The Angel Of Darkness

CHAPTER 9

The Doctor telephoned Miss Howard, Mr. Moore, and the detective sergeants the next morning to inform them of his decision and to direct Miss Howard to set up a meeting with Señora Linares for that evening at Number 808 Broadway so that he could personally interview her. Miss Howard soon called back, saying she’d been able to schedule an appointment for 8:30. Then the Doctor withdrew into his study, to begin gathering his thoughts and assembling his research for the job ahead. He issued occasional orders to Cyrus and me, dispatching one or the other of us to various stores and libraries to track down books and journals. This activity nearly kept me from my own urgent mission of the morning: getting bets down for myself and Mr. Moore on the first real class horse race of the season, the Suburban handicap at the Coney Island Jockey Club’s track in Sheepshead Bay. But I juggled it all fine, and Mr. Moore and I finished the day with some very tidy winnings.

At about 7:45 in the evening, the Doctor announced that we’d better get ready to go, as he wanted to walk downtown. He claimed that it was on account of the fine weather, but I think he really felt much more nervous about going back to Number 808 than he’d expected to. The walk over to Broadway and then downtown did seem to calm him, though, and by the time we’d reached the old headquarters sunset was beginning, the rich golden color that spread over the rooftops making it hard to imagine that we were venturing into anything really dangerous.

Dr. Kreizler entered Number 808 much as the rest of us had two days earlier: slowly, cautiously, letting the memories take full effect before he made any definitive movement or statement. As the elevator carried us up to the sixth floor, silence abounded, though when the Doctor saw the sign that Miss Howard’d had painted on the door, he couldn’t help but laugh once quietly and shake his head.

“Sufficiently euphemistic, I should think,” he murmured. “Sara certainly knows her audience…”

Then it was inside, to find Miss Howard and the señora once again sitting in two of the easy chairs. Señora Linares wore the same black clothing, and her veil was up, showing that her wounds had healed only a little since the last time we saw her. She seemed very relieved to meet Dr. Kreizler, and as they spoke she opened up in a way she hadn’t when Mr. Moore and the Isaacsons had examined her. As for the Doctor, he stayed intensely focused on the visitor for most of the time, though his occasional quick glances around the room tipped me off to the fact that he was thinking about other things, too: things that weren’t far enough in the past yet to seem really finished.

The Doctor’s examination of the señora took just over an hour and involved, of course, questions that to most people would’ve seemed thoroughly unrelated to the matter at hand: questions about her family, her childhood, where she’d grown up, how she’d met her husband, why she’d married him. Then there were deeper inquiries about the state of that marriage over the last couple of years. The señora willingly answered these, even though she was clearly confused about their purpose. I think the Doctor would have kept going longer if he could’ve, being as his subject was so compliant; but when she realized that 9:30 had come and gone, she became very anxious and agitated, saying that she hadn’t had time to work out a good cover story for the meeting and needed to get back home in a hurry. Cyrus deposited her in a hansom, returning to the sixth floor just as true darkness descended on the city.

During the few minutes he was gone the Doctor started silently wandering around the room, maybe going over what he’d just heard, maybe thinking again about other, older matters, maybe doing a bit of both; whatever the case, nobody even considered interrupting him. Only the sound of the elevator’s return finally brought him back out of his deep ponderings. He looked up kind of blankly, then turned to Miss Howard, who’d switched on a small electrical light and was sitting on the edge of its glow.

“Well, Sara,” the Doctor said. “What’s become of our board?”

Miss Howard smiled wide and fairly ran over to the Japanese screen, laying hold of the big, rolling chalkboard and dragging it out to face the desks. It had obviously been recently scrubbed clean.

The Doctor approached it, staring at its black, empty surface. Then he removed his jacket, picked up a spanking new piece of chalk, cracked it in half, and, in quick, slashing motions, wrote the words POSSIBLE POLITICAL EXPLANATIONS across the top of the board. Shaking the half piece of chalk around inside one closed hand, he turned to the rest of us.

