“What about the third man?”
“Stephen Powell, sir.” McBride grinned. “Ran me out of his house like a common salesman. Said he knew his rights, didn’t have to talk to the police, he’d call his solicitor, blah, blah…But he was just as scared as the other fella, sir. Maybe more. And I saw two big trunks in his hall.”
So someone else had details of all Redfers’s “clients,” Langton realized. Doktor Glass. Perhaps Redfers had worked for Glass, acting as a contact between respectable society and the Jar Boys. And Redfers had also collected the souls of the dying. Just as he had with Sarah.
Langton screwed his eyes shut and clasped his hands tight together.
The hansom halted in front of the Infirmary steps. Langton waited at the open door to allow a stooped old woman to shuffle inside the lobby. Then he crossed to the porter’s hatch and asked who dealt with the Infirmary’s ambulances.
“Why, that would be the people in administration, sir. Left corridor, down a floor, and look out for room number six. No, sorry, seven, it is.”
Langton pulled McBride to one side, out of the milling crowd of patients and relatives. “You ask administration about the wagon. Find out what they do with their old ambulances; maybe they keep a record of who buys them when they’re sold on.”
“Sir. Where should I find you when I’m finished?”
Langton looked away, feeling an obscure sense of guilt that surprised him. “Sister Wright’s office.”
* * *
S
ISTER
W
RIGHT SAT
behind her desk and listened without interrupting. Langton told her about the man who’d died at Edge Hill, Reefer Jake’s murder and removal, and Durham’s survival. He drew back from telling her about the house in Falkner Square and the evidence building up around Professor Caldwell Chivers.
As he explained, one part of his mind remained separate, and
marveled at how easy it was to talk to Sister Wright. She gave off an air of calm, of infinite patience. No doubt some of that came from her duties with the sick, developed as a good bedside manner. It must also come from her own nature; like Sarah, she had a natural, comforting empathy.
When Langton had finished, Sister Wright shook her head. “It’s hard to believe that all this has happened in such a short time. And that you’ve discovered so much. You’ve done well.”
“Me? No. Durham is still free, as are Kepler’s murderers. And Doktor Glass can walk into police headquarters and calmly remove his accomplice’s body.”
He retrieved the dead man’s silver syringe case from his pocket and slid it across the table. “I wonder if you’ve seen this before?”
While Sister Wright examined the case, Langton glanced to his right; the frosted-glass partition distorted the figures of the nurses working in the inner ward, made them seem like strange, slow fish drifting underwater. The clink of metal against glass or porcelain came through.
“It’s not that common,” Sister Wright said, closing the syringe case and returning it to Langton. “The larger medical companies, the ones who bid to supply surgical implements or equipment, produce these and give them to the more influential doctors.”
“Such as…”
“The consultants, I suppose. And the surgeons.”
Langton hesitated. “Would the Professor have one?”
“Possibly. I don’t remember seeing it.”
“Where is he now?”
Sister Wright glanced at the upturned watch on her tunic. “In theater. Would you like me to ask him, when he comes out?”
That might tip off the Professor. “No, thank you. It’s not that important.”
As if defending the Professor, Sister Wright said, “I wouldn’t want
you to think the Professor accepts bribes. Many of the staff here receive gifts from the medical companies and suppliers. It’s common practice.”
To deflect her, Langton said, “No doubt that the man who died at Edge Hill received this case just as you say, as a gift. If not indirectly through Doktor Glass.”
Sister Wright leaned forward. “You’re sure you’re dealing with this ‘Doktor Glass’?”
“I think so. He seems to be everywhere, manipulating, arranging, controlling. Like some dexterous puppeteer with real people for marionettes. A very clever, ruthless puppeteer.”
“You sound almost as if you admire him…”
“Admire? No, not that. But I can’t afford to underestimate his abilities. No matter who he is.”
At that, Langton wondered how Sister Wright would react if the Professor really was Doktor Glass. She obviously revered the Professor. Even though she had survived the Transvaal, even despite the strength apparent within her, she would take it hard. Langton didn’t want to destroy possibly her last illusion of decency, altruism, and humanity. He knew he might have no choice.
Now, staring at him, she said, “You know who he is, don’t you?”
