EDWIN HUMBLECUT EASED HIMSELF into an armchair by the fire, feeling the warmth of the glowing coals. It was quite a handsome library, revealing enormous wealth, quietly displayed.
“Brandy?” asked Leng, standing at a side table with crystal decanters and glasses.
“No, thank you, Doctor. I am a teetotalist.”
“Of course. I, however, shall have a tot to warm myself on this cold evening.”
Leng poured a brandy and settled into the seat opposite. It was a chill winter night, and Humblecut was grateful for the warmth of the fire after his stay on Mount Desert.
It had been a gratifying trip on several levels. He had particularly enjoyed his time with that pair of island rubes—what were their names? Cookson. And he treasured the moment when he revealed to the policeman what he’d done—the look of perfect horror on his face. The sojourn itself, however—especially his attic vigil—had left him chilled to the bone. But the twenty-four-hour sea voyage back to Manhattan was now complete; he had handed off Harrison and the boy to Leng’s lackeys... and all that remained was to collect his reward.
As Leng settled into the seat, Humblecut observed him with keen but covert interest. Humblecut had the uncanny ability to peer into other people’s minds and see their thought processes. But Leng was absolutely opaque. His thinking was hidden and his goals shrouded in mystery. That intrigued Humblecut. This last assignment had been truly inexplicable: questioning a copper who, apparently, had come from the future. Humblecut was a man who believed in rationality and science, and the concept of traveling through time was too much to swallow. Ordinarily he would have discounted it as madness. But what convinced him of its veracity was that Harrison, the policeman, was clearly an ordinary sort of person, without any particular imaginative gifts—and yet he’d painted a picture of the future that was original, unexpected, utterly grotesque … yet entirely believable. If George Harrison was a fantasist, he showed no other signs of madness or even abnormal thinking. It seemed impossible for him to invent, on the fly, all that he had said.
Thus, Humblecut was inclined to believe it was true—that he was indeed a man who had traveled from the future. And what a future he’d depicted! The remarkable inventions, the even more remarkable violence … Humblecut wished he could live long enough to see it.
He knew better than to ask Leng what it was all about—but nevertheless, he had mentally filed away every detail. There had to be value in it; exactly what to exploit, and how, could wait. Humblecut was not only a careful man—he was a patient one.
He’d brought the police officer and the boy back to the mansion, where Leng’s people had taken over and imprisoned them somewhere in the house. And now it was time for Humblecut to be paid a liberal fee—which he felt he richly deserved, after that long perambulation through a frozen hell.
He waited for Leng to initiate the conversation. But Leng seemed content to sit by the fire in silence, sipping his drink.
“I am wondering,” Leng finally began, in a low voice, “what your thoughts are on this most recent assignment?”
“I don’t think about my assignments, sir,” Humblecut replied. “I accomplish them. And then I move on.”
“But surely,” said Leng, “you must have wondered where that fellow Harrison came from? Why I had you ask him all those questions? Above all, you must have wondered how he could possibly know the answers. Not the slightest glimmer of curiosity about that?”
Humblecut felt the conversation moving into hazardous territory. “Dr. Leng, I pride myself on a lack of inquisitiveness when it comes to the dealings of my clients. I’ve never allowed the kind of curiosity another man might find natural to interfere with business. What you intend to do, or not do, with the man—or the telegram—is none of my affair.”
“A very commendable attitude. I hadn’t pegged you as an incurious man. Had I been in your shoes, I would have had many questions about how such a man could possibly exist, and whether his information could be put to some use. I would have retained notes, at the least.”
“I never take notes,” said Humblecut. “I possess an eidetic memory.”
“Ah! An eidetic memory.”
“Very useful in my line of work,” Humblecut said, allowing himself an uncharacteristic measure of pride. Perhaps such an asset could up his bargaining price in future assignments.
“I imagine so,” Leng said, rising. “Cigar?”
He picked up a box of cigars from the mantel, opened it, and held it out to him. Humblecut selected a cigar—a Don José perla—and used the proffered cutter to notch the end. Leng lit it for him with a large, chased silver lighter. Then he took one for himself, and trimmed and lit it.
Humblecut puffed on his cigar—it was, as he anticipated, excellent.
“Eidetic memory, most useful,” said Leng. “Now, is there anything else you’d like to tell me before we settle our accounts?”
“I’ll just leave you with a word of advice: that man may be an ordinary, unimaginative copper, but he’s cleverer than he looks. He almost managed to escape the boat on our way down from Maine. And keep an eye on the boy—he’s a resourceful little squib.” He took a moment to draw smoke into his mouth and expel it in a little stream.
“Thank you, I shall do so. Now, I believe I owe you a tidy sum.”
Humblecut inclined his head.
“Twenty thousand dollars is what we agreed.”
He inclined his head again.
Leng pulled a tapestry cord next to the chair. One of his white-gloved lackeys came in, conferred with Leng, and left. A moment later he returned with a leather satchel, which he handed to Humblecut. He took it by the handle, opened it, and saw it was filled with neatly banded bricks of notes. He quickly riffled through them, pulling out a random few to ensure they were genuine—more from habit than anything else; Leng was not the kind of client to pull a low stunt such as that. He closed the satchel and placed it next to his chair. “Much obliged, Dr. Leng.”
