His eyes alone moved as he glanced at his clothes; then he nodded once, and stumbled with me into the minimal shelter of the doorway. We stood there for quite some time until, finally, he spoke in the same lifeless voice: "Did you know-my father-"

I looked at him, my own heart ready to burst at the pain that was in his face, and then nodded. "Yes. I knew him, Laszlo."

Kreizler shook his head in a stiff jerk. "No. Do you know what what my-father always said to me, when I was-a boy?" my-father always said to me, when I was-a boy?"

"No. What?"

"That-" The voice was still sc.r.a.ping terribly, as if it were a labor to produce it, but the words began to come faster: "That I didn't know as much as I thought I did. That I thought I knew how people should behave, that I thought I was a better person than he was. But one day-one day, he said, I would know that I wasn't. Until then, I'd be nothing more than an-impostor..."

Once again, I couldn't find a way to tell Laszlo how fully I understood, in light of Sara's discovery, what he was saying; so I simply put a hand to his uninjured shoulder as he began to straighten his clothes absentmindedly. "I have-made arrangements. The mortician will be here soon. Then I've got to get home. Stevie and Cyrus..."

"Sara's looking after them."

His voice became suddenly strong, even somewhat violent: "I've got to look after them, John!" He shook a fist before him. " got to look after them, John!" He shook a fist before him. "I've got to. got to. I I brought these people into my house. brought these people into my house. I I was responsible for their safety. Look at them now-look! Two near dead, and one-one..." He gasped and looked at the iron door, as if he could see right through it to the rusted metal table on which now lay the girl who had embodied his hope of a new life. was responsible for their safety. Look at them now-look! Two near dead, and one-one..." He gasped and looked at the iron door, as if he could see right through it to the rusted metal table on which now lay the girl who had embodied his hope of a new life.

Gripping him tighter, I said, "Theodore's out looking-"

"I'm no longer interested in what the commissioner of police is doing," Kreizler answered, quickly and sharply. "Nor in the activities of anyone else in that department." He paused, and then, wincing as he moved his right arm, took my hand from his shoulder and looked away from me. "It's over, John. This wretched, b.l.o.o.d.y business, this...investigation. Over." Over."

I was at something of a loss for words. He seemed perfectly serious. "Kreizler," I finally said, "give yourself a couple of days before you-"

"Before I what?" he answered quickly. "Before I get one of you killed, too?"

"You're not responsible for-"

"Don't tell tell me I'm not responsible for it!" he raged. "Who, then, if not me? It's my own vanity, just as Comstock said. I've been in a blind fury, trying to prove my precious points, oblivious of any danger it might pose. And what have they wanted? Comstock? Connor? Byrnes, those men on the train? They've wanted to stop me. But me I'm not responsible for it!" he raged. "Who, then, if not me? It's my own vanity, just as Comstock said. I've been in a blind fury, trying to prove my precious points, oblivious of any danger it might pose. And what have they wanted? Comstock? Connor? Byrnes, those men on the train? They've wanted to stop me. But I I thought that what I was doing was too important for me to take any note-I thought I knew better! We've been hunting a killer, John, but the killer isn't the real danger- thought that what I was doing was too important for me to take any note-I thought I knew better! We've been hunting a killer, John, but the killer isn't the real danger-I am!" He hissed suddenly and clenched his teeth. "Well, I've seen enough. If I'm the danger then I shall remove myself. Let this man keep killing. It's what they want. He's a part of their order, their precious social order-without such creatures they've no scapegoats for their own wretched brutality! Who am I to interfere?" am!" He hissed suddenly and clenched his teeth. "Well, I've seen enough. If I'm the danger then I shall remove myself. Let this man keep killing. It's what they want. He's a part of their order, their precious social order-without such creatures they've no scapegoats for their own wretched brutality! Who am I to interfere?"