“We begin with the futile, I’m afraid,” he announced. “The first task that faces us is to explore any possible political component of this crime-though I must tell you before we go any further that I do not believe such a component exists.”

Mr. Moore automatically slipped behind one of the desks as he asked, “You buy the idea that the child’s identity is just a coincidence, Kreizler?”

“I ‘buy’ nothing, John-but I believe, as the detective sergeants have suggested, that this is a random act. And I must tell you that if our goal is to return the child to her mother-as I presume it is-then that randomness attains a very grim dimension.” With a single broad stroke the Doctor drew a circle in the center of the board and then marked stations at its major points as he spoke on. “As I think even you will see, Moore, any attempt at a political explanation results in something of a logical circle, one that leads nowhere. We start here.” He tapped the twelve o’clock position on the diagram. “The child has been abducted in the manner the señora says-I don’t think there’s any question about her telling the truth, there. She’s a sound, strong person-her being here alone proves that much. Were she the sort of neurotic woman who craves sympathy and attention”-the Doctor suddenly paused, staring out the window-“and such creatures do exist…” He came back from wherever he’d been. “Then we would hardly do as an audience, and a fabricated story about a kidnapping, accompanied by a thorough beating, would hardly be a convenient dramatic vehicle. No. Her history, her position, her mentality-they all point toward the truth. And so-the child has been abducted and the mother struck on the head. By, if we are to accept Moore ’s political hypothesis, an expert.”

“Who chooses a very public spot, in broad daylight,” Lucius droned doubtfully, opening a little notebook to make a record of the discussion.

“Ah, my dear Detective Sergeant, I share your skepticism,” the Doctor answered. “But we must not dispose of this theory through mere intuition.” He quickly wrote AN ABDUCTION BY A PROFESSIONAL FOR POLITICAL PURPOSES at the top of the circle. “After all, perhaps the kidnapper was a man of rare pluck and pride who enjoys the challenge of working under unusually dangerous circumstances.”

“With a piece of lead pipe,” Marcus added, his voice crossing over into open sarcasm.

“With an instrument that he can easily discard, so that it will not be discovered on his person by the police, should he be detained for any reason. After all, our young friend in the windowsill”-the Doctor jerked a thumb in my direction-“carried just such a weapon for just such a reason. Isn’t that so, Stevie?”

I glanced around to find each of them staring at me. “Well-yeah, I guess.” They kept staring, and I started to fidget. “It ain’t like I do it anymore!” I protested, which seemed to give them a chuckle.

“All right, then,” the Doctor said, taking the limelight back off of me. “He’s a professional. Who happens to be about the height of his victim and possesses a remarkably light touch.” The Doctor moved to the right side of the circle. “But who can have hired him? Moore? You’re the one who favors this interpretation-give me your candidates.”

“We’re not short on those,” Mr. Moore answered from his desk. “There’s a lot of people who’d like to see a diplomatic incident between the United States and Spain right now. We can start with the war party in this country-”

“Very well,” the Doctor said, listing them as U.S. CITIZENS FAVORING WAR on the board. “Those Americans who don’t care who starts the war, so long as we finish it.”

“Exactly,” Mr. Moore said. Then he frowned. “Though I doubt they’d want Americans to come off looking quite so brutal.”

“Who else?” the Doctor demanded.

“Well, there’s the Cubans,” Mr. Moore replied. “The exiles here in New York. They’d be in favor of anything that started a war, too.”

“The Cuban Revolutionary Party,” Marcus added. “They’ve got an office down on Front Street, near the docks on the East Side. Moldy old building-they’re up on the fourth floor. Lucius and I can roust them tomorrow, if you like.”

“I submit that tonight would be more useful,” Dr. Kreizler replied. “If they have the child, they are far more likely to plan its fate in the dead of night than during the day.” CUBAN REVOLUTIONARIES went on the right-hand side of the circle.

“Then there’s the Spaniards themselves,” Mr. Moore said. “Personally, I like them the best-they remove the kid and keep the mother in the dark, figuring she’s not up to being part of it.”

