“But how would we translate that into a visual image?” Miss Howard asked.

“We would not,” the Doctor replied. “We would and will leave that to someone trained in the field.” Pulling out his silver watch, the Doctor popped it open and squinted at it. “I should prefer someone of Sargent’s ability, but he is in London and would demand an absurd fee. Eakins might do, too, but he is in Philadelphia -even that is too far, given the urgency of our task. Our opponent may flee the city at any moment-we must move quickly.”

“Let me get this straight, Kreizler,” Mr. Moore said, ever more dumbfounded. “You’re going to commission a portrait of this woman, based on a description?”

“A sketch should be sufficient, I think,” the Doctor said, tucking his watch away. “Portraiture is an immensely complex process, Moore. A good portrait painter must be something of a natural psychologist. I see no reason why, given enough time with the señora, a very reasonable likeness could not be created. The first job is to find the right artist. And I believe I know where to get a reference.” He looked my way. “Stevie? Shall we pay a call on the Reverend? I believe we’ll find him at home and hard at work at this hour-provided he’s not out on one of his nocturnal rambles.”

I brightened up. “Pinkie?” I asked, jumping out of the windowsill. “Sure thing!”

Marcus looked from me to Dr. Kreizler. “ ‘Pinkie’? ‘The Reverend’?”

“A friend of mine,” the Doctor said. “Albert Pinkham Ryder. He has many nicknames. As do most eccentrics.”

“Ryder?” Mr. Moore wasn’t buying this idea, either. “Ryder’s no portrait painter-and it takes him years to finish a canvas.”

“True, but he has a keen psychological instinct. He’ll be able to recommend someone, I’ve no doubt. If you’d care to come along, Moore -you, too, Sara.”

“Very much,” Miss Howard answered. “His work is fascinating.”

“Hmm, yes,” the Doctor said uncertainly. “You may find his rooms and studio less so, I’m afraid.”

“That’s the truth,” Mr. Moore threw in. “You can count me out-that place makes my skin crawl.”

The Doctor shrugged. “As you wish. Detective Sergeants-I dislike asking you to perform what I fear is a useless task, but it may be worth-how did you put it?”

“Rousting the Cubans,” Lucius answered, sounding like there weren’t many things he’d like to do less. “Oh, this’ll be a treat… Black beans, garlic, and dogma. Well, at least I don’t speak Spanish, so I won’t know what they’re saying.”

“I do apologize,” the Doctor said, “but we must, as you know, cover as many possibilities as we can. And as quickly as possible.”

We all began to move for the door, Marcus bringing up the rear at a slow pace. “There’s just one thing, Doctor,” he murmured, taking deliberate steps as he turned something over in his head. “Señor Linares. What we’re assuming-and I agree with the assumption completely-is that this is an abduction committed by someone who didn’t know the identity of the baby.”

“Yes, Marcus?” the Doctor said.

“In that case, why is Linares trying to conceal it?” The detective sergeant’s face was full of concern. “The fact is that the woman we’re describing, whatever her psychological peculiarities, is in all probability American. That would be just as useful to the Spanish government as a politically motivated kidnapping. So why aren’t they using it?”

Mr. Moore turned a somewhat smug face to the Doctor. “Well, Kreizler?”

The Doctor looked at the floor and nodded a few times, smiling. “I might’ve known it would be you who would ask, Marcus.”

“Sorry,” the detective sergeant answered. “But as you say, we’ve got to cover all the angles.”

“No need to apologize,” the Doctor answered. “I was simply hoping to avoid that question. Because it’s the only one I can’t begin to answer. And should we find the answer, I fear, we will also find some rather unpleasant-and dangerous-facts. But I don’t think we can allow that consideration to delay our actions.”

Marcus weighed this, then signaled agreement with a small nod. “It’s something we ought to keep in mind, though.”

“As we shall, Marcus. As we shall…” The Doctor allowed himself one more slow, thoughtful lap around the room, coming to a rest at the window. “Somewhere out there, even as we speak, is a woman who unwittingly holds in her arms a child who could prove an instrument of terrible destruction-as devastating, in her innocence, as an assassin’s bullet or a madman’s bomb. Yet for all of that, I fear the devastation that has already occurred in the kidnapper’s mind most of all. Yes, we shall be alert for the dangers of the larger world, Marcus-but we must, once again, place our greatest efforts behind knowing the mind and the identity of our antagonist. Who is she? What created her? And above all-will the savage fury that drove her to this act eventually be turned against the child? I suspect so-and sooner, rather than later.” He turned to the rest of us. “Sooner, rather than later…”

CHAPTER 10

It’s always seemed to me that there’s two types of people in this life, them what get a kick out of what might be called your odder types and them what don’t; and I suppose that I, unlike Mr. Moore, have always been in the first bunch. You’d have to’ve been, I think, to have really enjoyed living in Dr. Kreizler’s house, for the folks he had in and out of there-even the ones like Mr. Roosevelt, who were long on brains and went on to great fame and success-were some of the more peculiar characters you could possibly have met in those days. And of all those strange but noteworthy souls, none was stranger than the man I liked to call “Pinkie,” Mr. Albert Pinkham Ryder.

An artist by religion in addition to profession, the tall, soft-spoken, kindly man with the big beard and searching eyes gave off the general impression of a monk or priest, which was why he was known as “the Reverend” or “Bishop Ryder” to his friends. He lived in rooms at Number 308 West Fifteenth Street and spent most of his nights either working or on long walks around the city-its streets, its parks, even its suburbs-studying the moonlight and shadows that filled so many of his paintings. He was a solitary soul, a recluse, by his own estimation, who’d grown up in the spooky old whaling town of New Bedford, Massachusetts. He’d had a Quaker for a mother and a collection of brothers for company-all of which meant that one of his more extreme peculiarities was his way of dealing with women. Oh, he was polite enough, in a way what would’ve seemed chivalrous if it hadn’t been so damned odd. There was the time, for instance, that he heard a beautiful singing voice floating through his building and, when he found the woman who possessed it, immediately proposed marriage to her. Now, this woman was a fine singer, sure enough, but on the street and at the local precinct house she was known to be other things, too; and it was only when a group of his friends stepped in to lower the boom on the idea that poor old Pinkie was saved from what probably would’ve been a thorough fleecing.

He liked kids; he was kind of a big, strange boy himself, and he was always happy to see me (the same could not be said for some of the Doctor’s other friends). By 1897 he was famous and successful enough, among those who understood art, to be able to live pretty much as he pleased-which was basically like a pack rat. He never threw a thing away, not a food carton or a piece of string or a pile of ashes, and his rooms really could get a little frightening at times for most people. But his gentle, quiet kindness and the definite pull of his hazy, dreamy paintings more than made up for all that, especially for me, a boy from the Lower East Side who was used to garbage piling up inside flats. That, combined with the fact that he shared my taste in food-he kept a kettle of stew always on the boil and, when out, preferred oysters, lobster, and baked beans in a waterfront restaurant-made his place a destination to which I was always happy to accompany the Doctor.