The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [127]
“Well,” I said, eyeballing the thing, “looks like somebody don’t wanna be seen doin’ something…”
Marcus nodded, going for his coil of rope and climbing shoes. “I’ll boost you over and keep hold of this end of the rope. You take the other end, let yourself down, and find a spot to anchor it over there.”
“Just get your shoes on,” I answered, taking my end of the rope in my teeth and grabbing at the gaps in the stone blocks what made up the corner of the stables. “If I can’t scale this wall without bein’ boosted,” I went on, through a scratchy mouthful of hemp, “then I been outta the business too long.”
Using the gaps in the stable’s stone corner along with a pretty solid drain gutter, I got on top of the brick wall in just a couple of minutes. I could’ve done it faster, too, if I hadn’t been trying so hard to keep Mike from banging into anything: not a bad piece of work for somebody who hadn’t been at it in many years. From my perch I had a good view of the houses that backed onto the alley and the Hunters’ yard from Bank Street to the south. Only a couple of windows were lit, and those just dimly. But there was no telling when somebody with good enough eyes might glance out and catch sight of us, so we had to move quicker here than at any other time.
Knowing this, Marcus had gotten into his studded boots fast, and by the time I got up top of the wall he had a good grip on the rope and was ready for me to descend. I looped the thing around my waist, then started to walk backward down the Hunters’ side of the partition. Once on the ground, I shot over to one of the back windows of the house, testing the bars: they were solid, all right, but now we would use that fact to our advantage. I looped the rope in and out of the three-quarter-inch iron strips, then tied it off and gave it a few good tugs: the bars’d stand Marcus’s weight easily. I went back over to the wall and snapped my fingers a few times.
It’d been Marcus who’d identified the murderer John Beecham as an expert mountain climber during that case, and in the process he’d become pretty good at the sport himself. So I wasn’t all that surprised when he made barely a sound getting to the top of the brick wall, then lowered himself down and dropped into a flower bed—one what was mostly dirt—just as quietly. Neither of us paused too long to catch our breath or examine the backyard; but even rushed as we were, we couldn’t help but be a little struck by the barren feel of the place. It was the height of the growing season, but that yard—made up of flagstone walkways and a few flower and herb patches, along with some struggling ivy on the brick wall—formed a picture what was straight out of early March.
“It ain’t natural,” I whispered. “There oughtta be weeds, anyway…”
Marcus made a noise of agreement, then shivered once and touched my arm. He nodded toward the window, getting the bar spreader out of his satchel and handing it to me. It was made up of two metal mounts driven by steel rods geared to a big central screw, one what was driven by placing the crowbar through a steel eye at its end and turning it. I got the thing into position nice and snug and gave it the first few turns, watching the bars on the window start to move apart; but once the first set of iron rails hit those outside them (the gaps between each were just five or six inches) Marcus had to step in and give the crowbar a few good cranks.
“You’re breaking the law, you know, Detective Sergeant,” I whispered with a small smile.
“I know,” he answered, returning the quick grin. “But there are laws and there are laws …”
The bars made a few painful creaks that sounded awfully loud in that quiet, dead yard; but then some firecrackers went off about a half a block to the west, so loud that I realized we still weren’t making any real noise. Another twenty seconds, and there was an opening big enough for me to get my head and shoulders through. That was all I needed.
“Okay,” I whispered,