"Kreizler," I said, ever more worried, for there was no question now that he meant what he was saying. "Listen to yourself, you're going against everything-"

"No!" he answered. "I'm going along along! I'll go back to my Inst.i.tute and my dead, empty house, and forget forget this case. I'll see to it that Stevie and Cyrus heal and never again face unknown attackers because of my vain schemes. And this b.l.o.o.d.y society that they've built for themselves can go down the path they have planned for it, and this case. I'll see to it that Stevie and Cyrus heal and never again face unknown attackers because of my vain schemes. And this b.l.o.o.d.y society that they've built for themselves can go down the path they have planned for it, and rot rot!"

I stood back a couple of steps, knowing in some part of myself that it was useless to argue with him, but stung by his att.i.tude nonetheless. "All right, then. If self-pity's going to be your solution-"

He swung at me hard with his left arm, but missed badly. "d.a.m.n you, Moore!" he seethed, breathing in short, quick contractions. "d.a.m.n you and d.a.m.n them!" He grabbed the iron door and drew it open, then paused to get his breathing under control. Eyes again wide with horror, he stared into the dark, miserable hallway before him. "And d.a.m.n me, too," he added quietly. The heaving in his chest finally began to subside. "I'm going to wait inside. I would appreciate it if you'd go. I'll arrange to have my things removed from Number 808. I-I'm sorry, John." He entered the morgue, the iron door swinging shut with a crash as he went.

I stood there for a moment, my sodden clothes now starting to cling to my body and limbs. I looked up at the square, feelingless brick buildings around me, and then at the sky. More clouds were being blown in by the westerly wind, which was only picking up pace. In a sudden movement I reached down, tore a bit of gra.s.s and earth from the ground beneath me, and then threw it at the black door.

"d.a.m.n you all, all, then!" I shouted, holding up my muddy fist; but there was no relief in the exclamation. I let the hand fall slowly, then wiped rainwater from my face and stumbled back to my cab. then!" I shouted, holding up my muddy fist; but there was no relief in the exclamation. I let the hand fall slowly, then wiped rainwater from my face and stumbled back to my cab.

CHAPTER 37.

Not wanting to see or talk to anyone after I left the morgue, I ordered my cabbie to take me to Number 808 Broadway. The building was fairly deserted, and when I stumbled into our headquarters the only sound I could hear was the blast of rain against the ring of Gothic windows around me. I collapsed onto the Marchese Carcano's divan and stared at the large, note-covered chalkboard, my spirits sinking ever lower. Grief and hopelessness were finally and mercifully overwhelmed by exhaustion, and I fell asleep for most of the dark, gloomy day. But at about five o'clock I shot up to the sound of loud knocking at the front door. Staggering over and opening the thing, I found myself facing a dripping Western Union boy who had a sodden envelope in his hand. I took the message from him and peeled it apart, my lips moving rather idiotically as I read it: .

CAPTAIN MILLER, FORT YATES, CONFIRMS CPL JOHN BEECHAM HAD FACIAL SPASM. CARRIED SIMILAR KNIFE. KNOWN TO CLIMB MOUNTAINS WHEN OFF DUTY. ADVISE CAPTAIN MILLER, FORT YATES, CONFIRMS CPL JOHN BEECHAM HAD FACIAL SPASM. CARRIED SIMILAR KNIFE. KNOWN TO CLIMB MOUNTAINS WHEN OFF DUTY. ADVISE.

As I finished reading the wire for a third time, I became aware that the delivery boy was saying something, and I looked up blankly. "What's that?"

"Reply, sir," the boy said impatiently. "Do you want to send a reply?"

"Oh." I thought about it for a moment, trying to decide what the best course would be in light of the morning's developments. "Oh...yes."

"You'll have to write it down on something dry," the boy said. "My forms are soaked."

I walked over to my desk, pulled out a slip of paper, and scribbled a short note: RETURN BY FASTEST TRAIN. EARLIEST OPPORTUNITY RETURN BY FASTEST TRAIN. EARLIEST OPPORTUNITY. The delivery boy read the thing and gave me a price for its transmission, to which I pulled some money out of my pocket and handed it to him uncounted. The boy's att.i.tude immediately improved, from which I divined that I'd given him a sizable tip, and then he was back in the elevator and on his way.

