The Angel Of Darkness

CHAPTER 12

None of us really knew what to expect when we heard the elevator rumble back up. I guess I figured some sour old battle-axe smelling of mothballs was going to come barreling in like one of the Furies. I was pretty surprised, then-and so, from the looks on their faces, was everyone else-when a very respectably but fashionably dressed lady walked gracefully through the front door, her hair carefully done up in tight curls and the delicate lace around her neck and chest decorated by a large, pretty cameo. For a minute I thought she must be the painter: based on what I’d seen of women reformers, they didn’t go much for frills and jewelry. But then I saw that the hair was snow white and the skin was sagging and wrinkled, and I knew that she was too old to be the artistic comer Pinkie’d talked about. The eyes, though, had a youthful, alert look about them, which clued me in to the fact that, while this might be somebody’s grandmother, it wasn’t anybody you wanted to treat as such. She carried a brass-handled stick but held herself proud and upright, like the renowned veteran she was: Mrs. Elizabeth Cady Stanton, the only woman who’d had the nerve to go so far as to rewrite the Bible from the woman’s point of view.

Behind her came a younger lady who might’ve been Miss Howard’s older sister, so similar were their looks, dress, and demeanor. Miss Cecilia Beaux had features what were handsome rather than beautiful and what centered on a positively mesmerizing pair of light eyes. She wore a plain button-down blouse with a little ribbon around the neck, as well as a light linen tunic and a simple skirt to match. The common ground between her and Miss Howard seemed to be more than just superficial, too, for they were already chatting away like old friends, Miss Howard telling Miss Beaux about our trip to Pinkie’s and Miss Beaux talking of a similar trip she’d made. In addition, I later learned that the pair shared like backgrounds, both coming from wealthy families (Miss Howard’s, as I’ve said, in the Hudson Valley, Miss Beaux’s in Philadelphia) that thoroughly disapproved of the young ladies’ unusual styles of living.

Introductions were made all around, after which I withdrew quickly into my windowsill and didn’t say a word. You could see in Mrs. Cady Stanton’s face, as she looked from person to person, that she was trying to size the situation up but not getting very far. As Miss Beaux took out her sketching materials and drew up a chair next to the señora, Miss Howard gave out with the fabricated-or, as the Doctor might’ve preferred to call it, incomplete-explanation of what we were about and why we’d engaged Miss Beaux’s services. Mrs. Cady Stanton’s eyes grew narrow at Miss Howard’s words, but when she spoke her voice was pleasant enough:

“You say it was another woman, Sara? That’s unusual-and the motive was money?”

Mr. Moore cut in, trying to blunt the questions with charm: “In New York, Mrs. Cady Stanton, the motive is generally money-and there’s very little in this city that can be accurately called ‘unusual,’ I’m afraid.”

In a snap, Mrs. Cady Stanton’s expression became much cooler, and she turned a stern eye on Mr. Moore. “Indeed, Mr.- Moore, is it? Well, I’ve lived many years in New York, on and off, Mr. Moore, and not always in the best of neighborhoods. And I think I can safely say that an attack by one woman on another in Central Park in broad daylight is not a common occurrence. Perhaps one of these policemen will confirm that.” She tossed her head in the direction of the Isaacsons, who, while at a loss as to how to handle her, were clearly annoyed at being so labeled.

“Oh!” Lucius said, taking out his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, “I couldn’t-that is-”

“Not common,” Marcus finally said, as confidently as I imagine anyone could’ve in that situation. “But not unheard of, ma’am.”

“Indeed?” Mrs. Cady Stanton didn’t care for that answer. “I’d like someone to give me some examples.”

While this little exchange was going on, Miss Howard had moved into one corner of the room with Miss Beaux and Señora Linares, and the señora had begun the actual work of telling the artist what her attacker had looked like. Seeing that the discussion was likely to keep Mrs. Cady Stanton out of this important business, the Doctor stepped in:

“If you have a day or two, Mrs. Cady Stanton, I should be happy to list any number of cases involving violent attacks committed by women.”

Mrs. Cady Stanton turned on him. “By women against other women?” she said, disbelievingly.

“Against other women,” the Doctor said, with a smile that warned he was in earnest. “Daughters against mothers, sisters against sisters, rivals for affection against one another-and, of course, mothers against daughters.” He pulled out his cigarette case. “Do you mind if I smoke? And would you care to?”

