CHAPTER 23

Twenty-four hours later, all was darkness.

I was lying in the bed of the calash, along with Detective Sergeant Marcus and Mike the ferret, who was squirming around in a satchel what I’d slung around my neck and over my shoulder. The three of us were covered by a tarpaulin, which sealed out what little light came through the windows of the stables next door to Number 39 Bethune Street-and sealed the stale July heat in. Detective Sergeant Lucius had driven the rig in about twenty minutes earlier, telling the attendant that he had business in the neighborhood and reckoned to be back sometime before midnight. Then he’d strapped a bag of oats onto Frederick’s snout and departed, while the attendant had gone back to standing on the sidewalk and watching some fireworks that were being set off over the Hudson: the one thing we’d all forgotten, in the midst of our planning, was that the night we’d chosen for the break-in was the eve of July Fourth, and the city was full of drunken revelers setting off firecrackers and generally raising hell. This, we’d decided when we finally remembered it, would only work to our advantage, as the attention of the police and everyone else in town-including the stable attendant-would be directed toward either participating in or controlling the revelry: all in all, a good night to go housebreaking.

The day had been spent in last-minute coaching, of Mike by me and of me by the others. I had no doubts about Mike: he’d reached the point where he had thoroughly connected the idea of getting fed with the smell of Ana Linares’s nightgown. (The fact that I’d disobeyed Hickie’s orders and started feeding the animal prime cuts of meat from the local butcher had notched his already considerable enthusiasm up to positive mania.) As for myself, I was confident about the breaking-and-entering part of the plan; the only thing that worried me was the Doctor’s hope that I’d not only be able to grab the Linares baby but at the same time make careful mental notes of anything I saw that might help him understand Nurse Hunter’s behavior on the deepest level. I understood his desire for such information, and as I say, I was anxious not to disappoint him. But he plain didn’t know-and I didn’t think I could explain to him-what it was like when you stepped across the line and invaded somebody else’s territory: mental activity of the more intellectual variety did not tend to be high on your list of priorities.

Finally, night did fall, and the detective sergeants and I loaded into the calash. I could still read great misgiving in the Doctor’s face as we left, and some of the same in Cyrus’s features; but Miss Howard and Mr. Moore were there to keep their spirits on track, and by the time we rattled away from Seventeenth Street they were full of genuine encouragement. Our arrival at the stable had gone without a hitch-or at least, so it seemed to Marcus and me under our tarpaulin-and that had made the first period of hiding and waiting considerably easier. The plan from there on in was for Lucius-who was toting a.32-caliber New Service Revolver, the very latest thing to come out of Mr. Samuel Colt’s arms factory-to watch the Hunter house from the cover of a factory doorway across Washington Street and, when he saw Nurse Hunter depart, to return to the stables, explaining that he’d forgotten something. He’d then let us know we were clear to get under way, and afterward resume his post. At 11:45 he’d come back again, giving us something like an hour and a half to complete the job-more than enough time, if everything went off right.

Marcus and I lay in the calash, like I say, for about twenty uncomfortably warm minutes after Lucius’s first departure. We heard the occasional sound of a carriage or a horse coming or going, but we didn’t move barely a muscle until we finally heard a little rap on the side of our rig. Without taking the tarp off of us, Lucius began to root around inside the bed of the carriage, taking out a small case that he’d left positioned under the driver’s seat. It contained a twelve-gauge Holland and Holland shotgun, along with a box of shells: while he waited for us, Lucius figured to be the most heavily armed man in the area-and in that neighborhood in those days, that was saying something.

“Okay,” he whispered to us through the tarpaulin. “She just left. Light’s gone out on the third floor, looks like she already put her husband to bed. She’s wearing an awful lot of makeup, and-”

Even in the darkness under the tarp, I thought I could make out Marcus’s hot scowl. “Lucius!” he whispered back.

“Hmm?” his brother noised.

“Shut up and get the hell out of here, will you, please?”

“Oh. Right. The attendant’s still out front. I think he’s been drinking.”

“Will you go?”

“Okay, okay…”

We heard footsteps fading away from us, and then there was silence, except for the faraway rattle of firecrackers and the boom of bigger fireworks over the river.

“All right, Stevie,” Marcus whispered after a few minutes, pulling the tarpaulin back a bit. “I’m just going to have a look…” He poked his head out and up, then ducked back under. “All clear-let’s move!”

With almost no sound we got out of the calash. The night was hot, but the most miserable of the summer heat still hadn’t arrived yet-and that made the dark clothes we were wearing less of a burden. I had a simple pair of light leather moccasins on my feet, while Marcus was in just his socks for the moment. Around his neck was a satchel similar to the one Mike was wiggling around in, but bigger: in it he was lugging a pair of studded climbing shoes, a bar spreader, a coil of heavy rope, a crowbar, and a hefty hammer. He had a holster strapped to his hip, and in it was a pistol identical to his brother’s, but with a.38-caliber barrel and chamber, to provide a little extra punch if things got ugly. In my own pocket I was carrying Miss Howard’s Colt Number One derringer, half a dozen.41-caliber bullets-and a nice eight-inch piece of lead pipe.

When we got out of the calash, we found that Lucius had been able to park it right next to one of the rear windows of the stable, as far as possible from the entryway and the attendant. Because of that, it was no big job for us to get the window open and move into the alleyway behind the place; but when we completed our quiet run along the back of the building, we found ourselves face to face with a ten-foot brick wall around the Hunters’ backyard. It looked like it’d been built pretty recently, certainly in the last couple of years.

“Well,” I said, eyeballing the thing, “looks like somebody don’t wanna be seen doin’ something …”

Marcus nodded, going for his coil of rope and climbing shoes. “I’ll boost you over and keep hold of this end of the rope. You take the other end, let yourself down, and find a spot to anchor it over there.”

“Just get your shoes on,” I answered, taking my end of the rope in my teeth and grabbing at the gaps in the stone blocks what made up the corner of the stables. “If I can’t scale this wall without bein’ boosted,” I went on, through a scratchy mouthful of hemp, “then I been outta the business too long.”

Using the gaps in the stable’s stone corner along with a pretty solid drain gutter, I got on top of the brick wall in just a couple of minutes. I could’ve done it faster, too, if I hadn’t been trying so hard to keep Mike from banging into anything: not a bad piece of work for somebody who hadn’t been at it in many years. From my perch I had a good view of the houses that backed onto the alley and the Hunters’ yard from Bank Street to the south. Only a couple of windows were lit, and those just dimly. But there was no telling when somebody with good enough eyes might glance out and catch sight of us, so we had to move quicker here than at any other time.