The Angel Of Darkness

CHAPTER 5

We found Mr. Moore, Miss Howard, and the señora more or less where we’d left them, though it was clear from the way that Mr. Moore had drawn a chair up close to the Linares woman and was listening to her intently that she’d made quite an impression on him. A large part of that, of course, was Mr. Moore’s always being an easy mark for a charming lady-and Señora Linares definitely had charm, even through the scars, the bruises, and the veil, which she’d pulled back down over her face. Miss Howard, meanwhile, paced and smoked, horrified, I think, not only at the violence that had been done to this woman but at how often such violence was done to so many other women, rich and poor, without their being able to do a damned thing about it.

Señora Linares watched the Isaacsons enter the office with the same uneasiness she’d displayed on first meeting the rest of us, but Mr. Moore stepped in quickly to put her at her ease.

“Señora, these are the men I was telling you about. The finest pair of detectives in the entire New York City Police Department. Despite their official capacities, however, their discretion may be completely relied on.” He then looked up with a grin to shake hands with Lucius and Marcus. “Hello, boys. Bad doings on the waterfront, I hear.”

“John,” Marcus answered, returning the smile with a nod.

“Just another murder that looks unsolvable to Hogan’s crew,” Lucius added. “Though if you ask me, it’s a simple case of-”

“Yes, but they didn’t ask you, did they?” Marcus said, at which Lucius shot him a final look promising true rage if he went on. Marcus let it go and turned to give Miss Howard a polite but very sincere hug. “Hello, Sara. You look wonderful.”

“You’re an excellent liar, Marcus,” she answered. Then she went over to give Lucius a peck on the cheek, knowing that he’d never dare get physical with her on his own. “Hello, Lucius.”

The peck brought a flush to the younger Isaacson’s whole head, and he quickly pulled out his handkerchief to mop at his brow. “Oh! Why, hello, Sara. It’s-it’s wonderful to see you.”

“I wish the circumstances could be happier,” Miss Howard answered, turning to her guest. “Gentlemen, this is Señora Isabella Linares.”

Both the Isaacsons’ eyebrows went up. “The wife of Consul Baldasano’s private secretary?” Marcus asked quietly.

The señora only nodded slightly; Mr. Moore, for his part, turned away, shook his head and mumbled, “I am a reporter, I really ought to know these things…” Then, aloud to the Isaacsons, he went on, “Listen-why don’t I take you fellows into the back for a cup of coffee. Fill you in.”

The detective sergeants, confused but intrigued, readily agreed and went along. The rest of us were left with a slightly awkward moment, which Miss Howard, ever skillful at such things, stepped in to smooth. “Cyrus? The señora said that she very much admired your playing. Perhaps you know something from her homeland?”

“No,” the señora said, gratefully but with purpose. “No, señor, I am-in no mood for such melodies. And memories… the tune you played, it was of your people?”

“It’s an American folk melody,” Cyrus explained, moving back to the piano and sitting. “Like most of its kind, it doesn’t belong to any one people.”

“It was so moving, truly,” the señora answered. “Might I hear another?”

Cyrus inclined his head, considered the matter for a moment, and then softly began to play the old tune “Lorena.” The Linares woman sat back in her chair and sighed heavily, just listening for a few minutes. Then she put a hand on Miss Howard’s arm. “I pray we are doing the right thing, Miss Howard. And I pray that I am not, in fact, mad.”

“You’re not,” Miss Howard answered firmly. “I’ve had some-experience with lunatics.”

“Your Señor Moore, he seems less certain.”

“It’s his way. He’s a journalist. They come in two varieties, cynics and liars. He’s of the first group.”

Señora Linares managed a small, painful chuckle at that, and then Mr. Moore and the Isaacsons returned to the room. Marcus paused at the drapery-covered pool table and set the instrument satchel down on it. As he then moved further toward us with Mr. Moore, Lucius opened the satchel and began to carefully lay out the gleaming tools that were inside it.

