The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [129]
“Yes,” I agreed, getting out of my chair. “I have enjoyed working with you as well.”
“I suppose I had better be going,” she said.
“You must stay here,” I replied. “It’s too late for you to be out alone with Samuel. It will be difficult to locate a hansom at this hour. Please stay in the spare room with your son. Mrs. Mooney will be delighted.”
Simpson smiled. “All right. Thank you, Ephraim.”
As I expected, Mrs. Mooney, who had waited up, was eager for a guest. As she went upstairs to prepare the room, Mary and I were left alone in the parlor. We turned and faced each other. For a few seconds, neither of us moved. Then the moment passed.
“Good night, Mary,” I said. “And thank you.”
“Good night, Ephraim.” She remained for another second, and then followed Mrs. Mooney upstairs.
I awoke at six the next morning, but when I came downstairs for breakfast, I learned that Mary and Samuel had already gone.
CHAPTER 26
AS SOON AS I ENTERED the main wing of Moyamensing Prison three hours later, I spied an unsmiling, well-dressed couple in their forties sitting on a bench. The man appeared determined, the woman distressed. The resemblance was unmistakable.
“Are you George’s parents?” I asked them. “I’m Ephraim Carroll. I work with George at the hospital.”
The man was of my height, with glasses and a gray-flecked beard, dressed in a dark blue suit and top hat. “Dr. Carroll, I’m Mortimer Farnshaw. George has told us about you. We are greatly in your debt for your kindness to our son. May I present my wife, Thelma?” Despite the environment, he spoke with the absolute propriety that good breeding instills. We might have been meeting at a charity banquet.
I nodded to Mrs. Farnshaw, an attractive woman with rust-colored hair who seemed to be trying to blot out both where she was and the circumstances under which she’d been brought here.
“Have you seen George?” I asked, directing my question to Mr. Farnshaw.
He nodded. “It was extremely disturbing.”
A ferretlike man appeared at the elder Farnshaw’s side and excused himself for the interruption. He whispered something in Farnshaw’s ear, which elicited a quick nod in reply.
“Dr. Carroll,” said Farnshaw, “may I present Mr. Franklin. Mr. Franklin is the attorney I have engaged to put this atrocious episode right.”
The lawyer shook my hand. “Benjamin Franklin,” he said, “at your service.” He waited for the name to register, a regular party trick, it seemed, and then said, “No relation, but it certainly doesn’t hurt in this city to evoke my namesake.”
“Mr. Franklin was recommended by an associate. He assures me that he will have George out of here in a matter of days,” Farnshaw informed me.
“Without question,” the lawyer agreed. “Just a matter of approaching the right people in the right way.” Then he actually winked.
“Excellent,” I replied. Franklin’s casual optimism confirmed my first impression. No matter who he was named for, he must have been aware that it would not be at all simple to free Farnshaw. The Farnshaws’ money might talk in Boston, but it was the Lachtmann money that spoke here, and Jonas Lachtmann was every bit as anxious to keep Farnshaw behind bars in Moko as Mortimer Farnshaw was to get him out.
If I had been favorably impressed with Franklin, he would have been the perfect repository for the journal. Who better than a well-connected lawyer to make the right use of it? As it was, however, Franklin struck me as unctuous and potentially unreliable, so I decided to keep the matter to myself for the present.
While Franklin excused himself to “see about some things,” I spoke with Mr. Farnshaw, telling him what a fine physician his son was and how, when this was over, George would claim a place at the very top of his profession. Mr. Farnshaw listened gratefully but, no fool, understood full well his son’s limitations.
When decency had been satisfied, I asked, “Might I see George now, do you think?”
“He would like that a great deal,” his father replied. “I think one makes arrangements at the desk.”
It was, I was surprised