The Alienist - Caleb Carr [240]
Kreizler didn’t answer, but calmly opened the door to the saloon, out of which stepped Cyrus Montrose and Stevie Taggert. They were dressed in clothes that closely resembled Kreizler’s and mine. I was surprised and very happy to see them both, especially Stevie. The boy looked quite recovered from the beating he’d taken at Connor’s hands, though he was obviously uncomfortable in such attire, and not very happy to be at the opera.
“Don’t worry, Stevie,” I said, taking a swipe at his shoulder. “It’s never been known to actually kill anyone.”
Stevie stuck a finger into his collar and tried to loosen the thing with a few tugs. “What I wouldn’t give for a cigarette,” he mumbled under his breath. “Don’t have one, do you, Mr. Moore?”
“Now, now, Stevie,” Kreizler said sternly, gathering up his cloak. “We’ve discussed that.” He turned to Cyrus. “You’re clear on what to do?”
“Yes, sir,” Cyrus answered evenly. “At the end of the performance Mr. Roosevelt will want to know where you’ve gone. I’ll tell him I don’t know. Then we’re to bring the rig to the place you spoke of.”
“Taking—?” Kreizler asked leadingly.
“Taking an indirect route, in case we’re followed.”
Laszlo nodded. “Good. All right, Moore.”
As Kreizler slipped into the saloon, I looked back into the house and realized that no other members of the audience would have been able to see this exchange taking place—such was obviously why Laszlo had asked that we sit in the back of the box. Then, glancing at Stevie as he continued to suffer under the yoke of evening clothes, I had another realization: these two were supposed, by supplying vaguely similar silhouettes, to give the impression that Kreizler and I were still in the theater. But for what purpose? Where was Kreizler rushing off to? Questions continued to proliferate in my head, but the man with the answers was already on his way out of the building; and so, with Don Giovanni bellowing in horror as he descended into the inferno, I followed Kreizler to the Broadway doors of the Metropolitan.
His mood, when I caught up to him, was one of exhilarated determination. “We’ll walk,” he said to the doorman outside, who then waved off a group of anxious cab drivers.
“Kreizler, damn it,” I said in exasperation, as I followed him to the corner of Broadway. “You might at least tell me where we’re going!”
“I should’ve thought you would have determined that by now,” he answered, waving me on. “We’re going to find Beecham.”
The words hit me rather hard, making it necessary for Laszlo to grab me by my lapel and pull me along. As I stumbled with him to the curb and then waited for the traffic to let us cross, Laszlo chuckled once. “Don’t worry, John,” he said, “it’s only a few blocks, but that should give us enough time to attend to all your questions.”
“A few blocks?” I said, trying to shake off my daze as we wound through horse manure and rolling carriages and finally got across Broadway. “To High Bridge Tower? It’s miles away!”
“I’m afraid Beecham won’t be at High Bridge Tower tonight, Moore,” Kreizler answered. “Our friends are destined for a rather frustrating vigil.”
As we proceeded down Thirty-ninth Street, the noise of Broadway faded behind us and our voices began to echo off the darkened row houses that stretched on toward Sixth Avenue. “And where the hell is he going to be, then?”
“You can determine that for yourself,” Kreizler answered, his stride picking up ever more speed. “Remember what he left behind in his flat!”
“Laszlo,” I said angrily, grabbing his arm. “I’m not out here to play games! You’ve got me abandoning people I’ve been working with for months, not to mention leaving Roosevelt fairly well in the lurch—so just stand still and tell me what the hell is going on!”
For a moment he managed to trade his enthusiasm for compassion. “I’m sorry about the others, John—truly I am. If I could have thought of another way…But there isn’t one. Please understand, if the police are at all involved in this it will result in Beecham’s death—I’m as certain of that as I am of