Marcus stood by Miss Howard, while Mr. Moore crouched by the Linares woman. “Señora, in order for us to help you, we must be sure of several things: first, the extent of the injuries to your face and skull, and second, the details of what happened in Central Park and at the El station. With your permission, these men will examine those injuries and ask you some questions. You may find it tedious-but I assure you, it is necessary.”

Another heavy sigh came from Señora Linares, and then she sat forward, lifted her veil, and removed her hat altogether, saying only, “Very well.”

Marcus immediately fetched a standing electrical desk lamp from nearby, placed its shade above the señora’s head and face, and then spoke softly: “You may want to close your eyes, ma’am.” She complied, shutting the one lid that she could move, and then he switched on the bright light.

Seeing her injuries, Marcus’s face tightened into a wince-and mind you, this was a man who’d just been studying a body that’d been decapitated, dismembered, and sawed in half. The woman really was a wicked mess.

Lucius joined his brother, holding several medical and measuring instruments, some of which he handed to Marcus. Though Cyrus’s attention was riveted on the scene taking place under the little half shell of bright light in the center of the room, he kept on playing, sensing that it was calming Señora Linares. As for me, I jumped back up into my windowsill and lit up a cigarette, not wanting to miss a minute of the proceedings.

“Sara,” Lucius said, as he moved toward the señora’s head with what looked like two steel probes, “I wonder if you wouldn’t mind taking notes?”

“No, no, of course not,” Miss Howard answered, grabbing a pad and pencil.

“All right, then, we’ll begin with the injury to the back of the head. That occurred when you were attacked in the park,señora?”

“Yes,” she answered, a little pain revealing itself in her face. But she didn’t move.

“And that was exactly where and when?” Marcus asked, also studying the wound.

“Thursday evening. We had just left the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I often take Ana-my daughter-I often take her there. She is very fond of the sculpture hall, I don’t know just why. The figures make her so excited, full of smiles and wonder… At any rate, we usually sit afterwards by the Egyptian obelisk outside, and she sleeps. The obelisk, too, has always fascinated her, though in a different way.”

“And you were hit right there-right out in the open?”

“Yes.”

“Yet no one witnessed it?”

“It seems not. It had rained earlier in the day and was threatening to do so again-perhaps people wished to avoid it. Although there were several very kind persons about when I awoke.”

Lucius glanced up at Marcus. “You see the angle? And there’s no laceration.”

“Exactly,” Marcus answered, his tone also businesslike. “Probably no concussion.” Then, to the señora: “Any unusual physical side effects after it happened? A ringing in your ears, perhaps, or bright spots in your vision?”

“No.”

“Dizziness, a feeling of pressure inside your skull?”

“No, I was examined by a doctor,” Señora Linares continued, becoming a little more sure of herself. “He told me-”

“If you don’t mind, señora,” Lucius said, “we’ll try to disregard other reports. We’ve had a lot of experience with New York City doctors-and their opinions-in cases like this.”

The señora grew quiet at that, looking kind of like a little girl who’d spoken out of turn at school.

“No concussion, then,” Marcus mumbled. “Pretty neat job.”

“Perfect angle,” Lucius said. “Somebody good-unless…. señora, you say you never saw the person who struck you?”

“Not at all. I was unconscious immediately, though I don’t think for very long. But by the time I awoke, he had fled. With Ana.”

“You say ‘he,’ ” Marcus remarked. “Any reason?”

The señora looked suddenly confused. “It-I don’t know. It never occurred to me that-”

“That’s all right,” Marcus said. “Just asking.” But then he glanced up and looked at Miss Howard-and from the apprehensive expressions that came into both of their faces, I could tell that there was no way in hell he’d been “just asking.”

Marcus returned to his questioning: “How tall are you?”

“Mmm-a little over five feet and five inches.”

Marcus nodded, murmuring, “Straight blow across. Not a sap.”

