The Angel of Darkness

  Sensing that they’d gotten the hook in, Mr. Moore brightened and looked at his watch. “Well! We’d better discuss all this at dinner. I’ve got a table at Mouquin’s, Kreizler, and you’re coming along.”

  “Well, I …” Ordinarily, in recent days, the Doctor would have found a way to bow out of this social engagement; but that night he was too intrigued to even try. “I would be happy to.”

  “Right,” Mr. Moore said. “And Cyrus’ll be happy to drive—won’t you, Cyrus?”

  “Yes, sir,” Cyrus replied cheerfully.

  Mr. Moore turned to the staircase. “Stevie!”

  “On my way!” I answered, bounding down.

  “The barouche, if you please,” Mr. Moore told me. “Cyrus, get the Doctor ready for a night on the town, will you?”

  Cyrus nodded as I ran downstairs and out the front door to get Gwendolyn and Frederick harnessed and hitched up to the barouche.

  By the time I drew the carriage up to the front gate, the others were coming out of the house. I turned the reins over to Cyrus, and as the rest of them climbed in the Doctor reminded me to make good use of the evening and get to bed early.

  As they drove off, I could only laugh at that idea.

  CHAPTER 8

  Anticipation of the kind that’d eaten me up all afternoon set back to work on my insides that evening. I went down to the kitchen and told Mrs. Leshko that she could go home early, as I’d see to the glasses and such in the parlor. She gave me a big grin and near wrenched my cheeks” off in gratitude, then got her things together and departed. I went up to the parlor and straightened up the cocktail wagon, taking the glasses downstairs to wash them. Then it was upstairs for several hours of the history of ancient Rome and half a packet of cigarettes, all of which was interrupted by the occasional trip to our new icebox for something to nibble on, periodic bouts of nervous pacing, and long minutes of wondering whether or not the Doctor would agree to help find little Ana Linares.

  After dropping the others off at their respective homes, the Doctor returned to Seventeenth Street at about midnight. Such was early by the group’s usual standards, but in recent weeks the Doctor hadn’t allowed himself anything like so much leisure, so I took the time of his return as a good sign. He entered the house alone—Cyrus was next door tending to the horses—and as I heard him come in I started down for the parlor, where I knew he’d be pouring himself a nightcap, I’d taken the precaution of getting into some nightclothes and a robe, and as I walked slowly down the stairs I ran my hands through my hair once or twice to muss it up. Then I did my best to look sleepy, giving out with a quiet yawn as I entered the parlor and found the Doctor sitting in his chair with a small glass of cognac, once again going over his letter from Mr. Roosevelt.

  He looked up when I came in. “Stevie? What are you doing up? It’s late.”

  “Only midnight,” I answered, walking over to the window. “Must’ve dozed off, though.”

  The Doctor let out a small laugh. “An excellent attempt, Stevie. But a trifle transparent.” I didn’t say anything, just kind of chuckled and shrugged. Setting his glass aside, the Doctor walked over to stand at the other window. After a moment, he quietly said:

  “You realize, Stevie, what they want me to do?”

  The question might seem to’ve come out of nowhere, but I guess I was expecting something like it, being as I answered without much hesitation, “Unh-hunh. Pretty much.”

  “And how long have you known?”

  “Miss Howard told us about it last night.”

  The Doctor nodded, smiling for just a second, then kept staring out the window. “I’m not sure that I can.”

  I shrugged again. “It’s your decision, I guess. I mean, I do understand—with what happened—”

  “Yes.” He didn’t turn as he added, “We almost lost you, last time around.”

  That was a surprise: I’d been so convinced that Mary Palmer would be foremost in his thoughts when it came to considering the Linares case that I’d clear forgotten that I’d had a pretty close brush with the Reaper during the same attack that’d left her dead—and so had Cyrus, a fact what I quickly reminded the Doctor of.

  “Cyrus is a grown man,” he answered. “If he tells me he is willing to take the risks involved with this case, then that is his decision. God knows the Beecham affair should have given him a—point of reference…” He paused, then took in a very deep, tired breath and let it out in a slow hiss. “But you are a different case.”

