The Death Instinct

'Who was the director before you?' asked Houston.

'Flynn was.'

'Flynn?' repeated Littlemore. 'Not Big Bill Flynn?'

'Sure,' said Moran. 'Before he became Chief of the Bureau, Bill Flynn was head of the Secret Service.'

On November 2, 1920, having run full tilt through the vast, echoing Union Station to make his train, Littlemore settled into his seat, breathing hard, and realized that it was Election Day. He further realized that he wouldn't be voting. His train would arrive in Manhattan well after the polls had closed. The thought caused him a surprisingly sharp pang of disappointment.

As the train passed one small town after another, Littlemore felt an inexplicable sympathy: with the small frame houses, with the smoke rising from their chimneys, with the little piles of firewood stacked outside, residue of a man's labor – sympathy with all the quiet, hard, uncounted lives of which no stories would ever be written. Then Littlemore imagined the citizenry in each of these towns lining up to vote for their country's leaders. It filled him with pride – and with a sense of estrangement at missing it for the first time. But then Littlemore was not even certain he was entitled to vote. Technically he might now be a resident of the District of Columbia, and Washingtonians did not vote for the nation's president.

Not that his vote mattered. That was the oddity of democracy: nothing mattered more than voting, and voting didn't matter. In any event, Warren Harding, the Republican, was certain to win; the Democratic candidate, James Cox, had about as much chance as Eugene Debs, the Socialist candidate, who was still in prison. Which meant that Secretary Houston, a Democrat, would not be a secretary much longer, while the Republican Senator Fall would soon be Secretary of State.

Women all across America celebrated on that November Tuesday, when for the first time they exercised the national suffrage. At many polling booths, men stepped aside to make way for the womenfolk as an act of courtesy, but the women wouldn't have it, insisting on taking their place in line and waiting as long as the men had to. Back home in their kitchens and parlors, they gathered in little groups, treating themselves to sparkling cider, a lawful substitute for prohibited champagne.

Blacks were not received quite so chivalrously at the polls; nor did the revelry subsequent to their voting have the same genteel character. When, for example, two black men had the temerity to exercise their suffrage in Ocoee, Florida, the Ku Klux Klan decided to set an example. Two black churches were sacked, a black neighborhood was burned to the ground, and some thirty or sixty black people were killed, one of them strung up a telephone pole and hanged by the neck.

But the country elected itself a new president, and there was great festivity and a galvanization of energies throughout the land.

Back in New York, the next day, Littlemore paid another visit to the Federal Bureau of Investigation's temporary field offices at the Astor Hotel.

'Look what the cat drug in,' said Bill Flynn, Chief of the Bureau. 'It's Littleboy.'

'I need to ask you some questions, Flynn. About Ed Fischer.'

Flynn addressed the two large, dark-suited men who, as always, stood on either side of his desk. 'A New York cop wants to ask me questions? Is this jerk-off looking to get his head busted in?'

'Hey jerk-off,' inquired one of Flynn’s deputies, 'are you looking to get your head busted in?'

Littlemore displayed his United States Treasury badge.

'Let me see that,' said Flynn. He inspected the badge. 'World's going down the toilet, that's all I got to say.' He threw the badge onto the floor at Littlemore's feet. 'Too bad I don't answer to T-men.'

'You'll answer to me, Flynn.' Littlemore handed him a letter, signed by Secretary David Houston of the United States Treasury, instructing Flynn to respond fully to any questions Special Agent Littlemore might ask concerning Flynn s tenure as Director of the Secret Service. Flynn read the letter, then let it too fall to the floor.

'I got news for you, hotshot,' he said. 'I don't take orders from Secretary Houston either. I take my orders from General Palmer. Get out of here.'

Littlemore took another letter from his pocket. This one was signed by Attorney General A. Mitchell Palmer.

'Son of a bitch,' said Flynn. He spoke to his deputies again: 'Okay, you boys clear out.'

'Have one of them pick up my badge first,' replied Littlemore.

'What are you goons standing around for?' Flynn said to his deputies. 'Pick up the man's badge.'

'Okay, so I hired him,' Flynn acknowledged several minutes later. 'So what? The guy was a nut-ball.'

'How'd you meet him?'

Big Bill Flynn, whose barrel chest and gut didn't need any additional fortification, unwrapped a red-and-white-striped candy from the bowl of treats that sat on his desk. 'Fischer starts sending letters to Wilson in 1916, okay? Your usual anti-war garbage. But there's something funny about them, like he knew the President personally. So I send a couple of my boys to check him out and tell him to knock it off if he doesn't want to end up in jail. You know.'

'Sure.'

'So my boys tell me the guy is soft in the head, but he works for the French in one of their outfits.'

'The French High Mission.'

'That's it – leave it to the Frogs to hire a nut-ball, huh?' Flynn's torso heaved with mirth at his riposte.

'Only a moron would hire a nut-ball,' agreed Littlemore.

'Yeah, that's a good one, only a moron would-' Flynn interrupted himself, comprehension dawning. 'Why, I ought to-'

'How'd you get involved?'

Flynn grumbled, but continued: 'When I heard where Fischer worked, I figured it couldn't hurt to have somebody planted in French governmentary circles. So I played the guy, buttered him up, told him he could be an agent for the Secret Service. Told him he was a spy. You know, the whole drill. When I took over the Bureau, I kept him on the string. But the guy was cracked. I never got anything from him. Saw him no more than half a dozen times. Total waste.'

'Where would you meet him?' asked Littlemore.

'Why?'

'Just answer the question, Flynn.'

'Here in New York. Train station.'

'When was the last time?'

'This summer. June or July. After the Convention. General Palmer sent McAdoo to meet with some Republicans at Grand Central to see if they could work something out. Fischer was totally off the deep end. Never saw him again.'

'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.