There seemed little point in the Isaacsons staying in North Dakota if our investigation was about to come to an abrupt conclusion. Indeed, if Kreizler was serious about dealing himself out of the game there seemed little point in any of us doing anything except cas.h.i.+ng in our chips and heading back to our ordinary walks of life. Whatever understanding Sara, the Isaacsons, and I had of our killer was due to Laszlo's tutelage, and as I looked out over rainswept Broadway, where furtive shoppers were doing their best to avoid rus.h.i.+ng carriages and delivery wagons as they tried to get in out of the downpour, I could imagine no way in which we could succeed without his continued leaders.h.i.+p.

I'd just reconciled myself to this conclusion when I heard a key turning in the front door. Sara came bustling in, umbrella and grocery parcels in hand, her movements and air nothing like they'd been that morning. She was stepping and talking quickly, even lightly, as if nothing at all had happened.

"It's a flood, John!" she announced, shaking her umbrella and depositing it in the ceramic stand. She took off her wrap, then lugged her parcels back toward the little kitchen. "You can barely get across Fourteenth Street on foot, and it's worth your life to try to find a cab."

I looked back out the window. "Cleans the streets, though," I said.

"Do you want something to eat?" Sara called. "I'll get some coffee going, and I brought food-sandwiches will have to do, I'm afraid."

"Sandwiches?" I answered, not very enthusiastically. "Couldn't we just go out somewhere?"

"Out?" Sara said, reemerging from the kitchen and coming over to me. "We can't go out, we've got-" She stopped as she caught sight of the Isaacsons' telegram, then picked it up carefully. "What's this?"

"Marcus and Lucius," I answered. "They got confirmation on John Beecham."

"But that's wonderful, John!" Sara said in a rush. "Then we-"

"I've already sent a reply," I interrupted, disturbed by her manner. "Told them to get back as soon as they can."

"Even better," Sara said. "I doubt if there's much more for them to discover out there, and we'll need them here."

"Need them?"

"We've got work to do," Sara answered simply.

My shoulders drooped with the realization that my worries about her att.i.tude had been well founded. "Sara, Kreizler told me this morning that-"

"I know," she answered. "He told me, as well. What of it?"

"What of it? It's over, that's what of it. How are we supposed to go on without him?"

She shrugged. "As we went on with him. Listen to me, John." Grabbing hold of my shoulders, Sara led me over to my desk and sat me on it. "I know what you're thinking-but you're wrong. We're good enough now without him. We can finish this."

My head had started shaking even before she finished this statement. "Sara, be serious-we don't have the training, we don't have the background-"

"We don't need any more than we have, John," she answered firmly. "Remember what Kreizler himself taught us-context. We don't need to know everything about psychology, or alienism, or the history of all similar cases to finish this job. All we need to know is this this man, his man, his particular particular case-and we do, now. In fact, when we put together what we've gathered during the last week, I'll bet that we know him as well as he knows himself-perhaps even better. Dr. Kreizler was important, but he's gone now, and we don't need him. You can't quit. You mustn't." case-and we do, now. In fact, when we put together what we've gathered during the last week, I'll bet that we know him as well as he knows himself-perhaps even better. Dr. Kreizler was important, but he's gone now, and we don't need him. You can't quit. You mustn't."

There were undeniable bits of truth in what she was saying, and I took a minute to digest them; but then my head began to shake again. "Look, I know how much this opportunity means to you. I know how much it could have helped you convince the department-"

I shut up instantly as she took a good cut at my shoulder with her right fist. "d.a.m.n it, John, don't insult me! Do you honestly think I'm doing this just for the opportunity? I'm doing it because I want to sleep soundly again someday-or have your little trips up and down the eastern seaboard made you forget?" She dashed over and grabbed some photographs off of Marcus's desk. "Remember these, John?" I glanced down only briefly, knowing what she held: pictures of the various crime scenes. "Do you really think you're you're going to spend many easy hours if you stop now? And what happens when the next boy is killed? How will you feel then?" going to spend many easy hours if you stop now? And what happens when the next boy is killed? How will you feel then?"

"Sara," I protested, my voice rising to match hers, "I'm not talking about what I'd prefer prefer here! I'm talking about what's here! I'm talking about what's practical. practical."

