'Melt it down. Re-bar it.'
'Why?'
'Every Treasury bar is engraved with our marks. To sell that gold, the thieves need to erase those marks, and the only way to do that is to melt it down. Once melted and re-barred, gold is untraceable. That's what they do with Soviet metal.'
'The Russians have gold?'
'Vast amounts — from the Tsars' treasure houses. It's contraband. Can't be sold anywhere in the civilized world. Even I'm not allowed to buy it. What the Russians do is smuggle it here by ship, melt it, bar it, and then sell it to us.'
'Us? You mean the Treasury?'
'Certainly. The United States Treasury will buy any and all gold presented to it, no matter in what quantity, and we pay the best price of any country in the world. Except for Russian gold, which we won't touch — provided we can identify it as Russian. We just intercepted a shipment the other day. Didn't you read about it? Over two million dollars in Russian metal hidden on a Swedish ocean liner. Customs found it. I sent the Swedes packing. The ship's back at sea now, taking the Russian gold home with it.'
'Mr Houston, you better bring that ship back in.'
'What for?'
'Classic bait and switch,' said Littlemore. 'That Swedish ship sailed out of New York carrying a cargo of gold with your authorization. But maybe beneath a few bars of Russian metal, the rest of it wasn't Russian. Maybe it was your gold — the stolen gold.'
'I don't believe it.'
'Bring that ship back in, Mr Houston. Then we'll know for sure.'
'I can't intercept a ship on the high seas and haul it back to New York.'
'Why not? Send out a few cruisers. We used to do it all the time during the war.'
'We're not at war now, Littlemore. It's very delicate these days. Tensions are high. We don't want an international incident, for heaven's sake.'
'Then just board her, Mr Houston. Open the crates of gold. Check the bars and make sure they're Russian. That's all.'
'Don't tell me how to do my job,' said Houston. 'We're talking about a passenger ship. A thousand people aboard. It would be in every newspaper all over world if I were wrong. And what would I say I was looking for? Stolen Treasury gold — and let everyone know about the theft?'
'You don't have to say. People will think you're looking for arms or something.'
'It's pure speculation. I'm not going to send the United States Navy on a wild-goose chase.' He drummed his fingers on his desk. 'What did Fall want from you?'
'To let him know if I found evidence linking the robbery to Russia.'
'He'd like that, wouldn't he?' Houston grunted contemptuously. 'Warmonger.'
It was a privilege of federal officials that they received priority over civilians when placing long-distance telephone calls. For example, an agent making a call to New York from the Treasury in Washington could usually reach his party in less than a quarter-hour. More important, ever since the federal government seized control of the nation's telephone companies in 1918 and began dictating rates, such calls were essentially free of charge.
Littlemore took advantage of these perquisites to call the American
Society for Psychical Research. A short time later, an operator rang him back with Dr Walter Prince on the line.
'Question for you, Doctor,' said Littlemore. 'Did you by any chance talk to Ed Fischer after I met you in your office?'
'Certainly,' said Dr Prince, his voice distant and broken up by the accumulated static of two hundred miles of telephone wire. 'I visited him at the sanitarium later that very day.'
'Did you tip him off that I was going to ask him when he first got wind of the bombing?'
'I mentioned there was a policeman interested in that information, yes.'
'I should have known,' declared Littlemore. 'He had me thinking he pulled off one of his magic tricks. Thanks, Dr Prince. That's all I needed.'
'I feel you are expressing skepticism about Mr Fischer's gifts, Captain.'
'Why would I be skeptical about a guy who thinks he's a Secret Service agent and the Popes are out to get him?'
'The gifted often feel persecuted, Captain. They are often unstable. It doesn't make their premonitions less valid.'
'Sorry, Dr Prince, I'm not buying.'
'Then how do you explain his foreknowledge of the bombing?'
Littlemore answered with a vituperation that surprised himself: 'I can't explain it,' he barked. 'But you know what? I don't care if he's the ghost of Christmas future. He's no use to me.'
The Willard Hotel, on Pennsylvania Avenue just down the street from the White House, used to be President Ulysses S. Grant's favorite watering hole when he needed a brandy after a long day at the office. Businessmen or their hirelings would lie in wait for the President in the flush hotel lobby, pouncing on Grant to make their case, ply him with liquor, and in general explain how much they could do for his Administration if only some vital permit were issued or lucrative contract signed. Grant called them 'lobbyists.'
Littlemore was making his way across this high-ceilinged lobby when a familiar, tall female figure approached him, clad in a well-fitted feminine version of a man's suit.
'Enjoying Washington, Agent Littlemore?' she asked below a sparkling chandelier.
'Evening, Mrs Cross,' said Littlemore.
'New necktie?'
Littlemore looked down. He was ordinarily a bow tie man, but in his first weeks on the job, Littlemore hadn't seen a single other Treasury agent who wore one. He'd mentioned this to Betty, who gave him a full-length tie as a present. 'You're going to tell me it's not tied right?' he asked.
'It's tied just fine. A little too tight.' She loosened it; he was able to breathe easier. 'That's better. Senator Fall wants to see you. I'm here to take you to him.'
Without waiting for an answer, Mrs Cross turned and walked toward the hotel's front door. Littlemore followed her sashaying form, first with his eyes, then with his legs. Outside, she climbed behind the wheel of a waiting car.
'You're the driver?' asked Littlemore, seating himself beside her.
'I'm the driver.' She started the car. 'Does that make you nervous?'
'I'm not nervous.'
Mrs Cross drove Littlemore along the Mall. Just before the Capitol, she turned and entered a poor neighborhood similar to the one into which he had mistakenly wandered his first day in Washington. She came to a halt behind another car in a small, unlit street sandwiched claustrophobically between opposing walls of brick row houses. Lights were on in several windows, but curtains made it impossible to see within. 'Maine Avenue,' said Mrs Cross. 'Used to be called Armory Place. Also known as Louse Alley. Good luck.'
From the car in front of them, the driver emerged and opened a passenger door, allowing Senator Fall to stretch himself out onto the street, a white ten-gallon hat over his drooping white mustache.
Littlemore stepped into the alley and joined him. Mrs Cross remained in her car, engine humming softly.
'Like 'em colored, Littlemore?' asked Fall. 'Best colored girls in the city are in this street. That's how come I love this town. Just three blocks from the Capitol.'
'Why are we meeting here, Mr Senator?'
'Seems your boss, Secretary Milksop, complained to President Wilson today that I was interfering with his investigation. I figured we should find a more out-of-the-way place to powwow.' Fall began walking up the street, with Littlemore at his side and the Senator's car following slowly behind them. 'What do you know about these two boys that Flynn's after?'
'What two boys?' asked Littlemore.
'Couple of Italians up in Boston. What the hell are their names? All I can think of is a sack of spaghetti.'
'Sacco and Vanzetti?'