“Point of impact’s too distinct, too hard,” Lucius agreed. “Piece of pipe, I’d guess. They’ve started work on the new Fifth Avenue wing of the museum. Plumbing’s going in…”

“ Lot of pipe handy.” Marcus looked my way. “Stevie. Get over here.”

A little surprised, I followed the order and moved between Marcus and Lucius to take a gander at the nasty bump on the back of the señora’s head. “Look familiar?” Marcus asked me with a small smile.

“You been through my file at Mulberry Street?” I asked.

“Just answer the question,” Marcus went on with the same small grin.

I took another look, then nodded. “Yep. Definitely coulda been. Nice little piece of lead pipe.”

“Good,” Marcus said, sending me with a nod back to my windowsill.

(All right, so now the world knows how I got my nickname-and for those who want an even more detailed explanation, don’t worry, that’s part of this story, too.)

The Isaacsons then moved around to the front of the Linares woman’s head, at which she quickly closed her right eye again. Lucius took in the bruises and the broken nose very quickly, nodding all the while. “This’ll be the husband’s work.”

“Very characteristic,” Marcus said. “And completely different from the other.”

“Exactly,” Lucius added. “Which further suggests-”

“Exactly,” Marcus echoed. “You say neither you nor anyone else at the consulate ever received a ransom note, señora?”

“No, never.”

The Isaacsons exchanged somewhat confident looks and nods, through which the barest beginnings of excitement showed clear. “All right,” Marcus went on, crouching down on one knee. The señora started a little as he took her hand: it seemed like he was just trying to reassure her, but then I noticed that one of his fingers went up to the inside of her wrist. “Please keep your eyes closed,” he said, drawing out his pocket watch. “And tell us everything you can remember about the woman you saw with your child on the train.”

Mr. Moore turned to Miss Howard, mumbling something under his breath and looking like his skepticism was returning.

“Try to keep quiet, John,” Lucius called over to him. “We’ll bring you up to speed in a few minutes. But it’s getting very late, and the señora will be missed at home-”

“There is no difficulty about that,” Señora Linares said. “I shall go from here to a good friend who works at the French consulate-the same woman who sent me to see Miss Howard. She has engaged rooms at the Astoria Hotel, and we have told my husband that we are spending the night in the country.”

“The Astoria?” Marcus said with a grin. “Beats any night in the country I ever had.” The señora smiled along with him, at least as much as her battered mouth would allow her to. “Now, then,” Marcus continued. “About the woman…”

At the words Señora Linares’s face filled to brimming with the same dread what had flitted around her all evening, and she couldn’t help but open her good eye. “Never have I been so afraid, señor,” she murmured. “So-struck by evil.” Marcus indicated with his finger that she should shut her eye again, and she followed the instruction, after which he looked at his pocket watch again. “Not at first, though. No, at first she was simply sitting down, holding Ana. She was dressed in the clothing, it seemed to me, of a children’s nurse or a governess. Her face, when she looked at Ana, seemed affectionate enough-even loving, in a way. But when she looked up and out the window”-the señora gripped the arm of the chair hard with the hand that Marcus wasn’t holding-“they were the eyes of an animal. Like a great cat, entrancing, and yet-so… hungry. I thought I had been afraid for my Ana before I saw that face, but it was only then that I knew real fear.”

“Do you remember the color of her clothes?” Lucius asked. It seemed to me that the question involved more than just a minor detail to him. But the señora said that she could not recall the color. “Or if she was wearing a hat?” Again the señora drew a blank.

“I am sorry,” she said. “It was the face-I was so concentrated on the face, I noticed little else.”

Miss Howard was busily transcribing all these statements, and I saw Mr. Moore glance over at her and then roll his eyes a bit, as if he thought all this dramatic detail was just the rantings of a hysterical woman who’d been through what even he’d conceded was a terrible tragedy. But the Isaacsons turned to each other with very different expressions: knowledge, confidence, anticipation, they were all there. And I could see that Mr. Moore was a bit deflated about missing whatever they were getting.

