The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [69]
“Indeed,” the Doctor answered politely. “I shall look forward to it. And Miss Beaux”—he brought a bank check out of his pocket—“I hope that you’ll find this acceptable. Miss Howard told me your standard fee, but given the unusual circumstances, and your willingness to come to us—well…”
Miss Beaux’s eyes went wide when she took a quick look at the check. “That’s—really very generous, Doctor. I don’t know that—”
“Nonsense,” he said, glancing back at the sketch, which sat on a table before the señora. “No true price can be put on what you have given us.”
The elevator grate clattered closed on the three women, and then the Doctor shut the inner door, listening to the machine’s hum as he pondered things.
I breathed once, hard. “I ain’t sorry to see the last of that old duck,” I said, turning away.
The Doctor and the others chuckled. “What a mouth,” Mr. Moore said, lying on the divan. “Like a machine.”
“Yes. It’s a pity.” The Doctor walked back over to the señora. “If fate and our society had not forced her to narrow her thoughts with a political agenda, she could have had a truly first-class scientific mind.” He knelt down next to the Linares woman. “Señora? I don’t need to ask if this is the woman—your face gives me the answer. But is there anything I can get you?”
Her lips trembled as she answered, “My daughter, Doctor. You can get me my daughter.” Her eyes finally broke away from the sketch, and she began to gather up her bag and hat. “I must go—it’s late. I shall not be able to return.” Standing up, she gave the Doctor a final pleading look. “Can it be done, Doctor? Can you do it?”
“I think,” he said, taking her arm, “that we now have a good chance. Cyrus?”
Cyrus stood up, ready to escort the señora to a hansom for the last time. She murmured thanks as best she could to the rest of us, then got into the elevator with him when Miss Howard brought it back. Seeing the señora’s condition, Miss Howard put her arms around her, at which the señora finally started to cry. Together, the threesome floated back down to Broadway.
The detective sergeants ambled over for another look at the sketch. “That Beaux woman has got a real future in wanted posters,” Marcus mused. “If the art business doesn’t work out…”
“It’s remarkable,” Lucius said. “I’ve seen photographs in the Rogues’ Gallery at headquarters that aren’t as good.”
“Yes,” the Doctor agreed. “And speaking of photographs, gentlemen, we shall need a dozen or so of the sketch. As soon as you can make them.”
“They’ll be ready by morning,” Marcus said, rolling the sketch up to take with him. “And so will we.”
“I won’t!” Mr. Moore protested from the divan.
“Oh, come now, Moore,” the Doctor cajoled. “This is the true labor of investigation. You are the foot soldier, the unsung hero—”
“Really?” Mr. Moore answered. “Well, I’d like to be the sung hero for a change, Kreizler—why can’t you do the door-to-door work—”
He was cut off as the front door slammed wide open. Cyrus hustled in, a supporting arm around Miss Howard. She was moving under her own power but seemed very woozy. We all dashed over, and the Doctor looked at her closely.
“Cyrus!” he said. “What happened?”
“I’m—all right,” Miss Howard whispered, trying to catch her breath. “Just a fright—that’s all…”
“A fright?” said Mr. Moore. “That had to be one hell of a fright, Sara, to put you in this shape—what was it?”
“We’d just put the señora in a cab,” Cyrus explained, reaching into his jacket pocket, “and were coming back into the lobby. This lodged in the door frame near Miss Howard’s head as we were passing through.”
Holding out his big hand, Cyrus displayed one of the most peculiar knives I’ve ever seen: leather-gripped and hiked with rough iron, it had a shining blade that curved in a series of S-shapes, like a slithering snake.
Lucius took hold of the thing, holding it up to the light. “Do you think it was intended to hit one of you?” he asked.
“Can’t tell, Detective Sergeant. Not for sure, anyway.