by Kat Ross
Moran’s mouth tightened. He clearly wasn’t used to anyone telling him no.
“Why not?”
“Because . . . .” I trailed off in exasperation. Where to begin? “Because my sister would disown me. Because I already have a job. And mainly because I have no interest in aiding you in any capacity!”
His scowl deepened. “Listen, Pell, you owe me. And I’m collecting.”
My own anger rose. “I never asked for your help. You offered it freely. And I can’t take you on as a client. Not under any circumstances. You’re mad to come here. Now if you’ll excuse me—”
“I know what killed Danny and Francis,” Moran said in low, urgent voice. “It was after Cash, too. That’s why he hung himself.” He paused, those flat black eyes showing a glint of something I’d never seen before. Fear. “And if you don’t help me, Pell . . . .” Moran swallowed. “I’m next.”
I stared at him for a long, awkward moment, then realized my mouth was hanging open and closed it with a snap.
I knew he attended Columbia as a graduate student, but I wasn’t aware he had any connection to the mysterious double victims. Of course, he could be lying. It could be a trap to lure me somehow. But why? I’d been fully in his power last night. If Moran wanted to harm me, he could easily have drugged my drink at the Avalon, or brought his bully boys along when he stopped me in the street afterwards.
Yet he’d let me go.
I’ll admit I was also intrigued by his choice of words – not who killed Danny and Francis, but what.
“It’s not my case,” I said. “However, if you have vital information, I can refer you to the investigators who are handling it—”
Moran cut me off with a sharp gesture. “No. I want you.”
“But why? What difference does it make?”
“I don’t know them.”
“You don’t know me either!”
His jaw set. “I’ve followed your career, Pell. You’re clever.” He said it the way Myrtle did, grudgingly and with a touch of condescension. In other words, clever – but not as clever as he was.
“Go on,” I said. “Get it all off your chest. The answer will still be no.”
Moran braced a hand against the shelf. He had made no attempt to physically intimidate me, but I would have to push him aside if I wanted to leave.
“I don’t have much time,” he said. “I can’t afford to bet on the wrong horse.” His lips quirked in an arrogant smile and then a curious thing happened. There was a distant sound in the stacks and Moran stiffened, his face going white as snow as he spun to look over his shoulder.
The stout librarian pushed a cart of books past the end of the aisle and he visibly relaxed.
“We can’t talk here. Come to the house tomorrow night. I have proof.” He studied me with a shrewd expression. “Name your price. There must be something you want. Something in my power to give you.”
I hesitated, and he clearly thought I was afraid.
“My mother and aunt will be home,” he said quickly. “I swear on my honor as a gentleman that no harm will come to you, Miss Pell.”
So now it was Miss Pell again.
“Please,” he added, belatedly.
The Astor Library had no artificial light sources; they posed too much of a fire risk. The library always closed at dusk and it wasn’t far off now. I could see the daylight starting to fade, the shadows lengthening.
“I’ll come,” I said. Moran’s hands, which had curled into fists, loosened at his sides. “On one condition.”
“What is it?”
“I bring John Weston.”
“No,” Moran said immediately.
“Then you can forget it.” I prodded him with one of the books. “Get out of my way, please.”
Moran scowled. “Fine. Bring Weston. But make it clear to him that what I say isn’t to go any further.”
“I’m afraid I can’t make that promise,” I said calmly. “This touches upon an active investigation by our employer—”
“Just come,” he snarled, the last thread of his patience finally snapping. “Seven o’clock. And don’t tell your damned sister!”
Myrtle was the last person on earth I planned to tell, but I didn’t mention that.
“What’s the address?” I knew it was uptown somewhere in the posh neighborhood dubbed Mansion Row.
“You don’t know?” Moran asked with some surprise.
“My visit to the Avalon was an anomaly,” I replied coolly. “I have no interest in your exploits, Mr. Moran. It was simply a favor to my sister.”