“And make no announcement of what’s happened?” Miss Howard said. “Why frame our country and then fail to report the crime?”

Mr. Moore shrugged. “They may be waiting for the right moment. You know the situation in Washington, Sara-you said it yourself, McKinley’s still looking for some way out of this damned war. Maybe they’re waiting until he has no way out.”

“In that case, why not remove the child later?” Miss Howard asked. “Or sooner? There was more war hysteria in the spring than there is right now.”

“Perhaps they’ve simply mistimed their play,” the Doctor offered, writing SPANISH WAR PARTY on the board. “ Spain is hardly being run by geniuses at the moment. Those who favor war are either psychopathic sadists like Weyler”-by which he meant the infamous General Weyler, the governor-general of Cuba who’d begun the practice of putting Cuban peasants into what they called “concentration camps,” where they couldn’t help the rebels but could die like flies of disease and starvation-“or deluded monarchists, dreaming of the days of the conquistadores.” The Doctor stood away from the board. “So-that completes the list of suspects. One of the groups hires a professional, he abducts the child, and it is taken into hiding. By-”

“The woman on the train,” Miss Howard answered quickly. “She’s the caretaker-unless you think the señora was mistaken about seeing the baby.”

“A different woman might have been,” the Doctor answered. “But this woman? No. She has the presence of mind to come here and discuss the affair in detail, even though she’s aware of the potential consequences should her husband discover it. This is not a woman given to either delusions or hysteria. No, when she says she saw the child, I believe her.” Inclining toward the bottom of the circle on the board, the Doctor wrote THE WOMAN ON THE TRAIN:, the colon showing that he intended to write more. “All right, John,” he continued. “Explain this mysterious woman in a political context.”

Mr. Moore looked to be at a loss. “Well, she’s-she’s just what Sara says. A caretaker. She was dressed like a governess, the señora said-probably another professional, hired for the job.”

“A job which she undertakes on the last car of the Third Avenue Elevated in the middle of the night? It won’t do, John, and you know it. Though I’m inclined to agree with you about her being a professional of some kind.” He wrote the words GOVERNESS OR NURSE after the last phrase as he added, “But for entirely different reasons.”

“She could’ve been taking the train down to the Cubans’ headquarters,” Mr. Moore protested.

“John,” Miss Howard said, fairly condescendingly, “anyone who goes to the trouble of hiring a kidnapper and a nurse can certainly afford to pay for a cab.”

“Have you ever met those Cuban Revolutionary fellows, Sara?” Mr. Moore answered, topping her condescension. “I have-they’re a moth-eaten group, if ever I saw one. Whatever money Hearst is using to spread war fever, he isn’t giving much of it to them.”

“John’s right about that much,” Marcus said. “Maybe they’ve run out of funds.”

“Which still does not explain what the devil she was doing on the train in the first place,” the Doctor answered. “The general idea is to keep the child hidden, isn’t it? Not parade her around before half of the city. There must be a reason why they would allow her to be seen in public, and that reason must have a political dimension.”

Lucius spoke up: “Well-there’s really only one.”

The Doctor turned. “Yes?”

“They wanted the girl to be seen.”

Dr. Kreizler nodded once. “Yes. Thank you, Detective Sergeant. That is, in fact, the only possibility.” The words DELIBERATE DISPLAY then went up. “Someone, somewhere-perhaps even the señora-was supposed to see the child, so that the kidnappers could prove they actually have her and are in earnest. And the best place to do such a thing would be in a very public place. And so we arrive at our final destination…” The Doctor moved up to the left-hand side of the circle. “Having demonstrated that they have the child, our abductors make their demands known. Yet the señora seems to think that they have not.”

“Consul Baldasano and Linares could be lying to her,” Lucius said. “They may have received the demands and don’t intend to meet them. They don’t want a stink, so they lie to the mother.”

