The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [79]
“And Dr. Markoe, as I said, apparently agreed. He didn’t want to pursue the matter once Nurse Hunter had resigned, so there was nothing for the police to do. She went home a free woman.”
“And do we have any idea,” the Doctor breathed, “where that home is?”
“Yes—or where it was, at any rate,” Lucius said. “It’s in the police report. Ummm—” He took a piece of paper from his brother. “Number 39 Bethune Street. Down in Greenwich Village.”
“Over near the river,” I threw in.
“We shall have to check it,” the Doctor said, “although she has, in all likelihood, moved on.” He sat down again, and looked over at a whole wall of early American portraits in genuine and somewhat bitter consternation. “Died …” he said again, still unable to accept it. “Disappeared, I might have expected, but—died…”
Miss Howard sat down next to him. “Yes. It doesn’t seem particularly consistent, does it?”
“It’s beyond that, Sara,” the Doctor answered, holding his hands up in resignation. “It’s a positive paradox.” There were a few moments of silence, during which we could hear the laughing, shouting children downstairs; then the Doctor roused himself. “Well, Detective Sergeants? Why, having discovered all this, have you summoned us here?”
” It seemed as good a place as any to try to make sense of it,” Lucius answered. “We haven’t yet had a chance to do a really thorough search of the whole area or to retrace what this Hunter woman’s steps must have been. So, since it’s Sunday and there’s not much else we can attend to…”
The Doctor shrugged. “True,” he said, standing up. “We may as well determine what the mechanical method has to offer. Señora Linares said the child liked to visit the sculpture gallery, isn’t that correct?”
“Yes, sir,” Lucius answered. “On the first floor, in the north wing.”
“Well, then”—the Doctor indicated the stairs with his outstretched arm—“let’s get started. Detective Sergeant, would you mind—”
“Notes for the board,” Lucius said, pulling out his small pad. “Of course, Doctor.”
We got back down to what the Metropolitan’s operators liked to call the “sculpture galleries,” but where in fact, as the Doctor’d told me on one of our first visits to the museum, most of the figures on display were plaster casts of great statues from other galleries and institutions around the world. They’d been put on display in New York for those folks what would never get the chance to travel and see the originals. This accounted for the uniform bright whiteness of many of the pieces, and for the way that they were thrown together, almost like they were in a warehouse. The sunlight what came in softly through big rectangular windows was reflected off ceilings and moldings what were also bright white, and also off the polished red marble floor. The wood paneling of the walls, by way of contrast, was dark and together with the arched doorways gave the place a kind of stately feel. But as for the sculptures themselves, they—like the stuff in the first floor of the south wing—didn’t do much for me, and I doubt I would’ve felt much different if I’d been looking at the originals. Greek and Roman gods, goddesses, monsters, and kings (or pieces of them, anyway); strange beasts and blank-eyed men from Babylonia; together with nudes, chalices, and vases from all over…. What about it could’ve been so entertaining for a fourteen-month-old girl was beyond me. But the more important question, as I listened to the others trade ideas, seemed to be what it all might’ve meant to Elspeth Hunter.
“Providing, of course, that she actually spotted the señora and Ana here,” Mr. Moore said, “and not in the park.”
“Why, John,” Miss Howard needled, “you actually referred to the child by her name. That’s progress. But I’m afraid your suggestion doesn’t seem very likely. If we stay with our theory that it was Ana’s cheerful, noisy demeanor that attracted the kidnapper’s attention in the first place, then it seems probable that the sighting occurred here—this is