  I pondered the thing. “I never thought—I mean, I figured you’d be thinking of—”

  “I know,” the Doctor answered. “It wouldn’t have been like you to think anything else: You haven’t had many years of believing that you’re important, Stevie. But you are. Mary was, too, I don’t have to tell you that. But she’s—gone now.” It was as much as he could bear to say about her, and more than he ever had, to me.

  “Still doesn’t seem natural,” I said, letting the words out before I’d had time to think. “Not having her around.”

  “No. And it never will.” The Doctor pulled out his watch and began to fiddle with it in a way that was strange for him: like he wasn’t sure just how to say what was on his mind. “I—do not expect to ever have children, Stevie. Of my own, I mean. But if I were to have a son—I could only wish that he would have your courage. In all ways.” He tucked the watch away. “I can’t let my actions put you in danger again.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I get that. But—” Words were becoming a problem for me, too. “But I was in danger my whole life. I mean, before I came to live with you. It ain’t that big of a thing—so long as there’s some kind of sensible reason for it. And this case—well, you seen that picture of the little girl. And it’s pretty obvious what could be hanging on the thing.” I “stamped my foot once, lightly, trying to be clear. “I wouldn’t want to think that I kept you out of it, that’s all. The rest of them, they all know they need you. If I’m in the way, you can—I don’t know, ship me off someplace. But you oughtta help them. Because like Detective Sergeant Lucius said, this thing could get real big and real ugly.”

  The Doctor smiled at that and gave me what you might call a scrutinizing look. “And when did he say that?”

  I laughed a bit, knocking a fist lightly to my forehead. “Oh. Right. That would’ve been last night, I guess.”

  “Ah.”

  For what seemed quite a while but couldn’t actually have been-more than a few minutes—not even enough time for Cyrus to finish up in the carriage house—we both just stood there, looking out at Stuyvesant Park. Then the Doctor said:

  “The detective sergeants found the weapon this morning—did they tell you?”

  I spun toward him in excitement. “No. Mr. Moore said there’d been developments, though. What was it, a piece of pipe?”

  “Your old trademark,” the Doctor answered with a nod, pulling out his cigarette case. “It was under one of the benches around the Egyptian obelisk. They dusted for fingerprints and found several. There was also some blood on the thing, though it’s impossible to say who or even what it came from. Much work to be done in that area of forensics, I’m afraid …” He lit his cigarette, then blew smoke out the open window with a troubled but fascinated look on his face. “Who the devil would kidnap the daughter of a high Spanish official and then fail to capitalize on it in some way?”

  A smile crept into my face. “Then you are going to help them.”

  The Doctor sighed again. “I have a dilemma, it seems. I wouldn’t want you to have to be sent away, Stevie, yet I can’t be the agent of further threats to your safety.” He took another long drag off his cigarette. “Tell me—what would your solution to such a problem be?”

  “Mine?”

  “Yes. How do you think I should handle it?” I groped for words. “You should—well, you should do what you’ve always done. Just be my friend. Trust that I know how to handle myself. Because I do.” I let out a small grunt of a laugh. “Good as the
rest of you, anyway.”

  The Doctor smiled, then walked over to tousle my hair lightly. “True enough. And stated with your usual respect for your elders.”

  Then we heard the front door open and close, after which Cyrus came loping up the stairs. He paused when he saw me in the parlor, as if he thought that the conversation might be private; but the Doctor called him in.

  “You may as well know, too, Cyrus,” he said, putting his cigarette out in an ashtray. “We seem to be reentering the detection business—that is, if you wish.”

  Cyrus just nodded once. “Very much, sir.”

  “You’ll keep an eye on our young friend here, won’t you?” the Doctor added. “It seems that he’s already been knocking about the city at all hours of the night with the detective sergeants.” The Doctor looked up from the ashtray to Cyrus. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, I suppose?”

  Cyrus only smiled, crossed his hands, and glanced at the floor. “I might know something about it, yes, Doctor.”