“And you’re certain the woman didn’t see you?” Lucius asked.

“Yes, Detective. I was well under the roof of the platform as I ran alongside the train, and it was already dark. I did scream and leap at the window as it left the station, but it was already moving too fast. She may have seen someone, but she could not have known it was me.”

“Could you estimate the woman’s height and weight?” Lucius asked, returning to look at the wound on the back of the señora’s head once more.

The Linares woman paused to consider this. “She was seated,” she finally answered slowly. “But I would not say that she was very much taller than I. Perhaps heavier, but only slightly.”

“I’m sorry this is taking so long,” Marcus said. “But just one more thing-do you happen to have a picture of the child? You can open your eyes to get it, if you need to.”

“Oh-yes.” Señora Linares turned in her seat. “I brought one for Miss Howard, she asked-Miss Howard, do you have the photograph still?”

“Yes, señora,” Miss Howard answered, taking a mounted image about three inches by five off the mahogany table. “It’s right here.”

As Miss Howard handed the picture to the Linares woman, Marcus didn’t move a muscle, keeping a grip on the señora’s right hand, which forced her to take the picture with her left. Marcus watched her as she glanced at the image, all the time checking his watch, and then she handed the picture to Lucius, who held it in front of Marcus’s face.

“It was taken only a few weeks ago,” Señora Linares said. “Quite remarkable-Ana is so full of life and energy, and it is rare to find a photographer who can capture the true spirit of a child. But this man succeeded quite well, wouldn’t you say?”

Both the Isaacsons gave the picture what you might call the quickest of glances, and then Lucius, not knowing quite where to put it, looked my way. “Stevie-would you-?”

I jumped down again to retrieve the photograph and return it to Miss Howard, who was once more busily taking notes. Pausing just a second or two to look at the thing, I was kind of-well, struck, in a way. I’ve never had much experience with babies, and as a rule I’m no sucker for them. But this little girl, with her swatch of soft dark hair, her huge, nearly round black eyes, and her big cheeks swelling around a smile that said she was game for just about any amusement life could throw at her-well, there was something about it that kind of tugged at you. Maybe it was because she seemed to have more of a personality than the usual infant; then again, maybe it was because I knew she’d been kidnapped.

As I returned to my windowsill, Marcus-his eyes still on his watch-murmured, “Good,” very slowly. Then he finally let go of the señora’s hand and stood up. “That’s very good. Now, señora, I think you should rest. Cyrus?” Cyrus finally let up on the piano and stood to cross to Marcus. “Mr. Montrose will, I’m sure, be happy to see that you get safely to the Astoria. You have nothing to fear under his protection.”

The señora looked at Cyrus with gentle confidence. “Yes. I sensed that.” Confusion came back into her features. “But what of my daughter?”

“I will not lie to you, señora,” Marcus said. “This is a very difficult case. Your husband’s forbidden you to go to the police?” Señora Linares nodded miserably. “Easy, now,” Marcus went on, guiding her to the door as Miss Howard fell in with them. “That may, in the long run, turn out to be an advantage.”

“But you are policemen yourselves, yes?” the señora asked in confusion, as Cyrus opened the elevator grate for her. She put on her big black hat, fixing it to her hair with an eight-inch, stone-headed pin.

“Yes-and no,” Marcus answered. “The important thing is that you mustn’t give up hope. The next twenty-four hours will, I think, be enough time for us to give you an idea of what we can do.”

The señora turned to Miss Howard, who only added, “Please trust me when I say that you couldn’t be in better hands than those of these gentlemen.”

Señora Linares nodded again, then stepped into the elevator and pulled her veil down. “Well, then-I shall wait.” She studied the office once more and then quietly added, “Or rather, I think, we shall all wait…”

Mr. Moore looked at her in some surprise. “ ‘All’? What shall we all wait for, señora?”

