The Death Instinct (45 page)

    'But I can't,' answered Brighton. 'If we shot you, Miss Rousseau, either your body would have to disappear, which would raise all sorts of questions, or else we'd have to turn you over to the police with bullets in you, which would raise even more. I assure you, the paint is much -'

    Brighton never finished this sentence. Colette, her back to the two men, had taken hold of the red wooden handle of the light switch the master switch, which the working girl had warned her of earlier and she plunged the factory into darkness. Immediately she dropped to all fours as shots rang out and bullets ricocheted off the metal plate above her.

    'Stop shooting!' ordered Brighton. 'There's nowhere she can go. Get the lights back on.'

    Colette could see nothing except the glass measuring cup of radio- luminescent paint in Brighton's hands, glowing greenish yellow, casting an eerie light on his nose and chin. She darted to him, seized the cup with both hands, and threw the paint in his face.

    'Get it off me!' yelled Brighton. 'Get it off!'

    Colette rushed to the far wall, which had four great windows in it. The dimmest hint of light was coming back to the factory floor. Samuels had thrown the master switch, but the overhead lamps, with their thick filaments, only gradually came to life. Samuels stood next to Brighton with a handkerchief, trying vainly to rub the glowing paint off his employer's face.

    'Never mind!' said Brighton. 'Where is she?'

    Colette picked up one of the girls' stools and smashed it into the windowpanes, opening a gaping hole. Samuels fired in her direction, but the darkness saved her. She scrambled out of the window, the leather gloves preventing the glass shards from cutting her too deeply, and let herself drop to the street below. Heedless of direction, heart pounding, Colette ran from the factory. She didn't hear anyone pursuing her; still she ran on.

    Turning a corner, she found herself on a short, narrow, empty street without a single streetlight. She came to a small park. She ran across it, under several trees, until she reached an old, high, massive stone building with wooden doors. It was Trinity Church. She was at a side entrance: the doors were locked. Breathing hard from running, she beat on the doors with all her might, but no one answered. Again she ran off into the night.

    'Got to go to Grand Central,' said Littlemore to Younger as they walked down Wall Street toward the subway station at the corner of Broadway, where, directly facing them at the end of Wall Street, the dim Gothic spires of Trinity Church loomed up in the night sky. 'Want to come?'

    'I'm meeting Colette,' said Younger. 'Here at the church.'

    'Hope you aren't planning to take her some place fancy,' said Littlemore, looking at Younger's scarred clothing.

    'Strange - where is she? She should have been here by now.' They were still a half block from the church, but there was a streetlamp outside its entrance, where Younger had expected Colette to be waiting.

    'Say, how's the Miss doing?' asked Littlemore. 'Wasn't she meeting some bigwig tonight?'

    'Arnold Brighton.'

    'No kidding. You know, I wonder if-'

    Littlemore had not finished this sentence when Colette came running frantically around the side of the church. She stopped at the iron lamppost, body heaving for lack of breath. Younger called out her name.

    'Stratham?' she answered, full of alarm. Although Colette was visible to the two men, they were in darkness, invisible to her. She set off toward the sound of Younger's voice. 'Thank God.'

    The twin doors of Trinity Church burst open, revealing an arched portal flooded with light from within the church. Beneath that arch stood Arnold Brighton, his face a glowing chartreuse orb, his eyes starkly white by contrast. Next to him was Samuels.

    'There she is!' cried Brighton, pointing to the figure running down Wall Street. 'Shoot her!'

    Samuels fired. Colette disappeared from below one streetlight and reappeared below the next. She hadn't been hit. Younger stepped forward to gather her in, trying to put his back between her and the gunfire even as Samuels fired twice more. Colette fell hard into Younger's arms. He whirled her off her feet and carried her into the darkness of a storefront alcove.

    Littlemore had taken cover behind a mailbox, checking all his pockets for a gun, but he had none, having lost his firearm underground. Now he scrambled on all fours to Younger as Samuels's bullets flew over his head. 'Is she all right?' he asked.

