The Alienist - Caleb Carr [224]
I was jolted back to the business at hand by the sound of the telephone. Picking it up, I heard Sara’s voice.
“John? What are you doing?”
“Nothing. I’ve finished my list and gotten nowhere.”
“Then come up to Number 967 Broadway. Second floor. Quickly.”
“Nine-sixty-seven—that’s above Twentieth Street.”
“Very good. Between Twenty-second and Twenty-third actually.”
“But that’s outside your assigned area.”
“Yes. I sometimes don’t say my prayers at night, either.” She sighed once. “We’ve been stupid about this—it should’ve been obvious. Now get moving!”
Before I could reply she had rung off. I found my jacket and threw it on, then wrote a note for the Isaacsons, in case they returned before we did. I was just about to go out the door when the telephone rang again. I snatched it up, and heard Joseph’s voice:
“Mr. Moore? Is that you?”
“Joseph?” I said. “What’s going on?”
“Oh, well, nothing, except that—” His tone was rather perplexed. “Are you sure about the things you told me? About the man you’re looking for, I mean.”
“As sure as I can be about anything in this business. Why?”
“Well, it’s just that I saw a friend of mine last night—he’s a street cruiser, doesn’t work any house—and he said something that reminded me of what you said.”
Rushed as I was, I took the time to sit down and grab a pencil and paper. “Go on, Joseph.”
“He said a man had promised to—well, what you said, take him away, and all that. Said he was going to live in a big—I don’t know—castle or something, where he’d be able to see the whole city, and laugh at everybody who ever did him a wrong turn. So it reminded me of what you said, and I asked him if the man had anything wrong with his face. But he said no. You sure about that thing with the face?”
“Yes,” I answered. “At this point I’m—”
“Uh-oh,” Joseph interrupted. “Scotch Ann’s yelling, it looks like I’ve got a customer. Gotta go.”
“Wait, Joseph. Just tell me—”
“Sorry—can’t talk. Could we meet? Later tonight, maybe?”
I wanted to press him for more information, but knowing his situation I let it go. “All right. The same place. Ten o’clock?”
“Okay.” He sounded happy. “See you then.”
I replaced the earpiece of the ’phone and shot out of our headquarters.
Grabbing onto the back of a Broadway streetcar after leaving Number 808, I made the trip to Twenty-second Street in a matter of minutes. After jumping back down to the cobblestone pavement that bordered the tracks along that stretch of the avenue, I looked across the way at a triangular group of buildings that were covered with enormous signs advertising everything from painless dentistry to eyeglasses to steamship tickets. Tucked in among these notices, painted on the windows of the second story of Number 967, were a tasteful (and therefore distinct) group of golden letters: MITCHELL HARPER, ACCOUNTS SETTLED. After waiting for a break in the traffic, I crossed over and headed into the building.
I found Sara locked in private conversation with Mr. Harper in his small office. Neither the man nor the room matched the pleasant gold-leaf lettering on the windows. If Mr. Harper employed a cleaning service, you couldn’t tell it from the soot that coated the few pieces of furniture in his office, while the roughness of his clothing and large cigar were exceeded only by that of his unshaven face and jaggedly cut hair. Sara introduced us, but Harper didn’t offer his hand.
“I’ve read a great deal about medicine, Mr. Moore,” he explained in a coarse voice, locking his thumbs into his stained vest. “Microbes, sir! Microbes are responsible for disease, and they pass through the touch!”
For an instant I thought of telling the man that bathing might give those microbes something to worry