The Doctor was busy writing DEMANDS: as he weighed this. “Yes. Again, Lucius, the only possibility, really, unless Moore is right and they’re biding their time. But whether they’re waiting or have been refused, what is it that each group would want? A simple kidnapping for ransom is again ruled out here, because one doubts that the Spanish would fail to meet mere monetary demands. We must stick to the political dimension-which means what?”

“Well,” Mr. Moore said. “The American jingoes and the Cubans want just one thing-war. It’s not really a matter of ‘demands’ as such.”

The Doctor spun around and pointed an accusing finger at his old friend, smiling. “Precisely. Thank you, Moore, for eliminating two of your own suggested culprits.” He turned round again, writing WAR under DEMANDS:, as another lost look came over Mr. Moore’s face.

“What’re you talking about, Kreizler?”

“You abduct a child. Your goal is a diplomatic incident. The child’s disappearance is designed to be the cause-her absence alone is important. Beyond that, she is a liability.”

Miss Howard’s face lit up. “Yes. And in that case-why is the child still alive?”

“Exactly, Sara,” the Doctor answered. “For both the American war party and the Cubans, the living child is only a breathing risk-she can only contribute to their capture. If either group were responsible, the Linares girl would be at the bottom of one of our rivers by now, or perhaps, like the detective sergeants’ discovery of Sunday night, in pieces at the bottom of several rivers. Of all the potential political culprits, only the Spanish would have any interest in keeping the child alive-yet they also have the greatest interest in keeping her out of sight and the most resources with which to make sure she stays so. And thus”-the Doctor drew a hard line back to the top of the board-“a circle. Leading nowhere. Time, as I say, may reveal it to be the correct analysis, but…” He paused, looking at his work; then he said, “Detective Sergeant?” and inclined his head toward Lucius.

“Doctor?”

“Have you made a copy of this diagram?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Keep it, in the unlikely event that we should need to refer to it again.” The Doctor picked up an eraser.

“What are you saying, Dr. Kreizler?” Marcus asked.

“I am saying, Marcus,” he answered, starting to wipe away what he’d written with energetic strokes, “that it is all-so-much-poppycock!”

When the Doctor stepped back from the board again, only two sets of words remained: AN ABDUCTION toward the top of the board and THE WOMAN ON THE TRAIN: GOVERNESS OR NURSE at the bottom. “Remove all the improbable details contained in the circle, and we are left with a far more useful geometric configuration.” He proceeded to slowly and deliberately drag the chalk from the words at the top of the board to those at the bottom. “A straight line.”

We all looked at the thing for a few seconds: it seemed like there was an awful lot of empty space on that board, all of a sudden.

Mr. Moore sighed, putting his feet up. “Meaning exactly what, Kreizler?”

The Doctor turned, his face darkened by genuine apprehension. “It’s understandable that you seek to impose a political explanation on this crime, John, because the alternative is, in fact, far more disturbing and volatile. Yet it is also far more likely.” He pulled out his cigarette case and offered its contents to Miss Howard, Marcus, and Mr. Moore in turn. I was dying for a smoke myself, but it’d have to wait. After they’d all lit their sticks, the Doctor took to pacing in his usual way, and he was still going when he announced, “I believe that the detective sergeants’ analysis of the physical evidence is, as always, flawless. Señora Linares was in all probability attacked by another woman, whose use of a piece of pipe she found on the scene, as well as her willingness to strike in a public place in broad daylight, indicates spontaneity. That she did not injure the señora more seriously is a testament to blind luck and the limits of her own strength, I suspect, and not to any professional skill.”

“All right,” Mr. Moore answered, though he was clearly unconvinced. “In that case, Kreizler, I’ve got only one question, though it’s a big one: why?”

“Indeed.” The Doctor walked over and wrote WHY? in large letters on the left-hand side of the board. “A woman takes a child. She demands no ransom. And several days later she is observed in public, apparently caring for the girl as if-as if-” The Doctor seemed to be searching for the right words.

It was Miss Howard that gave them to him: “As if she were her own.”