    'I'm fine,' answered Colette, still in Younger's arms. Samuels held his fire, evidently unable to see his targets.

    'You with the girl,' said a different voice directly behind them, boyish but trying to sound commanding. 'Let her go.'

    Younger turned. The speaker was a fresh-faced soldier who had come running to investigate the gunshots. He pointed a rifle nervously at Younger, its bayonet much closer to his chest than Younger liked.

    'Are you there, Miss Rousseau?' Brighton called out from the glaringly illuminated arch. 'Samuels, do you see her?'

    'Oh, give me that,' muttered Younger to the soldier. In one motion, he set Colette on her feet, seized the boy's rifle, kneeled, took aim at the doorway of Trinity Church, and fired. His shot hit Samuels in the joint of his shoulder, nearly amputating his arm.

    'You got him, Doc,' said Littlemore.

    'Did I?' Younger shifted his aim just slightly.

    Samuels fell to his knees, blood flowing prodigiously from his subclavian artery.

    'What's the matter with you?' asked Brighton, looking down at his secretary with a mixture of perplexity and indignation. 'It's only one arm. Shoot with the other.'

    Younger fired again.

    Brighton's eyes opened wide. A dark red circle appeared in the middle of his green forehead. 'Oh, my,' said Brighton, before collapsing.

    Younger threw the rifle to the soldier's feet. 'How quickly can you get us an ambulance?' he asked Littlemore. 'Colette's hurt.'

    She was in fact badly cut on her legs, and her long-sleeved gloves were ripped in several places, revealing lacerations to her palms and forearms.

    'I'll find a car,' said Littlemore, sprinting away. Within a minute, a dozen soldiers were running down Wall Street toward Trinity Church, where the bodies of Brighton and Samuels lay bleeding, and Littlemore had returned in Secretary Houston's Packard. Younger made Colette get inside.

    'But they're only scratches,' she protested.

    'We're going to a hospital,' said Younger, lowering himself next to her in the backseat.

    She looked at him and smiled. 'All right. If you think we should.'

    'Which hospital, Doc?' asked Littlemore, behind the wheel.

    'Washington Square,' said Younger. 'Wait - I thought you were going to stop a war tonight. Did you?'

    'Not yet,' answered Littlemore.

    'Well, go stop it.' The two men looked at each other. 'Someone else can drive. She'll be all right. Go.'

    'Thanks,' said Littlemore, who persuaded Houston's chauffeur to drive the car.

    As they set off, Colette rested her head on Younger's shoulder. She didn't see him wince. 'It's finally over, isn't it?' she asked.

    'Yes,' he answered. 'I think it is.'

    It wasn't until Younger had failed to respond to the next several things she said that she noticed his closed eyes and touched the back of his shirt and felt it dampening with blood. Colette screamed at the driver to hurry.

    At Grand Central Terminal, under the celestial ceiling of the main concourse, Littlemore found Officer Stankiewicz in plain clothes, together with Edwin Fischer, waiting for him at the round central information booth, which was capped by a gold sphere with clocks on all four sides. Littlemore shook hands with Stankiewicz, thanking him for doing unofficial duty. 'Everything okay?' asked Littlemore.

    'So far, so good,' said Stankiewicz.

    'Anybody make you?' asked Littlemore.

    'Hard to tell up here, Cap. Too many people.'

    Littlemore nodded. The station was bustling with the comers and goers of a Saturday night in New York City. A constant din of loudspeaker crackle filled the concourse with announcements of train numbers, destinations, and tracks.

    'Okay, Stanky,' said Littlemore, 'you're going to Commissioner Enright's place. He's expecting you. Here's the address. And bust it; there's no time to lose. When you get back, meet me downstairs exactly where I showed you. Fischer, you're coming with me.'

    Littlemore glanced around the concourse, then tapped his knuckles on the information counter. The attendant, whom the detective greeted by name, shuffled to a gate and let Littlemore and Fischer in.

