The Doctor’s examination of the señora took just over an hour and involved, of course, questions that to most people would’ve seemed thoroughly unrelated to the matter at hand: questions about her family, her childhood, where she’d grown up, how she’d met her husband, why she’d married him. Then there were deeper inquiries about the state of that marriage over the last couple of years. The señora willingly answered these, even though she was clearly confused about their purpose. I think the Doctor would have kept going longer if he could’ve, being as his subject was so compliant; but when she realized that 9:30 had come and gone, she became very anxious and agitated, saying that she hadn’t had time to work out a good cover story for the meeting and needed to get back home in a hurry. Cyrus deposited her in a hansom, returning to the sixth floor just as true darkness descended on the city.
During the few minutes he was gone the Doctor started silently wandering around the room, maybe going over what he’d just heard, maybe thinking again about other, older matters, maybe doing a bit of both; whatever the case, nobody even considered interrupting him. Only the sound of the elevator’s return finally brought him back out of his deep ponderings. He looked up kind of blankly, then turned to Miss Howard, who’d switched on a small electrical light and was sitting on the edge of its glow.
“Well, Sara,” the Doctor said. “What’s become of our board?”
Miss Howard smiled wide and fairly ran over to the Japanese screen, laying hold of the big, rolling chalkboard and dragging it out to face the desks. It had obviously been recently scrubbed clean.
The Doctor approached it, staring at its black, empty surface. Then he removed his jacket, picked up a spanking new piece of chalk, cracked it in half, and, in quick, slashing motions, wrote the words POSSIBLE POLITICAL EXPLANATIONS across the top of the board. Shaking the half piece of chalk around inside one closed hand, he turned to the rest of us.
“We begin with the futile, I’m afraid,” he announced. “The first task that faces us is to explore any possible political component of this crime-though I must tell you before we go any further that I do not believe such a component exists.”
Mr. Moore automatically slipped behind one of the desks as he asked, “You buy the idea that the child’s identity is just a coincidence, Kreizler?”
“I ‘buy’ nothing, John-but I believe, as the detective sergeants have suggested, that this is a random act. And I must tell you that if our goal is to return the child to her mother-as I presume it is-then that randomness attains a very grim dimension.” With a single broad stroke the Doctor drew a circle in the center of the board and then marked stations at its major points as he spoke on. “As I think even you will see, Moore, any attempt at a political explanation results in something of a logical circle, one that leads nowhere. We start here.” He tapped the twelve o’clock position on the diagram. “The child has been abducted in the manner the señora says-I don’t think there’s any question about her telling the truth, there. She’s a sound, strong person-her being here alone proves that much. Were she the sort of neurotic woman who craves sympathy and attention”-the Doctor suddenly paused, staring out the window-“and such creatures do exist…” He came back from wherever he’d been. “Then we would hardly do as an audience, and a fabricated story about a kidnapping, accompanied by a thorough beating, would hardly be a convenient dramatic vehicle. No. Her history, her position, her mentality-they all point toward the truth. And so-the child has been abducted and the mother struck on the head. By, if we are to accept Moore ’s political hypothesis, an expert.”
“Who chooses a very public spot, in broad daylight,” Lucius droned doubtfully, opening a little notebook to make a record of the discussion.
“Ah, my dear Detective Sergeant, I share your skepticism,” the Doctor answered. “But we must not dispose of this theory through mere intuition.” He quickly wrote AN ABDUCTION BY A PROFESSIONAL FOR POLITICAL PURPOSES at the top of the circle. “After all, perhaps the kidnapper was a man of rare pluck and pride who enjoys the challenge of working under unusually dangerous circumstances.”
“With a piece of lead pipe,” Marcus added, his voice crossing over into open sarcasm.
“With an instrument that he can easily discard, so that it will not be discovered on his person by the police, should he be detained for any reason. After all, our young friend in the windowsill”-the Doctor jerked a thumb in my direction-“carried just such a weapon for just such a reason. Isn’t that so, Stevie?”
I glanced around to find each of them staring at me. “Well-yeah, I guess.” They kept staring, and I started to fidget. “It ain’t like I do it anymore!” I protested, which seemed to give them a chuckle.
“All right, then,” the Doctor said, taking the limelight back off of me. “He’s a professional. Who happens to be about the height of his victim and possesses a remarkably light touch.” The Doctor moved to the right side of the circle. “But who can have hired him? Moore? You’re the one who favors this interpretation-give me your candidates.”
“We’re not short on those,” Mr. Moore answered from his desk. “There’s a lot of people who’d like to see a diplomatic incident between the United States and Spain right now. We can start with the war party in this country-”
“Very well,” the Doctor said, listing them as U.S. CITIZENS FAVORING WAR on the board. “Those Americans who don’t care who starts the war, so long as we finish it.”
“Exactly,” Mr. Moore said. Then he frowned. “Though I doubt they’d want Americans to come off looking quite so brutal.”
“Who else?” the Doctor demanded.
“Well, there’s the Cubans,” Mr. Moore replied. “The exiles here in New York. They’d be in favor of anything that started a war, too.”
“The Cuban Revolutionary Party,” Marcus added. “They’ve got an office down on Front Street, near the docks on the East Side. Moldy old building-they’re up on the fourth floor. Lucius and I can roust them tomorrow, if you like.”
“I submit that tonight would be more useful,” Dr. Kreizler replied. “If they have the child, they are far more likely to plan its fate in the dead of night than during the day.” CUBAN REVOLUTIONARIES went on the right-hand side of the circle.
“Then there’s the Spaniards themselves,” Mr. Moore said. “Personally, I like them the best-they remove the kid and keep the mother in the dark, figuring she’s not up to being part of it.”
“And make no announcement of what’s happened?” Miss Howard said. “Why frame our country and then fail to report the crime?”
Mr. Moore shrugged. “They may be waiting for the right moment. You know the situation in Washington, Sara-you said it yourself, McKinley’s still looking for some way out of this damned war. Maybe they’re waiting until he has no way out.”
“In that case, why not remove the child later?” Miss Howard asked. “Or sooner? There was more war hysteria in the spring than there is right now.”
“Perhaps they’ve simply mistimed their play,” the Doctor offered, writing SPANISH WAR PARTY on the board. “ Spain is hardly being run by geniuses at the moment. Those who favor war are either psychopathic sadists like Weyler”-by which he meant the infamous General Weyler, the governor-general of Cuba who’d begun the practice of putting Cuban peasants into what they called “concentration camps,” where they couldn’t help the rebels but could die like flies of disease and starvation-“or deluded monarchists, dreaming of the days of the conquistadores.” The Doctor stood away from the board. “So-that completes the list of suspects. One of the groups hires a professional, he abducts the child, and it is taken into hiding. By-”