a sudden sense of practical urgency that made me put off the nearly impossible task of absorbing the full implications of the document. “Sara,” I said. “Have you discussed this with anyone else?” She shook her head slowly. “And do they know at headquarters that you took the report?” Another shake of the head. “But you’ve realized what it suggests?” She nodded this time and I reciprocated; then, slowly and deliberately, I tore the report into pieces, and set them on a patch of grass.
Pulling a box of matches from my pocket and striking one, I started to light the bits of paper, saying firmly, “No one is to know anything about this. Your own curiosity’s been satisfied, and if his behavior becomes erratic again, we’ll know why. But beyond that, no good can ever come of its getting out. Do you agree?”
Sara crouched by me and nodded once more. “I’d already decided the same thing.”
We watched the burning pieces of paper turn into flakes of smoking ash, both of us silently hoping that this would be the last we’d ever need to speak of the matter, that Laszlo’s behavior would never again warrant investigation into his past. But as it turned out, the unhappy tale so sketchily referred to in the now-incinerated report did surface again at a later point in our investigation, to cause a very real—indeed an almost fatal— crisis.
CHAPTER 25
The idea of placing New York’s chief boy-pandering venues under careful scrutiny on those days when we thought our killer might strike originated with Lucius Isaacson. There was no denying that it would be a delicate piece of work. Every one of those bars and brothels could expect to lose a significant number of patrons if it became known that they were being watched. Cooperation from the proprietors was therefore highly unlikely: we’d have to position ourselves so as to elude both their notice and our killer’s. Lucius readily admitted that he didn’t have enough experience with such operations to chart a prudent course, so we summoned the one member of our band who we thought could provide expert advice: Stevie Taggert. Stevie had spent a good part of his criminal career robbing houses and flats, and the ways of surreptitious surveillance were known to him. I think the young man suspected he was in some kind of trouble when he walked into our headquarters that Saturday afternoon and found the rest of us seated in a semicircle and staring at him eagerly. And since Kreizler had often told Stevie that he should try to forget his criminal ways, it was doubly difficult to convince the suspicious boy to talk about such things. Once satisfied that we really did need his help, however, Stevie pursued the conversation with what seemed real enjoyment.
We had originally thought to place one member of our team outside each of the houses most likely to be visited: Paresis Hall, the Golden Rule, Shang Draper’s in the Tenderloin, the Slide on Bleecker Street, and Frank Stephenson’s Black and Tan, also on Bleecker, a dive that offered white women and children to black and Oriental men. But this plan, Stevie assured us as he chewed noisily on a thick piece of licorice, was badly flawed. First of all, we knew that the killer was traveling via rooftops: we would be more assured of success, and less likely to raise suspicions, if we attempted to intercept him on one of those high arenas. Furthermore, even discounting the quite physical opposition that we might run into from the house managers in the course of our efforts, there was the fact that the man we were hoping to catch was large and powerful: he could easily turn the tables and get the drop on
When to begin and end our surveillance was the next issue addressed. Would the murderer visit the chosen disorderly house on the eve of Ascension Day, and actually kill his victim during the small hours of the feast itself, or would he wait until the next night? His pattern suggested the latter, probably because, Kreizler explained, the anger which he felt (for whatever range of reasons) mounted throughout the daytime hours on the holidays selected, perhaps as he observed people going to and coming from holiday church services. Whatever the specific trigger, nightfall brought an unstoppable explosion. None of us could argue this reasoning; and so it was decided that we would position ourselves on Thursday night.
With the plan complete I grabbed my jacket and headed for the door. Marcus inquired as to my destination and I told him I was going down to the Golden Rule to see the boy Joseph and provide him with details of the killer’s appearance and method.
“Is that wise?” Lucius asked in a worried tone, as he stacked some papers on his desk. “We’re only five days away from putting this plan in motion, John. We don’t want to do anything that would complicate matters by changing the normal routines of those places.”
Sara looked puzzled. “Surely there’s nothing wrong with giving the boys every chance to avoid danger.”
“Of course,” Lucius answered quickly, “I’m not suggesting we put anybody in any more danger than we can avoid. It’s just that—well, we’ve got to set this trap carefully.”
“As always, the detective sergeant has a point,” Kreizler said, taking my arm and walking to the door with me. “Be careful how much you tell your young friend, Moore.”
“All I’m asking,” Lucius went on, “is that we not reveal the probable date of the next attack. We’re not even sure that that’s when it’s going to happen—but if it does, and if the boys have been alerted, the killer will almost certainly sense something. You can tell him anything else you feel is necessary.”
“A reasonable arrangement,” Kreizler decided, with a wave toward Lucius. Then, as I entered the elevator, Laszlo lowered his voice: “And remember, John, there’s a very good chance that, while you may be helping the boy by warning him, you may also put him at great risk if you’re seen in his company. Avoid it if you can.”
After walking to the Golden Rule I arranged to meet Joseph in a small billiard parlor around the corner. When he arrived I noticed that his face was quite rosy after being scrubbed free of the usual paint, a fact that touched me. I remembered that our first interaction had involved a similar cleaning of Joseph’s face; and I was struck by the thought that he hadn’t wanted me to see him all made up this time, either. Indeed, his entire manner did not seem that of a boy-whore, when he was dealing with me, but rather that of a young man who desperately needed an older male friend; or was
Joseph ordered himself a short beer in a manner that suggested he’d done so many times before (and which ruled out my presuming to lecture him about the perils of alcohol). As we started to knock some ivory balls around a table casually, I told Joseph I had some new information about the man who’d killed Ali ibn-Ghazi, and I asked him to pay very close attention, so that he’d be able to pass the news on to his friends. Then I launched into a physical description:
The man was tall, I said, about six-foot-two, and very strong. He was capable of lifting a boy like Joseph, or someone even larger, without difficulty. Yet despite his size and strength, there was something wrong with him, something that he was very sensitive about. It was probably some part of his face; maybe his eyes. They might be injured, scarred, deformed in some way. Whatever the problem, he didn’t like it when people mentioned it or looked at it. Joseph said that he’d never noticed such a man, but that a lot of the Golden Rule’s customers hid their faces when they came in. I told him to watch for it in future, and went on to the subject of what the man might wear. Nothing fancy, I said, because he didn’t want to attract attention to himself. Also, he probably didn’t have much money, which meant that he couldn’t afford expensive clothes. It was likely, as Marcus had told Joseph during our last visit, that he would be carrying a large bag; inside that bag were tools he used to climb up and down walls, in