The Doctor turned his gleaming black eyes on Miss Howard for a moment. “As always, gentlemen,” he said, “Sara’s unique perspective cuts to the heart of the matter. As if the child were her own. Think of it: whoever this woman is, she has managed to abduct, out of all the children in New York, one whose disappearance could cause an international crisis. Bend your mind to it, for a moment, Moore -if there is no political dimension to the abduction, what does that tell us?”

Mr. Moore scoffed. “That she didn’t do her damned homework, that’s what it tells us.”

“Meaning?”

It was Cyrus’s turn to step in: “Meaning, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Moore, that, faced with the situation she was in, she couldn’t do anything but obey the impulse of the moment.” He glanced around at the others, then smiled a bit and looked to the floor. “Something I know a little about…”

“Precisely, Cyrus,” the Doctor said, starting to note things under the WHY? heading. “Thank you. It means that she was in the grip of an urge, a spontaneous urge that destroyed any possibility not only of self-control but of premeditation, of researching her victim. Of, as Moore rather caustically puts it, doing her homework. What could possibly cause such recklessness?”

“Well, I hate to state the obvious,” Marcus said, “but-she apparently wanted a baby.”

“True,” the Doctor said with a quick nod, adding this thought to the WHY? column. Then he erased the notations at the bottom of the board and moved them up to the middle-right-hand side. There were now three general categories up top-WHY?, AN ABDUCTION, and THE WOMAN ON THE TRAIN: GOVERNESS OR NURSE-with Space to the extreme right for one more.

“But not just any baby,” Lucius added quickly. “Apparently, she wanted this baby.”

“And quite desperately,” Miss Howard said.

“Good,” the Doctor pronounced; then he scratched THE LINARES CHILD in the top-right-hand corner of the board. “But you must all slow down-we run ahead of ourselves.” He stood back, examining the board with the others. “It begins to take shape,” he murmured, putting his cigarette out in an ashtray with a deeply satisfied stamp. “Yes, Detective Sergeant, she wants the Linares child. But as John has said, she cannot have known who the Linares child was-and your own investigation demonstrates the spontaneity of the attack. Put those elements together, and what conclusion do you reach?”

Lucius gave that matter just a few seconds’ consideration: “That it’s not who the Linares child was that mattered-it’s what she was.”

“What she was?” Mr. Moore said, confused and still not completely convinced of the usefulness of the entire exercise. “She was a baby, is what she was-and we’ve already said that the woman wanted one.”

Miss Howard laughed. “Spoken like a truly confirmed bachelor. She wasn’t just a baby, John-every baby is different, every one has his or her own characteristics.” She turned to the board. “And so the character of the child can tell us about the character of her abductor.”

“Brava!” the Doctor fairly hollered, moving to the right-hand side of the board. “Continue, Sara-you are the one to take the lead here.”

Miss Howard got up and assumed the job of pacing in front of the chalkboard. “Well,” she said as the Doctor stood poised with the chalk. “We know that Ana was-happy. Cheerful by nature. Noisy, perhaps, but noisy in a way that charmed people.”

“Go on, go on,” the Doctor said, scratching away.

“In addition, she was healthy-she’d had every advantage and seemed to embody all of them.”

“Yes?”

“And bright. At a precociously early age she was amused by things that we consider great works of art but which were, to her, intriguing in an ingenuous way. There’s a sensitivity there.”

Mr. Moore grumbled, “You’re talking about her like she’s a person, for God’s sake…”

“She is a person, John,” the Doctor said, still writing. “Difficult as that may be for you to imagine. Anything else, Sara?”

“Only-only that she would have been a logical target, I’m afraid. Her gregariousness would, as I say, have attracted attention-admiring attention from most-”

“But covetous envy from one,” Marcus said, letting out a big cloud of smoke that caused his brother to cough hard. “Oh. Sorry, Lucius,” he said, though without much genuine concern.

