The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [28]
Miss Howard was busily transcribing all these statements, and I saw Mr. Moore glance over at her and then roll his eyes a bit, as if he thought all this dramatic detail was just the rantings of a hysterical woman who’d been through what even he’d conceded was a terrible tragedy. But the Isaacsons turned to each other with very different expressions: knowledge, confidence, anticipation, they were all there. And I could see that Mr. Moore was a bit deflated about missing whatever they were getting.
“And you’re certain the woman didn’t see you?” Lucius asked.
“Yes, Detective. I was well under the roof of the platform as I ran alongside the train, and it was already dark. I did scream and leap at the window as it left the station, but it was already moving too fast. She may have seen someone, but she could not have known it was me.”
“Could you estimate the woman’s height and weight?” Lucius asked, returning to look at the wound on the back of the señora’s head once more.
The Linares woman paused to consider this. “She was seated,” she finally answered slowly. “But I would not say that she was very much taller than I. Perhaps heavier, but only slightly.”
“I’m sorry this is taking so long,” Marcus said. “But just one more thing—do you happen to have a picture of the child? You can open your eyes to get it, if you need to.”
“Oh—yes.” Señora Linares turned in her seat. “I brought one for Miss Howard, she asked—Miss Howard, do you have the photograph still?”
“Yes, señora,” Miss Howard answered, taking a mounted image about three inches by five off the mahogany table. “It’s right here.”
As Miss Howard handed the picture to the Linares woman, Marcus didn’t move a muscle, keeping a grip on the señora’s right hand, which forced her to take the picture with her left. Marcus watched her as she glanced at the image, all the time checking his watch, and then she handed the picture to Lucius, who held it in front of Marcus’s face.
“It was taken only a few weeks ago,” Señora Linares said. “Quite remarkable—Ana is so full of life and energy, and it is rare to find a photographer who can capture the true spirit of a child. But this man succeeded quite well, wouldn’t you say?”
Both the Isaacsons gave the picture what you might call the quickest of glances, and then Lucius, not knowing quite where to put it, looked my way. “Stevie—would you—?”
I jumped down again to retrieve the photograph and return it to Miss Howard, who was once more busily taking notes. Pausing just a second or two to look at the thing, I was kind of—well, struck, in a way. I’ve never had much experience with babies, and as a rule I’m no sucker for them. But this little girl, with her swatch of soft dark hair, her huge, nearly round black eyes, and her big cheeks swelling around a smile that said she was game for just about any amusement life could throw at her—well, there was something about it that kind of tugged at you. Maybe it was because she seemed to have more of a personality than the usual infant; then again, maybe it was because I knew she’d been kidnapped.
As I returned to my windowsill, Marcus—his eyes still on his watch—murmured, “Good,” very slowly. Then he finally let go of the señora’s hand and stood up. “That’s very good. Now, señora, I think you should rest. Cyrus?” Cyrus finally let up on the piano and stood to cross to Marcus. “Mr. Montrose will, I’m sure, be happy to see that you get safely to the Astoria. You have nothing to fear under his protection.”
The señora looked at Cyrus with gentle confidence. “Yes. I sensed that.” Confusion came back into her features. “But what of my daughter?”
“I will not lie to you, señora,” Marcus said. “This is a very difficult case. Your husband’s forbidden you to go to the police?” Señora Linares nodded miserably. “Easy, now,” Marcus went on, guiding her to the door as Miss Howard fell in with them. “That may, in the long run, turn out to be an advantage.”
“But you are policemen yourselves, yes?” the señora asked in confusion, as Cyrus opened the elevator grate for