“They knew the risks,” was Houdini’s curt reply.
Doyle sighed. “Perhaps I’ve gone senile. My wife believes so. But of late . . . for the first time in fifty years, I’ve found I cannot write. Not a word. There is only sadness where inspiration used to be. Now, interpret this as you may, but Duvall . . . his death . . . it’s as though he’s drawing us back one last time, to finish what we started. There’s been so much pain and distrust. But still, the fact remains that we’ve seen beyond the veil, and once you’ve done that, nothing ever feels the same. Why is it you rush headlong into one venture after another with scarcely a second to breathe? I’ll tell you why. Because you’ve never experienced anything since that even touches what we saw, what we did, together. The world idolizes you, Houdini. Your fame is beyond measure. Nothing can enhance it. The decision you make now is not about what they see, it’s about what you see. When you look inside yourself.”
Franz Kukol, Houdini’s executive assistant, swung open the door. “Boss? There was yelling?”
Houdini did not answer right away. He was staring at Doyle.
“Boss? Everything okay?”
“Mr. Doyle was just leaving,” Houdini answered.
Doyle scowled. “I’ll show myself out.” He flashed a disparaging glance at Houdini, then approached Kukol. “Pardon.”
Kukol stepped aside.
Doyle stopped in the doorway. “They’ve locked Howard away at Bellevue. Unless something is done, I doubt he will live to see the morning.”
Houdini’s face was unreadable. Doyle shook his head, disgusted, before exiting into the hall.
14
“AND MAY GOD’S righteous sword of justice lead us to truth and wisdom and mercy and charity in all our hearts and actions . . . amen.”
“Amen.”
Paul Caleb, the young district attorney of New York City, having said his prayer, unclasped the hands of the chief of police and the captain of Fourth Ward.
“To business, then, gentlemen.” Caleb unbuttoned his suit jacket and hung it on the coatrack.
Chief McDuff sat behind his desk, looking uneasy. Everyone seemed more conscious of their shortcomings in the presence of the young D.A., who was living up to his billing as a dueling stew of piety and ambition. But still, the realities of how Tammany Hall worked would temper the boy in time.
Captain Bartleby of Fourth Ward—the most notorious of the five boroughs—felt inadequate, too, and winced through the burn of his ulcer; a thousand troubles, both personal and professional, claimed the lion’s share of his attention. He was a saggy man in his fifties, kept alive by coffee, neither principled nor corrupt. His one desire in life was to have a decent bowel movement. Caleb’s assessment of Fourth Ward was not high on his list of concerns.
Caleb smoothed his hair and leaned back on the sofa. “Congratulations are in order, Captain. I’m happy to see the apprehension of a suspect in those murders in Chatham.”
“Yes, Mr. Caleb. Detective Mullin’s one of our best, sir.” Bartleby removed his finger from his ear and examined it.
“I should like to meet this man,” Caleb added.
“He’s on his way, sir.”
Caleb raised his eyebrows at McDuff. “If only all our wards showed such commitment.”
McDuff didn’t react. “There are budgetary issues involved, Mr. Caleb. Of course we’d like to solve every crime, but it’s complicated.”
Caleb’s expression was blank. “I see. You’re speaking of priorities?”
“Of course, sir.” McDuff clipped the tip off a cigar.
“Applying values to certain crimes over others?”
“Exactly.” McDuff smiled cynically and sampled his cigar.
“In other words: A dead poor person simply isn’t as important as a dead wealthy person.”
McDuff frowned. “Look, Mr. Caleb—”
“ ‘And the meek shall inherit the earth,’ Chief McDuff,” Caleb reminded him. “It’s time this police force served all the people and not just the political hand that feeds it.”
“Now, wait just a minute—”
“There will be changes, I promise you that. And this case . . .” Caleb pointed at Captain Bartleby “. . . is a good first step.”
Detective Mullin knocked, then stepped inside. “You called for me?” he asked Captain Bartleby.
“Yes. Come in, Detective.” Caleb rose to his feet and shook hands with Mullin, who glanced at the others with apprehension. “Job well done. Well done.”
Mullin looked to his captain. “Sir?”
“The Chatham slashings, Shaughnessy,” Bartleby reminded him.
Mullin turned back to Caleb: “We haven’t closed that investigation yet, sir.”
Caleb blinked. “I was told we have a suspect in custody. That the evidence is overwhelming.”
“You’ve been misinformed, sir.”
“What’s this hogwash, Bartleby?” the chief grumbled.
The captain squirmed. “Eh, Shaughnessy’s just explainin’, weren’t you, Shaughnessy?”
“Who’s the man at Bellevue, Detective?” the chief asked.
“This Lovecraft fellow? ’E’s an odd duck, fer certain. But there’s others involved. They may be settin’ up this Lovecraft to take the fall. The boy’s not all at home upstairs, if y’understand my meanin’, sir.”
“But you had evidence,” Caleb insisted.
“Nuthin’ tyin’ ’im directly to the crimes, sir.”