“Excellent,” the Doctor said. “More than enough for a good beginning. Now, then-let us turn the light of these observations onto our shadowy woman on the El. We have already determined that she did not research her victim. Rather, she experienced an apparently irresistible spontaneous urge to immediately take this child, no matter whose she was. Any other conclusions?”

“She probably hasn’t got any children of her own,” Marcus offered.

“Granted,” the Doctor answered, noting it. “But many women don’t, and they are able to restrain themselves from kidnapping.”

“Perhaps she can’t have any children of her own,” Miss Howard said.

“Closer. But why not adopt one? The city abounds with unwanted children.”

“Maybe she can’t do that, either,” Lucius said. “A legal complication-probably a criminal record, if her behavior here is any indication.”

The Doctor considered it. “Even better. A woman physically incapable of childbirth, who is legally prevented from adopting an unwanted child because of a criminal record.”

“But it’s deeper than that,” Miss Howard murmured thoughtfully. “She doesn’t want an unwanted child. She’s drawn to this child in particular, a child who could not be more wanted. And with good reason, given the child’s healthy, vivacious character. So if we assume that all of this touches some chord…” She paused.

“Sara?” the Doctor asked.

Miss Howard seemed to shiver a bit. “I’m sorry. But there’s-almost a sense of tragedy about it. Could she have had children, Doctor, and lost them-say, to disease or poor health?”

The Doctor mulled that one over. “I like it,” he finally said. “It’s consistent with her choice of victim. Most of us-with the exception of the likes of Moore, there-feel a certain longing when we see such a child as Ana Linares. However unconscious or remote. Could tragedy have been the experience that made this woman’s longing irresistible? Is this to be the healthy, happy child she has always wanted?”

“And apparently feels entitled to,” Marcus added.

“What about the clothing?” Lucius asked. “If Señora Linares is right, and she was some kind of nurse or governess-”

“Ah, Detective Sergeant, you have read my thoughts,” the Doctor said. “For what have we just described, if not a woman who would be drawn toward caring for children as a profession?”

“Oh, no,” Mr. Moore said, rising and backing away. “No, no, no, I smell where this is going…”

The Doctor laughed. “Indeed you do, Moore! But why should you be afraid of it? You proved during the Beecham case that you have a positive talent for such work!”

“I don’t care!” Mr. Moore answered, his horror only half theatrical. “I hated every minute of it! I’ve never had to do such boring, miserable drudgery-”

“Nevertheless, it will be where the hard part of our investigation begins,” the Doctor answered. “We will visit every nursing and governess service in this city, as well as every hospital, every foundling home, and every lying-in facility. The woman is here, with the child, and if Señora Linares’s eyes are to be trusted-as I believe they are-then she holds a position in the field somewhere.”

Lucius’s face had screwed up into a human question mark. “But-Doctor. We don’t even have a name. Just a verbal description. I mean, if we had a photograph, a picture of some kind-”

The Doctor set his chalk down, then slapped the white dust from his hands and vest. “And why shouldn’t we?”

Lucius looked even more confused. “Why shouldn’t we what?”

“Have a picture,” the Doctor answered simply. “After all, we have an extremely vivid description.” Picking his jacket up, he slipped it back on as he continued, “You gentlemen have missed the major feature of this case. What was the principal thing we lacked in the Beecham affair, the principal thing that is lacking in most crimes of this nature? An accurate description of the criminal. Yet we have one-and my guess is that, put to the test, Señora Linares’s description will be even more detailed than it has been thus far.”

“But how would we translate that into a visual image?” Miss Howard asked.

“We would not,” the Doctor replied. “We would and will leave that to someone trained in the field.” Pulling out his silver watch, the Doctor popped it open and squinted at it. “I should prefer someone of Sargent’s ability, but he is in London and would demand an absurd fee. Eakins might do, too, but he is in Philadelphia -even that is too far, given the urgency of our task. Our opponent may flee the city at any moment-we must move quickly.”

“Let me get this straight, Kreizler,” Mr. Moore said, ever more dumbfounded. “You’re going to commission a portrait of this woman, based on a description?”

