The Death Instinct Read Online Free PDF Page A

witnesses, Stankiewicz was waiting for him with a businessman who was sweating profusely. 'Hey, Cap,' said Stankiewicz, 'you better talk to this guy. He says he has evidence.'
        'I swear to you I didn't know,' said the businessman anxiously. 'I thought it was a joke.'
        'What's he talking about, Stanky?' Littlemore asked.
        'This, sir,' said Stankiewicz, handing Littlemore a postcard bearing a Toronto postmark, dated September 11,1920, and addressed to George
        F. Ketledge at 2 Broadway, New York, New York. The postcard bore a short message:
    Greetings:
    Get out of Wall Street as soon as the gong strikes at 3 o'clock Wednesday, the fifteenth. Good luck,
    Ed
        'You're Ketledge?' Littlemore asked the businessman. 'That's right.'
        'When'd you get this?' asked Littlemore.
        'Yesterday morning, the fifteenth. I never imagined it was serious.' 'Who's Ed?'
        'Edwin Fischer,' said Ketledge. 'Old friend. Employee of the French High Commission.' 'What's that?'
        'I'm not entirely certain. It's at 65 Broadway, just a block from my offices. Have I committed a crime?'
        'No,' answered Littlemore. 'But you're staying here to give these officers a full statement. Boys, I'm taking a quick trip to 65 Broadway. Say, Ketledge, they speak English at this French Commission?' 'I'm sure I don't know,' said Ketledge.

     
        Several hours having passed, Colette announced to Younger that they were almost out of bandages. 'We're running out of antiseptic too. I'll go to the pharmacy.'
        'You don't know the way,' said Younger.
        'We're not in the trenches anymore, Stratham. I can ask. I have to find a telephone anyway to call Luc. He'll be worried.' 'All right - take my wallet,' Younger replied.
        She kissed him on the cheek, then stopped: 'You remember what you said?'
        He did: 'That there was no war in America.'
        At the foot of the steps she ran into Littlemore. The detective called up to Younger, 'Mind if I borrow the Miss for a half-hour, Doc?'
        'Go ahead. But come up here, would you?' said Younger, bent over a patient.
        'What is it?' asked the detective, ascending the steps.
        'I think I saw something, Littlemore,' said Younger without interrupting his work. 'Nurse, my forehead.'
        The nurse wiped Younger's brow; her cloth came off soaked and red.
        'That your blood, Doc?' asked Littlemore.
        'No,' said Younger untruthfully. Apparently he'd been grazed by a piece of shrapnel when the bomb went off. 'It was just after the blast. Something out of place.'
        'What?'
        'I don't know. But I think it's important.'
        Littlemore waited for Younger to elaborate, but nothing followed. ' That's real helpful, Doc,' said the detective. 'Keep it coming.'
        Littlemore trotted back down the stairs, shaking his head, and led Colette away. Younger shook his too, but for a different reason. He could not rid himself of the sensation of being unable to recall something. It was almost there, at the edges of his memory: a fog or storm, a blackboard - a blackboard? - and someone standing in front of it, writing on it, but not with chalk. With a rifle?
        'Shouldn't you take a rest, Doctor?' the nurse asked. 'You haven't stopped for even a sip of water.'
        'If there's water to spare,' said Younger, 'use it to wash this floor.'

     
        The bells of Trinity Church had tolled seven when Younger finished. The wounded were gone, his nurse gone, the terrier with the little gray beard gone, the dead gone.
        The summer evening was incongruously pleasant. A few policemen still collected debris, placing it in numbered canvas bags, but Wall Street was nearly empty. Younger saw Littlemore approaching, covered in dust. Younger’s own shirt and trousers were soaked with blood, browned and caked. He patted his pockets for a cigarette and touched his head above the right ear; his