Interior’s Bureau of Indian Affairs—he deemed it advisable for me to come along. That left Sara and the Isaacsons, all of whom were eager to make the western trip. Someone, however, had to remain in New York to coordinate our various efforts. After much discussion, it was decided that Sara was the logical choice for this job, since she was still making—and was expected to make—occasional appearances at Police Headquarters on Mulberry Street. Though bitterly disappointed about missing the western journey, Sara had a firm grasp of the overall picture and accepted her assignment with as much grace as possible.
Roosevelt, meanwhile, was the obvious person to put the Isaacsons in touch with guides in the western states, and when we telephoned him about the project he became wildly enthusiastic, threatening to accompany the two detectives himself. We pointed out, however, that the press followed him wherever he went, and especially when he went out west. Tales of his hunting trips and photographs of him wearing his fringed buckskin suit were guaranteed to sell copies of whatever papers and magazines they appeared in, and questions concerning whom he was traveling with and why would naturally be asked. We couldn’t afford that kind of publicity. Besides, with the power struggle on Mulberry Street about to enter a new and perhaps decisive phase, the Police Department’s main exponent of reform could hardly up and disappear into the wilderness.
The Isaacsons would go on their own, then; and we reasoned that if they left immediately, they could be in place by the time Laszlo and I dug up any useful information to wire them from Washington. It was with some shock, therefore, that Marcus arrived at Number 808 Broadway after developing his eyeball photographs (which turned out to be a resounding failure, Monsieur Jules Verne notwithstanding) and learned that he would be leaving the next morning for Deadwood, South Dakota. From there he and his brother would proceed south to the Pine Ridge Sioux Reservation and Agency, where they would begin to investigate any and all mutilative murders from the last ten to fifteen years that had not been solved. Meanwhile, I would use my contact at the Bureau of Indian Affairs to pursue the same line of research in Washington. Kreizler, for his part, would press the War Department and St. Elizabeth’s Hospital for information concerning western soldiers dismissed for reasons of mental instability, while doing further research on the individual that St. Elizabeth’s had written to us about.
By the time we’d finished hammering all this out it was late afternoon, and the weight of a sleepless night was beginning to bear down on all of us quite heavily. In addition, there were domestic arrangements to make, and of course all our packing needed to be done. We decided to cut our day somewhat short. Goodbyes were said all around, but exhaustion obscured the true importance of the moment—indeed, I don’t think either of the Isaacsons really comprehended the fact that they were going to get up the following morning and take a train halfway across the continent. Not that Kreizler and I were in much better shape: as Sara left, she announced that she intended to pick us both up the next day in a cab and take us to the station, the near-dead look on each of our faces having caused her to doubt that we could be relied on to rise at all, much less catch a train.
Just as Kreizler and I were walking out the door of Number 808, Stevie appeared, his own strength reconstituted by several hours’ sleep. Reminding us that Cyrus had been alone in a hospital room all day, Stevie said that he’d brought the calash and was prepared to drive us to St. Vincent’s Hospital to pay our wounded comrade a visit. Weary though we were, neither Laszlo nor I could refuse; and, remembering the appalling quality of food in the average New York hospital, we decided to call Charlie Delmonico and have him order his staff to prepare a really first-rate meal that we could transport to St. Vincent’s.
We found Cyrus heavily bandaged and nearly asleep at about six-thirty. He was delighted with the meal, and complained about nothing, even the fact that the nurses in the hospital objected to caring for a black man. Kreizler lit into a couple of hospital administrators about that, but otherwise we passed a very pleasant hour in Cyrus’s room, the window of which offered an excellent view of Seventh Avenue, Jackson Square, and the sunset beyond.
It was nearly dark when we stepped back out onto Tenth Street. I told Stevie that we’d mind the calash for a few minutes so that he could go up and say hello to Cyrus, at which the boy eagerly ran into the hospital. Kreizler and I were about to deposit our creaking bones in the soft leather upholstery of the carriage when an ambulance clattered up at considerable speed and came to a halt next to us. Had I been less exhausted I might have noticed that the ambulance driver’s face was not altogether strange to me; as it was, I focused the little attention I could muster on the vehicle’s doors, which burst open and spewed forth a second man. I recognized this individual—who looked like anything but a hospital attendant—with an immediate, throbbing pulse of dread.
