The Alienist - Caleb Carr [164]
Morgan finally let out a deep breath. “You need not, sir,” he said, stamping out his cigar. “As I say, I do not understand all of what you gentlemen have explained to me, about either psychology or criminal detection. But I make it my business to know men. And neither of you strikes me as having the worst interests of society at heart.” Kreizler and I each nodded once calmly, belying the enormous relief that was coursing through our veins. “You will still face many obstacles,” Morgan went on, in an easier tone than he’d used before. “The churchmen who were here can, I believe, be persuaded to stand aside—but Byrnes will continue to harass you, in an effort to preserve the methods and organization he has spent so many years establishing. And he will have Comstock’s support.”
“We have prevailed against them so far,” Kreizler answered. “I believe we can continue to do so.”
“Of course, I can offer you no public support,” Morgan added, indicating the library door and walking with us to it. “That would be entirely too—complicated.” Meaning that, for all his superior intellectual acumen and personal erudition, Morgan was at heart a true Wall Street hypocrite, one who spoke publicly about God and the family but privately kept his yacht stocked with mistresses and enjoyed the esteem of men who lived by similar rules. He would certainly lose some of that esteem, if he were thought to be in league with Kreizler. “However,” he went on, as he walked us to his front door, “since a quick conclusion to the affair is in everyone’s best interest, if you should find yourselves in need of resources…”
“Thank you, but no,” Kreizler said, as we went out. “It would be best not to have even a cash connection between us, Mr. Morgan. You must consider your position.”
Morgan bridled at the acidity of the comment, and, murmuring a fast “Good evening,” closed the door without shaking hands.
“That was a little gratuitous, don’t you think, Laszlo?” I said as we went down the stairs. “The man was only trying to help.”
“Don’t be so gullible, Moore,” Kreizler snapped. “Men like that are only capable of doing what they perceive to be in their best interests. Morgan’s betting that we’re more likely to find the killer than Byrnes and company are to keep the immigrant population’s anger indefinitely suppressed. And he’s right. I tell you, John, it would be almost worthwhile to fail, simply to observe the consequences to such men.”
I was entirely too exhausted to listen to one of Laszlo’s tirades, and scanned Madison Avenue quickly. “We can catch a cab at the Waldorf,” I decided, seeing none close by.
There was very little activity on the avenue during our descent of Murray Hill, and Laszlo eventually stopped decrying the evils of the group we’d just left. As we walked on, both silence and weariness deepened, and our entire encounter in the Black Library began to take on a rather unreal quality.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been so tired,” I yawned as we reached Thirty-fourth Street. “Do you know, Kreizler, that for just a second when we first met Morgan I thought he might actually be the killer?”
Laszlo laughed loud. “As did I! Deformity in the face, Moore—and that nose, that nose! One of the only possible locations for such deformity that we never discussed!”
“Imagine if it had been him. Things are dangerous enough as it is.” We found a hansom outside the ornately elegant Waldorf Hotel, whose sister structure, the Astoria, was just being built at the time. “And they’ll only get more so—Morgan’s right about that. Byrnes is a bad enemy to have, and Comstock strikes me as being flat out of his mind.”