Caleb Carr - The Angel Of Darkness

“Well, then, where the hell is he?” Mr. Moore was asking, in a loud, breathless voice.

“I believe that the Doctor is in his study, Mr. Moore,” Cyrus explained in a baffled and not altogether pleased tone. “If you’ll just tell me-”

“No, no,” Mr. Moore answered. “We’ll tell him-we’ll all tell him! Come on, Cyrus, you’re part of this, too, you’d better hear about it!”

They kept on coming up at the same fast pace, Mr. Moore taking the stairs two at a time and, when he saw me, just about falling in a faint at my feet.

“Stevie!” he breathed. “Is he up there? My God, I’ve run across half the damned city-”

“Oh, really, John,” Miss Howard said. She was a little out of breath, too, but nothing to match Mr. Moore. “From your house to my house to Seventeenth Street hardly constitutes half the city. If you’d just get some blasted exercise occasionally-”

“It is-a well-known fact,” Mr. Moore panted, “that-too much exercise-is not good for you. And I’m living proof, just at the moment… Well, Stevie?”

I indicated the study with a nod. “He’s in there. With the detective sergeants.”

That got Mr. Moore right back up. “Excellent,” he said. “Saves any more running around.” He made for the study door, the rest of us behind him; and I was surprised when he didn’t bother knocking, but just burst on in.

The Doctor looked up from his desk, a little shocked and, like Cyrus, a little miffed at the lack of courtesy. The detective sergeants got to their feet, also looking surprised, as Mr. Moore leaned on the doorknob and kept on panting.

Then he held up an envelope. “This just arrived… special delivery… from Rupert Picton.” He took another deep breath. “I really do hate this case…”

Mr. Moore opened the envelope as Cyrus, Miss Howard, and I filed into the study with the others. Unfolding the letter inside, our exhausted friend took a deep breath and tried to start reading it; but he’d only gotten as far as the salutation-“Moore, you swine!”-before he fell to his knees, still trying to catch his breath. Handing the letter to Miss Howard, he said, “Sara, you read it,” then crawled over to the sofa and pulled himself up onto it.

“What the devil’s the matter with him, Sara?” the Doctor asked. “Is he drunk, or has he merely been shot?”

“Worse,” Miss Howard answered. “He’s been running. But he’s right about the letter, Doctor. Listen to this, it’s dated yesterday: ‘Moore, you swine! I would take the time to elaborate on what a mud-dwelling, feculent-’ ”

“You don’t have to read that part!” Mr. Moore protested from the sofa.

Miss Howard only smiled and went on: “ ‘-but the communications from you which I found heaped on my desk when I returned from the Adirondacks today actually must take precedence. All joking aside, John, listen to me-if you have indeed, in your infinite wisdom, managed to get yourself mixed up in a private investigation that is directed at the woman who was known in this town as Libby Hatch, then be as careful as you know how to be. The story you heard from Mr. Vanderbilt is indeed true, or rather, is the commonly accepted explanation of a horrendous crime that occurred here just over three years ago. Her three children were shot, supposedly by an itinerant Negro lunatic-who was never seen by anyone but Mrs. Hatch. Two of the children died. The third survived but has been mute ever since. An extensive search failed to produce any sign of the Negro, or of anyone who’d even gotten so much as a glimpse of the man-nevertheless, the case never got past a coroner’s inquest, so effective was Mrs. Hatch’s inventiveness, and so scarce the support for any other interpretation. I had my own ideas-and having been through what you have, I’m sure you can guess what they were.

“ ‘As to the other matters you say you are looking into, I am appalled but not surprised to learn of them. The woman is, I believe, one of the most dangerous persons alive. It’s a pity I couldn’t ever convince anyone else of that. You indicate that your investigation in New York is at a bit of a standstill. If this is true, I advise you to take it as a sign. Make no more direct moves against Libby Hatch yourself, and, if the people you’re working with are even semicapable investigators, waste no time getting up here with them. Dr. Kreizler I of course know by his writings and reputation, and I should be delighted to make his acquaintance.

“ ‘Wire me if and when you’re coming. I am in deadly earnest, John-don’t try to beat this woman with an informal investigation. Even if you had the entire Police Department on it with you, I should worry-she’d find a way to con them all and kill you, if it came to that. Either leave the thing be, or get up here and we’ll see what we can do together. Any other course will be disastrous.

“ ‘Your friend, Rupert Picton.’ ”

Miss Howard folded up the sheet of paper and replaced it in the envelope. “That’s all,” she said.

The Doctor just sat still for a moment, then looked over to the sofa, where Mr. Moore appeared to have recovered. “He seems quite a colorful fellow, this friend of yours, Moore.”

“Don’t let the banter fool you,” Mr. Moore answered, going for a box of cigarettes that sat on the Doctor’s desk. “He’s got one of the sharpest legal minds I’ve ever run across. He could have had any job in the state, but like the fool he is he decided to play it straight instead-cried bloody murder to the legislature about corruption in the city D.A.’s office, and got run out of town on a rail. There were rumors about some kind of a mental breakdown after that.” Mr. Moore lit his cigarette. “I never really got the details.”

Cyrus spoke up, in a slightly perplexed voice: “Then he’s saying that she shot the children?”

“Yes,” Miss Howard answered. “He seems quite certain of it.”

“More victims to add to the roster,” Lucius said.

“They could’ve been the ones in the picture,” I threw in. “The photograph I saw in the desk, of the three older kids together.”

“It would make sense,” Lucius answered. “You can’t exactly induce cyanosis in three children who’re old enough to struggle-and to talk, if they survive.”

“But it doesn’t really fit the pattern, does it?” Cyrus asked, still unclear. “She’s only killed infants, that we know of-because she’s had trouble with them during that stage of life.”

“It’s a wrinkle, Cyrus, to be sure,” the Doctor answered, toying with a pen on his desk. “But the overriding similarity remains-the children were attacked, and the attacker’s intention was clearly to kill them all.”

Marcus let out a stunned kind of sigh. “If this whole thing weren’t so horrifying, I’d say it was getting ridiculous…”

“Far from it, Marcus,” the Doctor answered. “This news only confirms the entrenched nature of her tendencies. Her past is at one with her present behavior.” The Doctor’s voice grew quieter as he mouthed the words that were the closest thing he had to a motto: “The keys are in the details…” He stood up, and turned to look out the window of his study at the small garden behind the house. “And those details are upstate-not here. If we wish true progress, then we must go.”

“Is that smart?” Lucius asked. “If we leave, she may think we’ve given her the field-and God knows what’ll happen then.”

“We shall not leave before the two of you confront her, Detective Sergeant,” the Doctor replied. “And now you can include our awareness of this incident in your statement. We can only hope that such awareness will make her act with even greater caution. Because if we stay here, we will remain stymied. The past is our way in-we must follow it.”