'If you don't want people to know it's Treasury gold down there, Mr Houston, you'd better plug up the hole in your alley.'
'What hole?' asked Houston.
Littlemore pointed across the street to the alleyway between the Sub-Treasury and the Assay Office, where the wrought-iron gate had been thrown open, and a troop of soldiers were inspecting the open manhole — from which smoke now poured out. Houston was about to hurry there with his remaining Secret Servicemen when he stopped and pulled a badge out of his pocket. 'I'm sorry I doubted you, Littlemore. Take your badge back. I'm reinstating you.'
'No thanks, Mr Houston,' said Littlemore. 'I'm done with the Treasury for a while. Got a little police work I need to do anyway.'
Houston rushed off, leaving Younger and Littlemore by themselves. Younger lit a cigarette. The two men sported filthy faces, dirty hair, and torn, blackened clothing.
'At least it would be police work,' Littlemore muttered, 'if I were a policeman.'
Chapter Twenty-one
Colette wandered, lost in thought, onto the factory floor, a large high-ceilinged open room, where rows and rows of young women, hunched over long tables, used fine-pointed brushes to dab luminescent paint onto the razor-thin hands of fashionable watches. Between every two girls, an electric lamp hung suspended by a long wire from the ceiling, throwing harsh light onto their close and arduous work. But the girls' studious hush was probably due less to concentration than to the entrance of Mr Brighton, their employer, a few minutes before.
Colette herself contributed to their silence as well. A young lady in a diamond choker and elbow-length white gloves — who came in with the owner — was not a typical sight for the working girls. They eyed her warily as she passed among them.
Colette didn't notice. She had only one thought in her head: ten grams of radium. It would change Madame Curie's life. It would save countless people from death. Devoted to science, rather than watch dials or cosmetics, it could yield discoveries about the nature of atoms and energy heretofore undreamed of.
To be sure, it was absurd that Mr Brighton should propose to marry her, having met her only three times in his life. Or was it? She had known she wanted to marry Younger the first day she met him, when he brought the old French corporal out of the battlefield.
Of course she could never marry Mr Brighton. She wasn't obliged to do that, not even for Madame Curie — was she? She owed Madame everything: Madame Curie had taken her in, given her a chance at the Sorbonne, saved her when she was starving. But that didn't mean Colette had to sacrifice her life and happiness for her — did it?
True, she didn't hate Mr Brighton. He might even be a little endearing in his forgetfulness, his childlike enthusiasms. And he was obviously generous. But she would be dreadfully unhappy if she married him. She would die from such unhappiness. No, she wouldn't die. And what did her happiness count against the lives that would be saved, the scientific progress that could be achieved, if she said yes? What right did she have to say no, to live for herself, when millions of young men had given more than their happiness — had given their lives — in the war?
'Don't, Miss,' said one of the girls close by her.
'I'm sorry?' said Colette.
'Don't lean on that,' said the girl. 'It's the lights for the whole factory. Some of us got work to finish. You want us all to be in the dark?'
Colette looked behind her. In the middle of the wall was a metal bar with a red wooden handle — a master light switch, apparently, which she had been on the verge of accidentally shutting off. When she turned round again, Colette became conscious that all the girls were staring at her, and not welcomingly. Several were chewing gum. One or two wiped hair from their eyes with smudged wrists, the better to see Colette's slender arms and her pretty neck effulgent with diamonds. The girl who had spoken seemed the least interested in her. She returned to her work, snipping a stray hair from her paintbrush with the curving blades of a pair of scissors. Then the girl dabbed the brush into a dish of green paint, placed its tip between her lips, and drew it out again, nicely pointed.
'Stop!' cried Colette.
'Who — me?' answered the girl.
'Don't put that in your mouth,' said Colette.
'That's how they teach us, honey,' said the girl. 'You point the brush with your mouth. Sorry if it ain't refined.'
The girls, Colette now saw, were all pointing their brushes the same way — with their lips. 'Where are your gloves?' she asked. 'Don't they give you protective gloves?'
'Only one of us in this room got gloves,' said the girl.
A loud bell rang. The girls jumped from their chairs. Amid an eruption of female talk and laughter, they cleared their desks, putting away paints and brushes and unfinished watch dials. As the girls hurried to the coat rack and made for the door, one of them stopped next to Colette. She glanced furtively about and said, 'Some of us are afraid, ma'am. A couple of girls took ill. The company doctors say it's because they got the big pox, but they weren't the types. They weren't the types at all.'
'What?' said Colette, not understanding the girl's idiomatic English. But the girl hurried away. Colette tried to pull off her leather gloves; they fit her too tightly. She tried to undo the diamond choker, but couldn't find its clasp. She gave up in frustration, and as the working girls emptied out of the factory she ran to Brighton's office, calling out his name.
'Yes, Miss Rousseau?' replied Brighton eagerly as she neared him. 'Are you going to make me the happiest man on earth?'
'The girls are putting the brushes in their mouths,' said Colette.
'Of course they are. That's the secret to our technique.'
'They're swallowing the paint.'
'How wasteful,' replied Brighton. 'Do you remember which ones? Samuels will make a note of it.'
'No — it will poison them,' said Colette.
'You mean the paint?' cried Brighton. 'Not at all. Don't be silly. How could I sell a product to the public if it were too dangerous for my girls to work with?'
'Do you monitor the radiation levels here — as you do at your paint factory?'
'There's no need, my dear.'
'But you can't let them put it in their mouths. It will get into their jaws. It will get into their teeth. It could She broke off in mid- sentence, her breath stopping cold as a series of images cascaded through her mind: a tooth wrapped in cotton, eaten away from within; a girl with a tumor on her jaw; another girl in New Haven, with a greenish aura emanating from her neck. A darkness crossed over Colette's eyes, which she tried to keep out of her voice: 'Oh, I suppose it doesn't matter. When the quantities of radium are so minute, I'm sure it does more harm than good. I mean more good than harm. It's so late, isn't it? My friends will be wondering where I am. Mrs Meloney must be very jealous.'
'Jealous?' said Brighton.
'Of all the radium your girls get on their skin.'
'Oh, yes,' he answered, laughing aloud. 'She would be green with-'
'She knows, sir,' said Samuels, drawing a gun.
No one spoke.
'Oh, my,' said Brighton. 'What does she know, Samuels?'
'Everything.'
'Are you quite sure?' asked Brighton. 'She said Mrs Meloney would be jealous of our girls.'
'She was lying,' said Samuels, gun pointed at Colette.
Brighton shook his head in disappointment. 'It's useless to lie, Miss Rousseau. Samuels can always tell. How he knows is a mystery to me. I never have any idea myself. Samuels, would you please put your gun very close to Miss Rousseau?'