"How practical is it to walk away?" she shouted back. "Kreizler's only doing it because he has has to-he's been hurt, hurt as badly as anyone can be, and this is the only way he can find to respond. But that's to-he's been hurt, hurt as badly as anyone can be, and this is the only way he can find to respond. But that's him, him, John. John. We We can go on! We've can go on! We've got got to go on!" to go on!"

Letting her arms fall to her sides, Sara took several deep breaths, then smoothed her dress, walked across the room, and pointed to the right side of the chalkboard. "The way I see it," she said evenly, "we've got three weeks to get ready. We can't waste a minute."

"Three weeks?" I said. "Why?"

She went over to Kreizler's desk and picked up the thin volume with the cross on its cover. "The Christian calendar," she said, holding it up. "I a.s.sume you found out why he's following it?"

I shrugged. "Well, we may have. Victor Dury was a reverend. So the-the-" I tried to find an expression, and finally latched onto one that sounded like something Kreizler would have said: "The rhythms of the Dury house, the cycle of the family's life, would naturally have coincided with it."

Sara's mouth curled up. "You see, John? You weren't entirely wrong about a priest being involved."

"And there was something else," I said, thinking back to the questions that Kreizler had put to Adam Dury just as we were leaving the latter's farm. "The reverend was fond of holidays-gave some rattling good sermons, apparently. But his wife..." I tapped a finger slowly on my desk, considering the idea; then, realizing its importance, I looked up. "It was his wife who was j.a.pheth's chief tormentor, according to his brother-and she gave the boys h.e.l.lfire and brimstone over holidays."

Sara looked very gratified. "Remember what we said about the killer hating dishonesty and hypocrisy? Well, if his father's preaching one thing in his sermons, while at the same time, at home..."

"Yes," I mumbled, "I do see it."

Sara returned to the chalkboard slowly, and then did something that rather struck me: She picked up a piece of chalk and, without hesitation, jotted down the information I'd given her on the left-hand side of the board. Her handwriting, at that angle, was not quite as neat and practiced as Kreizler's, but it looked like it belonged there, just the same. "He's reacting to a cycle of emotional crisis that's existed all his life," Sara said confidently, setting the chalk back down. "Sometimes the crises are so severe that he kills-and the one he'll reach in three weeks may be the worst of all."

"So you've said," I answered. "But I don't remember there being any significant holy days in late June."

"Not significant for everyone," Sara said, opening the calendar. "But for him..."

She held the book out to me, pointing to one page in particular. I looked down to see the notation for Sunday, June 21st: The Feast of Saint John the Baptist. My eyes jumped open.

"Most churches don't make much of a to-do about it anymore," Sara said quietly. "But-"

"Saint John the Baptist," I said quietly. "Water!"

Sara nodded. "Water."

"Beecham," I whispered, making a connection that, though perhaps a long shot, was nonetheless apparent: "John Beecham..." "John Beecham..."

"What do you mean?" Sara asked. "The only Beecham I found any mention of in New Paltz was a George."

It was my turn to go to the board and pick up the chalk. Tapping it on the boxed-off area marked THE MOLDING VIOLENCE AND/OR MOLESTATION THE MOLDING VIOLENCE AND/OR MOLESTATION, I explained at high speed: "When j.a.pheth Dury was eleven, he was attacked-raped-by a man his brother worked with. A man who'd befriended him, a man he trusted. That man's name was George George Beecham." A small, urgent sound came out of Sara, and one of her hands went to her mouth. "Now, Beecham." A small, urgent sound came out of Sara, and one of her hands went to her mouth. "Now, if if j.a.pheth Dury, in fact, took the name Beecham after the killings, in order to begin a new life-" j.a.pheth Dury, in fact, took the name Beecham after the killings, in order to begin a new life-"

"Of course," Sara said. "He became became the tormentor!" the tormentor!"

I nodded eagerly. "And why the name John?"

"The Baptist," Sara answered. "The purifier!"