    'Why are we going in the information booth?' asked Fischer. 'Are we looking for information?'

    'We're going down to the lower level. If they've got people watching the stairs and ramps, they won't see us.'

    In the center of the round booth was a gold pillar with a sliding door, which Littlemore opened. The detective cleared away boxes of old schedules, revealing a narrow spiral staircase.

    'A hidden stairwell,' said Fischer. 'I didn't know this was here.'

    'You're in for a lot of surprises tonight,' replied Littlemore.

    The spiral stairs led past a landing littered with empty liquor bottles. When they arrived at the bottom, they were behind another, smaller information window. Littlemore opened it and joined the throng of passengers in Grand Central's lower level. He led Fischer to an intersection of two broad and crowded corridors, where Officer Roederheusen, also in plain clothes, was waiting in an inconspicuous corner under a tiled, vaulted ceiling. Across the gallery was the Oyster Bar.

    'They still in there?' Littlemore asked.

    'Yes, sir,' said Roederheusen. 'Still eating.'

    'Anybody see you?'

    'No, sir.'

    'Good job,' said Littlemore. 'Fischer, you and I are going to wait here until the Commissioner comes. Spanky, you go down to Washington Square Hospital on Ninth and see how Miss Rousseau's doing. Just stay put there unless Doc Younger needs anything, in which case you get it for him.'

    Twenty minutes later, Stankiewicz returned with Commissioner Enright.

    'This had better be good, Littlemore,' said Enright.

    'It will be, Commissioner,' replied Littlemore. 'Stand right here, sir. Keep an ear to the wall. You too, Fischer, just like we talked about. Don't move.'

    'An ear to the wall?' repeated Enright indignantly.

    'Yes, sir. Keep your ear right here.'

    The detective crossed the lower-level concourse, wending through the crush of bustling passengers, many of them carrying on in extraordinarily loud voices, as New Yorkers like to do. When he got to the Oyster Bar's entrance, he turned around, confirming that he could no longer see Enright, Roederheusen, or Fischer, who, on the other side of the wide and busy gallery, must have been almost a hundred feet away. Littlemore ducked into the restaurant.

    He found them at a table covered with nacreous and crustacean remains: Senator Fall, Mrs Cross, and William McAdoo, the former Treasury Secretary who was now a lawyer. No bottles were visible, but it was clear from the Senator's exuberance that considerable drink had been consumed with the repast.

    'Agent Littlemore!' cried Fall. 'Savior of his country. Exposer of corruption. You've missed dinner. You've missed great tidings. You've

    - you look ridiculous, son. What have you been doing, spelunking?'

    'I need to talk to you, Mr Fall,' said Littlemore.

    'Talk away. I think you're getting cold feet, boy, I really do.'

    'Can we speak alone, Mr Senator?' replied Littlemore, still standing.

    'Anything you want to say to me, Littlemore, you can say in front of my friends.'

    'Not this.'

    Fall was irritated, but he stood up. 'All right. I'm coming. But first give me one more dose of that dark medicine, woman.'

    Mrs Cross inconspicuously removed a flask from her purse and put a splash into Senator Fall's glass. She topped off Mr McAdoo's as well. 'Whiskey, Agent Littlemore?' she asked.

    The detective shook his head and, after Fall had downed his drink, led the Senator out of the crowded restaurant. He stopped at a discreet spot against the wall in the terminal concourse, a few feet from the doors of the Oyster Bar. 'I know who stole the gold, Mr Fall,' said Littlemore.

    'The Mexicans,' replied Fall. 'You already figured that out.'

    'Not the Mexicans, sir.'

    'Houston?'

    'It was Lamont,' said Littlemore.

    'Impossible.'

    'I saw the gold tonight. In the basement of the Morgan Bank.'

    'Keep your voice down,' whispered Fall. 'You tell anybody yet?'

    'Yes, sir,' said Littlemore quietly.