“It’s a funny thing, Humblecut,” said Leng. “I just can’t get over the fact you aren’t more curious. Surely you’ve been wondering what it’s all about … and how you might profit from it.”
“I’ve already answered that question,” Humblecut said sharply. “I do not seek profit from my clients’ business.” Now was the time to get out—he didn’t like the direction in which Leng continued to steer the conversation, and it occurred to him that revealing his eidetic abilities to this man might not have been wise. “And now, Dr. Leng, I thank you for your trust in me. I hope to do business with you again.” He laid his half-smoked cigar down on the ashtray and rose.
“Not quite yet.”
On his feet, Humblecut felt a sudden spell of dizziness, and a strange weakness in his knees that forced him to steady himself against the arm of the chair. He instantly realized he’d somehow been poisoned. The dimness was coming on fast, his mind filling with confusion. He took a step toward Leng, stumbled, and then lunged, in an effort to strangle his client with the last of his fading strength. But despite the will of a lion, he was overwhelmed with weakness and merely collapsed on the floor in front of the dying fire. Staring up at Leng, all he could manage was a gurgle of fury. He had badly misjudged the man.
Leng rose and stood over him, calmly puffing his cigar. Humble-cut stared up at him, burning with an internal paroxysm of rage, but—now entirely incapacitated—with no ability to act on it. Worse, he was finding it increasingly difficult to breathe. It must have been the cigar—or something dusted on the money.
“While I appreciate your help,” Leng said, “I know you were already scheming to turn the knowledge you gained to your profit. That cannot be permitted. A man from the future is an inestimable commodity. And, yes: that is indeed what Harrison is. Extraordinary, don’t you think? The value of his knowledge of what is to come is priceless, and I know exactly how to use it. You, on the other hand, would only ruin everything in an effort to capitalize on the information.”
Now all Humblecut could think of was getting more air into his lungs, trying to keep his chest expanding, his breathing going. But the paralysis had now reached his core, and no matter how hard his mind screamed at his lungs to expand, they refused. His eyes danced with points of light, and then fog, and then finally night.
*
Leng pulled the tapestry cord again, and the white-gloved lackey returned, a second on his heels. He wordlessly gestured at the body and the satchel, and both were quickly removed.
A few minutes later Decla entered. Leng had asked her to wait until Humblecut left—if she was surprised at the way he’d done so, she did not show it.
“Have a seat,” Leng said.
Decla sat. She looked displeased—Leng knew the trappings of wealth made her uneasy: they were to be looted, rather than make oneself comfortable in. Her eyes darted to the fire and back to him.
“Drink?”
She shook her head.
“My dear, I find myself increasingly concerned about a mutual acquaintance of ours.”
“The churchman?” This piqued her interest.
“No—although, as we’ve discussed, you can have his head in a day or two. Now: I’ve accomplished my goal of capturing and imprisoning our main adversaries—all except one. Three more are due to arrive soon—that interfering fellow Pendergast, along with the sisters, Mary and, ah, Binky. There’s just one loose thread—the other person we spoke of at our last meeting. Despite everything I’ve done, despite all the nets I’ve dragged across the city, I can’t find her. I’m sure you know of whom I speak.”
“The duchess,” Decla said in a low, hateful tone.
“Exactly. The Duchess of Ironclaw. Whose real name is Constance—Constance Greene. A meddlesome creature, here to interfere with my—our—plans.”
Decla nodded with increased interest.
“As you know, I only purchased this abode a few years ago and have yet to find time to explore every last corner. Be that as it may, over the past few days I’ve had the sense—only a feeling, mind you—that there’s a foreign presence here; a hostile revenant, if you will. I’ve no solid evidence; it’s mere intuition … but I believe that presence is our mutual friend.”
Decla remained silent, listening.
“I don’t know the details—neither did the source of my information—but it seems that, for at least a few years, she once lived in this house. And my sense, my intuition, wonders if in fact she might be hiding here, in this house, right under my nose. It’s just the sort of thing she’d do. If that’s the case, it’s possible she knows passageways and rooms I have not yet discovered. Your assignment is to take your squadron and search this house, top to bottom. You will be permitted to enter even those areas previously off-limits, such as the cellars. In fact, you should probably concentrate your search there.” He held up a ring, from which dangled an iron key. “Here is the master key to the house: you may go anywhere, search any place. My only exhortation to you is not to touch anything in my storerooms, laboratory, surgery, or collections. I say this out of concern for your own safety—there are poisons that will kill by mere touch, weapons that will discharge at the slightest jostle, gases that will suffocate. Do you understand?” He removed the key from the ring and tossed it to her. “Go find Constance. I’m not interested in her capture, if you understand my meaning. You may have your way with her—as you may also, in the near future, with the reverend. That will be your reward: but I find this business of the Greene girl rather more pressing than even Considine. Please see to it at once.”
Decla’s only response was the wicked gleam that appeared in her eyes, and a smile she could not fully restrain. She nodded, stood, and left the room.