I laughed once and wrote these thoughts down in the appropriate segments of the board. "It's just speculation, but-"

"John," Sara said, admonis.h.i.+ng me good-humoredly. "That entire board board is just speculation. But it is just speculation. But it works. works." I set the chalk down and turned back around to find Sara absolutely beaming. "You see now, don't you?" she said. "We've got to do it, John-we've got got to keep going!" to keep going!"

And of course we did.

So began twenty of the most extraordinary and difficult days of my life. Knowing that the Isaacsons would not get back to New York any earlier than Wednesday night, Sara and I set ourselves the task of sharing, interpreting, and recording all the information we'd gathered during the previous week, in order to have it ready for the detective sergeants to quickly a.s.similate on their return. We spent most of the next few days together at Number 808, going over facts and-on a less obvious, unacknowledged level-reshaping the atmosphere and spirit of our headquarters so as to ensure that Kreizler's would not become a crippling absence. All obvious signs and reminders of Laszlo's presence were quietly put aside or removed, and we pushed his desk into a corner, so that the other four could be re-formed into a smaller (or rather, as I chose to view it, tighter) ring. Neither Sara nor I were particularly happy about doing any of this, but we tried not to be sad or maudlin, either. As always, focus was the key: so long as we kept our vision steadily fixed on the twin goals of preventing another murder and capturing our killer, we found we could get through even the most painful and disorienting moments of transition.

Not that we simply wiped Kreizler out of our minds; on the contrary, Sara and I spoke of him several times, in an effort to fully comprehend just what twists and turns his mind had taken after Mary's death. Naturally, these conversations involved some discussion of Laszlo's past; and thinking about the unfortunate reality of Kreizler's upbringing as I talked with Sara dispelled the last of the anger I felt over Laszlo's abandonment of the investigation, to the extent that on Tuesday morning I actually went, without telling Sara, back to Kreizler's house.

I made the trip in part to see how Stevie and Cyrus were doing, but primarily to smooth over the b.u.mps and cracks that had been left by Laszlo's and my parting at Bellevue. Thankfully, I found that my old friend was also anxious to put things right in this regard, though he was still quite determined not to return to our investigation. He spoke of Mary's death quietly, making it easy for me to appreciate how thoroughly his spirit had been savaged by the incident. But more than that, I think it was the shattering of his confidence that prevented him from coming back to the hunt. For only the second time in his life that I could recall (the first having occurred during the week before we visited Jesse Pomeroy), Laszlo seemed to truly doubt his own judgment. And while I didn't agree with his self-indictment, I certainly couldn't blame him. Every human being must find his own way to cope with such severe loss, and the only job of a true friend is to facilitate whatever method he chooses. And so I finally shook Laszlo's hand and accepted his determination to bow out of our work, even though it pained me deeply. We said goodbye, and I wondered again how we would ever get along without him; yet before I'd even gotten clear of his front yard, my thoughts had turned back to the case.

Sara's trip to New Paltz, I learned during those three days before the Isaacsons returned, had confirmed many of our hypotheses concerning our killer's childhood years. She'd been able to locate several of j.a.pheth Dury's contemporaries, and they acknowledged-rather ruefully, to give them their due-that the boy had suffered much mockery because of his violent facial spasms. Throughout his years at school (and as Marcus had speculated, the New Paltz school had taught the Palmer system of handwriting at that time), as well as on those special occasions when he accompanied his parents into town, j.a.pheth would often be set on by gangs of children who made a great game out of competing to see who could most accurately imitate the boy's tic. This last was no ordinary twitch, the now-grown citizens of New Paltz had a.s.sured Sara: it was a contraction so severe that j.a.pheth's eyes and mouth would be pulled around almost to the side of his head, as if he were in terrible pain and were about to break into violent tears. Apparently-and strangely-he never struck back when attacked by the children of New Paltz, and never turned a spiteful tongue on anyone who teased him; rather, he always went silently about his business, so that after a few years the children in town grew bored of tormenting him. Those few years, however, had apparently been enough to poison j.a.pheth's spirit, coming as they did on top of a lifetime's coexistence with someone who never tired of hounding him: his own mother.