“A sketch should be sufficient, I think,” the Doctor said, tucking his watch away. “Portraiture is an immensely complex process, Moore. A good portrait painter must be something of a natural psychologist. I see no reason why, given enough time with the señora, a very reasonable likeness could not be created. The first job is to find the right artist. And I believe I know where to get a reference.” He looked my way. “Stevie? Shall we pay a call on the Reverend? I believe we’ll find him at home and hard at work at this hour-provided he’s not out on one of his nocturnal rambles.”

I brightened up. “Pinkie?” I asked, jumping out of the windowsill. “Sure thing!”

Marcus looked from me to Dr. Kreizler. “ ‘Pinkie’? ‘The Reverend’?”

“A friend of mine,” the Doctor said. “Albert Pinkham Ryder. He has many nicknames. As do most eccentrics.”

“Ryder?” Mr. Moore wasn’t buying this idea, either. “Ryder’s no portrait painter-and it takes him years to finish a canvas.”

“True, but he has a keen psychological instinct. He’ll be able to recommend someone, I’ve no doubt. If you’d care to come along, Moore -you, too, Sara.”

“Very much,” Miss Howard answered. “His work is fascinating.”

“Hmm, yes,” the Doctor said uncertainly. “You may find his rooms and studio less so, I’m afraid.”

“That’s the truth,” Mr. Moore threw in. “You can count me out-that place makes my skin crawl.”

The Doctor shrugged. “As you wish. Detective Sergeants-I dislike asking you to perform what I fear is a useless task, but it may be worth-how did you put it?”

“Rousting the Cubans,” Lucius answered, sounding like there weren’t many things he’d like to do less. “Oh, this’ll be a treat… Black beans, garlic, and dogma. Well, at least I don’t speak Spanish, so I won’t know what they’re saying.”

“I do apologize,” the Doctor said, “but we must, as you know, cover as many possibilities as we can. And as quickly as possible.”

We all began to move for the door, Marcus bringing up the rear at a slow pace. “There’s just one thing, Doctor,” he murmured, taking deliberate steps as he turned something over in his head. “Señor Linares. What we’re assuming-and I agree with the assumption completely-is that this is an abduction committed by someone who didn’t know the identity of the baby.”

“Yes, Marcus?” the Doctor said.

“In that case, why is Linares trying to conceal it?” The detective sergeant’s face was full of concern. “The fact is that the woman we’re describing, whatever her psychological peculiarities, is in all probability American. That would be just as useful to the Spanish government as a politically motivated kidnapping. So why aren’t they using it?”

Mr. Moore turned a somewhat smug face to the Doctor. “Well, Kreizler?”

The Doctor looked at the floor and nodded a few times, smiling. “I might’ve known it would be you who would ask, Marcus.”

“Sorry,” the detective sergeant answered. “But as you say, we’ve got to cover all the angles.”

“No need to apologize,” the Doctor answered. “I was simply hoping to avoid that question. Because it’s the only one I can’t begin to answer. And should we find the answer, I fear, we will also find some rather unpleasant-and dangerous-facts. But I don’t think we can allow that consideration to delay our actions.”

Marcus weighed this, then signaled agreement with a small nod. “It’s something we ought to keep in mind, though.”

“As we shall, Marcus. As we shall…” The Doctor allowed himself one more slow, thoughtful lap around the room, coming to a rest at the window. “Somewhere out there, even as we speak, is a woman who unwittingly holds in her arms a child who could prove an instrument of terrible destruction-as devastating, in her innocence, as an assassin’s bullet or a madman’s bomb. Yet for all of that, I fear the devastation that has already occurred in the kidnapper’s mind most of all. Yes, we shall be alert for the dangers of the larger world, Marcus-but we must, once again, place our greatest efforts behind knowing the mind and the identity of our antagonist. Who is she? What created her? And above all-will the savage fury that drove her to this act eventually be turned against the child? I suspect so-and sooner, rather than later.” He turned to the rest of us. “Sooner, rather than later…”