The Alienist - Caleb Carr [36]
Kreizler was sitting at his rather ornate secretary, writing by the light of a small Tiffany desk lamp of muted green and gold glass. Waiting for him to look up, I approached a small bookshelf near the secretary and took down one of my favorite volumes: The Career and Death of the Mad Thief and Murderer, Samuel Green. The case, dating from 1822, was one that Laszlo often cited to the parents of his “students,” for the infamous Green had been, in Kreizler’s words, “a product of the whip”—beaten throughout his childhood—and at the time of his capture had openly acknowledged that his crimes against society were a form of revenge. My own attraction to the book was prompted by its frontispiece, which depicted “The Madman Green’s End” on a Boston gallows. I had always enjoyed Green’s crazed stare in the picture, and was amusedly reacquainting myself with it when Kreizler, without turning from his desk, thrust out a few sheets of paper and said:
“Look at these, Moore. Our first success, small though it is.”
Putting the book aside and taking the papers from him, I found that they were a series of forms and releases that seemed to refer to a graveyard, and to two graves in particular; there was a note concerning exhumation of bodies, and a nearly illegible document signed by one Abraham Zweig—
I was distracted by the unmistakable feeling of being watched. Turning, I saw a young girl of about twelve, with a round, pretty face that bore a somewhat frightened and slightly persecuted expression. She had taken up the book I’d laid down, and was glancing from me to the frontispiece as she fixed the top few buttons of a simple but clean dress. She read the small legend that explained the engraving, and apparently leapt to some unpleasant conclusions—her face grew fearful and she looked to Kreizler, while shying away from me.
Laszlo turned to her. “Ah, Berthe. Ready to leave?”
The girl pointed at the book uncertainly, then spoke in a tremor as she turned her finger on me: “Then…am I mad, too, Dr. Kreizler? And is this man going to put me in one of those places?”
“What?” Kreizler answered, taking the book away and giving me an admonishing look. “Mad? Ridiculous! We have only good news.” Laszlo spoke to her as to any adult—directly, bluntly—but with a tone that he reserved for children: patient, kind, occasionally indulgent. “Come right over here.” The girl approached him, and Kreizler helped her jump onto his knee. “You are a very healthy, very intelligent young lady.” The girl blushed and laughed, quietly and happily. “Your difficulty stems from a series of small growths that are living in your nose and ears. These growths, unlike you, enjoy the fact that your house is too blasted cold.” He tapped her head in time with these last words. “You shall have to see a doctor, who is a friend of mine, and have these growths removed. All of which can be done while you’re having a very pleasant sleep. And as for this man”—he put Berthe back on the floor—“he is my friend, Mr. Moore. Say hello.”
The girl curtsied ever so slightly, but did not speak. I bowed back. “Very pleased to meet you, Berthe.”
She only laughed again, at which Laszlo made a ticking noise. “Enough of your giggling. Go and fetch your mother and we’ll arrange everything.”
The girl ran to the door and Kreizler tapped the papers in my hand with some excitement. “Fast work, eh, Moore? They