Sara didn't crow excessively about the extent to which she'd been able to predict the character of that mother, though G.o.d knows she would've been justified in doing so. Her interviews in New Paltz had supplied her with only a general description of Mrs. Dury, but she'd read enough into those generalities to be very encouraged. j.a.pheth's mother was well remembered in the town, partly for her zealous advocacy of her husband's missionary work, but even more vividly for her harsh, cold manner. Indeed, it was widely held among New Paltz's other matrons that j.a.pheth Dury's facial spasms had been the result of his mother's relentless badgering (thus demonstrating that folk wisdom can sometimes attain the status of psychological insight). Encouraging as all this was, it gave Sara only a fraction of the satisfaction offered by Adam Dury's account. Almost every one of Sara's hypotheses-from our killer's mother having been an unwilling bride, to her dislike of childbearing, to her scatological hara.s.sment of her son from an early age-had been borne out by what Laszlo and I had heard in Dury's barn; Adam had even told us that his mother often told j.a.pheth he was a dirty red Indian. A woman had indeed played a "sinister role" in our killer's life; and while the reverend's may have been the hand that actually administered beatings in the Dury household, Mrs. Dury's behavior appeared to have represented another sort of punishment to both her sons, one that was just as powerful. Indeed, Sara and I felt confident in saying that if one of j.a.pheth's parents had been the "primary" or "intended" victim of his murderous rage, it was almost certainly his mother.

In sum, it now seemed certain that we were dealing with a man whose fantastic bitterness toward the most influential woman in his life had led him to shun the company of women generally. This left us with the question of why he should have chosen to kill boys who dressed up and behaved like females, rather than de facto de facto women. In coming up with an answer to this riddle, Sara and I were led back to our earlier theory that the victims all possessed character traits not unlike the killer's own. The hateful relations.h.i.+p between j.a.pheth Dury and his mother must, we reasoned, have spilled over into self-hatred, as well-for how could any boy despised by his mother fail to question his own worth? Thus j.a.pheth's anger had crossed s.e.xual lines, becoming a sort of hybrid, or mongrel; and it had found its only release in destroying boys who embodied, in their behavior, similar ambiguity. women. In coming up with an answer to this riddle, Sara and I were led back to our earlier theory that the victims all possessed character traits not unlike the killer's own. The hateful relations.h.i.+p between j.a.pheth Dury and his mother must, we reasoned, have spilled over into self-hatred, as well-for how could any boy despised by his mother fail to question his own worth? Thus j.a.pheth's anger had crossed s.e.xual lines, becoming a sort of hybrid, or mongrel; and it had found its only release in destroying boys who embodied, in their behavior, similar ambiguity.

The final step in Sara's and my process of a.s.sembling our recently collected clues was the fles.h.i.+ng out of our killer's transformation from j.a.pheth Dury into John Beecham. Sara had learned little about George Beecham in New Paltz-he'd lived in the town for just a year, and only appeared in local records because he'd voted in the 1874 congressional election-but we were fairly sure that we understood the selection of the name, nonetheless. Since the beginning of our investigation, it had been clear to all of us that we were dealing with a s.a.d.i.s.tic personality, one whose every action betrayed an obsessive desire to change his role in life from that of the victim to that of the tormentor. It was perversely logical that, as a way of initiating and symbolizing this transformation, he should alter his name to that of a man who had once betrayed and violated him; and it was just as logical that he should keep that name when he began to murder children who apparently trusted him in just the way that he had once trusted George Beecham. There was a clear sense that, careful as the killer doubtless was to cultivate that trust, he despised his victims for being foolish enough to give it. Again, he hoped to eradicate an intolerable element of his own personality by eradicating mirror reflections of the child he'd once been.

