no one would overhear them. Thick smoke curled around the armchairs and wafted into the coffered ceiling.
'He's a banking man,' Lamont went on, almost whispering. 'A foreigner. Before the war, he was the second wealthiest financier in New York — second to J. P. Morgan, Sr, that is. How he hated Morgan for it. Now he's fallen down, and he blames us for his misfortune. It's ludicrous. He's German, a personal friend of the Kaiser's. His house funded the Kaiser's armies. Naturally his lines of credit dried up when our country declared war against his. What did he expect? But he seems to believe there's a conspiracy even now to deny him funds and that we are its masterminds. He threatened me.'
Lamont looked positively fearful.
'What kind of threat?' asked Littlemore.
'It was at our Democratic campaign dinner. No, it was our Republican dinner — for Harding. We do them both, of course. At any rate, he drew me aside and told me to 'watch out' — I'm quoting him, Captain — to 'watch out' because 'there are those who don't like it when one of the houses combines with the others to deny men capital.''
'You say he funded the German army?'
'Unquestionably,' said Lamont. 'Clandestine, of course. You won't find his name on any documents. If you ask him, he'll tell you he loves this country. But he feels no loyalty to us. I doubt he is loyal to any country, even his own. It's in their nature, you know. A Bolshevik, in fact.'
'Wait a minute,' replied Littlemore. 'You're saying the guy's a banker, a friend of the Kaiser-'
'Why, the Kaiser knighted the man. He received the German Cross of the Red Eagle.'
'And a Bolshevik?' asked Littlemore.
'He's a Jew,' Lamont explained.
Roars of laughter erupted across the room. A butler approached.
'Oh, a Jew,' said Littlemore. 'Now I get it. What's his name?'
The butler bent toward Lamont and said, 'The gentleman is back, sir.'
'For heaven's sake, tell him I'm not here,' answered Lamont in obvious annoyance.
'I'm afraid he knows you're here, sir,' said the butler.
'Well, tell him to go away. I don't come to my club to do business. Tell him he must see me at my office.' To Littlemore, he added: 'The new financial agent for Mexico. Won't take no for an answer.'
'The man's name, Mr Lamont,' said Littlemore.
'Senor Pesqueira, I believe. Why?'
'Not him. The man who threatened you.'
'Oh. Speyer. Mr James Speyer.'
'Do you know where I can find him?'
'That's why I asked you here. You may be able to converse with Mr Speyer tonight.'
'He's a member?' asked Littlemore.
'At the Bankers and Brokers?' returned Lamont, incredulous. 'Certainly not. Mr Speyer likes to dine at Delmonico's, which is open to the public. I'm told he's there tonight. It may be your last chance.'
'Why?'
'They say he means to leave the country tomorrow.'
In New Haven, Connecticut, Colette and Luc Rousseau had also attended church that Sunday, near the stately mansions of Hillhouse Avenue. On their way home, they walked around an old cemetery as overstuffed clouds hung thoughtlessly against a gaudy blue sky. Colette tried to hold her brother's hand, but he wouldn't have it.
After the sun had set, back in their small dormitory room, Colette wrote a letter:
19-9-1920
Dear Stratham:
As I write these words Luc is pretending to be you, swinging an imaginary baseball bat. Then he pretends to be that terrible man, jumping around with his hair on fire.
I don't think he minded being kidnapped. He wasn't afraid at all. In fact he is angry because I want to leave America. I would say he isn't speaking to me, if one could say such a thing of a boy who doesn't talk.
Have you found out who that girl was or examined her neck? I have the strangest feeling whenever I think about her. I wish she had just taken that awful watch and run away.
Stratham, you will not believe me when I tell you how much I don't want to go away. I told the girl who lives upstairs about my trip to New York: one bombing, one kidnapping, one knife throwing, one madwoman in a church. She said she would have died from fright. She said I must want to get out of the country as soon as I can. I don't. I want to stay.
But I made a vow, and I have to go. I know you will not like to hear it, but I've never felt about anyone the way I feel about Hans. Seeing him again is more important than anything in the world for me, even if I only see him once more. I'm sorry. But perhaps you won't care at all; I never know with you.
If you do care, I want to ask you something very foolish — a favor I hardly dare set down, given everything you've already done for me. I am the most ungrateful girl who ever lived. Please come with me to Vienna. That's the favor I ask. I truly expect to see Hans once and never again. Whatever happens, I will wish in my heart that you were there with me. Please say you'll come.
With all my affection, Colette
The air at Delmonico s was even thicker with smoke, but less crowded and much more subdued. In the main salon overlooking Fifth Avenue, Littlemore noticed that the usual profusion of diamond earrings and glittering crystal was not in evidence. The bombing remained the chief topic of conversation, but the stunned and speechless horror of September 16 was giving way, among some, to vitriol and rage.
'You know what we should do?' asked one man at a table for four. 'Shoot the Italians one by one until they tell us who did it.'
'Not all of them, Henry, surely.'
'Why not?' retorted Henry. 'If they bomb us, we kill them. Simple as that. That's the only way to stop a terrorist. Hit him where it hurts.'
'Why do they hate us so much?' asked a woman next to Henry.
'Who cares?'
'Deport them, I say,' declared the other man. 'Deport all the Italians, and there's the end of this ghastly bombing. They contribute nothing to society in any event.'
'What about the Delmonicos?' asked the other woman. 'Don't they contribute?'
'Deport all Italians except the Delmonicos!' cried the man, raising a glass in a mock toast.
'No, my steak is overcooked — Delmonico must go too!' cried Henry. The table broke out in laughter. The diners were evidently unaware that the Delmonicos no longer owned Delmonico's.
The headwaiter approached Littlemore. Asking for Mr James Speyer, the detective was led to an interior garden, where stained-glass windows ran from floor to ceiling. At a corner table a man sat alone — a man of about sixty, with hair still mostly black and the doleful eyes of a basset hound. The detective approached the table.
'Name's Littlemore,' said Littlemore. 'New York Police Department. Mind if I sit down?'
'Ah,' said Speyer. 'Finally a face to put on the law. Why would I mind? No man likes to dine alone.' Speyer's accent was distinctly German; before him were the plates and glasses of a fully consumed meal. He went on: 'You know what you've done? You've destroyed this establishment.'
Mr Speyer was evidently inebriated.
'I have a joke with the waiter,' he went on. 'I ask if they have any terrapin. I would never eat it, but I ask. He says no, the terrapin's eighty-sixed; you can't cook terrapin without wine. So I order the porterhouse Bordelaise. He says the Bordelaise is eighty-sixed, because that's illegal as well. We go on and on. Finally I ask him what he does have. He says try an eighty-six.'
Littlemore said nothing.
'An eighty-six — the plain grilled rib-eye,' explained Speyer. 'The one they always used to run out of. Now it's the only thing you can get. Because everything else is Prohibited.'
'We don't make the laws, mister,' said Littlemore. 'I'd like to ask you a couple of questions.'