“No. Thank you. But you go ahead.” Studying the Doctor for another minute, Mrs. Cady Stanton raised a finger to point at him as he lit his stick. “I know about you, Doctor. I’ve read some of your work. You specialize in criminal and children’s psychology.”

“True,” the Doctor answered.

“But not in feminine psychology,” Mrs. Cady Stanton said. “Tell me, Doctor, why is it that no scientists of the mind make women their field of specialization?”

“It’s odd that you should ask,” the Doctor answered. “I’ve recently been wondering about that very question.”

“Well, let me answer it for you.” Shifting in her chair so that she fully faced him, Mrs. Cady Stanton started to out-and-out lecture the Doctor. “Psychologists do not study female behavior because the overwhelming majority of them are men-and if they were to undertake such a study, they would inevitably find that at the base of all such behavior as you are describing lies a man’s brutal enslavement of and violence toward the woman in question.” The eyes narrowed again, but this time in a friendlier way. “You’ve been in some fairly hot water lately, Dr. Kreizler. And I know why. You’re trying to explain the actions of criminals in their-what is it you call it-their ‘individual context.’ But people don’t want explanations. They think you’re just providing excuses.”

“And what do you think, Mrs. Cady Stanton?” the Doctor asked as he smoked.

“I think that no woman comes into this world with a desire to do anything but what nature intended-to create and to nurture. As mothers of the race, there is a spiritual insight, a divine creative power that belongs to women. If that power is perverted, you may rest assured that a man is involved somewhere.”

“Your words are persuasive,” the Doctor said, “but I find the ideas behind them a bit-difficult. Are women, then, a separate species, immune to the emotions that move other humans?”

“No, not immune, Doctor. Far from it. More deeply touched by those emotions, in fact. And by their causes. Which, I think, go far deeper than even an educated, progressive man like yourself suspects.”

“Really?”

Mrs. Cady Stanton nodded, touching at her white curls in the way that your average woman will do but-oddly, for someone of her age and opinions-not at all embarrassed by the passing display of vanity. “I agree with some of what you’ve written, Doctor. In fact, much of it. Your only problem, so far as I can see, is that you do not take your notion of context far enough.” She put both hands authoritatively on her walking stick. “What is your opinion of the effect of the prenatal period on the formation of the individual?”

“Ah, yes,” the Doctor said. “A favorite topic of yours.”

“So you dispute the idea?”

“Mrs. Cady Stanton-there is no clinical evidence to suggest that, beyond the impact of her physical condition, a mother has any formative effect on the fetus she carries.”

“Wrong, sir! You could not be more wrong. During the nine months of prenatal life, mothers stamp every thought and feeling of their minds as well as their bodies on the plastic beings inside of them!”

The Doctor had started to look like General Custer must’ve, the moment his boys told him there were a few more Indians around than they’d originally expected. Mrs. Cady Stanton pushed him ever deeper into an argument what he’d started out thinking of as a diversion but had quickly grown into a full-scale debate. It stopped making much sense to me after about ten minutes, mainly because I wasn’t really paying attention; I wanted to get around and see what the other three women were coming up with. So at a moment when I thought no one would notice, I slipped off my windowsill and around the outermost edge of the room, eventually reaching the spot where the sketch was taking form. As I approached I heard Señora Linares saying, “No… no, the chin was less-pronounced. And the lips slightly thinner… yes, so…”

“I see,” Miss Beaux said, her bright gaze fixed on the large sketch pad before her. “Overall, then, you’d say she had more Anglo-Saxon than Latin features. Is that right?”

Señora Linares thought it over, then nodded. “I had not thought of it in such a way, but yes, she was very American, in the way one sees in the older parts of this country-New England, perhaps.”

I edged up to Miss Howard’s elbow and looked at the sketch. It was still about as vague as one of Pinkie’s paintings, though in spots Miss Beaux had been able to pencil in sharper, more definite lines. The face that was taking shape was, just as the señora said, an angular, chiseled one, not unattractive but hard, like you might see in a Massachusetts or Connecticut farm town.

Miss Howard suddenly noticed my presence and smiled. “Hello, Stevie,” she whispered. Then she cast an evil little glance at the center of the room, where the Doctor and Mrs. Cady Stanton were still going at it. “I’ll bet you wish you had a cigarette along about now.”

“Do I ever,” I said, still watching Miss Beaux’s delicate hands as they moved with quick precision over the pad. She’d make a stroke, then line it again or smudge it for shading, as was wanted, or erase it altogether if the señora said it wasn’t right. She caught me watching her and smiled.