“Demonological tracts? Blasphemous writings? Occult literature? Am I mistaken, or were these not found in Mr. Lovecraft’s apartment?”
“As I said, Lovecraft’s an odd duck, sir.”
“I’d say it’s quite a bit more than that; I’d say it’s proof of a diseased mind spilling over into bloody action.” Caleb turned on Chief McDuff. “I’d say these are just the sort of crimes—and just the sort of criminals—we should be applying all our might to stopping.” Caleb addressed Mullin directly. “Mr. Lovecraft is the symptom—the tumor, if you will—of a cancerous society. This man cut the spine out of an old woman whose sole reason for living was to save orphans from the streets. And we’re supposed to do nothing?”
“Not nuthin’, sir. I just think there might be others involved.”
“Who, Shaughnessy?” Bartleby asked. “Have you got a name?”
“Doyle, sir. Arthur Conan Doyle.”
Caleb frowned and looked at McDuff.
Captain Bartleby scratched his ear. “Name sounds familiar . . .”
“Older fellow,” Mullin went on. “Said he was a writer. Showed up at Lovecraft’s apartment the night he was arrested.”
“He didn’t . . . he wasn’t English, was he?” Caleb inquired.
“Scottish, sir.”
“ ‘Sir’ Arthur Conan Doyle?” Caleb repeated.
“He might’ve said that, yeah.”
“The author of the Sherlock Holmes stories?” Caleb continued, incredulous. “British war hero?”
“Well, now, he didn’t say as such . . .”
“Did he look wealthy?”
“I suppose,” Mullin answered reluctantly.
“Just so I’m clear, Detective.” Caleb gestured to the chief and the captain, who were both a little paler than usual. “Just so we’re all clear, are you suggesting that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, knight of the king of England, is murdering old women and young girls downtown?”
Mullin seemed flustered. “I just said, sir, that not all roads led to Mr. Lovecraft. I, ah—”
“Because that will make wonderful news. And not just in New York, but around the world. We’ll make all the front pages. I’ll be famous, indeed.” Caleb rose to his full six feet and looked down at Mullin. “As the biggest ass of the twentieth century! Are you trying to make a fool of me, Detective Mullin?”
“No, sir.”
“Is this some attempt to sabotage me? Humiliate me?”
“Frankly, it has nuthin’ to do with you, sir. I’m just statin’ what I saw—”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Either you’re a complete incompetent or a bald-faced liar. And neither, I assure you, bodes well for your career, Detective.” Caleb spun on the chief and waved a finger at him. “If anyone breathes a word of this, heads will roll.”
Chief McDuff simply nodded.
“And I see my praise of Fourth Ward was premature, Captain Bartleby. That’s all right. I’ll save you from yourselves, if I must.” Caleb took his hat off the chair and swung back to Mullin. “Well, Detective, you’ve managed to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. Congratulations.” Caleb walked past him and grabbed his suit jacket off the rack. “We will prosecute Mr. Lovecraft to the fullest extent of the law, and I expect full support from everyone in this room. I know how I’m viewed by the rank-and-file,” Caleb continued as he shrugged into his jacket. “I know how my beliefs are mocked behind my back, but make no mistake: Cross me at your peril.”
Caleb slammed the door as he left.
There was a moment of silence.
“Bartleby?” the chief began.
“Yes, Chief?”
“Give me a few minutes with Detective Mullin.”
Bartleby stood hesitantly. “Yes, Chief.”
Mullin pulled on his ear as the door closed behind him. He turned to Chief McDuff, who took his cigar in both hands and slowly mashed it in his fists until pulp squeezed out of his hands like toothpaste onto the desktop.
15
DEXTER’S LONG COAT flowed behind him like a sheet of black rainwater; a twelve-gauge single barrel shotgun in his hands. It was 2:30 A.M., and he was walking his usual route, corralling the older orphans from the Chatham hellholes, but he was keenest on finding Abigail and Matthew. It seemed his life’s work had been nothing more than running herd on those two, and he had thankless little to show for it. They’d become thieves and alley cats and seemed to thrive on danger. And it wasn’t only Dexter who had grown weary of their adventures. They’d exhausted the patience of the police, the Rescue Society, and near everyone else who knew them.
But none of that mattered. Tonight was different. No one should be out on the streets tonight. Not after what happened to poor Martha. How perverse that a woman so gentle could die so viciously. Dexter tried to shake the memory off, but another just rose up to take its place. Audrey. There would be no more of her silly songs, no more of her mischievous little tricks, her ways of calming colicky babies.
Dexter couldn’t let himself feel the full impact of their loss; not yet. Instead, he just pressed on. Protecting the others, that’s what mattered.
Dexter spotted a local thief, Chops Connelly, catching a cig outside a brothel on Mott Street.
Chops spoke first. “Whaddya say, Dex? Goin’ huntin’?”
Dexter never smiled. “Seen Abby or Matthew?”
“Seen ’em? I wish! The little shits owe me fi’ dollars on a dice game. They ran off, o’ course, ’fore payin’ what they lost. I can’t allow that to happen, see?”
