The Death Instinct

'Seems your boss, Secretary Milksop, complained to President Wilson today that I was interfering with his investigation. I figured we should find a more out-of-the-way place to powwow.' Fall began walking up the street, with Littlemore at his side and the Senator's car following slowly behind them. 'What do you know about these two boys that Flynn's after?'

'What two boys?' asked Littlemore.

'Couple of Italians up in Boston. What the hell are their names? All I can think of is a sack of spaghetti.'

'Sacco and Vanzetti?'

'That's it,' said Fall.

'They were arrested for murdering a payroll clerk,' said Littlemore. 'What's Flynn got to do with them?'

'He thinks they're the political prisoners from the anarchist circulars.'

'That's crazy,' said Littlemore. 'When Reds say political prisoners, they mean Debs and the other anti-war guys Palmer and Big Bill put behind bars. Everybody knows that. You'd have to be some kind of boneheaded anarchist to say "Free the political prisoners" if you wanted to free two guys arrested for killing a payroll clerk in Boston. Nobody would know what you meant.'

'Well, Flynn's got something on them,' said Fall. 'He's planted an informant in their cell.'

'Where's he getting these ideas? He's not smart enough to be that stupid all by himself.'

'I was hoping you'd know. Now this house here -' Fall pointed to a large but run-down corner house – 'this one used to belong to a gal named Hall. Served Piper champagne in crystal glasses. Rich as us senators. They still tell stories about her girls. Well, it all played out like I said, didn't it? You found out the Russians were involved in the bombing, and Secretary Milksop buried it.'

'I didn't find Russian involvement, Mr Senator.'

'If the bombers used even a few bars of Russian metal to trick Customs, that's Russian involvement. How do you think the bombers got their hands on Soviet gold? I'll bet the whole crew of that Swedish ship turns out to be Russian.'

'Do you know everything I say to Mr Houston?' asked Littlemore.

'Pretty much. Walls have ears in this town, Littlemore. Got to know what the other guy knows if you want to stay ahead of him.'

'We're not sure the Swedish ship has the stolen gold,' said Littlemore.

'And Houston ain't going to lift a finger to find out, is he? Well, I am. I already talked to Baker, the Secretary of War. He'll speak with his old friend Daniels, the Navy Secretary. I'll have a couple of warships on that Swedish ocean liner within forty-eight hours. We'll know soon enough what she's carrying.'

Littlemore chewed his toothpick. 'That's impressive, Mr Senator.'

'We're the United goddamn States of America. What are we supposed to do after they bomb the crap out of us? Wring our hands? Turn the other cheek? Hope they just go away?' Fall signaled his driver and spat on the pavement, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. 'This damn Mexican situation's heating up. They're too greedy, these Mexicans. What do they want to take all our oil for? It's going to take some serious ambassadoring to keep Harding out of trouble.'

'What will Harding want to do, sir?'

'Whatever I tell him. 'The Senator stepped into his car. 'I'll let you know what we find on the Swede. Mrs Cross will give you a lift back. You should get to know her. Not as tough as she pretends.'

'How long you been working for Senator Fall?' Littlemore asked Mrs Cross as she drove past row after row of the bunker-like, concrete, 'temporary' War and Navy buildings squatting on the Mall – temporary by official description, permanent by appearance.

'A few years. I work for several of the senators. Mr Harding, for example.'

'For Harding? Wow.'

'I do quite a lot for Mr Harding. On loan from Senator Fall, of course.'

'You could end up in the White House.'

'I've ended up in the White House many times.'

Littlemore thought that over. 'You got a first name, Mrs Cross?'

'Grace.'

'Nice name.'

'It's a state I left long ago. Everyone leaves their home state when they come to Washington. Here we are. The Willard Hotel. Good night, New York.'

The next morning, Littlemore received a telephone call in his closet- sized office at the United States Treasury. The operator informed him that New York City was calling. It turned out to be Officer Stankiewicz from police headquarters.

'What is it, Stanky?' said Littlemore.

'It's Fischer, Cap,' said Stankiewicz. 'He keeps calling and calling and sending wires for you. Says you're supposed to be getting him out of the sanitarium.'

'Oh, for the love of Pete,' replied Littlemore.

'He says you were going to talk with his brother-in-law – a guy named, what was it, Bishop or something? Anything you want me to do?'

'Just ignore him. He'll stop.'

'Okay. How's Washington?'

'Wait a second,' said Littlemore. '"Bishop or something"? Did the name sound like Bishop, or did it remind you of Bishop?'

'Yeah, Bishop or something.'

'No, I'm asking you if – do me a favor. Go get Fischer's file. I'll hold.'

A few minutes later, Stankiewicz was back on the line: 'Got it.'

'Okay, find me the name of Fischer's brother-in-law,' said Littlemore. 'He's the guy who went to Canada and had Fischer locked up as a lunatic. His name should be on the Canadian papers.'

'Okay, here it is: Pope. Robert Pope. That's why I thought Bishop.'

'How do you like that?' said Littlemore. 'The Popes.'

The Treasury's personnel department was located on the second floor. Littlemore was already familiar with it; he had been poring over personnel files for three weeks. 'Say, Molly,' he asked one of the girls in that office, 'is Treasury in charge of the Secret Service?'

'Sure is,' said Molly. 'Why?'

'A guy said that to me a couple of weeks ago, and I didn't believe him,' replied Littlemore. 'Seems he was right about a lot of things.'

A few minutes later, Littlemore was upstairs in a filing room flipping through decades of United States Secret Service employment records. He knew in advance he would eventually find the name he was looking for, improbable though it was. And he did.

The folder was virtually empty, containing only a bare indication of the year of hiring and the location of service. The year was 1916, the place New York City. After that, a few more dates were penciled in, terminating in late 1917.

Littlemore dropped the manila folder on Secretary Houston's desk. 'It might have helped, sir,' said Littlemore, 'if you'd mentioned to me that the one man trying to warn people about the bombing was an employee of ours.'

Houston reacted with astonishment.

'You didn't know Ed Fischer was an agent?' asked Littlemore.

'I had no idea. I told you – I only became Secretary in February of this year.'

'How does somebody get to be an agent?'

'The Director of the Secret Service makes those hires.'

'Who's the director?'

'Bill Moran.'

'Can I talk to him?'

Houston called for his secretary and ordered him to find Mr Moran. In the ensuing silence, Houston stood at a window, hands crossed behind his back, surveying the White House grounds. 'I won't miss this job, Littlemore. How am I supposed to balance an eight-billion-dollar budget with revenues of four billion? We live beyond our means. Neither a borrower nor a lender be – that's what my father told me. Now that's all I do – borrow and lend.'

'You're not going to miss being a Cabinet member? You're on top of the world, Mr Houston.'

'What, because I hosted a dinner for the British Ambassador last night? My wife likes that sort of thing. I can't stand it. Every word out of one's mouth a lie. Well, it will all be over in five months, when Harding takes office. I may resign sooner. Go abroad. Yes, I think I might.'

Houston's secretary came back in with William Moran, head of the United States Secret Service. Mr Moran positively denied having hired Edwin Fischer. 'There – you see,' said Moran, looking at the file. 'Fischer was hired in 1916. I didn't take over until the next year.'