The Angel of Darkness

by Caleb Carr

  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 off 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.”

  CHAPTER 13

  The strange knife from the Philippines may not have done Miss Howard or Cyrus any harm, but it dealt a death blow to Mr. Moore’s reluctance to get started on finding the woman in our sketch. He’d known Miss Howard since childhood (her family’d had a house on Gramercy Park in addition to their estate in the Hudson Valley), and though she was always quick to maintain that she didn’t need any man’s help to protect herself—which was as true as true could be—Mr. Moore didn’t like the idea of crazed Filipinos following her or any of us around with kris at the ready. And so, bright and early Friday morning, he marched into Number 808, carrying a long list of every agency in town that offered care for infants and children. He’d told his bosses at The New York Times that he wasn’t going to be around for a while, and that if they didn’t like it they could go ahead and fire him. They hadn’t been much surprised by this statement, as Mr. Moore was known to be a loose cannon around his office; but since the scoops he periodically came up with continued to make it worth putting up with his uppity behavior, they didn’t let him go but gave him an indefinite vacation. (There were only a couple of occasions during his years at the Times when he crossed the line far enough to get the sack, and even then the exile was only temporary.)

  The detective sergeants, Miss Howard, and Mr. Moore proceeded to divide the list up, and then each set out with photographic copies of Miss Beaux’s sketch, ready for long days of frustrating inquiries at places that were often run by very uncooperative people. All of us at Seventeenth Street knew that this process would take some time, time that would pass faster if we filled it with constructive activity. For the Doctor, that meant locking himself back up in his study and combing through more psychological texts, trying to determine a hypothetical background for the woman we were tracking. The occasional cries, curses, and execrations that came out of that room, though, indicated that he was failing to get much further than he had earlier in the week. As for Cyrus, the detective sergeants had secretly asked him to prepare a report on each member of the Doctor’s staff at the Institute, since they’d have to juggle that investigation with the Linares affair. No one knew the Doctor’s assistants—the teachers, matrons, even the custodians—better than Cyrus, and he took advantage of the time to put together a set of summaries what were very detailed.

  As for me, I’d been struck, during the business with the Filipino knife, by my own ignorance of where and what those islands were and of their importance to the Spanish Empire. So I asked the Doctor for some books and monographs
that might help me understand just what the situation regarding Spain and the United States was all about. Pleased by my genuine interest, the Doctor obliged, and I took the materials up to my room and sank into them.

  So wrapped up did I become in these ruminations that by Saturday evening I was still going at it—two days of steady study, a longer time than I’d been able to manage in my two years of service with the Doctor. As night descended along with a late rainstorm that blew in from the northwest, I realized with a sudden start just how late in the week it was, and remembered that Kat had told me she planned to move out of Frankie’s dive and into the Dusters’ headquarters sometime during the next week. Checking to see that the Doctor was still locked up in his study, I told Cyrus that I was heading out for a while and began the long, wet walk down to my old stomping grounds near the intersection of Baxter and Worth Streets.

  The dive known as Frankie’s was located at Number 55 Worth, and was as dismal a place as any kid ever passed an idle hour in. It was also the location where I’d first met Kat about six months previous. Its main attractions were bloody battles between dogs and rats in a deep pit, an even younger than usual collection of girls in the back, and a drink that was a nasty mix of buttered rum, benzene, and cocaine shavings. I’d never spent much time there during my criminal days, though I knew plenty who did; but my acquaintance with Kat had, I regret to say, caused me to journey down in recent months and pass far more hours amid the violence and squalor than I probably should’ve.

  That Kat… She’d arrived in the city about a year before I’d met her in the company of her father, a smalltime con man who got too drunk one winter night and fell into the East River. After his death Kat had tried foi months to make a legitimate living vending ears of hoi roasted corn out of an old baby carriage on downtown streets, a job what wasn’t in any way as simple as it might sound. Hot corn girls in New York were something of a puzzle: most of them weren’t whores, but somehow the average person—particularly your run-of-the-mill out-of-towner—was always convinced otherwise. Nobody seems to know where the idea got started. The Doctor says it all had to do with “subconscious associations” that most people formed about young girls alone on the street selling something “hot” that had a general shape what the alienists call “phallic.” Who knows … The point is that a lot of men who bought corn off those girls figured they were actually making a bargain for sexual favors: and when Kat wised up to how much more money she could make actually selling those favors, well, she tool the chance. I didn’t judge her for it; nobody who’s ever been on the streets would’ve. You could get damned sick and real tired standing barefoot in the cold all day hawking corn, not even making enough money to buy yourself a bed in one of the worst flophouses in town.