“You’ll get your money.” Dexter always looked men directly in the eyes as he spoke, which won him respect even from thugs like Chops.
“I don’t know why ya don’t tie a brick round their ankles and drop ’em off a dock.”
Dexter calmly lifted the shotgun and touched the muzzle to Chops’s chin.
“Ay, ay, easy, Dex. I ain’t sayin’ I’m doin’ nuthin’; the kids is trouble’s, all. Don’t be like that.”
“Anything happens to them and I’ll hold you personally responsible. Do you understand?”
“Whaddya takin’ everythin’ so personal fer?” Chops backed away and flicked his cigarette into the street. He rubbed his throat. “You shouldn’t a done that, Dex. That weren’t smart. Them kids owes me fi’ dollars.” And Chops stalked off into the night.
Dexter watched him go with steady black eyes. He’d been dealing with men like Chops for so long, and in so many different cities, that their threats meant nothing to him.
For the next hour he searched all the way to City Hall Park, but in vain. He combed the usual hideouts—the Doctor’s and the Billy Goat and the dance halls—but none of the regulars had seen them. Although by Dexter’s calculation, Abigail and Matthew owed half the city approximately fifty dollars and change.
By now most of the riffraff had retired for the evening. The streets were canyons, empty save for the stray bottle rolling in the wind.
Dexter’s anger gave way to worry. Regardless of their age he still thought of Abigail and Matthew as children—and of himself as their guardian. And, silly as it was, he felt like he was letting them down, leaving them open to danger.
Suddenly, Dexter spun into a low crouch, the rifle locked and loaded. He knelt there in the middle of the street, aiming into the darkness of a tenement alley. He wasn’t sure what he had seen, but his peripheral vision was legendary. And something that had moved caught his eye.
Steel scraped off steel, and Dexter sprang to his feet, dashing across the street to a small children’s playground.
A child’s swing squeaked on rusting hinges.
Dexter pressed his back to one of the trees, then turned and aimed into the darkness again, eyes searching for movement.
A gurgling squeal echoed through the air. Dexter tried to place the sound. It was like phlegm rolling in a long throat; like a pig’s squeal on the chopping block.
Dexter heard the steel-scraping sound again, and ducked down. It came from the opposite direction as the squealing, and sounded farther away this time.
Another round of squealing erupted, closer now. Dexter’s gaze darted up and down the streets. His heart swelled in his throat. He could smell something in the air—something fetid, decaying.
Then there was a blur of movement behind him. Dexter whirled around. There was nothing there, but this time the squeal he heard was the loudest yet. It rang off the buildings, and goose bumps rose on Dexter’s arms.
His only thoughts now were of escape. He was outnumbered, and he knew it. They were hunting him like pack animals, trying to lure him out of hiding. Old instincts took over: old senses, old skills that had been dulled over time by city life.
Dexter concentrated on the wind, and when it flowed his way, he tried to read the scents upon it. But the moon caught on something steel in the playground, between the trees. Dexter feinted left then rolled right, rising up fast, ready to shoot.
Then he spun southward again as a new volley of squeals threw his senses off. He couldn’t count the numbers. Three? Ten? He began to sense movement all around now, in every shadow, in every alley and doorway. A gleam of ruby eyes.
There was movement behind him again.
Dexter spun about and caught a glimpse of brown robes snaking up a tenement stairwell.
More waited all around him.
Dexter walked in a small circle, listening to them breathe.
A twig snapped.
Dexter swung his rifle around as two silver axes sliced the air.
“Yaji-ash-shuthath,”
his attacker hissed as one of the axes bit through his coat sleeve, taking with it a chunk of flesh.
Dexter fired wildly into the trees, sending dozens of pigeons fleeing across the moon.
With his attacker too close now to shoot, Dexter used the rifle as a cudgel. The ax blades rang off the forged frame of the shotgun, striking sparks with every blow. Dexter spun around, throwing off his opponent’s balance, and caught him in the side of the head with the walnut stock. A shard of blue glass dropped from the attacker’s face and he stumbled away. Dexter’s hands were shaking as he searched for a shell in his pockets. He saw his opponent steadying himself, readying for another attack, and Dexter was suddenly aware of his own blood dripping from his fingers; he felt its stickiness beneath his coat sleeve. The wound was deep.
He turned to run, but they were already upon him.
They swayed forth from the stygian darkness, lithe robed bodies with drooping hoods concealing long faces with glowing red rubies instead of eyes. Thin stalks of wood, like beaks, substituted for noses. Clutched in their gloved fists were enormous scythes gleaming silver. Their heads bobbed, crowlike, and they seemed to communicate without language, though their breath gurgled through lungs thick with mucus.
Dexter roared as they closed around him, the air hissing with the passing of blades. He heard three sickening thunks and a wet gasp.
The creatures yanked their blades free of his torso, spraying the air with blood, then swooped in again like raptors. Dexter’s hands went to his punctured throat as his knees buckled. His eyes turned skyward, but the heavens were obscured by bloody hooks and staring ruby eyes.