“What in hell?” I mumbled, as the man stared at me and grinned.
“Connor!” Laszlo said in shock.
The former detective sergeant’s toothy gash widened, and then he took a few threatening steps forward. “So you remember me, then? All the better.” From under his somewhat ragged jacket he produced a revolver. “Get in the ambulance. Both of you.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Laszlo answered sharply, despite the gun.
I tried to take a different tack, having a far better idea than did Kreizler of whom we were dealing with: “Connor, put the gun away. This is crazy, you can’t just—”
“Crazy, is it?” the man replied angrily. “Hardly. I’m just doing my new job. I lost my old one, you might remember. Anyway, I’ve been told to fetch you two—though I’d just as soon leave you dead on the sidewalk. So
Odd how fear can cure exhaustion. I was suddenly aware of a new burst of energy, all of it directed at my feet. But flight was out of the question—Connor was quite serious, I knew, about his willingness to shoot us. So I pulled Kreizler, who struggled and objected all the way, to the rear of the ambulance. As we got in I looked up just long enough to see that the driver of the vehicle was one of the men who’d tried to waylay Sara and me at the Santorellis’ flat. Loose ends were beginning to come together.
Connor locked the ambulance door from the outside, then climbed up top with the other man. We careened off at the same hell-bent speed that’d marked their arrival, although it was impossible to tell through the small caged windows in the vehicle’s rear door exactly where we were heading.
“Feels like uptown,” I said, as we were jostled around the dark compartment.
“It’s no joke,” I said, trying the door but finding it quite solid. “Most cops are only about three steps away from being criminals, anyway. I’d say Connor’s taken those steps.”
Laszlo was utterly astounded. “One doesn’t really know what to say in such a situation. Do you have any particularly gruesome confessions you’d like to make, Moore? I’m not a cleric, of course, but—”
“Kreizler, did you hear what I just said? This is not a joke!” Just then, we whipped around a corner and were thrown with a crash to one side of the ambulance.
“Hmmm,” Kreizler noised, pulling himself up and checking for damage. “I begin to see your point.”
In another fifteen minutes our wild ride finally came to an end. Whatever neighborhood we were in was very quiet, the stillness broken only by the grunts and curses of our drivers. Connor finally opened the door again, and we spilled out onto what I recognized to be Madison Avenue, in the Murray Hill district. A nearby lamppost bore a marker that read “36th Street,” and in front of us stood a very large but tasteful brownstone with two columns on each side of its front door and large bay windows bulging out toward the street.
Kreizler and I looked at each other, instant recognition in our faces. “Well, well,” Kreizler said, intrigued and perhaps even a little awed.
I, on the other hand, was nearly flattened. “What in hell?” I whispered. “Why would—”
“Move,” Connor said, indicating the front door but staying by the ambulance.
Kreizler glanced at me again, shrugged, and began to climb the front steps. “I suggest we enter, Moore. He’s not a man accustomed to waiting.”
A very English butler admitted us to Number 219 Madison Avenue, the interior of which reflected the same rare combination—extreme wealth and very fine taste—that marked the outside of the brownstone. Marble flooring met our feet, and a simple yet spacious white stairway wound away into the house’s upper floors. Our destination, however, lay directly ahead. We passed splendid European paintings, sculpture, and ceramics—all elegantly and simply displayed, with none of that piling-on effect that families like the Vanderbilts were so appallingly entranced by—and kept moving toward the back of the house. There the butler opened a paneled door that led into a cavernous room that was dimly lit. Laszlo and I stepped inside.
The high walls of the room were paneled with Santo Domingo mahogany that was nearly black; indeed, the room was known, to the staff of the house as well as in New York legend, as “the Black Library.” Luxurious carpets