“Hello,” she said, also whispering. “You’re Stevie, aren’t you?”

I could only nod; to tell the truth, I think I was a little smitten by her.

“They sound like they’re having quite a time,” she went on, still sketching but occasionally showing me the same delicate smile that was lit up by those remarkable eyes. “What in the world are they talking about?”

“I can’t quite make it out,” I answered. “But Mrs. Cady Stanton sure got the Doctor’s goat-in record time, too.”

Miss Beaux shook her head, still amused. “She was so anxious to meet him… She’s often that way with people she finds intriguing-she wants so much to exchange ideas that she ends up rushing into an argument.”

“Yes,” Miss Howard said. “I’m afraid I’ve been known to do the same thing.”

“So have I!” Miss Beaux said, still in a hushed voice. “And then I spend days absolutely kicking myself about it. Particularly with men-most of them are so blasted patronizing that when you meet one that you think might be different, you overwhelm him with opinions.”

“And being the pillars of strength that they are,” Miss Howard agreed, “they run and hide behind a gaggle of pretty, empty-headed idiots.”

“Oh! It’s so irritating…” Miss Beaux looked to me again. “What about you, Stevie?”

“Me, miss?”

“Yes. How do you feel about young ladies-do you prefer that they be intelligent, or do you like them to model their opinions on yours?”

My hand made its way to my head and started to twist a strand of my hair in a nervous sort of way that, when I noticed it, I stopped quickly, feeling childish. “I-don’t know, miss,” I said, thinking of Kat. “I haven’t-that is, I don’t know many-”

“Stevie wouldn’t put up with a fool, Cecilia,” Miss Howard said, touching my arm reassuringly. “You can depend on that-he’s one of the good ones.”

“I never doubted it,” Miss Beaux said kindly. Then she turned to the Linares woman. “Now, then, señora-the eyes. You said they were the feature that you found most arresting?”

“Yes,” the señora answered. “And the only aspect of the face that was at all exotic-catlike, as I said to Miss Howard. Almost-you have seen the Egyptian antiquities at the Metropolitan Museum, Miss Beaux?”

“Certainly.”

“There was something of that quality in them. I do not think that they were excessively large, but the lashes were quite heavy and dark and gave the eyes the impression of size. Then there was their color-glowing amber, I would say, almost a gold-”

I watched as Miss Beaux’s hands went to work toward the top of the sketch-and then jerked my head up when I heard my name being called from across the room.

“Stevie! What are you up to over there?” It was the Doctor. “Mrs. Cady Stanton would like a word with you!”

“With me, Doctor?” I said, hoping it wasn’t so.

“Yes, with you,” he repeated with a smile, waving me over. “Come along now!”

Turning to Miss Howard and giving her a doomed man’s last look, I stood up and dragged myself out to the easy chair what Mrs. Cady Stanton was sitting in. When I got there, she set her stick aside and grabbed both my hands with hers.

“Well, young man,” she said, eyeing me carefully. “So you’re one of Dr. Kreizler’s charges, are you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I answered, as unenthusiastically as I could manage.

“He says you’ve had quite a time of it during your few years. Tell me”-she leaned closer, so that I could see small white hairs on her aging cheeks-“do you blame your mother?”

The question caught me a bit on guard, and I glanced at the Doctor. He just nodded in a way what said, Go ahead, tell her whatever you like.

“Do I-” I paused as I considered it. “I don’t know if blame’s the word, ma’am. She set me down the road to a criminal life, there’s no two ways about that.”

“Because some man was telling her to, no doubt,” Mrs. Cady Stanton said. “Or forcing her.”

“My mother had a lot of men, ma’am,” I said quickly. “And to tell you the truth, I don’t think any of them ever forced her to do anything. She put me to the work she did because she needed things-liquor, at first. Drugs later.”

“Which men supplied to her.”

I shrugged. “If you say so, ma’am.”

Mrs. Cady Stanton studied me. “Don’t blame her too much, Stevie. Even wealthy women have very few choices in this world. Poor women have virtually none.”

“I guess,” I said. “You’d know better than me. But like I say, I don’t know that I blame her, exactly, ma’am. Life was just easier when I didn’t have anything to do with her anymore, that’s all.”