“I’m not yet sure.”
“But—”
“Please. Soon we’ll have enough proof.” Langton stood up, glancing again at the empty birdcage in the corner. He shook Sister Wright’s hand and said, “Perhaps tomorrow I can be less reticent.”
She seemed about to ask again, but instead nodded and said, “I look forward to seeing you. And take care.”
After he left Sister Wright, Langton found McBride waiting in the outer corridor, out of place among the starched uniforms, bedraggled patients, and gleaming white tiles. “Any news?”
McBride shook his head. “Sorry, sir. Seems they don’t keep any
records of who they pass the old wagons and carts on to. Could be rag-and-bone men, they said. Could be tradesmen.”
Langton didn’t enjoy the thought that some of his food might be transported on carts that had once carried bodies. Still, what the eye didn’t see…
Returning to the main lobby, Langton showed his warrant card and borrowed the porter’s telephone. He got through to Forbes Paterson and listened, nodding, to the inspector’s message. When he set the phone down, his eyes burned a little brighter. “It’s on, Sergeant. We move tonight.”
L
ANGTON STRODE THROUGH
the falling snow with Forbes Paterson at his side and McBride and three of Paterson’s own detectives behind. All bundled against the cold in heavy coats and gloves, neck scarves reaching almost to their hat brims, just like the few pedestrians that hurried along Huskisson Street in the failing light. None of the policemen spoke. Ahead lay Falkner Square.
Forbes Paterson had told the cabdrivers to halt at Catharine Street, a good half mile from their destination. Langton thought it overcautious but then remembered how the Jar Boys had slipped away so many times before. Now, glancing at Paterson, he saw the set of the inspector’s shoulders, the eyes gleaming hard.
At the junction with Bedford Street, two other plainclothesmen left the shadows of doorways and joined the advancing party without comment. Langton wondered if Doktor Glass had lookouts posted in the area, lookouts that would notice eight stocky men marching toward the square. But the snow helped them here; its gusts and swirls shielded
them and made passing pedestrians bow their heads and concentrate on getting home.
Now, through the snow, a sign on a brick wall:
Back Sandon Street.
Almost there.
Forbes Paterson raised his hand to halt the men. Ahead lay Sandon Street, then the square with its fine, four-story houses. On the opposite bank of Sandon Street, a handful of ragged loafers held out their bare hands to a glowing brazier. Red embers and black smoke against white snow. One of the men left the group, dodged the few hansoms and carts on Sandon Street, and ambled toward the policemen. He’d almost passed them by when he darted into a doorway, followed by Forbes Paterson.
“No one has been in or out of there for the past hour, sir,” the man said. He blew on his chapped hands and shuffled from foot to foot, shivering in his thin jacket. “They had a cart drive up maybe half an hour ago; small fella in a hooded cloak went inside but hasn’t come out again.”
“No other visitors?”
The plainclothesman shook his head. “There’s plenty of life in there, sir. Most of the lights are on, and there’s music from the parlor.”
“Then we have them.” Forbes Paterson smiled at Langton, then told the shivering observer, “You go home and thaw out, Jenkins.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but I’d like to stick around for the end.”
“Good man.” Paterson looked at each man in his team, then led the way across Sandon Street toward Falkner Square.
Langton wondered how many favors Paterson had called in. “You’ve had men watching the house?”
“For the past two hours. Jenkins out front, Simpson around the back.” Forbes hesitated to allow a coal merchant’s wagon past, then hurried on. “By now, we should have another five men waiting at the back doors and yard. We’ve got Doktor Glass like a rat down a drain. There’s nowhere for him to go.”
“How do you know he’ll be there?”
“The small man in the hooded cloak,” Forbes said. “I think that’s our man. This time we have him.”
Langton hoped he was right.
Falkner Square opened out before them. Indistinct in the gusts of snow, the black exclamation marks of iron railings, skeletal trees. Windows glowed yellow and white in the tall houses. Langton hurried after Paterson, who stopped at the bottom step of a looming redbrick town house. Every window glowed. Subdued piano music drifted from a downstairs room. The black front door looked heavy and solid.