“I knew she sent you.” The ghost of a smile touched his lips. “It’s 680 Fifth Avenue. Don’t be late.”
And Moran strode away without a word of goodbye.
“He what?” John demanded, wiping grease from his chin with a paper napkin.
I had decided to butter him up with sausages first so we were ensconced at a wooden table in the Atlantic Gardens down on the Bowery, amidst the wreckage of half a dozen bratwurst. Waitresses in high red-tasseled boots flitted through the crowd as tinny German music emanated from the Orchestrion, a wall-sized music box that was the restaurant’s pride and joy.
“Moran wants to hire us.” I took a judicious sip of my lager. “Aren’t you the least bit curious about what killed those boys?”
“Well, yes. Obviously.” John shook his head. “But if Myrtle finds out, she’ll string you up.”
I looked around at the other diners and lowered my voice, despite the hubbub of four or five different languages being spoken at the adjacent benches. “She won’t find out.”
John laughed. “This is Myrtle we’re talking about.”
“She didn’t learn of his involvement in the Hyde case.”
“That’s because she was out of the city at the time.”
“John, she’s drugged to the gills on morphine and hardly gets out of bed. You just let me handle Myrtle.”
He sighed. “So you actually believe Moran’s story?”
“He claimed he had proof. I’d like to know what it is. He seemed genuinely afraid, John. I say we go. Nothing will happen to us at his mansion in broad daylight.”
“He shot his father there,” John pointed out.
“True,” I admitted. “But he’s never shown any animosity towards us before. Why now? Anyway, we do owe him a debt. And I don’t intend to help him, not really. If he is being hunted by something . . . supernatural, it can have him. But if he has information that could crack the case, it’s our duty to find out and bring it to Kaylock.”
John finished his own lager and signaled to the waitress for another round. “How do you always make the most idiotic courses of action seem perfectly logical?”
“It’s a special talent,” I replied with a smile. “Come, John. Can you honestly say you aren’t the least bit curious?”
“Of course I am. But I wouldn’t trust him for a single instant.” John’s expression darkened. “Moran might have a polished veneer, but underneath it he’s a beast.”
I couldn’t disagree; I’d glimpsed that beast myself in another claustrophobic space beneath the streets of New York the summer before. Yet when Moran had asked me to name my price, an idea came to mind. Probably a mad one, but I’ve never been short on those.
“It’s a jungle out there, John,” I said, my gaze moving to the large windows fronting the Bowery. “If we can manage to tame it, a beast might be exactly the thing we need.”
7
Dusk was falling as we approached the Moran mansion at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-Eighth Street, a few blocks north of the Vanderbilts’ monstrous battleship. John gave a low whistle as we saw the limestone hulk that was number 640. It had turrets and gables and a wrought-iron gate surrounding an immaculately tended lawn.
“Crime does pay,” he murmured.
“Of course it does. All these old families started as bootleggers and pirates and land grabbers. They just don’t like to admit it.”
We were greete
d by a uniformed maid and led into a large drawing room with windows facing the park. She took our coats and silently withdrew to fetch her master.
“Look John,” I whispered. “There’s one missing.”
I pointed to the opposite wall, which was plastered with oil paintings of the Moran clan. An old gent with ferocious white eyebrows must be the grandfather. His pretty black-haired wife came next, and then a wan, ash blond woman, posed with some little yappy dog in her lap. But there was a large gap above the fireplace where a portrait had once hung.
“See the bit of dust clinging to the wallpaper and the empty nail?”
“The father?” John wondered.
“It must be. Moran’s an only child, you know.”
I sat down on an antique chair that felt like it was filled with asphalt. All the furniture in the room was heavy and ornate, with an oddly sterile feel, as if it was rarely used.
“Myrtle says the Morans never entertain at home anymore, though there were lavish parties in the grandfather’s day,” I said. “You wouldn’t believe—”
I cut off at the sound of brusque footsteps in the hall and Moran appeared, dressed in a somber dark suit. He seemed composed, though his eyes were still haunted. “Miss Pell, Mr. Weston,” he said with a bow. “Thank you for coming.”