The Linares woman indicated the room with her umbrella. “There are five desks, no? And you all seem as though… yes. I think we shall all wait. For the man who sits at the fifth desk. Or once did…”

I don’t think there was one of us who didn’t shiver a bit at the sound of her quiet words.

Without even trying to argue the point, Marcus nodded to the señora and then spoke to Cyrus: “Straight to the Astoria, then meet us at the Lafayette. We’ll be on the outdoor terrace. There are questions that only you and Stevie can answer.”

Cyrus nodded and pulled on his bowler as Miss Howard gave Señora Linares a final encouraging look before closing the office door. “Try to have hope, señora.” The señora only nodded, and then she and Cyrus were gone.

Marcus began to pace as Lucius packed up the medical instruments. Miss Howard turned to the front windows and walked toward them, staring kind of sadly down at Broadway. Only Mr. Moore seemed particularly anxious.

“Well?” he said finally. “What did you find?”

“A great deal,” Lucius answered quietly. “Though not enough.”

There was another pause, and Mr. Moore’s arms went up high. “And are you going to share your information, gentlemen, or is it a secret between you and the señora?”

Marcus chuckled once thoughtfully. “She’s one smart lady…”

“Yes,” Miss Howard added from the window, with a little smile of her own.

“Smart?” Mr. Moore asked. “Or just crazy?”

“No, no,” Lucius answered quickly. “A long way from crazy.”

Mr. Moore seemed just about ready to bust. “All right. Look, are you people going to tell me what’s on your minds or not?”

“We will, John,” Marcus answered. “But let’s get to the Lafayette first. I’m starving.”

“That makes two of us,” Lucius said, picking up the instrument satchel. “Stevie?”

“I could eat,” was all I said. The truth was that I, too, was anxious to know what the detective sergeants were thinking; but I’d also felt the full hit of Señora Linares’s parting words, and wasn’t in what you might call an optimistic mood.

Miss Howard turned to take a small jacket off of a wooden rack near the door. “Let’s go, then. We’ll have to take the stairs-nobody left in the building to bring the elevator back up.”

As we filed toward the back door, Mr. Moore fell in behind us, still frustrated. “What’s gotten into all of you?” he demanded. “I mean, it’s a simple enough question-is there a case here or not?”

“Oh, there’s a case,” Marcus said. He turned to Miss Howard. “You got your wish there, Sara.”

She smiled again, still looking melancholy. “One really must be careful about wishes…”

Mr. Moore put his hands to his hips. “Oh, and what’s that supposed to mean? Look, I’m not going anywhere ’til somebody gives me some idea of what’s happening! If there’s a case, why are you all so damned dejected?”

Lucius groaned as he pulled the satchel over his shoulder. “The short version is this, John: there’s a case, all right, a very perplexing one. And I hardly need to tell you that, given the players involved, it could turn into something very big. Very big-and very ugly. But the señora was right. Without him”-Lucius turned to look at the desk that sat to the right of the other four-“we don’t have a prayer.”

“And given what he’s been through,” Miss Howard added, as we all filed on toward the fire stairs near the kitchen, “I don’t think any of us can really say that he’ll do it. Hell, I’m not even sure it would be right of us to ask.”She paused and turned to me. “Questions, as Marcus says, that only you and Cyrus can answer, Stevie.”

I felt all attention in the room settle on me-not the kind of position I’ve ever been comfortable with. But it seemed like I had to say something. “Well-I should wait for Cyrus, I guess, but-”

“But?” Marcus asked.

“But,” I answered, “for my money, it all hinges on tomorrow morning. How he takes leaving the Institute. And you’re right, Miss Howard-I don’t even know that it’s right to ask…”

She nodded and turned away, disappearing through the black stairway door; and in that somewhat uncertain state of mind, we all started the long, dark descent to Broadway.