“Mister Sayers is our guest,” Elisabeth said. “Tell him that he can stay as long as he likes. I wouldn’t wish to embarrass him.”
Supper was a subdued affair. Robert was excused early, but he stayed at the table, reading, his surroundings forgotten, away in the unknowable country of his unique imagination. For once, Elisabeth allowed it.
For his part, Sayers said very little. His mind seemed largely to be elsewhere, as well.
Later that night, when everyone had retired and the house was secured, Sebastian made his way up to bed and saw that a light was still showing under Sayers’ door.
He lay alongside Elisabeth, knowing that she wasn’t asleep.
Eventually, she said, “What are we to do for him, Sebastian?”
“Keep him happy. Keep looking.”
“What about London?”
“Perhaps. Eventually.”
It was all he could think of to say.
When Sebastian went downstairs the next morning, Frances was already in the kitchen. Robert was at the breakfast table but still in his nightshirt, bare feet swinging from his chair. He’d read all his new stories and was reading them again.
Frances said, “Has Mister Sayers left us already?”
“Has he?” said Sebastian. “I don’t think he has.”
“The door was off the latch and his outdoor coat is gone.”
Sebastian went to Sayers’ room and tapped on the door. After a few moments with no reply, he looked inside.
The prizefighter’s cabin trunk was still there, but it was in the middle of the floor and all closed up. The dresser had been cleared of his personal items and the bed had been stripped, with the linen neatly folded at its end.
There was a sheet of writing paper on top of the upended cabin trunk. On it in large capitals were the words TO BE SENT FOR and under that
He must have been gone before the dawn. And he must have been pretty quiet about it, too, because the house was small and its walls were not thick. He’d probably carried his boots to the front door in order not to make a noise on the stairs.
Well, that was that. Sebastian returned to the kitchen.
“Looks like you’ll be getting your room back, Frances,” he said. “I’ll put Mister Sayers’ trunk down in the cellar until he sends for it.”
“Oh,” Frances said. But she hardly seemed happy at the prospect of a house with no Tom Sayers in it.
Elisabeth came in then, and Sebastian gave her the news.
“Richmond?” she said. “What does he expect to find in Richmond?”
“The Madonna or the Medusa,” Sebastian said cryptically, “depending on the woman’s mood. Let’s not speak of it.”
He declined breakfast. He’d pick up something from the Automat. He needed to get to the office before everyone else; Bearce had gone to Chicago and left Sebastian in charge of the keys.
“Is this a form of promotion?”
“More of a chore,” he said. But she was right. It showed a new level of confidence from Sebastian’s employers. The night janitor was responsible for opening up the main doors of the building, but the key holder was responsible for the office suite. Store cupboards, records, stationery…even the safe where the business accounts and the more confidential records were kept.
He buttoned his waistcoat, put on his topcoat, and went to his bureau. When he rolled back the top, the keys weren’t there.
He moved a few things around. Opened one or two of the drawers. But he knew where he’d left them. No one else in the house ever used the bureau. Robert knew not to touch his father’s papers, not to mention the Bulldog revolver that he sometimes left in the locked bottom drawer.
“What are you looking for?” Elisabeth called through.
“Nothing,” he called back.
There seemed only one likely explanation, and he didn’t like to countenance it. Sayers had needed writing paper for his note. Here was where he’d look.
Sebastian rolled down the top with greater force than he’d intended, and set out for the journey into town.
THIRTY-FOUR
When Sebastian got to the Chestnut Street building, it was open but still largely silent.
He climbed the stairs to the Pinkerton agency suite. If the key holder was delayed, the employees had to wait out in the corridor. If he didn’t show at all, they’d have to fetch the building supervisor with his duplicates.
A key holder with no keys…well, that was something the system wasn’t set up for.
No one was waiting outside yet. The door had an etched glass panel with the agency’s name lettered on it. Sebastian stopped before it and listened, but heard nothing. Then he tried the door. It wasn’t supposed to be unlocked. But it opened.
He stepped inside. “Sayers?” he called out, but something in the way his voice echoed through the rooms told him that he wasn’t going to find anyone. No presence, no warm body anywhere. He’d hoped to catch Sayers here, but the man had already been and gone.
Sebastian went straight to the criminal department and the records room. Another door that should have been locked, but wasn’t. The cabinets with all the records in them should have been locked as well, but they weren’t.
Sure enough, there were gaps where some of the cards and some entire files were missing. The one on the man with the needles in his belly, for a start. Without a list, it was hard to say for sure what might have been taken.
At that point, Sebastian heard voices. As he emerged from the records office, two stenographers were passing through on the way to their room at the end of the hall. They were chatting animatedly, as awake and alert as a couple of sparrows. As far as they were concerned, the office had been opened up for them as normal. They broke off to bid Sebastian good morning and then carried on with scarcely a break.
“Good morning,” he belatedly called after them. Even the stenography room was open. Sayers must have been right through the place.
When Sebastian reached his desk, he found his missing keys lying there, right next to the wooden bar with his name on it. With a guilty glance around, he opened the top drawer and swept them out of sight. Only when he’d closed the drawer did his heart stop pounding and the tightness in his chest begin to ease.
The loss of a few inactive files—that wasn’t so bad. If Sayers had asked him for them, the answer would have been no—although, in truth, they were unlikely to be missed. Old files reached the end of their useful lives, just like old employees.
If that was all Sayers had taken, then the loss would be of no real significance. It was wrong, and it made Sebastian angry; he’d welcomed Sayers into his home, and now his hospitality had been abused. But the actual damage was small.
Never trust a drunk, or a man obsessed, he thought to himself. Plausible though he seemed, Sayers was both.
As more people arrived, Sebastian pulled out his chair, took a deep breath, and reached for the first of the papers that had begun to fill up his in-tray during his time out of the office. His initial panic aside, this was not quite the day of disaster it had threatened to be.
Awaiting his attention were some letters from potential clients that merited only standard replies. There was a cable for some information from an operative out in California. There was Oakes’ claim for reimbursement for his