  “I thought you might,” the Doctor answered, heading for the stairs. “Well… I, for one, intend to get some sleep. It may be in short supply soon.” He paused before heading upstairs and turned to us. “Do be careful—both of you. God knows where this thing will lead.”

  Cyrus and I mumbled solemn pledges that we’d try to watch ourselves; but when the Doctor had disappeared up the stairs and into his bedroom, there was no way on earth we could keep ourselves from smiling.

  CHAPTER 9

  The Doctor telephoned Miss Howard, Mr. Moore, and the detective sergeants the next morning to inform them of his decision and to direct Miss Howard to set up a meeting with Señora Linares for that evening at Number 808 Broadway so that he could personally interview her. Miss Howard soon called back, saying she’d been able to schedule an appointment for 8:30. Then the Doctor withdrew into his study, to begin gathering his thoughts and assembling his research for the job ahead. He issued occasional orders to Cyrus and me, dispatching one or the other of us to various stores and libraries to track down books and journals. This activity nearly kept me from my own urgent mission of the morning: getting bets down for myself and Mr. Moore on the first real class horse race of the season, the Suburban handicap at the Coney Island Jockey Club’s track in Sheepshead Bay. But I juggled it all fine, and Mr. Moore and I finished the day with some very tidy winnings.

  At about 7:45 in the evening, the Doctor announced that we’d better get ready to go, as he wanted to walk downtown. He claimed that it was on account of the fine weather, but I think he really felt much more nervous about going back to Number 808 than he’d expected to. The walk over to Broadway and then downtown did seem to calm him, though, and by the time we’d reached the old headquarters sunset was beginning, the rich golden color that spread over the rooftops making it hard to imagine that we were venturing into anything really dangerous.

  Dr. Kreizler entered Number 808 much as the rest of us had two days earlier: slowly, cautiously, letting the memories take full effect before he made any definitive movement or statement. As the elevator carried us up to the sixth floor, silence abounded, though when the Doctor saw the sign that Miss Howard’d had painted on the door, he couldn’t help but laugh once quietly and shake his head.

  “Sufficiently euphemistic, I should think,” he murmured. “Sara certainly knows her audience …”

  Then it was inside, to find Miss Howard and the señora once again sitting in two of the easy chairs. Señora Linares wore the same black clothing, and her veil was up, showing that her wounds had healed only a little since the last time we saw her. She seemed very relieved to meet Dr. Kreizler, and as they spoke she opened up in a way she hadn’t when Mr. Moore and the Isaacsons had examined her. As for the Doctor, he stayed intensely focused on the visitor for most of the time, though his occasional quick glances around the room tipped me off to the fact that he was thinking about other things, too: things that weren’t far enough in the past yet to seem really finished.

  The Doctor’s examination of the señora took just over an hour and involved, of course, questions that to most people would’ve seemed thoroughly unrelated to the matter at hand: questions about her family, her childhood, where she’d grown up, how she’d met her husband, why she’d married him. Then there were deeper inquiries about the state of that marriage over the last couple of years. The señora willingly answered these, even though she was clearly confused about their purpose. I think the Doctor would have kept going longer if he could’ve, being as his subject was so compliant; but when she realized that 9:30 had come and gone, she became very anxious and agitated, saying that she hadn’t had time to work out a good cover story for the meeting and needed to get back home in a hurry. Cyrus deposited her in a hansom, returning to the sixth floor just as true darkness descended on the city.

  During the few minutes he was gone the Doctor started silently wandering around the room, maybe going over what he’d just heard, maybe thinking again about other, older matters, maybe doing a bit of both; whatever the case, nobody even considered interrupting him. Only the sound of the elevator’s return finally brought him back out of his deep ponderings. He looked up kind of blankly, then turned to Miss Howard, who’d switched on a small electrical light and was sitting on the edge of its glow.

  “Well, Sara,” the Doctor said. “What’s become of our board?”

  Miss Howard smiled wide and fairly ran over to the Japanese screen, laying hold of the big, rolling chalkboard and dragging it out to face the desks. It had obviously been recently scrubbed clean.

