The Angel Of Darkness

CHAPTER 26

Mr. Moore opened the envelope as Cyrus, Miss Howard, and I filed into the study with the others. Unfolding the letter inside, our exhausted friend took a deep breath and tried to start reading it; but he’d only gotten as far as the salutation-“Moore, you swine!”-before he fell to his knees, still trying to catch his breath. Handing the letter to Miss Howard, he said, “Sara, you read it,” then crawled over to the sofa and pulled himself up onto it.

“What the devil’s the matter with him, Sara?” the Doctor asked. “Is he drunk, or has he merely been shot?”

“Worse,” Miss Howard answered. “He’s been running. But he’s right about the letter, Doctor. Listen to this, it’s dated yesterday: ‘Moore, you swine! I would take the time to elaborate on what a mud-dwelling, feculent-’ ”

“You don’t have to read that part!” Mr. Moore protested from the sofa.

Miss Howard only smiled and went on: “ ‘-but the communications from you which I found heaped on my desk when I returned from the Adirondacks today actually must take precedence. All joking aside, John, listen to me-if you have indeed, in your infinite wisdom, managed to get yourself mixed up in a private investigation that is directed at the woman who was known in this town as Libby Hatch, then be as careful as you know how to be. The story you heard from Mr. Vanderbilt is indeed true, or rather, is the commonly accepted explanation of a horrendous crime that occurred here just over three years ago. Her three children were shot, supposedly by an itinerant Negro lunatic-who was never seen by anyone but Mrs. Hatch. Two of the children died. The third survived but has been mute ever since. An extensive search failed to produce any sign of the Negro, or of anyone who’d even gotten so much as a glimpse of the man-nevertheless, the case never got past a coroner’s inquest, so effective was Mrs. Hatch’s inventiveness, and so scarce the support for any other interpretation. I had my own ideas-and having been through what you have, I’m sure you can guess what they were.

“ ‘As to the other matters you say you are looking into, I am appalled but not surprised to learn of them. The woman is, I believe, one of the most dangerous persons alive. It’s a pity I couldn’t ever convince anyone else of that. You indicate that your investigation in New York is at a bit of a standstill. If this is true, I advise you to take it as a sign. Make no more direct moves against Libby Hatch yourself, and, if the people you’re working with are even semicapable investigators, waste no time getting up here with them. Dr. Kreizler I of course know by his writings and reputation, and I should be delighted to make his acquaintance.

“ ‘Wire me if and when you’re coming. I am in deadly earnest, John-don’t try to beat this woman with an informal investigation. Even if you had the entire Police Department on it with you, I should worry-she’d find a way to con them all and kill you, if it came to that. Either leave the thing be, or get up here and we’ll see what we can do together. Any other course will be disastrous.

“ ‘Your friend, Rupert Picton.’ ”

Miss Howard folded up the sheet of paper and replaced it in the envelope. “That’s all,” she said.

The Doctor just sat still for a moment, then looked over to the sofa, where Mr. Moore appeared to have recovered. “He seems quite a colorful fellow, this friend of yours, Moore.”

“Don’t let the banter fool you,” Mr. Moore answered, going for a box of cigarettes that sat on the Doctor’s desk. “He’s got one of the sharpest legal minds I’ve ever run across. He could have had any job in the state, but like the fool he is he decided to play it straight instead-cried bloody murder to the legislature about corruption in the city D.A.’s office, and got run out of town on a rail. There were rumors about some kind of a mental breakdown after that.” Mr. Moore lit his cigarette. “I never really got the details.”

Cyrus spoke up, in a slightly perplexed voice: “Then he’s saying that she shot the children?”

“Yes,” Miss Howard answered. “He seems quite certain of it.”

“More victims to add to the roster,” Lucius said.

“They could’ve been the ones in the picture,” I threw in. “The photograph I saw in the desk, of the three older kids together.”

“It would make sense,” Lucius answered. “You can’t exactly induce cyanosis in three children who’re old enough to struggle-and to talk, if they survive.”

“But it doesn’t really fit the pattern, does it?” Cyrus asked, still unclear. “She’s only killed infants, that we know of-because she’s had trouble with them during that stage of life.”

“It’s a wrinkle, Cyrus, to be sure,” the Doctor answered, toying with a pen on his desk. “But the overriding similarity remains-the children were attacked, and the attacker’s intention was clearly to kill them all.”

Marcus let out a stunned kind of sigh. “If this whole thing weren’t so horrifying, I’d say it was getting ridiculous…”

“Far from it, Marcus,” the Doctor answered. “This news only confirms the entrenched nature of her tendencies. Her past is at one with her present behavior.” The Doctor’s voice grew quieter as he mouthed the words that were the closest thing he had to a motto: “The keys are in the details…” He stood up, and turned to look out the window of his study at the small garden behind the house. “And those details are upstate-not here. If we wish true progress, then we must go.”

