This was not a bird's-eye view. It was the view of a god witnessing America's breach of the first axiom of divinity, the separation of earth from heaven.
Behind them, the heavy oak doors swung open again, discharging another elevator load of visitors onto the deck. Among the newcomers was a man in a fedora pulled low over his forehead. He walked with a limp, and his clean-shaven face was mottled with scarlet patches — burn marks of some kind.
As the reporters field out of his office, Big Bill Flynn sat down behind a large oak desk, taking up a fountain pen like a man with important documents to sign, although in fact the only papers on his desk were newspapers. Two dark-suited assistants stood behind him, one on either side of his desk, hands behind their backs, feet apart.
Littlemore remained in his seat, toothpick protruding from his mouth, examining one of the handbills. 'Isn't that funny?' he asked of no one in particular, after the last newsman had left.
Flynn addressed one of his deputies: 'What is this guy, deaf?'
'Hey, buddy, you deaf?' asked the deputy.
''Or it will be sure death for all of you,'' said Littlemore, quoting the hand-stamped message. 'That's what I call a threat, because it says something's going to happen. But how about what already happened? I mean, if you were leaving behind a message after you blew up Wall Street, wouldn't you say something about what you just pulled off? You know, maybe ominous, like 'Today was just the beginning.' Or throw in a little taunt, like maybe, ' We took down Wall Street, next we'll come for all streets.''
The detective had sung the last words, to the tune of 'Ring Around the Rosey.'
'Who the hell is this guy?' asked Flynn.
'Who the hell are you?' asked a deputy.
'Captain James Littlemore,' said Littlemore. 'NYPD, Homicide. Commissioner Enright asked me to be the Department's liaison officer with the Bureau. I'm supposed to offer you our services.'
'Oh yeah?' said Flynn. 'Well, there ain't going to be no liaison officer, because there ain't going to be no liaisoning. Now get out of here, will you?'
The second of Flynn s assistants leaned down and spoke softly into his superior's ear.
'You don't say,' said Flynn aloud. He leaned back in his chair. 'So you're the guy who turned up Fischer?'
'That's right,' said Littlemore.
'Think you got something there, do you, Littleboy?'
'Could be,' said Littlemore.
'I'll tell you what you got,' said Flynn. 'A crackpot. You'll be interviewing him inside an asylum.'
'I don't know about that,' said Littlemore.
'I do,' replied Flynn. 'He's in one now.'
'Where?'
'You want him. You find out.'
'How do you know?' asked Littlemore.
'Let's just say I got it out of the air,' said Flynn, his torso shaking again. His deputies seemed to consider this remark a witticism; they joined in his laughter.
'Well, I guess I got to congratulate you, Chief Flynn,' said Littlemore, returning to his scrutiny of the handbill, which he now held up in the light over his head. 'Never seen a case this big broken so fast.'
'That's why they pay us the big bucks,' said Flynn.
'Say, Chief,' said Littlemore, 'did you see all those soldiers outside the Treasury Building? I wonder what they're doing there.'
'They're there because I ordered them there,' said Flynn. 'Somebody's got to protect United States property when the police department's got its heads up its pants. Now scram.'
'Yes, sir,' said Littlemore. He stopped in front of the chalkboard map of lower Manhattan and scratched his head. 'Those anarchists, I'll tell you — how do you catch people who can do the impossible?' asked Littlemore.
'What's impossible?' said Flynn.
'Well, they leave their horse and wagon on Wall Street at 11:54 and walk four minutes to the mailbox at Cedar and Broadway — that's what you said, right? Mail gets picked up at 11:58. Bomb goes off at 12:01. How much time is there between 11:54 and 12:01?'
'Seven minutes, genius,' said Flynn.
'Seven minutes,' said Littlemore, shaking his head. 'Now that surprises me, Chief You think they'd leave their bomb ticking for seven whole minutes? I wouldn't hive. I mean, with the horse blocking traffic and all. If it were me, I'd have set my timer for one or two minutes. Because in seven minutes, somebody might move the horse out of there — maybe even discover the bomb.'
'Well, nobody did, did they?' barked Flynn. 'Nothing impossible about that. Get him out of here.'
'Maybe nobody moved the horse,' said Littlemore as the two deputies approached him, 'because it was only there two minutes.'
Flynn signaled his deputies to wait: 'What are you talking about?'
'My men took statements from a lot of folks who were there yesterday, Chief Flynn. Eyewitnesses. The horse and wagon pulled up on Wall Street only one or two minutes before the bomb exploded. Your anarchists, you got to hand it to them. They leave Wall Street at 11:59 or 12:00, and they get to Cedar and Broadway before 11:58, when the mailman picks up their circulars. How do you catch people who can do that?'
No one answered. Flynn stood up. He slicked back his oiled hair. 'So you're a captain, huh? How many men report to you? Six?'
'Enough,' said Littlemore, thinking of Officers Stankiewicz and Roederheusen.
'I got a thousand. And my men ain't like yours. There are two kinds of cops in the NYPD — the ones on the take, and the ones too stupid to realize that everybody else is on the take. Which kind are you?'
'Too stupid,' said Littlemore.
'You look it,' said Flynn. 'But not stupid enough to get in the way of my investigation. Are you?'
Littlemore went to the doorway. 'I don't know; I'm pretty stupid,' he said, shutting the door behind him.
Flynn turned to his deputies. 'Get me a file on that guy,' he said. 'Get me wife, friends, family — everything. And see if Hoover's got anything on him.'
Luc broke free from Younger and ran to the far side of the deck, which looked out on the water. Nearby, a pack of schoolboys shouted to one another about something they saw below. Luc ran toward them.
'Look at him,' said Younger. 'He understands what those boys are saying.'
'Not their words — how could he?' replied Colette.
'He can read the newspaper,' said Younger.
'In English? Impossible,' answered Colette. They stood side by side at the railing and gazed out onto the vast urban panorama. She put her hand on his. 'I wish I didn't have to go back.'
He removed his hand and took out a cigarette.
'You don't care if I leave?' she asked.
'I recommended you to Boltwood. You're leaving him with no one running his laboratory. Of course I care.'
'Oh. Well, I don't like your Professor Boltwood anyway. Do you know what he called Madame Curie the other day? A 'detestable idiot.''
'He's just jealous. Every chemist in the world is jealous of Marie Curie.'
'Men are very cruel when they're jealous.'
'Are they? I wouldn't know.'
No one glancing at the man who had limped into the center of the platform would have seen the dagger in his right hand, tucked invisibly against his inner sleeve. Colette herself might have turned around without recognizing Drobac, whose mass of whiskers was now shaved off. Only his eyes — the small, black, perceptive eyes peering out below his low-cocked hat — could have given him away He held the knife by its blade, one finger caressing its edge. There was no danger of his being cut: as with all good throwing knives, both of its edges were dull. The point alone was sharp.
An experienced practitioner of the knife-throwing art, if he intends to kill, will throw at the victim's heart. Of those organs whose puncturing is virtually certain to cause death, the heart is the largest — saving of course the brain, which is rendered inaccessible by the hard bone of the cranium. The victim's ribs might be thought a
