'Mistakes happen in war. Don't they, McAdoo?'
'Don't ask me,' replied McAdoo. 'I wasn't responsible.'
'Maybe the bombers were told to do their work at a minute after midnight on the sixteenth,' said Fall, 'when the Mexicans would be celebrating their puny independence. Maybe nobody was supposed to die. But maybe the bombers were told twelve-oh-one, and maybe where they came from, twelve-oh-one doesn't mean a minute after midnight.'
Littlemore whistled. 'Your boys blew the bomb twelve hours late. That's why Fischer was off on the date. He heard you say the bomb would go off the night of the fifteenth.'
'Our boys?' asked Fall. 'Don't know what you're talking about, Littlemore. I was just speculating. But let me tell you what ain't speculation: you're handing the Reds the biggest victory they ever had. Oil is mother's milk, son. The countries that have it are going to be big and strong. The ones that don't are going to wither and die. Know how much oil we Americans produced yesterday? One million two hundred thousand barrels. Know how much we consumed? One million six hundred thousand barrels. That's right — every day, we're short four hundred thousand barrels of oil. Where's that extra oil coming from? Mexico. We'll get our oil; trust me on that. One way or the other, we'll get it. This country has enemies, Littlemore. I ain't one of them. Evening, Commissioner.'
Enright said goodbye to the Senator.
Unseen by anyone else, Mrs Cross winked at Littlemore. 'Good night, New York,' she said. 'You do play by the rules, don't you?'
'You really can't connect them?' Commissioner Enright asked Littlemore a few minutes later. 'To the bombing?'
'We've got nothing on them,' said Littlemore. 'The only witness who can tie Fall to the bombing is Fischer here, and no judge will let him testify.'
'How about the gold?' asked Enright. 'Can't we prosecute them for theft?'
'There's no theft if the owner won't admit his property was taken,' said Littlemore. 'Secretary Houston's going to deny that the Treasury got robbed. I saw him do it tonight.'
'I know what to do!' interjected Fischer. 'I'll tell Wilson. He'll be very unhappy with Senator Fall. I'm one of the President's advisers, you know.'
'You did good tonight, Eddie,' replied Littlemore. 'Thanks.'
'You're most welcome. By the way, the Popes are trying to condemn me again.'
'The Popes?' asked Enright.
'I know what he means, Commissioner,' said Littlemore. 'It's okay, Eddie. I'll help you out.'
'Well, perhaps all this will make good crime fiction someday,' observed Enright. 'I might do something with it myself. Mr Flynn is publishing my work, you know.'
'I'm sorry?' said Littlemore. 'Big Bill Flynn?'
'His days as Chief are numbered now that the Republicans are in,' said Enright. 'He's starting a literary magazine. Intends to call it Flynn's. I'm to be his first writer. I'll have several detective stories for him. Set in New York.'
Littlemore had no reply for a moment. Then he said, 'Don't put that in one of your stories, sir.'
'Don't put what?' said Enright.
'That the Police Commissioner of New York City is going to write detective stories for the fat-headed Chief of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, who's starting a literary magazine and naming it after himself after botching the biggest investigation the country's ever seen. Nobody would believe it.'
The Washington Square Hospital was a small, comfortable private facility with only two floors, connected by a wide central marble staircase. Littlemore was taking those stairs two at a time when he came upon Colette on the landing, looking out a large window. She saw him in the reflection and turned to him; the diamond choker, still on her neck, sparkled brilliantly.
'Glad to see you're okay, Miss,' said Littlemore before taking in her expression. 'What's wrong?'
'Nothing,' she answered. 'Everything's fine. He's going to be fine.'
'Who?'
At that moment a surgeon came slowly down the steps, cleaning his hands with a long wet cloth. His sleeves were bloodied. 'Miss Rousseau?' he asked. 'I'm very sorry, but-'
'I don't want to hear it,' Colette shouted, running upstairs. 'He's going to be fine.'
The surgeon shook his head and continued down the stairwell, leaving Littlemore by himself on the landing, trying not to believe the inferences he'd already drawn. Colette's footsteps trailed off down the corridor upstairs.
'Wait a second,' Littlemore called out half a minute later, unsure whether he was addressing Colette or the surgeon, then broke into a run downstairs. 'Wait just a darn second.'
The surgeon stopped midway down the hall: 'Are you a friend of Dr Younger's?' he asked.
'Sure, I'm a friend,' said Littlemore. 'What's wrong with him?'
'He was shot.'
Littlemore saw in his mind's eye Younger stepping between Colette and Samuels's gunfire. 'In the back,' he said.
'Twice,' agreed the surgeon. 'There's nothing I can do for him. I'm sorry. Does he have family?'
'What do you mean, nothing you can do? Operate on him.'
'I have,' said the surgeon, wiping his forehead. 'The bullets struck his ribs and lodged in the thoracic cavity. I don't dare try to extract them, because I don't know where they are. I'll tear his heart and lungs to pieces before I find them.'
'Can't you X-ray him or something?'
'X-rays are useless,' said the surgeon. 'The bullets haven't come to rest. Every breath he takes moves them. By the time we have images, the bullets will be somewhere else. They won't stabilize for at least seventy-two hours.'
'That doesn't sound so bad,' Littlemore said, refusing to accept the grim fatality with which the surgeon spoke. 'Roosevelt kept a bullet in his chest for almost ten years.'
'The situation is like Roosevelt's,' the surgeon reflected, 'except for the infection. Dr Younger's neutrophils are at about eighty percent. He has fever. Roosevelt's wound healed with no infection at all. That was the remarkable thing about it.'
'What are you saying, Doc? Help me out here.'
'I'm saying your friend must recover from his infection,' replied the surgeon. 'We are powerless against this sort of thing. All our instruments, all our science, all our medicines — powerless. He should live through the night. We'll test his blood again tomorrow morning. If the neutrophils decrease, all may yet be well.'
Littlemore tapped at the door and entered a silent hospital room. Colette was standing by the bedside, dousing Younger's forehead with a cold compress. Younger was lying on his stomach, eyes closed, cheek lying directly on the bed, with no pillow. His breathing was shallow, his face unnaturally livid, his entire body shivering.
'How's he doing?' asked Littlemore.
'Well,' said Colette. 'Very well. He's sleeping.'
Neither spoke for a while.
'What are neutrophils, Miss? The doctor was telling me-'
'Doctors are fools,' declared Colette.
Silence again.
'Neutrophils,' said Colette, 'are white blood cells, the most common kind. When there is an infection in the body, the neutrophils increase in number to fight it. Normally, they make up about sixty-five percent of the white cells.'
'How bad is eighty percent?'
'It's not bad; it's good,' said Colette. 'It means he's fighting his infection. His neutrophils will be in the seventies tomorrow, the high seventies. You'll see. Then they will come down more and more each day until they're normal. Did Mr Brighton live?'
'No. Neither did Samuels.' Littlemore looked at Younger's shivering body. 'Did they say anything about the kind of bullets, Miss?'