And so j.a.pheth Dury had become John Beecham, who, according to the a.s.sessments of his doctors at St. Elizabeth's Hospital, was highly sensitive to scrutiny of any kind, and also harbored at least strong feelings (if not outright delusions) of persecution. It was unlikely that these traits of personality had been much ameliorated after his release from St. Elizabeth's in the late summer of 1886, since that release had been secured through the exploitation of a legal technicality and against the doctors' wishes; and if indeed John Beecham was our killer, then, in fact, his suspicion, hostility, and violence had only worsened over the years. Sara and I determined that in order for Beecham to have gained the thorough familiarity with New York that he evidently had, he must have come to the city very soon after his release from St. Elizabeth's, and stayed in it ever since. There was cause for hope in this supposition, because he'd probably had contact with a good many people over the course of ten years, and become, in some neighborhood or walk of life, a familiar character. Of course, we didn't know precisely what he looked like; but, starting with the physical characteristics that we'd theorized early on, and then refining them by using Adam Dury as a physical model, we believed we could concoct a description that, in conjunction with the name John Beecham, would make identification a fairly easy matter. Of course, there was no guarantee that he was still using the name John Beecham; but both Sara and I believed that, given what the name meant to him, he had continued and would continue to do so, until forced to stop.

That was about all the hypothesizing we could do, pending the Isaacsons' return. Wednesday evening arrived, however, without our having had any word from the detective sergeants, and so Sara and I decided to attend to another unpleasant task: that of convincing Theodore to allow us to go on with the investigation in spite of Kreizler's departure. We both suspected that this wasn't going to be easy. It had only been Roosevelt's great respect for Kreizler that had allowed him to consider the idea in the first place (that, and his propensity for unorthodox solutions). Having spent the beginning of the week searching for Connor, as well as attending to the ongoing battle between the forces of reform and corruption at Police Headquarters, Roosevelt remained unapprised of developments within our investigation as of Wednesday evening; but, knowing that he would learn the truth from either Kreizler or the Isaacsons eventually, Sara and I decided to take the bear by the ears and tell him ourselves.

Anxious to avoid stirring up a potentially dangerous new round of speculation among the journalists and detectives at headquarters, we elected to visit Theodore at his home. He and his wife, Edith, had recently rented a town house at 689 Madison Avenue that belonged to Theodore's sister, Bamie, a comfortable, well-furnished home that was nonetheless inadequate to the task of containing the antics of the five Roosevelt children. (It must be remembered, in fairness, that the White House itself would soon prove similarly inadequate.) Knowing that Theodore generally made sure to be home for dinner with his brood, Sara and I took a hansom up Madison Avenue to Sixty-third Street at about six o'clock, mounting the steps of Number 689 at sunset.

Before I'd even rapped on the door the sounds of youthful mayhem became audible from within. The front portal was eventually opened by Theodore's second son, Kermit, who at the time was six years old. He wore the traditional white s.h.i.+rt, knickers, and longish hair of a boy of his age during that era; but in his right fist he rather ominously held what I supposed to be the horn of an African rhinoceros, mounted on a heavy stand. His face was all defiance.

"h.e.l.lo, Kermit," I said with a grin. "Is your father at home?"

"No one shall pa.s.s!" the boy shouted grimly, staring me in the eye. the boy shouted grimly, staring me in the eye.

I lost my grin. "I beg your pardon?"

"No one shall pa.s.s!" he repeated. "I, Horatio, will guard this bridge!"

Sara let out a small laugh and I nodded in acknowledgment. "Ah. Yes, Horatio at the bridge. Well, Horatio, if it's all the same to you..."

I took a step or two into the house, to which Kermit raised the rhino horn and banged it down with surprising force on the toes of my right foot. I let out a sharp cry of pain, prompting Sara to laugh harder, as Kermit again declared, "No one shall pa.s.s!" "No one shall pa.s.s!"

Just then Edith Roosevelt's pleasant but firm voice echoed in from somewhere to the rear of the house: "Kermit! What's going on out there?"

Kermit's eyes suddenly went round with apprehension, and then he spun and made for the nearby staircase, hollering "Retreat! Retreat!" as he went. With the pain in my toes beginning to subside I marked the approach of a rather serious-looking young girl of four or so: Theodore's younger daughter, Ethel. She was carrying a large picture book full of vivid zoological ill.u.s.trations and walking with evident purpose; but when she caught sight first of Sara and me and then of Kermit vanis.h.i.+ng up the stairs, she paused, flicking a thumb in her brother's direction.

"Horatio at the bridge," she droned, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. Then she put her face back in the book and continued her progress down the hall.