“Is that smart?” Lucius asked. “If we leave, she may think we’ve given her the field-and God knows what’ll happen then.”

“We shall not leave before the two of you confront her, Detective Sergeant,” the Doctor replied. “And now you can include our awareness of this incident in your statement. We can only hope that such awareness will make her act with even greater caution. Because if we stay here, we will remain stymied. The past is our way in-we must follow it.”

Marcus spoke again, very carefully: “And the other matter, Doctor? How do you feel about leaving with your own affairs-unresolved?”

The Doctor shrugged. “As you both have said, Marcus, there is little I can do before the hearing. If there had been any secrets to unearth, I know that you would have found them. Whether I stay or go is of little consequence.” Watching him, I saw something that seemed almost like bitterness enter his face. “And I confess,” he continued, again softly, “that I have never been so weary of this city. Or its citizens…” He shook the moment off and turned to face us. “Getting away may be the best thing, all the way round.”

“No question about that,” Mr. Moore said cheerfully. “Especially given the destination. Saratoga’s absolute heaven at this time of year. And when you add the-diversions …”

Everyone else in the room smiled and groaned, and Miss Howard picked up a book to fling at Mr. Moore. “Yes, we all know why you want to go, John-but you’ll have precious little time for your usual pursuits.”

“I’m just talking about our off-hours!” Mr. Moore protested, shielding himself. “We can’t work day and night, you know! And let’s face it, Saratoga-”

“Saratoga is a vulgar, disgusting sty,” Miss Howard finished for him, “where fat, wealthy men gamble, lie to their wives, and make panderers and prostitutes rich.” The harshness of the words made it clear that she sincerely meant what she said.

“Oh, you sound like your friend Nellie Bly,” Mr. Moore replied with a wave of his cigarette. “Besides, I’m not married-or fat.”

“Give yourself time,” Miss Howard returned. “And as for Nellie, everything she wrote about that wretched place in the World was true, and it took great courage to say it.”

“Yes,” Mr. Moore countered. “Almost as much courage as it took to marry that seventy-five-year-old millionaire of hers.”

Miss Howard’s eyes went thin, and she poised herself to strike. “Mr. Seaman is not seventy-five.”

“No. He’s seventy.” Marcus had said the words absent-mindedly; but a glance from Miss Howard was all it took to make him regret it. “Well, I’m sorry, Sara, but he is-”

“My God, it’s a miracle the human species still exists,” Miss Howard seethed, “with apes like you carrying it forward!”

“Children, children!” The Doctor clapped his hands. “We have far more pressing matters to deal with. It’s now Monday evening. How soon can we all be ready to depart?”

“Tomorrow,” Mr. Moore answered quickly, obviously dying to get up to the great American resort town of Saratoga Springs, where, as Miss Howard had said, gambling, whoring, and philandering had long ago pushed taking the waters out of the way to become the chief pastimes.

“Marcus and I’ll need a bit longer,” Lucius threw in. “I don’t think we’ll have any trouble selling Captain O’Brien on the idea that we’re going along to watch your movements, Doctor, but it may take a couple of days to tie everything up-and, of course, there’s that little visit to Bethune Street to make.”

“Very well,” the Doctor answered. “Shall we say Thursday morning?” There was general agreement to this idea, and the Doctor grabbed for his copy of the Times. “We can take one of the paddle steamers as far as Troy, and from there the train to Ballston Spa. Moore, as for going on to Saratoga, you’ll have to arrange that yourself.”

Mr. Moore grinned wide. “That won’t be any trouble-they’ve put in an electric trolley from Ballston to the center of Saratoga. Fifteen or twenty minutes, and I can be standing in front of Canfield’s Casino.”

“I’m delighted for you,” Miss Howard mumbled, what you might call acidly. Mr. Moore just grinned at her.

“Stevie?” the Doctor said, and I snapped to it. “In the morning you’ll go down to the Twenty-second Street pier-see what embarks Thursday morning. Try for the Mary Powell, if she’s available-I prefer her private parlors, and she’s generally less crowded than the other day lines.”

“Right,” I said. “How many parlors?”

“We should need only one,” the Doctor said. “But get two in the event that the rain doesn’t subside. As to packing, I should recommend planning on a month’s stay, to be safe. Moore, I leave the hotel accommodations to you and Sara. All right, then, everyone-let’s waste no more time.”

At that we all left the room, and split up to start packing and preparing. The prospect of getting out of New York in midsummer quickly began producing its usual effect-relief and a giddy sort of joy-despite the disturbing things we’d learned from Mr. Rupert Picton: if we had to pursue the miserable case of Libby Hatch, it would be a sight more pleasant to do so in the green wilds of upstate New York than in the sweltering heat of Manhattan.

That, anyway, was what we thought at the time.