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.