The Alienist - Caleb Carr [230]
I turned to Sara, who was taking deep breaths and standing with her arms wrapped around her midsection. Touching her shoulder I said, “All right?”
She nodded once quickly. “Yes. Fine.”
My eyes went to Marcus. “You?”
“I think so. Will be, at any rate.”
“Lucius—” I waved the shorter Isaacson over. “Someone’s got to check that stove. Can you manage it?”
Lucius bobbed his head certainly: though he’d been apprehensive on the street, he was all business in this situation. “Let me borrow a match.” I gave him the little box from my pocket.
The rest of us listened as he went to the grimy black chunk of iron that stood against the partition. A few pieces of firewood were in a bin next to the thing, and a greasy roasting pan sat on top of it. Someone had apparently been cooking. Lucius struck a match, took a preparatory but calm breath, then pulled the door of the oven cavity open. I closed my eyes as he held the match inside; in another fifteen seconds, I heard the thing bang closed again.
“Nothing,” Lucius announced. “Grease, a charred potato—nothing else.”
I let out a lot of air and tapped Marcus’s shoulder. “What do you make out of this?” I said, pointing to the map of Manhattan on the wall.
Marcus studied it carefully. “Manhattan,” he said quickly. Then, after a few more seconds: “Looks like a surveyor’s map of some kind.” He poked at the spots where the map had been tacked to the wall, then pulled the tacks out. “Plaster hasn’t discolored. It was put up fairly recently, I’d say.”
Lucius rejoined us, and then we all stood in a tight circle away from the box and the jar that sat on the desk.
“That’s all that was in the back?” I asked the Isaacsons.
“That’s all,” Marcus said. “No clothes, nothing. If you ask me, he’s gone.”
“Gone?” Sara echoed.
Marcus nodded in disappointment. “Could be he knew we were closing in. But it certainly doesn’t look like he’s coming back.”
“But why would he leave,” Sara asked, “without taking all that—evidence?”
Marcus shook his head. “Maybe he doesn’t think it is evidence. Or maybe he was in a hurry. Or maybe…”
“Or maybe,” I said, voicing what we all were thinking, “he wanted us to find it.”
As we stood absorbing that idea, I noticed our guide straining to get a look at the jar on the desk, and moved to block his view with my body. Then Lucius spoke up: “That may be true, but we’ve still got to watch this place, in case he does come back. We should tell the commissioner to send other men down—because, like I say, we can treat this as a straight murder investigation now.”
“Do you think there’s enough evidence to make a charge stick?” Sara asked softly. “I know this sounds awful, but those aren’t necessarily the eyes of our victims.”
“No,” Lucius answered. “But unless he’s got one hell of an explanation for whose they are, I think any jury in the city will convict—especially if we fill in the background with what we know.”
“All right, then,” I said. “Sara and I will get up to Mulberry Street and tell Roosevelt to assign men to watch this building day and night. Lucius, you and Marcus will have to stay here until that relief comes. What have you got for weapons?” Marcus just shook his head, but Lucius produced the same service revolver that I’d seen him with at Castle Garden, after the ibn-Ghazi murder. “Fine,” I said. “While you’re waiting, Marcus, see what kind of sense you can make of that map. And remember one thing—” I ran my voice down to a whisper. “No badges. Not until you’ve got some support. It wasn’t too long ago that cops wouldn’t even come into this neighborhood, their chances of getting out were so bad.”
The Isaacsons both nodded, and then Sara and I went out into the hallway, stopping when the man with the nightstick stepped in front of us. “Now suppose youse tell me what’s all dis about an investigation? Is you cops or ain’t you?”
“This is a—private matter,” I answered. “My friends are staying—to wait for the resident.” I automatically went for my billfold and produced ten dollars. “You can just act like you