'Too bad about Roosevelt,' said Younger. Unlike the detective, who said Roos-velt, Younger pronounced it Rose-a-velt, as did the Roosevelts. 'What killed T.R. — the bullet they never got out of his chest?'
'No,' said Younger. 'It was his malaria.'
'You ever meet him?' asked Littlemore.
'Once or twice,' said Younger. 'He was a cousin.'
'Everybody's your cousin.'
'Not by blood. And very distant. I'm better acquainted with his i la lighter Alice. That is, I was — briefly — acquainted with her.'
'Don't tell me.'
Younger said nothing.
'Darn it, Doc — Roosevelt's daughter?' cried Littlemore. 'And a beauty girl? Why didn't you marry her?'
'For one thing she had a husband.'
'Doc, Doc, Doc,' said Littlemore. 'T.R.'s daughter. Was this before or after you and Nora?'
'A notorious philanderer,' added Younger. 'You're no philanderer.' 'I meant Alice's husband. But thank you.' 'You're more of a womanizer.'
'Ah. A fine distinction,' said Younger. 'I'm not a womanizer. I don't sleep with them. Unless I like them. Which is rarely. You don't — stray?'
'Me?' Littlemore laughed. 'I always ask what my dad would do. He would never have done something like that, so I don't.'
'How is he — your dad?'
'Good. I still visit with him most every weekend.' Littlemore drummed his fingers on the table. 'What kind of name is Drobac anyway?' Colette had told the police that the kidnapper who escaped — the leader of the three men — had been called Drobac by his confederates. 'And why'd he ask us, "Where are they"? Where are what?'
'Why did he kill his own man?' rejoined Younger.
'That's easy — to keep him from talking.' Littlemore put his heels up on the table, and his voice changed tone. 'But you know what I really don't get?'
'What exactly I'm doing with Colette,' said Younger.
'You bring her back from France,' said Littlemore, warming to the theme, 'but you got her living in Connecticut. You go crazy when she disappears, but you act, I don't know, all proper when she's around.'
'You're wondering when I plan to propose.'
'Why'd you bring her across the Atlantic otherwise? Unless you plan to ruin her.'
'You seem anxious about my marital prospects tonight.'
'Well, are you or aren't you?' asked Littlemore.
'Planning to ruin her? Tried that already,' said Younger. He took a long drink. 'Want to hear about it?'
'Sure.'
Chapter Five
In October 1917, Lieutenant Dr Stratham Younger was transferred to the American field hospital in Einville, not far from Nancy, where US Army troops had finally been deployed in the front lines. At that time American soldiers served under French command; Younger ended up treating more Frenchmen than Americans. Throughout the harsh winter and the following spring, attached to the First Division and later to the Second, Younger traversed the Western Front, assigned wherever the need was greatest: the Saint-Mihiel salient, Seicheprey, Chaumont-en-Vexin, Cantigny, the Bois de Belleau.
It was there, near the woods of Belleau, on the outskirts of Chateau- Thierry, that he met Colette.
Dawn was breaking. With a reddening sky came a lull in the savage bombardments of the night. Younger, on foot, emerged from the woods into an open field, dragging a wounded old French corporal to the medical compound. The compound was intact — white tents, tables, and instrument chests all in place — but not a doctor or orderly was III sight. The medical staff had obviously decamped in a hurry.
Noises came from across the field. French infantrymen had gathered at a Red Cross truck. They reminded Younger of children crowding around an ice-cream van, except for an air of male wildness about them.
With the corporal's arm draped over his shoulder, Younger crossed the field through pockets of mist clinging to the rutted soil. A young woman stood outside the truck, hemmed in by a semicircle of boisterous men. Her back to them, she leaned through a window into the cab of the truck. The men called out — in French, which Younger understood invented maladies and mock pleas for treatment. One of them, with a particularly raucous voice, begged the girl to reach inside his shirt; his heart, he said, was pounding and swelling dangerously.
The girl emerged from the cab, a brown bag in her hands. She was slim, graceful, dark-haired, about twenty years old, chin held high, eyes unnaturally green. Dressed in a plain wool skirt and light blue sweater, she was evidently not a nurse.
She spoke to the men. Younger couldn't hear what she said, but he saw her toss her bag to the loudmouthed one, who caught it, dropping his rifle in order to do so, which provoked laughter from the others. The girl spoke again. One by one the men fell silent and, abashed, began skulking away. She had no air of triumph. She looked — weary. Beautiful, distracted, and weary. As the infantrymen dispersed, only Younger was left standing, the wounded corporal resting heavily on a shoulder of his filthy uniform. The girl saw Younger, staring at her. She brushed a lock of hair from her face.
Laying the corporal on the grass — an ancient-looking fellow, with a leather face and grizzled hair, one hand clutching his stomach — Younger strode toward the girl, who drew back a step instinctively. He passed her without a glance and opened the truck's door. Inside he saw two things that surprised him. The first was a boy, no more than eight, sitting in the rear of the cabin, reading a book in the shadows. The second was a complex radiological apparatus, complete with a large glass plate, heavy curtains, and gas ampoules.
Younger turned to the girl. 'Where's your boyfriend?' he asked in French.
'What?'
'Where's the man who operates this X-ray machine?'
'I operate it,' she answered in English.
He looked her up and down: You're one of Madame Curie's girls.'
'Yes.'
'Well, get to work. Unless you want this corporal to die.'
'It's pointless,' she said. 'There's no surgeon. They're all gone.'
'Just make him ready by nightfall.' Younger went to the corporal, said a few low words in the man's ear, and disappeared into the woods the way he had come.
The moon had risen when Younger returned. He found the encampment as it had been that morning: intact but deserted. One of the tents was illuminated by electric light. The truck was parked next to it, engine on, a set of cables running from the vehicle along the ground into the tent. The girl was using the truck's motor for power.
Younger lifted the tent's flap and walked in. All was prepared. The old corporal, whose name was Dubeney, lay asleep on an operating table, face washed, hair combed. Instruments were neatly laid out. Basins of water were at hand. The girl rose from a chair. The little boy was at her feet, still reading. Without a word, she retrieved a set of radiograms and mathematical computations, which she handed to Younger.
He held up the plates to one of the bare electric bulbs. Against a background of white bones and grayish viscera, small black dots and balls stood out with remarkable clarity. When a man took shot in the gut, the greatest danger was not organ damage; it was blood poisoning. In the old days, recovering every fragment of shot was virtually hopeless, and the man was likely to die. With a good set of radiograms, properly computed, any competent surgeon could save him.
Younger washed his hands, wrists, face, and forearms. He took a long time at it, rinsing the dirt and blood from his mind as well as his skin. Meanwhile the girl applied more chloroform to Corporal Dubeney, who pushed at her hands ineffectually until slipping off again. Younger set to work, the silence broken only by his requests for instruments and, a short time after his incision was made, the occasional plank of a metal fragment dropping into a ceramic bowl.