The Alienist - Caleb Carr [258]
Finally, at almost five-thirty, the ground-floor door opened and Lucius appeared. He was wearing a leather apron that was stained with many odorous fluids, bodily and other, and he looked utterly exhausted.
“Well,” he said, wiping his hands on a bloodstained towel, “that’s that, I suppose.” Collapsing onto the steps beside us, he produced a handkerchief and mopped at his forehead, as Cyrus came down from the front door behind him.
“That’s that?” Marcus asked, a little annoyed. “What do you mean, that’s that? What’s what, what did you find?”
“Nothing,” Lucius said, shaking his head and closing his eyes. “To all appearances, everything was perfectly normal. Dr. Kreizler’s checking a few last details, but…”
I stood up, tossing the stub of my cigarette into the street. “Then he was right,” I said quietly, as a chill ran up my back.
Lucius hunched his shoulders. “He was right so far as medicine can determine that he was right.”
Marcus continued to study his brother. “Are you trying to spoil this?” he said. “If he was right, he was right, don’t bring medicine into it.”
Lucius was about to point out the less than stellar reasoning underlying that statement, but elected instead to sigh and nod. “Yes,” he breathed, “he was right.” Lucius stood up, removed his apron, and handed it to Cyrus. “And I,” he continued, “am going home. He wants us all at Delmonico’s tonight. Eleven-thirty. Maybe by then I’ll be able to eat.” He started to wander off.
“Wait a minute,” Marcus said, as his brother stumbled away. “You’re not leaving me to walk home alone—you’ve got the gun, remember. Goodbye, John. See you tonight.”
“Tonight,” I said with a nod. “Good work, Lucius!”
The shorter Isaacson turned, rolling one hand perfunctorily. “Oh. Yes, thanks, John. You, too. And Sara, and—well, I’ll see you later.”
They strolled away down the street, chattering and arguing until they were out of sight.
The ground-floor door of the Institute opened again and Kreizler emerged, putting on his jacket. He looked even worse than Lucius: his face was pale and there were enormous circles under his eyes. It seemed to take him a moment to identify me.
“Ah, Moore,” he finally said. “I didn’t expect you. Though I am, of course, pleased.” Then, to Cyrus: “We’re finished, Cyrus. You know what to do?”
“Yes, sir. The driver with the van should be here in just a few minutes.”
“He’ll take care not to be seen?” Kreizler asked.
“He’s a very reliable man, Doctor,” Cyrus replied.
“Good. Then you can ride with him as far as Seventeenth Street. I’ll drop Moore off at Washington Square.”
Kreizler and I climbed into his rig and roused the slumbering Stevie, who turned the horse Frederick around and urged him gently forward. I didn’t press Laszlo for information, knowing that he would provide it when he’d had a few minutes to collect himself.
“Lucius told you that we found nothing?” he finally asked as we moved at an easy pace back up Broadway.
“Yes,” I answered.
“No evidence of either congenital abnormality or physical trauma,” Laszlo went on quietly. “Nor of any of the other physical peculiarities that might indicate mental disease or defect. In every way, a perfectly normal, healthy brain.” Kreizler leaned back, letting his head rest against the calash’s folded cover.
“You’re not disappointed, are you?” I asked, a bit confused by his tone. “After all, it proves that you were right—he wasn’t crazy.”
“It indicates that I was right,” Kreizler answered evenly. “We know so little about the brain, Moore…” He sighed, but then tried to rouse himself. “However, yes, to the best of our present psychological and medical knowledge, John Beecham was not insane.”
“Well,” I said, reluctantly recognizing that it was going to be difficult for Kreizler to take any satisfaction from the achievement. “Sane or not, he’s no longer a danger. And that matters