Frank worked the kinks out of his back, rode down to the hotel, and asked a few questions; no one had gotten a clear look at the old man. He looked like a Jew, one of them said; an Old World type like he'd seen back east. What he was doing with a theatrical company in the middle of the desert nobody could say; the man had some kind of high fever and they'd been told to stay clear. Once in the hotel, he never came out of his room.
The black-haired woman? A real looker. She was taking care of him; her and that skinny fella. Somebody said they heard her name was Eileen.
Was there a telegraph office where these actor folks were headed? Yes, sir. Frank left a sealed message for the hotel to give the posse; when they arrived, they were to wait for him in Skull Canyon until he wired with further instructions.
And if any of the posse inquired, he'd be obliged if they'd tell 'em Buckskin Frank had rode off to the northeast, toward Prescott.
Frank fed his horse, treated himself to a cold breakfast, and then set out on the dirt road heading west to The New City.
At eleven o'clock that night, when Doyle, Jack, and company arrived at the offices of Frederick Schwarzkirk, they found the door open and the two rooms vacated. No less than four detectives in the group—Jack, Doyle, Presto with his lawyerly eye for detail, and, in her own way, Walks Alone—pored over every inch of the place, while Innes and Lionel Stern stood watch outside in the hall.
The offices had been cleared out earlier that evening. Traces of burned paper in a trash can, a roll of telegraph tape in a drawer, the dusty outline of an object removed from the desk, snapped wirer running out the baseboard; a private telegraph wire had been installed, Jack concluded, hooking into the lines outside, an illegal tap.
A uniform residue of dust on shelves in the inner room said the books stored there had never been moved until they were taken away; Presto suggested they had been stacked there purely for show.
From a smaller desk in the inner room, Mary Williams detected a smell of human urine. She also found traces of fresh blood in the wood, and even though windows had been left open, a disagreeable tang of charred flesh lingered in the air. Something hideous and repellent had taken place in that room within the last hour.
This office had obviously been maintained as a front to cover the activities of the men responsible for the theft of the holy books, concluded Doyle. And that implicated 'Frederick Schwarzkirk' as the surviving member of the team that had attacked them on board the
'Let's ask ourselves,' said Doyle, as they stepped outside again. 'These men are nothing if not thorough: If they're moving on, what loose ends have they left behind?'
No one said it, but the thought occurred to every one of them: We're a loose end; they may be watching us even now. The concrete canyon rising around them offered no security. They stepped back into shadow, raised their collars against the harsh wind blowing in off the lake.
'Rabbi Brachman,' said Jack with alarm.
'They wanted to show him the false book,' said Presto, finishing the thought.
'Doyle, you, Mr. Stern, and Miss Williams return to your hotel at once; secure the book,' said Jack, showing a flash of his old command. 'Presto, Innes, and I will pay a return visit to Brachman's temple.'
Jack jumped into the first waiting carriage; Presto and Innes followed. 'Take the book to your room; don't open the door to anyone until we return.'
Jack comes to life when there's an action to perform, thought Doyle. The rest of the time he's lost as a waxwork.
Doyle looked at Mary Williams as she climbed beside him into the second carriage, an idea taking shape in his mind.
A single lamp burned in a window on the floor above the pillared entrance to Temple B'nai Abraham.
'Those are Brachman's living quarters,' said Jack. 'The next window over is his library, from where the Tikkunei Zohar was stolen.'
'Substantial-looking piece of business,' said Innes, studying the building's Greek Revival facade.
'The thieves used a rear entrance,' said Presto.
'That's where they'll try again,' said Jack.
The three men stood in the shadows across the street. They had made one stop at their hotel, Jack running in to retrieve the suitcase he received from Edison after their visit to his workshop.
'Someone moving,' said Innes, pointing to the lighted window.
A shape appeared between the lamp and window shade; difficult to distinguish, but it didn't look like the silhouette of an infirm seventy-five-year-old Orthodox rabbi. A tall figure, broad-shouldered.
Holding a large open book.
Jack unlocked the suitcase. Keeping it from the others' curious eyes, he removed from the case a heavy enlongated set of what looked like binoculars. A rounded steel frame extended back from the eyepieces, an armature that allowed the glasses to be worn on the head as a sort of helmet. Jack slipped them on; they had the unnerving effect of making him look like an enormous bug.
Jack watched the windows of the temple without comment. Innes and Presto exchanged an uncertain glance behind his back.
'Uh ... see anything?' asked Innes.
'Yes,' said Jack, scanning his head from side to side.
'Anything ... in particular?' asked Presto.
Jack stopped. 'Quickly.' He took off the glasses, put them back in the suitcase, and closed it, frustrating Innes to no end.
'Follow me,' said Jack.
They ran across the street and around the back of the synagogue to the rear door, where Jack removed a sleeve of tools from a pocket in his vest and handed the square box to Presto. Jack reopened the suitcase and took out a square contraption the size of a shoebox, with a round, silver dome attached to the front end and in its center a glass bulb. Hinged flaps that circled the dome could be manipulated to enlarge or shrink the aperture around the bulb. Holding the gizmo in one hand, Jack handed the suitcase to Innes.
'Point the opening towards the lock and hold it steady,' said Jack.
Presto did as instructed. Jack narrowed the aperture, then threw a small switch on the side of the box; a low humming emerged, and moment later, a thin, wavering beam of white electric light poured out of the opening and lit up the area around the keyhole.
'Good God,' whispered Innes. 'What is that?'
'What does it look like?' said Jack, as he knelt down with his picks and went to work on the lock.
'Battery-powered?' said Presto.
'A flash-a-light,' said Innes.
'As a matter of fact that's what Edison calls it,' said Jack. With a soft click the lock yielded; Jack turned the knob and gently pushed the door into darkness, hinges creaking. 'Switch off the light.'
Presto turned off the device. Jack took out and put on the goggles again and peered in through the doorway.
'You don't suppose we should have just rung the door bell,' whispered Innes.
Jack put a finger to his lips, asked for silence, and they crept slowly inside, Innes and Presto feeling their way along with a hand on the man in front's shoulder. Jack led them through the first room—a kitchen—and paused in an archway. Innes and Presto waited for their eyes to adjust, but the blackness stayed as impenetrable as the heavy silence surrounding them.
Jack took the box from Presto and briefly switched it on and off; in the instant of light, they saw a staircase in a central hall leading to the second floor. Double doorway off the hall to their left, a menorah beside it on the floor, the entrance to the synagogue proper. A foyer leading to the front of the temple straight ahead. Jack moved forward again, leading their fumbling procession to the base of the stairs; they stopped.
Someone still moving upstairs. Soft padded footsteps, measured paces; slippers brushing against carpet. Someone trying not to be heard.
