The Alienist - Caleb Carr [65]
“I see. And how did I get to—say, where in the hell are we, Cyrus?”
“Number 808 Broadway, Mr. Moore. Top floor, which would be the sixth. The doctor engaged it as a base of operations for the investigation. Not so close to Mulberry Street as’ll be noticed, but a carriage can have you there in just a few minutes. Or, if traffic’s heavy, the trolley will do the same.”
“And what about all these—furnishings, or whatever they are?”
“The doctor and Miss Howard went looking for furniture yesterday, over in Brooklyn. At an office supplier’s. But the doctor said he couldn’t live with that sort of stuff for a day, much less an extended period of time. So they bought just the desks, and then went to an auction on Fifth Avenue. The furniture of the Marchese Luigi Carcano of Italy was being sold off. They bought quite a bit of it.”
“They certainly did,” I said, as two of the workmen reappeared bearing a large clock, two Chinese vases, and some green draperies.
“As soon as we had most of it, the doctor figured he’d move you from his house to here.”
“That would be the earthquake,” I said.
“Sir?”
“A dream I had. Why here?”
“Said we couldn’t waste any more time nursing you. He gave you a little more chloral, so you’d come out of it easy. Wanted you ready for work when you woke up.”
Then there were more noises outside the door. I heard Kreizler say, “Ah, is he? Good!” and then he burst in, trailed by Stevie Taggert and Lucius Isaacson. “Moore!” he called. “You’re awake at last, eh?” He strode over and grabbed my wrist, checking the pulse. “How do you feel?”
“Not as bad as I expected to.” Stevie had taken a seat on one of the windowsills and was playing with a fairly sizable jackknife. “I understand I’ve got you to thank for that, Stevie,” I called. He just smiled and looked out the window, his hair falling in front of his face. “That’s a debt I won’t forget.” The boy laughed a bit; he never seemed to know what to make of being appreciated.
“It’s a miracle that he happened to follow you, Moore,” Kreizler said, pulling at my eyelids and examining the orbs underneath. “By all rights you should be dead.”
“Thank you, Kreizler,” I said. “In that case I don’t suppose you’d like to know what I discovered.”
“And what might that be?” he answered, probing my mouth with some kind of instrument. “That the Santorelli boy was never seen leaving Paresis Hall? That he was believed still in his chamber, from which there is no secondary exit?”
The thought that I’d endured my ordeal for nothing was truly depressing. “How do you know that?”
“We thought it was delirious rambling at first,” Lucius Isaacson said, going to one of the desks and emptying the contents of a paper sack onto it. “But you kept repeating it, so Marcus and I went down to check the story out with your friend Sally. Very interesting—Marcus is out working on some possible explanations right now.”
Cyrus crossed the room to hand Lucius an envelope. “Commissioner Roosevelt sent this by runner, Detective Sergeant.”
Lucius quickly opened and perused the message. “Well, it’s official,” he said uncertainly. “My brother and I have been ‘temporarily detached from the Division of Detectives, for personal reasons.’ I only hope my mother doesn’t hear about it.”
“Excellent,” Kreizler said to him. “You’ll have access to the resources of headquarters without being required to appear there regularly—an admirable solution. Perhaps now you can spend a little time teaching John here some slightly more sophisticated methods of detection.” Laszlo laughed once, then lowered his voice as he checked my heart. “I don’t mean to belittle your effort, Moore. It was an important bit of work. But do try to remember