The old girl studied me for a minute and nodded. “A wise statement, son.” She livened up then, and shook my arms. “I’ll bet you were trouble before you met the doctor. That’s the way with you scoundrels. My three oldest were all boys, and no end of trouble! I had whole towns that wouldn’t speak to me because of what they’d get up to.” She dropped my hands then. “None of which changes my point, Dr. Kreizler…”

As she went on, I looked to the Doctor again. He just smiled once more and indicated with a quick jerk of his head that I could go back to what I’d been doing. Meanwhile, his conversation with Mrs. Cady Stanton soon got back up to full speed.

It took about two hours for Miss Beaux to complete her sketch, and I spent the rest of that time sitting with the women, speaking when I was spoken to but mostly just observing. It was quite a process: the words would come out of Señora Linares’s mouth, enter Miss Beaux’s ear, then be transformed into movements of her hands that were sometimes very true to the señora’s memories and intentions, sometimes less so. Miss Beaux went through an entire India rubber eraser as she worked away, and dulled a stack of heavy, soft-lead pencils; but along toward eight o’clock a real, living face had taken shape on that page. And as we all crowded around to look at it, we fell into a kind of shocked silence, one what gave quiet confirmation to what Señora Linares had originally said: it was not a face anybody was likely to forget.

The señora’d been able to remember more details of the woman’s features when presented with the ability to see her memories brought to life, just as the Doctor had thought she might, and the woman who stared back at us from the sketch pad fit every adjective that our client had used in describing her. The first thing you noticed was unquestionably the eyes, or maybe I should say the expression in the eyes: hungry, Señora Linares had said, and hunger was unquestionably there. But that wasn’t all; the feline eyes had an additional expression, one what was all too familiar to me but that I didn’t want to name. I’d seen it in my mother, when she wanted something out of me or out of one of her men; and in Kat, when she was plying her trade; it was seductiveness, the unspoken statement that if you’d just do something for this person that you knew was wrong, she’d give you whatever attention and affection you craved in return. The rest of the face-she looked to be about forty or so-had probably been very pretty once, but was now kind of drawn, toughened by hard years of experience, judging from the set of the jaw. The nose was small, but the nostrils flared with anger; the thin lips were pursed tight, with small wrinkles at the corners of the mouth; and the high cheekbones hinted at the shape of the skull, instantly making me think of Pinkie’s painting of Death on a horse.

This was a woman what fit every speculation the Doctor and the others had made: a hard, desperate woman who had seen too many tough things in her time and was prepared to answer in kind. Pinkie, too, had been right in his prediction: Miss Beaux, without ever seeing her subject, had cut through to “the very essence of the personality.”

I think everyone, including Miss Beaux, was a little shocked by what she’d created; certainly the señora just sat in her chair nodding, seeming like she would’ve wept if she’d felt free to. The silence wasn’t broken until Mrs. Cady Stanton said:

“There’s the face of cold experience, gentlemen. There’s a face that man’s society has hardened forever.”

Miss Howard rose at that and took Mrs. Cady Stanton by the arm. “Yes. Indeed. Well-I hadn’t realized how late it’s gotten. You’ll want your dinner, Mrs. Cady Stanton, and you too, Cecilia.” She turned to shake the younger woman’s hand. “And I meant what I said-I’d love to join your class, or just have lunch or dinner. Whenever you’re in town.”

Miss Beaux brightened, somehow relieved, it seemed to me, to get away from her own creation. “Oh. Yes, I’d like that, Sara. It’s really been fascinating.”

Miss Howard started to nudge the two ladies toward the door, and everyone made their good-byes. I was a little shy about approaching Miss Beaux, but she walked right up and took my hand, saying she was sure we’d meet again soon-maybe I could come to lunch with her and Miss Howard, she said.

As they got into the elevator, Mrs. Cady Stanton turned to the Doctor. “I trust we’ll see each other again, too, Doctor. It’s been very illuminating for me-and, I hope, for you, too.”

“Indeed,” the Doctor answered politely. “I shall look forward to it. And Miss Beaux”-he brought a bank check out of his pocket-“I hope that you’ll find this acceptable. Miss Howard told me your standard fee, but given the unusual circumstances, and your willingness to come to us-well…”

Miss Beaux’s eyes went wide when she took a quick look at the check. “That’s-really very generous, Doctor. I don’t know that-”

“Nonsense,” he said, glancing back at the sketch, which sat on a table before the señora. “No true price can be put on what you have given us.”

The elevator grate clattered closed on the three women, and then the Doctor shut the inner door, listening to the machine’s hum as he pondered things.

I breathed once, hard. “I ain’t sorry to see the last of that old duck,” I said, turning away.

The Doctor and the others chuckled. “What a mouth,” Mr. Moore said, lying on the divan. “Like a machine.”

