“It’s all a lot of noise over nothing, anyway,” Mr. Moore said as he handed a second round of drinks to everyone. “The word at the Times is that this whole affair is going to blow over.”
“Is it?” the Doctor mumbled, not too reassured.
“Absolutely.”
As Mr. Moore reached the Doctor’s chair, I noticed that he bent over somewhat suddenly to hand the Doctor his cocktail: and as he did, a packet of papers and letters came flying out of the inside pocket of his jacket.
“Oh, dammit,” Mr. Moore said, in a voice that might’ve sounded completely genuine if I hadn’t known that the larger purpose of the evening was to get the Doctor to sign on for the Linares case. “Laszlo,” he went on, indicating the papers and handing a drink to Lucius, “would you mind…?”
The Doctor reached to the floor and picked up the scattered documents, giving them a quick once-over as he arranged them back into a pile. He suddenly stopped when he reached something:
It was the photograph of little Ana Linares.
As I’m sure the cagey Mr. Moore knew he would, the Doctor paused to study the thing. And as he did, he began to smile.
“What a charming child,” he said quietly. “The daughter of a friend, John?”
“Hmm?” Mr. Moore noised, all innocence.
“Well, she’s entirely too beautiful to be a relation,” the Doctor went on, to which the others laughed a little: their first mistake, for the Doctor had not shown the picture to any of them. If they knew the smiling, pretty face it displayed, then something was up. The Doctor glanced at them all carefully. “Such being the case,” he said quietly, continuing to address Mr. Moore, “who is she?”
“Oh,” Mr. Moore answered, retrieving the packet of letters and folded documents, “it’s nothing, Laszlo. Forget it.”
As this little dance continued, I saw Detective Sergeant Lucius pick up the evening edition of the Times and plaster it over his face nervously, though it was obvious he wasn’t reading a word.
The Doctor leaned toward Mr. Moore. “What do you mean, ‘it’s nothing’? Have you taken to carrying pictures of anonymous children?”
“No. But it’s-well, it’s nothing you should worry about.”
“I’m not worried,” the Doctor protested. “Why should I be worried?”
“That’s right,” Mr. Moore said. “No reason.”
The Doctor eyed him. “Is it something you’re worried about?”
Mr. Moore sipped his drink and held up a hand. “Laszlo, please-you’ve got enough on your mind. Let’s just skip it.”
“John,” the Doctor answered, standing and speaking with genuine concern now, “if you’re in some kind of trouble-”
He stopped as Miss Howard reached up to touch his arm. “You needn’t press John, Doctor,” Miss Howard said. “The fact is, it’s a little matter I’m looking into. He’s been giving me some help, that’s all. I lent him the photograph.”
Leaning back and turning to Miss Howard, the Doctor grew less concerned and more intrigued. “Ah! A case, Sara?”
“Yes,” was her simple answer.
I could see that the Doctor was continuing to make much of his friends’ holding back, and his next remark was a bit more pointed: “Detective Sergeant,” he said to the ever-nervous Lucius, “I believe you’ll have more success reading that paper if you turn it right side up.”
“Oh!” Lucius answered, fixing the problem with a rustle of newsprint as Marcus let out a little sigh. “Yes, I-suppose you’re right, Doctor.”
There was another moment of silence, after which the Doctor spoke again: “I take it you two are also giving Miss Howard some help with her case.”
“Oh, not really,” Marcus answered uneasily. “Not much, that is. Still, the thing is-interesting, in a way.”
“Actually, Doctor,” Miss Howard said, “we could use your thoughts on it Informally, I mean. If it wouldn’t be an imposition, that is.”
“Of course,” the Doctor replied; and the way he said it, it seemed to me that he was beginning to form an idea of what was going on and might be agreeing to take the first few steps down the road toward getting involved.
Sensing that they’d gotten the hook in, Mr. Moore brightened and looked at his watch. “Well! We’d better discuss all this at dinner. I’ve got a table at Mouquin’s, Kreizler, and you’re coming along.”
“Well, I…” Ordinarily, in recent days, the Doctor would have found a way to bow out of this social engagement; but that night he was too intrigued to even try. “I would be happy to.”
“Right,” Mr. Moore said. “And Cyrus’ll be happy to drive-won’t you, Cyrus?”
“Yes, sir,” Cyrus replied cheerfully.
Mr. Moore turned to the staircase. “Stevie!”
“On my way!” I answered, bounding down.
“The barouche, if you please,” Mr. Moore told me. “Cyrus, get the Doctor ready for a night on the town, will you?”
Cyrus nodded as I ran downstairs and out the front door to get Gwendolyn and Frederick harnessed and hitched up to the barouche.
By the time I drew the carriage up to the front gate, the others were coming out of the house. I turned the reins over to Cyrus, and as the rest of them climbed in the Doctor reminded me to make good use of the evening and get to bed early.
As they drove off, I could only laugh at that idea.
CHAPTER 8
Anticipation of the kind that’d eaten me up all afternoon set back to work on my insides that evening. I went down to the kitchen and told Mrs. Leshko that she could go home early, as I’d see to the glasses and such in the parlor. She gave me a big grin and near wrenched my cheeks off in gratitude, then got her things together and departed. I went up to the parlor and straightened up the cocktail wagon, taking the glasses downstairs to wash them. Then it was upstairs for several hours of the history of ancient Rome and half a packet of cigarettes, all of which was interrupted by the occasional trip to our new icebox for something to nibble on, periodic bouts of nervous pacing, and long minutes of wondering whether or not the Doctor would agree to help find little Ana Linares.
After dropping the others off at their respective homes, the Doctor returned to Seventeenth Street at about midnight. Such was early by the group’s usual standards, but in recent weeks the Doctor hadn’t allowed himself anything like so much leisure, so I took the time of his return as a good sign. He entered the house alone-Cyrus was next door tending to the horses-and as I heard him come in I started down for the parlor, where I knew he’d be pouring himself a nightcap. I’d taken the precaution of getting into some nightclothes and a robe, and as I walked slowly down the stairs I ran my hands through my hair once or twice to muss it up. Then I did my best to look sleepy, giving out with a quiet yawn as I entered the parlor and found the Doctor sitting in his chair with a small glass of cognac, once again going over his letter from Mr. Roosevelt.
He looked up when I came in. “Stevie? What are you doing up? It’s late.”
“Only midnight,” I answered, walking over to the window. “Must’ve dozed off, though.”
The Doctor let out a small laugh. “An excellent attempt, Stevie. But a trifle transparent.” I didn’t say anything, just kind of chuckled and shrugged. Setting his glass aside, the Doctor walked over to stand at the other window. After a moment, he quietly said:
“You realize, Stevie, what they want me to do?”
The question might seem to’ve come out of nowhere, but I guess I was expecting something like it, being as I answered without much hesitation, “Unh-hunh. Pretty much.”
“And how long have you known?”
“Miss Howard told us about it last night.”
The Doctor nodded, smiling for just a second, then kept staring out the window. “I’m not sure that I can.”
I shrugged again. “It’s your decision, I guess. I mean, I do understand-with what happened-”