crisis, including an amendment to the Mexican Constitution prohibiting confiscation of American-owned subsoil interests.
According to rumors circulating on both sides of the border, the American war was to commence the next day, with the goal of occupying Mexico City by November twenty-fifth, the day of General Obregon's inauguration. It was widely asserted that the Americans would allow the inauguration to go forward — but with an individual of their own choice taking office.
Younger accompanied Colette once again to Mrs Meloney's house on West Twelfth Street, where a car was waiting to take them to Mr Brighton's luminous-paint factory in Orange, New Jersey. The driver was the redoubtable Samuels. Younger said goodbye, waiting on the curb until he was sure no one had followed them. Then he took the subway uptown. The day was brisk and overcast.
Passing warehouses and slaughterhouses, Younger walked to Tenth Avenue, where he entered Columbia University's College of Physicians and Surgeons, the medical school attached to the Sloane Hospital for Women. Younger knew two researchers who worked there. He found one of them — his name was Joseph Johanson — in his laboratory. Younger asked him to call the hospital to see if he could pull the charts on a female patient named McDonald under the care of Dr Frederick Lyme.
'There's no Dr Lyme at Sloane,' replied Johanson.
'There was yesterday,' said Younger. 'I talked to him.'
Johanson looked dubious but made the call. Presently they learned that there was indeed a patient file for a Quinta McDonald, but that all her charts were gone, having been removed on instructions from the family. What remained was a death certificate, which indicated that the patient had died five days previously from syphilis.
'Who signed the death certificate?' asked Younger.
Johanson relayed the question to the nurse, who reported that the signature appeared to be that of an attorney by the name of Gleason. She also said that she had never heard of a Dr Lyme at the hospital.
'Wait a minute: Frederick Lyme — I know that name,' said Johanson after ringing off. He took down from a bookcase a large loose-leaf binder: a directory of the faculty of Columbia University. 'Let me just — here he is. He's not a doctor. He's in physiology. Not even a Ph. D.'
'Why would a physiologist,' asked Younger, 'be treating a patient in your hospital?'
Colette and Mrs Meloney, received like dignitaries by Mr Arnold Brighton at his luminous-paint factory in New Jersey, were each presented with a diamond stickpin — a token, Brighton said, of his appreciation. Mrs Meloney was delighted. Colette tried to look it.
The factory, Brighton proudly showed them, operated under the scrupulous supervision of laboratory scientists, who took care that precisely measured micrograms of radium were properly added to the drums of blue and yellow paint, which were then sealed and spun to ensure uniform hue and dilution. Lead screens separated the radium-infused paint from the rest of the factory floor. Radioactivity detectors were located in various spots to sound an instant alarm in case of a radiation leak.
Mrs Meloney brought up the subject of the Marie Curie Radium Fund.
'Yes, Marie Curie,' said Brighton reverently. 'You can't quantify what the world owes that woman. Even Samuels would have difficulty measuring it. He's a gifted accountant, my Samuels. You wouldn't guess it from looking at him. It just shows you can't judge a man by his cover. Isn't that right, ladies?'
Colette and Mrs Meloney agreed that you could not.
'Was I saying something?' asked Brighton.
'Our debt to Madame Curie,' prompted Mrs Meloney.
'Yes, of course. The profit from my radium mines in Colorado, the profit from my luminous-paint sales — I owe it all to Marie Curie. Of course, I do own a few other little things here and there.'
'Mr Brighton,' Mrs Meloney explained to Colette, 'is one of our nation's great oilmen.'
'That's how we discovered radium in Colorado,' said Brighton cheerfully. 'We were sinking exploratory lines for oil.'
Mrs Meloney gently reminded Brighton of the Fund.
'Fund?' he asked. 'What Fund?'
'The Radium Fund, Mr Brighton.'
'The Fund, the Fund, of course,' he said. 'Marvelous idea, yes — I can't wait to meet Madame Curie. And I can't wait for you to see my factory in Manhattan, where we put the paint on the watch dials. I am one of the largest employers of women in New York, Miss Rousseau, did you know that?'
Colette politely denied such knowledge. With a theatrical sigh, Mrs Meloney declared, 'What a pity that Madame Curie will not be coming to America after all. The Fund is still woefully short of what it needs. Sixty-five thousand dollars short, despite the magnanimous contribution with which you started us off, Mr Brighton.'
'Sixty-five thousand dollars short,' repeated Brighton, with strange good cheer. 'It would be a great relief to know whether I will be making another donation, wouldn't it?'
'We are most eager to know, Mr Brighton,' replied Mrs Meloney.
'No more so than I, Mrs Meloney,' said Brighton. 'No more so than I.'
Colette and Mrs Meloney exchanged glances at this mysterious remark.
Younger called next at Columbia University's Department of Physiology, located on the grand new campus far uptown, where one of the buildings bore his mother’s maiden name. The secretary in the small physiology building confirmed that Frederick Lyme was a member of the faculty.
'What's his specialty?' asked Younger.
'Toxicology,' said the secretary. 'Industrial toxicology.'
'Is he in?'
'Mr Lyme is out all day with clients.'
'Clients?' repeated Younger.
'Yes — the people he consults for.'
'Who would they be?'
'I'm sorry,' said the secretary. 'You'll have to speak with Mr Lyme about that.'
At the Sub-Treasury on Wall Street, Littlemore welcomed into his office a lean, tall, towheaded man with an infectious smile. The fellow was, according to his own estimation, very well indeed. He thanked Littlemore for dealing with the Popes and arranging his release from the Amityville Sanitarium. 'What can I do for you in return, Detective?' asked Edwin Fischer.
'You can meet me uptown tonight,' said Littlemore.
Chapter Twenty
On late November evenings a change comes to the air of lower Manhattan. Biting currents from the Atlantic pour into the harbor at the southern tip of the island. There, the massive skyscrapers function as wind tunnels, channeling and compressing the turbulent air until its force is so great it will halt a grown man in his tracks and, if he doesn't put his shoulders to it, send him reeling.
Littlemore, passing the dark Sub-Treasury Building in the shadows of Wall Street, was used to that wind. The sign of this acquaintance was that he walked at a sixty-degree angle when facing it and never took his hand from his hat. Secretary Houston, arriving by car at the neighboring, brilliantly lit Assay Office, still guarded by a platoon of federal troops, was not used to it. The sign of this unfamiliarity was that he lost his top hat the moment he stepped out of his long black- and-gold Packard.
Another well-dressed gentleman emerged from the car as well. Although their conversation was in whispers, the wind carried snatches to Littlemore, who could hear Houston assuring the man that payment would be forthcoming. The gentleman shook Houston's hand and crossed the street to the Morgan Bank.
Secretary Houston surveyed the rank of infantrymen in the glare of military klieg lights. His top hat lay only a foot from one of the soldiers, who stood at sharp attention, making no motion to come to the Secretary's haberdashery assistance. Houston strode to the building's steps to retrieve his hat, but as if the Secretary were the straight man in a vaudeville prank, at the moment he bent to pick it up, a malicious wind plucked up the hat and spun it into the shadows of the street. It happened to come to rest near the detective, who dusted it off and,
