The Alienist - Caleb Carr [64]
Finally, I heard human voices, and used all my strength to sit up on the divan. I had questions at the ready, but was struck silent by the image of half a dozen workmen, none of whom I recognized, rolling first a very ornate carved billiard table and then a baby grand piano into the room atop small, wheeled sleds. As they huffed and cursed at each other, one of them noticed that I was sitting up.
“Hey!” he said with a grin. “Will ya lookit that—Mr. Moore’s awake! How are ya, Mr. Moore?” The other men all smiled and tipped their caps, not seeming to expect an answer.
Talking was more difficult than I’d anticipated, and I could only manage “Where am I? Who are you?”
“Fools is what we are,” the same man said. “Been riding on top of the lift with that damned billiard table—only way to get it up here. A damned crazy stunt, but the doc’s paying, and he says it goes up.”
“Kreizler?” I said.
“The same,” the man answered.
I became distracted by a slight discomfort in my stomach. “I’m hungry,” I said.
“And so you should be,” said a female voice in reply, from somewhere in the back recesses of the enormous room. “Two nights and a day without food will have that effect, John.” From out of the shadows came Sara, dressed in a simple navy dress that did not encumber her movements. She carried a tray, on which sat a steaming bowl. “Try some broth and bread, it’ll give you strength.”
“Sara!” I said with difficulty, as she sat on the divan and placed the tray on my lap. “Where am I?”
But her attention was distracted when the workmen, having seen her sit next to me, began to whisper among themselves and then laughed conspiratorially. Sara spoke quietly without looking at them:
“Mr. Jonas and his men, being unaware of our undertaking and knowing that I’m not a servant, seem to think my status here is something on the order of group mistress.” She began pouring the salty, delicious chicken broth into me. “The amazing thing is that they all have wives…”
I interrupted my happy slurping long enough to say, “But Sara—where are we?”
“We’re at home, John. At least, it’ll have to pass for home for as long as this investigation takes.”
“Next to Grace Church and across the street from McCreery’s—that’s home?”
“Our headquarters,” she answered, and I could see that she very much enjoyed the word. Then her aspect grew concerned. “Speaking of which, I’ve got to get back to Mulberry Street and report to Theodore. The telephone line has been installed, he’s been anxious about that.” She turned toward the back of the room. “Cyrus! Can you come out and help Mr. Moore?”
Cyrus soon joined us, the sleeves of his blue and white striped shirt rolled up and a pair of suspenders strapped over his broad chest. He looked at me with more concern than sympathy, clearly not wanting to assume the task of spoon-feeding.
“That’s all right,” I said, taking the utensil from Sara. “I’m feeling much better, I can manage. But, Sara, you haven’t told me—”
“Cyrus knows everything,” she answered, grabbing a simple coat from an elaborately detailed oak stand that stood by the door. “And I’m late. Finish the broth, John. Mr. Jonas!” She disappeared out the door. “I’ll need the elevator!”
Seeing that I was, in fact, able to feed myself, Cyrus seemed to relax considerably, and pulled up one of the delicate, straight-backed chairs with the silver and green upholstery. “You’re looking much better, sir,” he said.
“I’m alive,” I answered. “And even more remarkably, I’m in New York. I was sure I’d wake up in South America, or on a privateering ship. Tell me, Cyrus—my last memory is of Stevie. Did he…?”
“Yes, sir,” Cyrus answered evenly. “Confidentially, he’s had his share of trouble sleeping since he saw the body on the bridge. He was out roaming the neighborhood that night, when he saw you walking down Broadway. He said you looked—kind of unsteady on your feet, sir, so he followed you. Just to be sure you’d be all right. When he saw you go into Paresis Hall, he figured he’d wait outside. Understandably. But then a policeman caught