Forbes Paterson stood aside to let through two detectives. The first man took an enormous chisel from his pocket and placed it over the door’s lock. Langton, amazed, saw the second detective produce a sledgehammer from his capacious greatcoat. The men waited, poised.
Paterson checked his watch, put a police whistle to his lips, and gave three short blasts that pierced the cold air.
The first sledgehammer blow sent the chisel through the lock. The second took the door from its hinges. The detectives poured into the hall, pistols in their hands. “Police!”
Langton rushed to the stairs, looking for a way to the basement. All around him, doors slammed open, boots pounded on parquet floors. His heart raced. The Webley in his hand seemed weightless.
Down a few steps, a white door. The handle turned. Langton sensed someone behind him; he turned and nodded to McBride. Then he led the way along a passageway. A bare electric bulb burned overhead. More open doors revealed scullery, kitchen, washroom, larders. Not a living soul.
Down another three steps into a cold brick corridor. The smell of damp earth. At the end, a massive door of oak bound with wide bands of steel. But the padlocks hung open in their hasps. With his Webley raised, Langton inched forward and gripped the iron handle. It took all his strength to haul the door back on its complaining hinges. Its momentum slammed it into the passage’s brick wall.
Darkness. The smell of white flowers and damp. Pressed back against the passage wall, Langton reached into the dark basement room. His hand searched for a light switch. When he found it, pure white light seared the room.
Empty. Every shelf bare save for the round imprints of recently removed jars. White tiles, whitewashed walls, white ceiling. And a multitude of fresh muddy footprints on the tiled floor.
“They knew,” Langton said. “Someone told Doktor Glass to expect us. Just like Redfers.”
McBride said nothing. He stood aside as Forbes Paterson rushed into the room. The inspector froze, like a marionette jerked back on its wires.
Langton slid his Webley into his pocket and said, “The house is empty, isn’t it?”
Forbes Paterson nodded. “Not a soul.”
Langton followed Paterson through the house, through deserted rooms and echoing passageways. In the kitchen, a stew still bubbled on the stove; vegetables lay chopped on the pine table, knives scattered beside them. In the front parlor, an electric gramophone played the same Chopin melody over and over; the music washed over empty chairs, half-drained glasses of whiskey, cigar butts still smoking in ashtrays.
The evidence of hurried flight lay everywhere: clothes half-dragged from wardrobes; bureau drawers tugged open or even upturned on bedroom floors; lamps still burning in rooms where cigarette smoke clung to the ceiling. Every room seemed to wait for occupants who had just slipped out for a moment and would soon return.
“How?” Paterson asked. “How did they escape? My men fore and back swore nobody left the house.”
Langton glanced up. “The attic? Maybe it runs the length of the terrace?”
Paterson rushed through the door and started calling for ladders.
Listless, as if going through the motions, Langton looked around the upper floors. Doktor Glass had spent a great deal of money on the
house. Furniture of mahogany and oak. Fine silks and velvets. Persian carpets, tapestries, comfortable beds. And beside each bed, low tables whose wooden surfaces bore the imprint of some heavy, round object. Imprints that the jars from the basement shelves might have made.
Langton could imagine the scene: the “client” lying back on that comfortable bed. The jar of his choice placed on the table beside him. The man’s grubby, thick fingers reaching out for the connectors…
Langton’s hands became fists. Something began to burn inside him and spread through his body until its roaring obliterated everything else. He tried to restrain it, but the house itself seemed to challenge him: every open cupboard and door a laughing mouth, every vacant room a sign of how close he’d been to Doktor Glass. Of how he’d failed.
Had he really expected to find Sarah here? Had he been so naïve? Or so desperate?
He kicked over piles of clothes, yanked drawers from their rails, and hurled the contents onto disheveled beds or floors. The acts of petty destruction felt good, but he wanted more. He wanted to rip the house apart, brick by brick, until nothing remained but its bare skeleton.
McBride watched the increasing mess. “Sir, maybe we should—”
“I’ll find him, Sergeant. There’s a clue here. Something to identify him without question.” Langton tore through handfuls of men’s clothes, searching the pockets before casting them aside.
McBride edged toward the door. “Maybe I should get Inspector Paterson…”