We nodded warily as Moran took a seat across from us. Two maids entered with a silver coffee service and a platter of tiny, elaborately iced cakes. One of them poured out the coffee and handed it round. The rattle of bone china was the only sound until they silently withdrew.
Moran set his coffee on the low table and seemed to gather his thoughts. “I must have your assurances that what I tell you will go no further than this room,” he said.
“I told you before, we can’t agree to that,” I said evenly. “Our obligation to the S.P.R. supersedes all other—”
“Damn your obligation!” Moran snarled, leaning forward as if he meant to leap to his feet. John tensed, his fists balling, and Moran reined himself in with a visible effort, slumping back in his chair.
“If your confession involves criminal activities, perhaps you should consult your lawyer,” I suggested.
“There’s no time for that. And a confession implies that I’ve done something wrong. I haven’t a clue why . . . .” He trailed off and swore under his breath.
John and I exchanged a look. By unspoken agreement, we stayed quiet and let Moran think it over. I sipped my coffee, reasonably confident he wouldn’t attempt to poison me in his own drawing room. After a moment, John reached for a cake. He’d been eyeing them wistfully since the maids had brought the tray in. For a long minute, the only sounds were John chewing and then brushing crumbs from his trousers. From the sour look on Moran’s face, I thought he was about to throw us both out. Then he began to speak.
“We’ll discuss terms after you’ve heard me out,” he said wearily. “It’s hard to stomach, so better to start at the beginning.” His lips twisted. “I’m sure you’re aware of my history.”
We both nodded.
“I gained admission to Columbia shortly after my sixteenth birthday. I’d graduated from Deerfield that spring, top of my class. In my freshman year, my studies were interrupted.”
“When you killed your father, you mean,” I said.
He nodded. “It was nearly two years before I returned to school. I was notorious. The other students shunned me, all except for a few who were also treated as outcasts.”
“Daniel Cherney and Francis Bates,” John said.
“There were others, but I’ll get to them later. We called ourselves the Pythagoras Society.” He took a metal puzzle from his pocket and began twisting the rings. “We looked out for each other. I knew who the worst bullies were. With my reputation, a few whispered words sufficed to put them in their place. They were all afraid of me, the cowards.”
“What was the Society’s purpose?” I asked.
“Just companionship. We played cards. I helped some of them with money, when they needed it. Sometimes they’d come over to the Avalon.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Nothing related to the occult?”
He shot me a contemptuous look. “No, Miss Pell. I’m not a complete idiot.”
“And the three dead students were all members?” John asked.
Moran nodded. “We found solace in each others’ company. Eventually our number grew to seven, including myself. We kept it a close secret. That was part of the fun. But over the years, we drifted apart. Before this all began, I hadn’t seen any of them in months.” He sighed. “When I heard about Danny, I thought it was an awful accident. But then Francis fell off that scaffold. And Cash came to see me. He was terrified. He said . . . .”
The metal rings suddenly clicked into place, forming a perfect chain, and Moran tossed the puzzle aside.
“What?” John leaned forward in his chair.
“That something was hunting him. He’d seen it. At least three times. When I pressed him, he wouldn’t say what it was. But he was in a panic.”
“When was this?” I asked.
“Last Sunday afternoon.”
“Do you think he was murdered?”
“I don’t know. He was so frightened, he might have ended it himself out of pure terror. But that’s not the worst . . . .” Moran trailed off.
“I’ve seen things I can’t explain myself,” John said reasonably. “I believe you.”
He gave a brisk nod and spoke rapidly, as if to get it over with. “On Tuesday, I saw Cash outside the house. I’d swear to it on my life. He was across the street, looking up at my window. I hurried downstairs but he was gone by the time I reached the front door. Then I learned he’d died early that morning.” Moran’s fingers flexed, then began picking at the wool of his trouser leg. “Three days later, I . . . .” His eyes met mine for a brief instant, then flicked away, roving restlessly around the room.
