Page 91 of The Cabinet of Dr. Leng

He made his way, slowly but with dignity, around the corner onto Fifth Avenue and up to the attractive marble mansion. He paused for a moment, taking note once again of the unfinished work high above. Then he made his way up the steps and knocked firmly on the front door.

It was answered by a woman in a maid’s uniform. “May I help you, sir?” she asked.

Leng touched his hat with the slight degree of deference required when meeting the lower classes. “Yes, thank you,” he said in an accent more common in the states of Missouri and Kentucky than New York. “Might I inquire if the mistress of the house is in? I would appreciate having a brief word with her.” As he spoke, he took a single, polite step inside out of the weather, and though his head was inclined downward while addressing the shorter woman, his eyes were everywhere, taking in every angle, dimension, and architectural feature in sight with the precision of a camera. They were standing in a front hall, which had an inner door as well as an outer one, and through the open inner door Leng could see that the house appeared to be well organized, tight, and secure.

He put his weight on his cane, turned his face, and emitted a wheezy, consumptive cough.

The woman was well trained. “I’m afraid the duchess is out,” she said, standing in front of him and refusing to give up ground, despite the unpleasant cough. “If you would care to leave your card—”

This was interrupted by the appearance of another figure, approaching out of the dimness of a far gallery. Seeing the new person arrive, the maid fell silent and took a step back—an action Leng took as an opportunity to close the front door and take another discreet step forward.

As the figure approached, Leng saw it was a woman, very different from the housemaid. She had an erect carriage and was young and discreetly beautiful. As she came up to Leng, she looked directly at him and spoke politely, but with neither deference nor intimidation.

“As you’ve just heard, the mistress of the house is out,” she said in English made all the more exquisite by a pronounced French accent. “I am Her Grace’s personal assistant. May I inquire as to the nature of your visit?”

While she spoke, she shut the stout inner door through which she had come, confining the three of them to the front hallway.

Observing this, Leng knew he would not be let any farther into the mansion. It was here he would have to conduct his business.

“I am indeed sorry to trouble you on Christmas Eve,” he said, with another cough. “Please allow me to introduce myself: Wilberforce Hale, Juris Doctor, here on behalf of a client who lives in an abode very near your own.” While he spoke, he removed a card, which he held up briefly and then laid in a silver salver on a tiny table placed there for that purpose.

The personal assistant nodded her acknowledgment, but made no effort to identify herself. Leng, while taking note of this breach of decorum, was unconcerned: he already knew she was named Féline, as he had learned many other things about the mansion and its occupants.

“Since the duchess is out, I shall make my business as brief as possible,” he went on. “My client is a man of wealth and probity. He understands that—how shall I put this?—accommodation must be made to fit circumstance. Hence, he has not up to now complained at the lengthy hours—from early in the morning until late at night—or the attendant noise involved with the completion of this residence. However, my client is also a religious man, and if I may say so, one who respects long-standing tradition. He has noted that work has been proceeding here on the Sabbath as it does on all other days, continuing into the Christmas Season. The celebration of Christmas has always loomed large among his family’s traditions. Many relatives and friends will be gathered there in festivity and the contemplation of the true meaning of the holiday. In that spirit, and in light of the patience he has extended so far, he has asked me to request that you cease all work on the residence from now until the first day of the New Year. And he further asks that, thereafter, work ceases at seven in the evening and does not commence until seven the next morning.”

He halted and gave the woman a stern look.

She said nothing in reply to this, and in the brief silence Leng heard a childish laugh, and then a voice—faint and far above, but obviously that of a young girl.

The sound of this voice answered the final question Leng had about the composition of the house’s occupants. When the woman still didn’t answer, he said, “If I may be blunt, mademoiselle, my client had hoped this visit would not be necessary. And, if I may be blunt just a moment longer, he hopes this request will be understood as both fair and rational under the circumstances, and that your employer will honor it…in which case she will not need to hear from me again, and this visit can serve only to welcome Her Grace to this splendid neighborhood.”

He had shown his steel, but only in the politest of ways, following it up with another cough.

Finally, the woman responded. “I thank you for your visit, Mr. Hale,” she said. “I will see that Her Grace receives both your card and your message.”

“I can ask no more. And upon that note, allow me to wish you, and all who occupy this beautiful dwelling, the best of the season.” And, with a bow and a slight doffing of his top hat, Leng turned, exited the outer door, and made his way down the steps, hearing the door close firmly behind him.

As he made his way back to his carriage, Leng had not the slightest concern about any inquiries the duchess might make. He had not identified his client, and it could be any of half a dozen who lived in the nearby palaces. Beyond that, he had gone so far as to hire the real lawyer, Wilberforce Hale, for this express purpose under an assumed name. Should the duchess contact him directly, which was unlikely, the lawyer might be surprised his client had taken such a step in his name, but was bound by privilege to say nothing more.

As his carriage proceeded down Fifth Avenue, Leng carefully arranged all the little details in his mind that he had observed about the mansion and its occupants. As he expected, the house was the residence not only of the duchess, but of the missing Joe Greene and his younger sister, Constance.

If only Mary Greene were at home, he reflected, the trio of siblings would have been complete.

59

June 10

Saturday

COLDMOON APPROACHED THE SAMEbooth in “The Bones” where Vinnie D’Agosta had taken him the day they first met. The lieutenant was already seated, back to the front door—a professional courtesy to Coldmoon as a fellow law enforcement officer—and the pitcher of Harp sat beading up on the worn wooden table, two empty glasses beside it.

“This place again?” Coldmoon asked as he slid into the booth, hoping his trousers wouldn’t stick to the seat. He nodded at the bones nailed to the walls. “Don’t you see enough of this shit during your day job?” He laughed.

“It’s a time-honored tradition,” said D’Agosta. “And it seemed easier, since you know where it is.”

As D’Agosta poured out the beers, Coldmoon took a closer look at his haggard face. “Jesus,” he said. “You look like ten miles of bad road.”

“That’s good, because I feel more like fifty.”

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