Page 2 of The Cabinet of Dr. Leng

He was, Constance realized, talking about the elevator. “Very well. The second floor will be fine.”

“Would you care for a view of—”

“Just give me the best available, if you’d be so kind.” Constance felt like screaming.November 27.Now that she knew she was in time to save her sister, every minute spent on such trivialities seemed an age.

The hotel manager was too well trained to remark on her impatience. He turned over a heavy leaf in the ledger, dipped a pen into a nearby inkwell. “Very good, madam. There is an excellent corner suite available, complete with parlor, chamber, dressing room, and bath.” He raised the pen. “The rate is six dollars per night, or thirty dollars for the week. How long will you be with us?”

“A week.”

“Maids?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your maids? How many are traveling with you, madam?”

“None. Two.”

“Two. Very good. We can accommodate them in the servants’ quarters. With meals, of course?”

Constance, fidgeting, nodded.

“May I have your name?”

“Mary Ulcisor,” she said after the briefest of pauses.

He scribbled in the ledger. “That will amount to thirty-five dollars and fifty cents.”

She handed him four ten-dollar bills. Turning, she saw two porters waiting patiently behind with her modest shop bags.

“Will you have those taken up to my suite?” she asked the manager as he returned her change. “I’ll follow later…along, ah, with my maids.”

“Of course.”

Constance gave each of the porters a quarter, and the manager a dollar. His eyes widened in surprise and he took it gratefully. She left the lobby and returned to the entrance, pausing just long enough at the literary depot to pick up a street guide to Manhattan.

She found her driver and hansom cab waiting outside the portico in the dust and noise of the avenue. As Constance approached, she took a closer look at the man. He was perhaps in his mid-forties and heavyset, but his build was muscular rather than stocky. His cold-weather uniform was clean and his manners were good, but something about the square cut of his jaw and crooked bridge of his nose told her he knew how to take care of himself.

She walked up to his seat. “Would you be interested in making some more money?”

“Always ready for business, mum.” He had more than a trace of an Irish accent—County Cork, she guessed; something else that would be useful.

“I need transportation downtown.”

“How far downtown, mum?”

She opened the street guide she had just purchased, located an intersection, and showed it to him.

“Lor’, mum,” he said. “Sure, there must be some mistake.”

“No mistake. I’m going to pick up someone and bring her back here.”

The cabbie had an expression on his face somewhere between bewilderment and apprehension. “It’s no place for a lady down there, mum.”

“That’s why I need somebody who knows how to handle himself. And who’s equipped with—” she mentally dug into her knowledge of Gaelic— “liathróidí cruach.”

The man opened his mouth in surprise, but he remained silent when she reached into her purse, took out two five-dollar bills, and held them out to him—making no effort to hide her stiletto in the process. “There’s another ten waiting when you bring us back here safely.”

He whistled. “Not afraid of the sight of blood, then?”

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