“You saw yourself,” John guessed.
Moran’s gaze locked on John. “Yes. Just beyond the wall of the park. It had its back to me at first. Then it turned and I saw the face. It smiled at me and walked away. Two days later, the same, only this time it was closer. I was leaving the Avalon and saw it leering at me through the window of a passing carriage.”
“Did you give chase?” I asked. “If it’s someone trying to scare you—”
“No!” He stood abruptly and paced to the window. “You’ve no idea what I’m talking about, do you? It’s not just the thing. It’s the way it makes you feel.”
He sounded so lost and alone, I found myself pitying him. “A sense of dread like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Not even the day they sent me to the Tombs and the cell door slammed shut and they left me in darkness.” He let out a long breath. “Have you ever had a night terror?”
My own hands were gripping the arms of the chair and I forced them to relax.
“Yes,” I admitted. “I have.”
“Then you know one-tenth of what it’s like. The feeling that you can’t move a muscle. Your limbs are heavy and cold.” He shivered. “So cold.”
“Did Cashel O’Sullivan tell you he saw Francis Bates outside his house the day Francis died?”
Moran stilled. “No.”
I remembered my brief glimpse of Cashel outside Kaylock’s office. The ashen, shocked look on his face. I’d chalked it up to grief, but it was more than that. “He came to the S.P.R. down on Pearl Street. He seemed like he wanted to cooperate, but he didn’t tell our colleagues that he was being stalked himself.”
Moran pinched the bridge of his nose, as if warding off a headache. “Did he mention my name?”
I shook my head. I felt sure Kate would have told us.
“Thank God for that,” Moran said softly.
“Do you have any idea why this is happening?” I asked. “Any theory at all?”
He drew a deep, steadying breath. “I told you I had proof. Come, I’ll show it to you.”
Moran led us up a curving staircase to the second floor and
down a long gloomy hall. He produced a key and unlocked a heavy oak door with engravings of roses and a polished brass knob.
“What are those marks?” I asked, examining a series of shallow scratches in the wood.
“The damned dogs,” Moran muttered. “They can’t stand a closed door.”
The large room beyond had a magnificent Steinway piano and floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the trees of the park. Unlike the drawing room, it felt comfortable and lived in. Moran strode to the window and pointed.
“That’s where I saw it,” he said. “Just beneath the street light on the corner.”
It was full dark outside now and the lamps along Central Park cast a soft glow over the deserted sidewalk. I looked at the spot he indicated and felt a goose walk over my grave.
“But that’s not what I wanted to show you.” He strode to a desk in the corner that was covered with neat stacks of paper. I stole a quick look, but they all seemed to be assignments for courses in advanced economics. Moran opened a filing cabinet – unlocked, I noticed – and took out a document. He thrust it towards us.
“Is that . . . dried blood?” John asked, squinting at the blurry lettering.
Moran looked sheepish. “We were teenagers. What’s a secret pact unless it’s signed in blood?”
“So this is—?”
“The founding charter of the Pythagoras Society.”
John and I moved to a standing lamp to examine the document in brighter light. I was no expert, but I had dabbled in the art of handwriting analysis and could tell at a glance that the signatures were made by different hands. The ink was a brownish substance that could certainly have been dried blood. Beneath some melodramatic assertions about eternal friendship and loyalty, it bore seven names:
Daniel Cherney
Francis Bates
Cashel O’Sullivan
James Moran
Quincy Hughes
Joseph Allen White
Thaddeus Shaw
“Look at the order,” Moran said.
“Yes, I did notice that,” I said thoughtfully. “I’ll need to keep this to show to the other investigators—”
“No!” He snatched it back. “My name has to stay out of it. I won’t put my mother through another scandal!”