worked here,' she said, 'didn't she?'

    'You mean the one with that - thing on her neck?' said Brighton. 'Yes, she did. A lovely girl. I thought for a time she might be my wife, before that hideousness grew on her.'

    As Brighton and Samuels came nearer, Colette took a step back from them, along the wall, as if out of fear. 'Radium got into her jaw,' said Colette. 'You knew. You kept it a secret to sell your watches.'

    'No, my dear,' replied Brighton earnestly. 'I don't care about the watches. It's the radium itself. If the public were to learn that radium causes that sort of thing to grow on a girl's neck, no one would want any radium products anymore. The price of radium would fall ninety percent - back to what it used to cost. For a mine-owning man like me, that would be a substantial loss. Very substantial.'

    'Amelia worked here too,' said Colette, taking another step backward. 'She was losing her teeth.'

    'Yes. Most unattractive. I was very angry at her. She was almost your undoing, you know. Samuels was certain Amelia had told you all our secrets. That's why we had to - to take action against you.'

    'You had me kidnapped,' she said, still backing away.

    'It was the most efficient thing in the world. We had some foreigners in town for another task - Serbs, weren't they, Samuels? - very well suited for the job.'

    'You tried to kill me - and then proposed to me?'

    'That is one of my great strengths, Miss Rousseau. I admit my mistakes. I learn from them. It was all a misunderstanding. Do you know why Amelia tried to see you at your hotel? It's because some of the girls overheard you at our factory in Connecticut saying that my company was killing people. But you didn't mean my paint was doing any harm. You meant that luminous watches divert radium from medical uses. How preposterous - that misunderstanding nearly killed you! It was I who came to your rescue. You owe your life to me, Miss Rousseau. I saw Samuels's mistake immediately after I heard you at the church. That's why I ordered the attacks against you to stop.' Brighton shook his head ruefully. 'But now look how things have turned out. What a pity. Samuels, can we keep her in the infirmary? If I can't marry her, that would be my second choice.'

    'They'll come for her,' said Samuels.

    Brighton sighed: 'You're right, as always.' While Samuels kept his gun trained on Colette, Brighton went to a metal barrel positioned on top of a worktable. Opening a tap at its base, he filled a glass measuring cup with greenish paint. 'Since you aren't receptive to me, Miss Rousseau, would you mind at least opening your mouth and holding quite still? Please say you'll cooperate. It will make things so much easier.'

    Colette didn't answer. She was touching the wall with her hands behind her back, feeling for something. Where was it?

    'Does your silence mean yes?' asked Brighton. 'I would be very impressed with you. Girls are usually so unreasonable. Most people are. I remember as a boy I would propose something perfectly sensible, and my parents would say it was "wrong." They would get that look on their faces. What does it mean - wrong? It's as if they were suddenly speaking in tongues. I don't believe the word has any meaning. I've asked people many times to explain it to me; no one can. They just give examples. It's gibberish. I look at people sometimes, Miss Rousseau, and honestly I think they're all cattle. I may be the only one with a mind of his own. Samuels, open Miss Rousseau's mouth.'

    'You're going to make me drink your paint?' asked Colette, aghast, taking another step back

    'Please don't be concerned,' said Brighton. 'We've done it before; it works splendidly. The paint will make you sick, and we'll rush you to the Sloane Hospital for Women, where a specialist named Lyme will treat you. He'll give you something that will keep you from speaking. You'll get weaker, and your hair may fall out. That will make you very unattractive, but it's all right - I won't come to visit. You'll be diagnosed with syphilis, I imagine. Then you'll die. It all goes very smoothly, I promise you. Won't you please open your mouth? You'll be doing me a great favor.'

    'Mr Brighton, I beg you,' she said, turning her back to him. 'Shoot me now. Get it over with.'