The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [96]
“As if I would,” Lucius answered uncomfortably. “What about you, Doctor? Where will you be, doing further psychological research?”
“If I thought it would help, yes,” the Doctor answered, downing an oyster and then taking a sip of wine. “And there may in fact be one or two women on Blackwells Island whom it will be useful for me to visit in that context. But there is another mystery that concerns me more immediately.” He turned to Cyrus, then looked down to the floor, trying to locate me. “Stevie, come up here for a moment.” I followed the order, slurping the last of the sweet, salty juice from an oyster shell as I stood by Cyrus. “Where is the stick? The one that you say this Ding Dong found lodged in his stricken gang member?”
I’d clear forgotten about the thing and quickly held up a finger; then I vaulted the iron rail of the terrace, ran to the calash, and checked under the driver’s seat. Luckily for me, the stick was still there. I grabbed it, jumped back over the railing, and handed the strange though simple object to the Doctor.
“We now have a most unusual coincidence,” he said, examining the stick. “On the night that the Philippine knife struck the doorway of Number 808 Broadway, Cyrus says that the only person he caught sight of was a young boy, dashing around a corner.”
“That’s right,” Cyrus said. “Looked to be maybe ten, eleven.”
“And Stevie, you say you saw a boy of about the same age disappearing from Bethune Street just after the Duster fell?”
“Yeah. This kid was black, though—definitely. There was enough light to tell.”
The Doctor nodded, and I grabbed another oyster before the others finished them off. “Cyrus?” Dr. Kreizler said. “Can you guess at the ethnicity of the boy you saw?”
Cyrus shook his head. “Too dark. He could have been black, though, I can’t rule it out.”
“What about his dress?”
“The usual, for a boy on the streets,” Cyrus answered with a shrug. “Baggy clothes—castoffs, looked like.”
“Or, as Stevie said, clothes that were too big for him?”
“You could say that.”
The Doctor nodded, though there was no certainty in his face; then he examined the stick again. “Either the same child, or two, then, have appeared at crucial junctures in this investigation. The first time was during a hostile, or at least a warning, event. The second, on the contrary—” The Doctor seemed to be caught by something, and his nose started to wiggle above his mustache like a rabbit’s. “What’s that?”
Mr. Moore looked up and around as a waiter came to clear away the empty oyster tray. “What’s what?”
“That—odor,” the Doctor said. He glanced around, and then his eyes returned to the stick. He held it closer to his face, waving the sharp tip of the thing under his nose. “Hmm … yes, unmistakably. Chloroform …” He smelled the thing again. “And something else …” Unable to place it, he handed the stick to Lucius as more plates of food arrived. “Detective Sergeant?” he said, almost skewering a nice piece of sautéed salmon that Lucius had ordered. “Can you identify it?”
Lucius took the stick and held it a careful distance from his fish, green beans, and potatoes. Then he moved his nose to its tip. “Yes,” he said, thinking it over, “I get the chloroform, all right. And the other …” His face suddenly brightened, then changed to a look of excited concern. “Stevie, would you say that the Duster was dead when they took him away?”
“Dead?” I answered, taking a dish of my favorite food—plain-grilled steak and salty fried potatoes—from the waiter and then making for my little green cave again. “No. Out cold, yeah, but—he was breathing, all right.”
Lucius smelled the stick once more and then handed it to his brother. “In that case—assuming he keeps breathing—whoever used this is as much of an expert as our knife man was.”
Marcus smiled a bit in recognition as he, too, sniffed the stick. “St. Ignatius bean,” he mumbled, his own face so intrigued that he ignored the broiled baby chicken in tarragon sauce that was