The Alienist - Caleb Carr [242]
I gave Kreizler a conspiratorial glance. “When Roosevelt finds that we’ve left the opera,” I said, “he’ll tear the city apart looking for us.”
Laszlo shrugged. “He’d be better off using his head. He has the clues he needs to determine our whereabouts.”
“The clues? You mean the things in Beecham’s flat?” I grew puzzled yet again. “But it was what we found there that led us to decide on High Bridge Tower—that and the business about a castle.”
“No, John,” Kreizler answered, his hands moving again as he spoke. “It was part of what you found at Beecham’s flat that led you to such a conclusion. Think again. What did he leave behind?”
I went over it in my mind. “The collection of eyes…the map…and the box with the daguerreotype on it.”
“Correct. Now think what conscious or unconscious considerations caused him to leave only those things. The eyes tell you unmistakably that you have the right man. The map gives you a general idea of where he’ll strike next. And the box—”
“The box tells us the same thing,” I interjected quickly. “The daguerreotype lets us know that we’ve found Japheth Dury.”
“True,” Kreizler said emphatically, “but what about the thing that’s in the box?”
I wasn’t following him. “The heart?” I mumbled in confusion. “It was an old, dried-up heart—you think it was his mother’s.”
“Yes. Now, put the map and the contents of the box together.”
“The city water system…and the heart…”
“Now add what Joseph said.”
“A castle or a fort,” I answered, still not getting it. “A place from which you can see the whole city.”
“And…?” Kreizler urged.
As we turned and began to walk up Fifth Avenue, the answer hit me like a cartload of bricks. Stretching away for two blocks to the north and one block to the west, its walls as high as the buildings around them and as prodigious as those of the fabled city of Troy, was the Croton Reservoir. Built in the Egyptian mausoleum style, it was indeed a castlelike fortress, on whose ramparts New Yorkers often strolled, enjoying the splendid, panoramic views of the city (as well as of the man-made lake within) that the structure afforded. In addition, the Croton was the main distributing reservoir for all of New York; it was, quite simply, the heart of the city’s water system, the center to which all aqueducts fed and from which all mains and arteries drew their supply. Astounded, I turned to Kreizler.
“Yes, John,” he said, smiling as we approached the thing. “Here.” Then he pulled me in close under the walls of the reservoir, which were deserted at that late hour, and lowered his voice. “The rest of you no doubt discussed the possibility that Beecham knows our first move would be to watch the waterfronts—but in the absence of a suitable alternative, you remained focused on those areas.” Laszlo looked up and, for the first time that night, displayed some little bit of apprehension. “If my guess is correct, he’s up there now.”
“This early?” I asked. “I thought you said—”
“Tonight is very different,” Kreizler answered quickly. “Tonight he has set his table early, the better to be ready for his guests.” Reaching inside his cloak, Kreizler produced a Colt revolver. “Take this, will you, Moore? But do not use it, unless you must. There is much I want to ask this man.”
Kreizler started to move toward the massive main gate and staircase of the reservoir, which strongly resembled the entranceway to an Egyptian temple of the dead. Given our purpose that night, the similarity caused a strong shiver to rattle my bones. I stopped Laszlo as we neared the portal.
“One thing,” I whispered to him. “You say Byrnes’s men have been following