The Alienist - Caleb Carr [253]
Laszlo clasped his shoulder. “Good man.” Returning to Beecham’s body, Kreizler grabbed one of the dead arms. “All right, then—let’s proceed, and quickly.”
Marcus got hold of Beecham’s feet, and Lucius draped some of the dead man’s clothes over the torso before taking hold of the remaining limb. Then they lifted the body, Kreizler wincing in some pain as he did, and started down the promenade toward Fifth Avenue.
The prospect of being left up on those walls with no one but two unconscious thugs and Connor’s body to keep me company put new life into my movements and my mouth. “Wait a minute,” I said, following the others. “Wait just a goddamned minute! Kreizler! I know what you’re up to! But you can’t leave me here and expect me to—”
“No time, John!” Kreizler answered, as he and the laboring Isaacsons picked up speed. “I’ll need six hours or so—all will become clear then!”
“But I—”
“You are a true stalwart, Moore!” Kreizler called.
At that I stopped, watching them fade into the deep blue of the promenade and then vanish into the blackness of the Fifth Avenue staircase. “Stalwart,” I mumbled, kicking at the ground and turning back around. “Stalwarts don’t get left behind to explain this kind of mess—”
I ceased my little monologue when I heard a commotion inside the control house: Sara’s voice, followed by Theodore’s. They exchanged a few heated words, and then Roosevelt burst out onto the promenade, followed by Sara and several men in uniform.
“So!” Theodore boomed when he caught sight of me. He began to approach, holding up a thick, accusatory finger. “This is my payment for entering into an agreement with what I mistakenly took to be gentlemen! By thunder, I ought to—”
He stopped suddenly when he saw the two bound thugs and the one corpse. Glancing from the ground to me twice in bewilderment, Theodore directed his finger downward. “Is that Connor?”
I nodded and approached, quickly putting my anger with Kreizler aside and then feigning great anxiety. “Yes, and you’re just in time, Roosevelt. We came here looking for Beecham—”
Righteous indignation came back into Theodore for a moment. “Yes, I know,” he bellowed, “and if a pair of my best men hadn’t followed Kreizler’s servants—”
“But Beecham never showed,” I went on. “It was a trap, set by Connor. He was out to—to kill Stevie, actually.”
“Stevie?” Roosevelt echoed incredulously. “Kreizler’s boy?”
I looked at him with deep earnestness. “Roosevelt, Stevie was the only witness to Connor’s murder of Mary Palmer.”
Theodore’s face opened up with comprehension, his eyes going wide behind the spectacles. “Ah!” he noised, now pointing his finger upward. “Of course!” The brow wrinkled again. “But what happened?”
“Fortunately, Commissioner,” Sara said, having correctly perceived that my powers of invention were weakening, “the detective sergeants and I arrived in time.” She indicated the body with more confidence and certainty than I knew she felt. “That’s a bullet of mine you’ll find in Connor’s back.”
“Yours, Sara?” Theodore said incredulously. “But I don’t understand.”
“Neither did we,” Sara said, “until you brought us wind of what John and the doctor were up to. Although by the time we figured out where they were likely to be, you’d already left High Bridge Tower. But if I were you, Commissioner, I’d get back up there—the rest of your detectives are still on watch, and the killer hasn’t struck yet.”
“Yes,” Theodore said, considering it all. “Yes, I suppose you’re right about—” He suddenly stood up straight, smelling the ruse. “Just a moment. I see what we have here. If all that’s true, then kindly tell me this—who is that boy in there?” He pointed his finger at the control house.
“Honestly, Roosevelt,” I insisted, “you’d better—”
“And where are the rest of them—Kreizler and the Isaacsons?”
“Commissioner,” Sara said, “I can tell you—”
“Oh, yes,” Roosevelt answered, waving us off. “I can see what sort of thing’s happening here. Conspiracy, is it?