The Alienist - Caleb Carr [40]
Marcus Isaacson’s enthusiasm broke for a moment of curiosity. “Dinner isn’t necessary, Doctor, if this is official business. Though we appreciate the offer.”
Laszlo nodded with a slight smile, amused at Marcus’s attempt to draw him out. “We’ll see you at eleven-thirty, then.”
At that the Isaacsons started in on the materials before them, barely conscious of Kreizler’s and my farewells. We went upstairs, and as I fetched my coat from the consultation room, Laszlo continued to look intrigued.
“There’s no doubting they’re idiosyncratic,” he said as he walked me to the front door. “But I’ve a feeling they know their work. We shall see. Oh, by the way, Moore—do you have a clean set of clothes for tonight?”
“Tonight?” I asked, pulling my cap and gloves on.
“The opera,” he replied. “Roosevelt’s candidate for liaison between our investigation and his office is due to meet us at my house at seven.”
“Who is he?”
“No idea,” Laszlo said with a shrug. “But whoever it is, the liaison’s role will be crucial. I thought we’d take him to the opera, and see how he reacts. It’s as good a test of character as any, and God knows when we’ll get another chance to go. We’ll use my box at the Metropolitan. Maurel is singing Rigoletto. It should suit our purpose.”
“It certainly should,” I said happily. “And speaking of purposes, who’s singing the hunchback’s daughter?”
Kreizler turned away with an expression of mild disgust. “My God, Moore, I should like to get the particulars of your infancy someday. This irrepressible sexual mania—”
“I only asked who’s singing the hunchback’s daughter!”
“All right, all right! Yes, Frances Saville, ‘She of the Legs,’ as you put it!”
“In that case,” I said, bouncing down the steps and toward the carriage, “I definitely have clothes.” As far as I was concerned, you could take Nellie Melba, Lillian Nordica, and all the rest of the half-attractive, four-star voices at the Metropolitan and, as Stevie Taggert would have put it, go chase yourself. Give me a really beautiful girl with a decent voice and I was a docile audience member. “I’ll be at your place at seven.”
“Splendid,” Kreizler answered with a frown. “I can scarcely wait. Cyrus! Take Mr. Moore to Washington Square!”
I spent the quick trip back up and across town pondering what an unusual—but nonetheless enjoyable—way to open a murder investigation the opera and dinner at Delmonico’s would be. Unfortunately, such entertainments did not turn out to be said opening; for when I arrived home, I found a very agitated Sara Howard on my doorstep.
CHAPTER 8
* * *
Sara paid no attention to my greeting. “This is Dr. Kreizler’s carriage, isn’t it?” she asked. “And his man. Can we take them?”
“Take them where?” I answered, looking up to see my grandmother peering anxiously out the window of her parlor. “Sara, what’s going on?”
“Sergeant Connor and another man, Casey, went down to talk to the Santorelli boy’s parents this morning. They returned and said they’d found nothing—but there was blood on the cuff of Connor’s shirt. Something’s happened, I know it, and I want to find out what.” She wasn’t looking at me, perhaps because she knew what my reaction was likely to be.
“A little off the beaten trail for a secretary, isn’t it?” I asked. Sara didn’t answer, but a look of bitter disappointment filled her face, a frustration so severe that all I could do was open the calash door. “What about it, Cyrus?” I said. “Any objection to taking Miss Howard and myself on a little errand?”
Cyrus shrugged. “No, sir. Not so long as I’m back at the Institute by the end of interviewing hours.”
“And so you shall be. Climb aboard, Sara, and meet Mr. Cyrus Montrose.”
In an instant Sara’s aspect went from ferocious to exuberant—not an uncommon