The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [48]
During the few minutes he was gone the Doctor started silently wandering around the room, maybe going over what he’d just heard, maybe thinking again about other, older matters, maybe doing a bit of both; whatever the case, nobody even considered interrupting him. Only the sound of the elevator’s return finally brought him back out of his deep ponderings. He looked up kind of blankly, then turned to Miss Howard, who’d switched on a small electrical light and was sitting on the edge of its glow.
“Well, Sara,” the Doctor said. “What’s become of our board?”
Miss Howard smiled wide and fairly ran over to the Japanese screen, laying hold of the big, rolling chalkboard and dragging it out to face the desks. It had obviously been recently scrubbed clean.
The Doctor approached it, staring at its black, empty surface. Then he removed his jacket, picked up a spanking new piece of chalk, cracked it in half, and, in quick, slashing motions, wrote the words POSSIBLE POLITICAL EXPLANATIONS across the top of the board. Shaking the half piece of chalk around inside one closed hand, he turned to the rest of us.
“We begin with the futile, I’m afraid,” he announced. “The first task that faces us is to explore any possible political component of this crime—though I must tell you before we go any further that I do not believe such a component exists.”
Mr. Moore automatically slipped behind one of the desks as he asked, “You buy the idea that the child’s identity is just a coincidence, Kreizler?”
“I ‘buy’ nothing, John—but I believe, as the detective sergeants have suggested, that this is a random act. And I must tell you that if our goal is to return the child to her mother—as I presume it is—then that randomness attains a very grim dimension.” With a single broad stroke the Doctor drew a circle in the center of the board and then marked stations at its major points as he spoke on. “As I think even you will see, Moore, any attempt at a political explanation results in something of a logical circle, one that leads nowhere. We start here.” He tapped the twelve o’clock position on the diagram. “The child has been abducted in the manner the señora says—I don’t think there’s any question about her telling the truth, there. She’s a sound, strong person—her being here alone proves that much. Were she the sort of neurotic woman who craves sympathy and attention”—the Doctor suddenly paused, staring out the window—“and such creatures do exist…” He came back from wherever he’d been. “Then we would hardly do as an audience, and a fabricated story about a kidnapping, accompanied by a thorough beating, would hardly be a convenient dramatic vehicle. No. Her history, her position, her mentality—they all point toward the truth. And so—the child has been abducted and the mother struck on the head. By, if we are to accept Moore’s political hypothesis, an expert.”
“Who chooses a very public spot, in broad daylight,” Lucius droned doubtfully, opening a little notebook to make a record of the discussion.
“Ah, my dear Detective Sergeant, I share your skepticism,” the Doctor answered. “But we must not dispose of this theory through mere intuition.” He quickly wrote AN ABDUCTION BY A PROFESSIONAL FOR POLITICAL PURPOSES at the top of the circle. “After all, perhaps the kidnapper was a man of rare pluck and pride who enjoys the challenge of working under unusually dangerous circumstances.”
“With a piece of lead pipe,” Marcus added, his voice crossing over into open sarcasm.
“With an instrument that he can easily discard, so that it will not be discovered on his person by the police, should he be detained for any reason.