The Alienist - Caleb Carr [215]
“Mr. Murray never leaves the office before six-thirty.”
“Ah. Then he’s still here.”
“He may not want to see you,” the young man said. “The members of the press weren’t exactly helpful last time around.”
I considered the statement, then asked, “You mean in 1890?”
“Of course,” the man answered, as if every organization in the world operated on a ten-year schedule. “Even the Times made ridiculous allegations. After all, we can’t be responsible for every bribe and falsified report, can we?”
“Naturally not,” I said. “Mr. Murray would be—”
“Superintendent Porter, the national chief, actually had to resign in ’93,” the man went on, still glowering at me with an injured, accusing look. “Did you know that?”
“Actually,” I answered, “I’m a police reporter.”
The man removed his cuff protectors. “I only mention it,” he continued, eyes burning at the center of the shadow thrown on his face by the banker’s visor, “to show that the main problems were in Washington, not here. No one in this office had to resign, Mr. Moore.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, forbearance becoming an ever more difficult task, “but we’re in a bit of a hurry, so if you could just point me toward Mr. Murray…”
“I’m Charles Murray,” the man answered flatly.
Sara and I glanced at each other quickly, and then I let out a perhaps impolitic sigh, realizing what we were up against with this fellow. “I see. Well, Mr. Murray, I wonder if you might be able to check your employment records for the name of a man we’ve been trying to find.”
Murray eyed me from under his visor. “Identification?” I handed him some and he leveled it just a few inches from his face, as if he were checking a piece of counterfeit currency. “Hmm,” he noised. “I suppose it’s all right. Can’t be too careful, though. Anyone might come in here and claim to be a newspaperman.” He handed it back to me, and then turned to Sara. “Miss Howard?”
Sara’s face went blank as she scrambled for an answer. “I’m afraid I have no credentials, Mr. Murray. I serve in a secretarial capacity.”
Murray didn’t look entirely satisfied with that, but he nodded once and turned back to me. “Well?”
“The man we’re looking for,” I said, “is called John Beecham.” The name brought no change at all in Murray’s impassive expression. “He’s just over six feet tall, with thinning hair and a bit of a facial tic.”
“A bit of one?” Murray said evenly. “If he’s got a bit of a facial tic, Mr. Moore, I wouldn’t like to see an entire one.”
Again I had that feeling that had swept into me in Adam Dury’s barn: the coursing, exultant burn that accompanied the twin realizations that we were on the trail and the trail was still warm. I gave Sara a quick glance, noting that her first experience of that feeling was proving as difficult to control as mine had been.
“Then you know Beecham?” I asked, my voice quavering a bit.
Murray nodded once. “Or rather I did know him.”
Cold disappointment poured over my hot sensation of triumph for an instant. “He doesn’t work for you?”
“He did,” Murray answered. “I dismissed him. Last December.”
Hope surged again. “Ah. And how long had he been here?”
“Is he in some sort of trouble?” Murray asked.
“No, no,” I said quickly, realizing that I hadn’t bothered, in my enthusiasm, to work out a plausible cover story for my questions. “I—that is, it’s his brother. He may be involved in a—a—land speculation scandal. I thought Mr. Beecham might be able to help us find him, or would at least care to make a statement.”
“Brother?” Murray queried. “He never mentioned a brother.” I was about to reply to this remark with another fabrication, when Murray went on: “Not that that’s any indication. Not a talkative man, John Beecham. I never knew much about him—certainly nothing about his private affairs. Always a very proper, respectable person. Which was why I found it remarkable…” Murray’s voice trailed off and he tapped a long, bony finger on his chair for a few seconds as he examined first me and then Sara again. Finally he stood up, went to one of the rolling ladders,