“Yes. It’s a pity.” The Doctor walked back over to the señora. “If fate and our society had not forced her to narrow her thoughts with a political agenda, she could have had a truly first-class scientific mind.” He knelt down next to the Linares woman. “Señora? I don’t need to ask if this is the woman-your face gives me the answer. But is there anything I can get you?”

Her lips trembled as she answered, “My daughter, Doctor. You can get me my daughter.” Her eyes finally broke away from the sketch, and she began to gather up her bag and hat. “I must go-it’s late. I shall not be able to return.” Standing up, she gave the Doctor a final pleading look. “Can it be done, Doctor? Can you do it?”

“I think,” he said, taking her arm, “that we now have a good chance. Cyrus?”

Cyrus stood up, ready to escort the señora to a hansom for the last time. She murmured thanks as best she could to the rest of us, then got into the elevator with him when Miss Howard brought it back. Seeing the señora’s condition, Miss Howard put her arms around her, at which the señora finally started to cry. Together, the threesome floated back down to Broadway.

The detective sergeants ambled over for another look at the sketch. “That Beaux woman has got a real future in wanted posters,” Marcus mused. “If the art business doesn’t work out…”

“It’s remarkable,” Lucius said. “I’ve seen photographs in the Rogues’ Gallery at headquarters that aren’t as good.”

“Yes,” the Doctor agreed. “And speaking of photographs, gentlemen, we shall need a dozen or so of the sketch. As soon as you can make them.”

“They’ll be ready by morning,” Marcus said, rolling the sketch up to take with him. “And so will we.”

“I won’t!” Mr. Moore protested from the divan.

“Oh, come now, Moore,” the Doctor cajoled. “This is the true labor of investigation. You are the foot soldier, the unsung hero-”

“Really?” Mr. Moore answered. “Well, I’d like to be the sung hero for a change, Kreizler-why can’t you do the door-to-door work-”

He was cut off as the front door slammed wide open. Cyrus hustled in, a supporting arm around Miss Howard. She was moving under her own power but seemed very woozy. We all dashed over, and the Doctor looked at her closely.

“Cyrus!” he said. “What happened?”

“I’m-all right,” Miss Howard whispered, trying to catch her breath. “Just a fright-that’s all…”

“A fright?” said Mr. Moore. “That had to be one hell of a fright, Sara, to put you in this shape-what was it?”

“We’d just put the señora in a cab,” Cyrus explained, reaching into his jacket pocket, “and were coming back into the lobby. This lodged in the door frame near Miss Howard’s head as we were passing through.”

Holding out his big hand, Cyrus displayed one of the most peculiar knives I’ve ever seen: leather-gripped and hiked with rough iron, it had a shining blade that curved in a series of S-shapes, like a slithering snake.

Lucius took hold of the thing, holding it up to the light. “Do you think it was intended to hit one of you?” he asked.

“Can’t tell, Detective Sergeant. Not for sure, anyway. But-”

“But?” Marcus said.

“Well, from the way it hit just the right spot in the frame-I’d say no. Whoever threw it meant to come close. Nothing more.”

“Or less,” the Doctor said, taking the knife. “Well… the señora said she felt she’d been followed here.”

“You didn’t see anyone?” Mr. Moore asked Cyrus.

“No, sir. A young boy, running around a corner-but he couldn’t have been the one. This was an expert, if you ask me.”

The Doctor handed the knife back to Lucius. “An expert-sending a warning.” He pointed at the knife. “A peculiar blade, Detective Sergeant. Do you recognize it?”

Lucius frowned. “I do, though I wish I didn’t. It’s called a kris. The weapon of the Manilamen-they believe it has mystical powers.”

“Ah,” the Doctor noised. “Then the señora was right. Her husband knows where she’s been. We can only hope that he doesn’t know why, and that she can invent a story that he will believe.”

“Wait,” I said. “How can you be so sure she’s right? What is that thing, anyway? Who are the Manilamen?”

“They’re pirates and mercenaries,” Marcus answered. “Some of the toughest characters in the western Pacific. They take their name from the capital of the Philippine Islands.”

“Yeah? So what?”

The Doctor took the knife again. “The Philippine Islands, Stevie, are one of the most important colonies in the Spanish Empire. A most valued jewel in the queen regent’s crown. Well…” He walked toward the center of the room, still examining the knife. “It would seem that we have gained an advantage tonight-and lost one.” He gave us all a very serious look. “We must move.”