'Of course they searched the ship. High and low.'
'But-'
'I'm too busy, Littlemore,' said Fall. 'You figure it out. Get back to me when you do.'
Fall rang off. It made no sense, Littlemore thought. Why would they leave the gold on the dock — wherever the gold came from? Could someone in Customs be working with the thieves? Littlemore put his coat on. He'd have to go down to the harbor himself. As he was leaving, his telephone rang again. A Mr James Speyer was asking for him downstairs.
'What can I do for you, Mr Speyer?' asked Littlemore in the rotunda of the Sub-Treasury.
'You can give me my painting back,' answered Speyer in his German accent. 'At the police station they didn't know what I was talking about. They told me you worked at the Treasury now.'
Littlemore apologized, explaining that he had put the Rembrandt in a special lockup to ensure its safety. 'We could go over and get it now, if you want,' he said.
'Excellent. My driver can take us.'
Inside Speyer's car, Littlemore asked, 'How's the wife?'
'Better, thank you.'
'Business in Hamburg work out okay?'
'Capitally,' said Speyer. 'The funds are all in Mexico now — despite the Morgan people's best efforts.'
'I hear things in Mexico are getting pretty hot.'
'They certainly are,' agreed Speyer. 'Bad for Arnold Brighton; good for me.'
'You know Brighton?'
'I know his oil fields in Mexico are worth hundreds of millions. I just returned from Mexico City, as a matter of fact. Peculiar to be somewhere where America is so hated. More than even in Germany. I suppose we might feel the same way about them if they'd occupied our capital and taken half our country.'
'We did that to Mexico?' asked Littlemore.
'The Mexican-American War, Detective. Or the American Invasion, as they call it south of the border. My Rembrandt had better not be damaged.'
At police headquarters on Centre Street, Littlemore led Speyer to a special safe room in the evidence storage locker. Once the layers of protective wrapping were peeled away, the painting itself looked small and fragile. 'Undamaged, Mr Speyer?'
'Undamaged,' Speyer agreed.
The men stared at the self-portrait. It was from the artist's older age, showing him wrinkled and red- cheeked, with pouches under wise, misty eyes.
'How'd he do that?' asked Littlemore.
'Do what?'
'He looks like he knows he's going to die,' said Littlemore. 'Like he — like he — '
'Accepts it?'
'Yeah, but at the same time like he isn't ready to go yet. If they hate Americans so much, why don't they hate you down in Mexico, Speyer?'
'Because they think I'm German,' replied Speyer with a smile, pronouncing the last word Cherman.
At the harbor, Littlemore spoke with a Customs agent, who denied that the Swedish ship had left its contraband gold on the dock. 'You're sure?' asked Littlemore. 'The Swede sailed out of the harbor with all the gold on board?'
'Wouldn't know about that,' said the agent. 'When we find dirty goods, we alert the departments. Maybe the goods get impounded, maybe they get destroyed, maybe they go back on board. That's up to the department.'
'What department?'
'If it's guns, the War Department. Liquor, the Revenuers. This was gold, so Treasury.'
'Who do you notify at Treasury?'
'All's I do, Mister, I send in the piece of paper. You want more, talk to Treasury.'
On Wall Street late that afternoon, as Littlemore mounted the steps to the Greek facade of the Treasury Building, a messenger boy from the Morgan Bank tapped him on the shoulder.
'Detective Littlemore?' said the boy.
'Yeah?' said Littlemore.
'Mr Lamont wants to see you right away. In his office.'
'Good for him,' said Littlemore, continuing up the steps.
'But he wants you now, sir,' said the boy. 'You're supposed to follow me.'
'Tell Lamont he can come to my office,' answered Littlemore.
The phone was already ringing when he got upstairs.
'Let me guess, Lamont,' said Littlemore into the mouthpiece. 'Your man tailing Speyer told you I met with him today.'
'Are you aware,' asked Lamont, 'that James Speyer is profiting from the Mexican confiscation of American property in Mexico?'
'Not my problem,' said Littlemore.
'But the man's anti-American. Surely you see it now. Why haven't you arrested him in connection with the bombing?'
'Come off it. I'm not arresting somebody just because he's your competition in Mexico.'
'We've been over and over this, Littlemore,' said Lamont. 'Speyer threatened me. He threatened to retaliate against the Morgan Bank. Two weeks before the bombing.'
'It wasn't Speyer,' said Littlemore. 'I told you: it was a man named Pesqueira, and it didn't have anything to do with the bombing.'
'It was Speyer. Did you ever talk to Pesqueira? Talk to him. You'll see that Speyer's lying. James Speyer’s a traitor. He wouldn't care how many American lives were lost. A year ago I got a cable from Mexico. It was the middle of September 1919. Speyer was in Mexico City celebrating their Independence Day. He was urging the Mexican government to seize American mines and oil wells, telling them that he would provide the funds to keep them in operation.'
'Mr Lamont,' said Littlemore. 'This is the last time I'm going to say it: not my problem. So long.'
Chapter Sixteen
Their train broke down north of Vienna, coming to a halt in the woods. Hours and hours went by. Finally another train — every seat of which was already occupied — pulled up next to them; they rode the rest of the way to Vienna upright and jam-packed. When they finally arrived, it was evening. In the motorized taxi they took from the station, Younger ordered the driver to stop in front of the opera house, about a block short of the Hotel Bristol.
'What is it?' asked Colette. Then she saw: a knot of policemen was gathered in front of the hotel, eyeing everyone who entered or exited. Younger instructed the driver to make inquiries, explaining, truthfully, that he didn't want to check into a hotel where they might be in danger.
From across the avenue, still in the taxi, they watched their driver consult with an officer and nod in comprehension as he received an account of what the police were doing there.
'They can't be looking for us,' said Colette.
'No?' said Younger.
Their taxi driver was now pointing an accusatory finger at his own automobile. The officer peered in their direction through the darkness. Then he and a colleague began walking slowly toward them.
'Well — shall we give ourselves up?' asked Younger.
'But we've done nothing wrong,' said Colette.
'Nothing at all,' said Younger. 'Leaving a pile of dead bodies next to Prague castle, fleeing the country — we can explain everything. If they don't believe us, we can show them Hans Gruber's dog tag as proof.'
Colette's hand went to her throat, where Hans Gruber's military tag had been clasped for six years. The