  The Doctor approached it, staring at its black, empty surface. Then he removed his jacket, picked up a spanking new piece of chalk, cracked it in half, and, in quick, slashing motions, wrote the words POSSIBLE POLITICAL EXPLANATIONS across the top of the board. Shaking the half piece of chalk around inside one closed hand, he turned to the rest of us.

  “We begin with the futile, I’m afraid,” he announced. “The first task that faces us is to explore any possible political component of this crime—though I must tell you before we go any further that I do not believe such a component exists.”

  Mr. Moore automatically slipped behind one of the desks as he asked, “You buy the idea that the child’s identity is just a coincidence, Kreizler?”

  “I ‘buy’ nothing, John—but I believe, as the detective sergeants have suggested, that this is a random act. And I must tell you that if our goal is to return the child to her mother—as I presume it is—then that randomness attains a very grim dimension.” With a single broad stroke the Doctor drew a circle in the center of the board and then marked stations at its major points as he spoke on. “As I think even you will see, Moore, any attempt at a political explanation results in something of a logical circle, one that leads nowhere. We start here.” He tapped the twelve o’clock position on the diagram. “The child has been abducted in the manner the señora says—I don’t think there’s any question about her telling the truth, there. She’s a sound, strong person—her being here alone proves that much. Were she the sort of neurotic woman who craves sympathy and attention”—the Doctor suddenly paused, staring out the window—“and such creatures do exist…” He came back from wherever he’d been. “Then we would hardly do as an audience, and a fabricated story about a kidnapping, accompanied by a thorough beating, would hardly be a convenient dramatic vehicle. No. Her history, her position, her mentality—they all point toward the truth. And so—the child has been abducted and the mother struck on the head. By, if we are to accept Moore’s political hypothesis, an expert.”

  “Who chooses a very public spot, in broad daylight,” Lucius droned doubtfully, opening a little notebook to make a record of the discussion.

  “Ah, my dear Detective Sergeant, I share your skepticism,” the Doctor answered. “But we must not dispose of this theory through mere intuition.” He quickly wrote AN ABDUCTION BY A PROFESSIONAL FOR POLITICAL PURPOSES at the top of the circle. “After all, perhaps the kidnappe
r was a man of rare pluck and pride who enjoys the challenge of working under unusually dangerous circumstances.”

  “With a piece of lead pipe,” Marcus added, his voice crossing over into open sarcasm.

  “With an instrument that he can easily discard, so that it will not be discovered on his person by the police, should he be detained for any reason. After all, our young friend in the windowsill”—the Doctor jerked a thumb in my direction—“carried just such a weapon for just such a reason. Isn’t that so, Stevie?”

  I glanced around to find each of them staring at me. “Well—yeah, I guess.” They kept staring, and I started to fidget. “It ain’t like I do it anymore!” I protested, which seemed to give them a chuckle.

  “All right, then,” the Doctor said, taking the limelight back off of me. “He’s a professional. Who happens to be about the height of his victim and possesses a remarkably light touch.” The Doctor moved to the right side of the circle. “But who can have hired him? Moore? You’re the one who favors this interpretation—give me your candidates.”

  “We’re not short on those,” Mr. Moore answered from his desk. “There’s a lot of people who’d like to see a diplomatic incident between the United States and Spain right now. We can start with the war party in this country—”

  “Very well,” the Doctor said, listing them as U.S. CITIZENS FAVORING WAR on the board. “Those Americans who don’t care who starts the war, so long as we finish it.”

  “Exactly,” Mr. Moore said. Then he frowned. “Though I doubt they’d want Americans to come off looking quite so brutal.”

  “Who else?” the Doctor demanded.

  “Well, there’s the Cubans,” Mr. Moore replied. “The exiles here in New York. They’d be in favor of anything that started a war, too.”

  “The Cuban Revolutionary Party,” Marcus added. “They’ve got an office down on Front Street, near the docks on the East Side. Moldy old building—they’re up on the fourth floor. Lucius and I can roust them tomorrow, if you like.”