'My readers,' continued Tommy, 'feel a lot safer since you began rounding up the foreigners who are trying to take over this city.'
'Now that's how to be a newspaperman,' said Flynn. 'Listen good, the rest of you. Once we get our hands on the political prisoners, which we already got our hands on, we'll have this whole bombing wrapped up like a Christmas present. That's your story. Signed, sealed, and delivered. You print that.'
On Friday, October 15, Littlemore returned to Police Headquarters on Centre Street to pack up a few things. His men Roederheusen and Stankiewicz stopped in. They carried their hats as if attending a funeral.
'Spanky,' said Littlemore, shaking each by the hand. 'Stanky'
'We're going to miss you, Cap.'
'Knock it off,' said Littlemore. 'Now don't forget. The alley is the key — the alley between the Treasury and Assay Office. Look for people who ran into the street on September sixteenth, or went to their window, and saw a big truck carrying a massive load out of that alleyway onto Pine Street. That's how the bombers made their getaway.'
'Why would the bombers be in a truck?' asked Stankiewicz.
'Carrying a load of what?' asked Roederheusen.
'Can't tell you yet, boys,' said Littlemore. 'But find out what that truck looked like and where it went, and you can break this case. You know where to reach me.'
The officers put on their hats unenthusiastically. 'Say, Cap,' said Roederheusen on his way out, 'you asked me to locate that Mexican guy — Pesqueira? The consulate says he's gone. Left for Washington last week.'
'Not interested anymore, but thanks.' Littlemore strode down the corridor to Commissioner Enright's office, knowing it was likely to be the last time. He rapped at Enright's door and, when a voice from inside gave him permission, entered.
'Captain Littlemore,' said Enright from his desk. 'Not captain much longer, eh?'
'Already got sworn in down in Washington, Mr Enright. Just packing my things.'
The Commissioner nodded. 'I knew your father, Littlemore.'
'Yes, sir.'
'A good man. Imperfect, as we are all are. But a good man.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'Your badge, Captain. And your weapon.'
Littlemore placed his badge on Enright's desk. It hurt so much he almost couldn't let' it go. 'The gun's mine,' he said.
'Well, I'm not happy to do the formalities,' said Enright, 'but by the power vested in me as chief of the New York Police Department, I hereby revoke your commission. Mr Littlemore, you're no longer a member of the Force.' Littlemore said nothing. 'Do us proud, my boy,' said Enright.
Chapter Thirteen
After a day at sea, an ocean liner steaming out of New York becomes its own and only point of human reference. No other vessels interrupt the vast waters. Under a cloudless morning sky, Colette and Younger strolled the upper deck, the swell unsteady enough to make her accept his arm. The ship's engines set up a dull, churning roar behind them.
'What did they want with me?' she asked.
'The redheads or the kidnappers?'
'All of them.'
'The more I think about it,' said Younger, 'the more I think the note we got at the hotel — the note from Amelia — was a trap. Bait. We thought Amelia never came back to the hotel the next morning. But perhaps she did, with the kidnappers.'
'Why?'
'Maybe it's their business — kidnapping girls, selling them.'
'Selling them?'
'We have a term for it: white slavery. Perhaps they were going to lure you somewhere; Amelia would prey on your compassion, telling you she needed your help. They expected you to be alone. Instead I was with you. So they changed plans. They followed us to Wall Street. Amelia was caught in the bombing. But her friends kept watch, and when you went back to the hotel, they took you.'
'Why me?'
'Because you're a foreigner. No family in America, no connections. Young and beautiful would be further qualifications.'
'I am not beautiful. How would they know I was a foreigner with no family?'
'How did they know you lived in New Haven? Or that you were going to Hamburg? One thing is certain: they have money. Enough to investigate people.'
Unexpectedly, she rested her head on his shoulder. 'At least we're safe on this ship. I can feel it. I wish we never had to reach Europe.'
Younger had made inquiries with the ship's bursar, from whom he learned that he'd been the last one to buy tickets. Colette, it seemed, was right. The ship was safe; no one had followed them aboard. 'We don't have to get off when the ship gets to Bremen,' he suggested. 'We could stay on for the return voyage. At New York, we could stay on again. Go back and forth forever.'
'Don't say anything else,' she answered, closing her eyes. 'I'm going to dream about that.'
He looked at her lovely face: 'Yes, if I were running a white slavery ring, you'd be at the top of my list.'
Later that morning, Younger emptied onto the deck the contents of a large sack he'd brought along with his luggage. There was a baseball, a bat, a jumble of wooden pegs and metal plates, and assembly instructions. A half-hour later, he had constructed a batting tee — a freestanding pedestal for holding a baseball in place, about waist high, so that a batter can practice his swings at it. Younger then fashioned a bag of netting around the baseball, tying off this bag with a long cord of rope borrowed from a seaman. The other end of the rope Younger secured to a winch. He then set the bagged ball atop the tee and gave Luc a lesson in hitting. After each swing, they retrieved the baseball, soaking, by reeling in the rope.
Soon a good number of male passengers wanted a go, doffing their hats and undressing to their shirtsleeves to take their cracks. Naturally, the handful of other boys on the voyage were eager to try as well. Younger made them ask permission first from Luc, who solemnly granted it, and who for the rest of the journey thereby became an indispensable member of the little gang of boys, despite his muteness.
Of all the men and boys who had a go at the batter's tee that day, Younger hit the most towering drives. But the next morning several of the ship's seamen joined in. One of these was a muscular swab who had played for the Brooklyn Robins during the war and who, taking his shirt off altogether, packed so Ruthian a wallop into his first swing that the rope was not long enough. The netting broke; the ball was lost. Younger tried several substitutes — an orange, a globe of wood cut by the ship's carpenter, a golf ball lent to them by another passenger — but there's nothing quite like a baseball, and that was the end of that.
As the days of oceangoing passed one to the next, Younger found he couldn't make any further headway with Colette. His relations with her were intimate enough, but only in a friendly way. She was affectionate, but distant. And she became more so as they drew nearer to Europe.
Sometimes he would catch her staring out to sea into a future he couldn't penetrate. Or was it a past — a memory of falling in love with a devout, ailing soldier in Paris, to whom she had given her heart, and whom she hadn't seen for more than two years?
You're his hero, you know,' she said to him one day, coming out of such a reverie.
'Whose?'
'Luc's.'
'Am I?' said Younger. 'Who's yours?'
'I have two: Madame Curie and my father. I'm lucky that way. The Germans killed my father when he was still a hero to me — fearless, strong, noble in every way. Even the Germans couldn't take that from me. But Luc
