Page 98 of The Cabinet of Dr. Leng

“You know,” Proctor said at last, “they did a study in England a few years ago. On cats. Not the wild kind, but the domesticated ones: house cats who know where their next meal is coming from. They discovered that when hunting prey—mice, birds, rabbits—80 percent of the time, the cats intentionally gave their victims a brief warning before they sprang. And when later these same cats played with the captured mice, one time in ten the victim got away as a result. Why would cats do this, they asked—take a chance on losing their prey after a long, slow stalk? Tease them instead of killing them outright? The answer they arrived at was simple: the house cats were bored. Seeing fear in your victim’s eyes, it turns out, is an excellent way to relieve monotony. So—do you really want to leave, Dr. Ferenc? Because, to be honest, part of me is hoping you’ll do just that. You see, it’s not only cats that experience monotony from time to time.”

This was the longest speech Ferenc had ever heard the man make. Throughout, he had maintained a light grip on the caliper. After a moment, he let his gaze drop back to the table and began measuring the finished rounds.

After another moment, Ferenc returned silently to his inspection.

63

December 25, 1880

Christmas Day

THE HANSOM CAB LETthem off in front of the Hotel Normandie, at the corner of Broadway and Thirty-Eighth Street. After the horse and cab clattered away, and a bellhop had rushed down the stairs to carry up their luggage, Pendergast halted to look up at the grand edifice. He stopped D’Agosta with his hand and held up his cane.

“A moment, my dear Vincent,” he said, leaning in close to be heard over a group of carolers singing on the nearest street corner.

“Sure thing.” Since he’d shown up the night before on Pendergast’s doorstep, telling him, in effect, to send them back to 1880 before he changed his mind, D’Agosta had been doing as little thinking as possible, content for now to follow Pendergast’s lead.

“The Hotel Normandie is not the most expensive hotel in New York, but it is a place frequented by wealthy Europeans who are careful with their money—a perfect place for an idle English dandy like myself, a remittance man as it were, traveling on an extended pleasure tour of the States.”

“Is that the rationale behind your ridiculous accent?”

“Not ridiculous. It is a late-Victorian British upper-class drawl, entirely suited to my character.”

“You sound like you have a pebble in your mouth.”

Pendergast pointed again with his cane. “Pay attention, please—recall that you’re a visitor here in more ways than one. Now: this hotel has the very latest amenities. That includes steam heat, speaking tubes, water closets on each floor, and fire bells in every room.”

“Water closets? You mean bathrooms?” D’Agosta looked up at the giant hotel, which must have fifty rooms to each floor.

“Yes, indeed. Such luxury. Two for the gentlemen, two for the ladies.”

“Jesus.” D’Agosta followed Pendergast in, walking behind as he’d been instructed. The guy certainly looked like an English dandy in his morning suit, tailored waistcoat draped with a gold watch chain, fancy silk cravat, and neck-choking collar, swinging a Malacca cane with a lion of carved ivory on its head. D’Agosta suspected he enjoyed the role. He, on the other hand, had been forced into the dress of a manservant, which was stiff, hot, scratchy, and altogether too tight. Lucky it was wintertime: an outfit like this in summer would be deadly.

“Shall we go in, Vincent?”

“Why the hell not?”

“You must get used to addressing me assir,” Pendergast said in a lowered voice. “Always remember that you are my American manservant, somewhat slow of mind and awkward of speech.” He gazed at D’Agosta, one eyebrow raised. “I shall have to be quite rude to you, as that is the way of the English with their servants.”

D’Agosta heard himself laugh. “Right.Sir.”

They strode up the steps into the lobby, which was garlanded with seasonal decorations and thronging with well-to-do travelers. They went up to the marbled counter.

“Room 323, if you please.”

“Yes, sir,” said the clerk, “and Merry Christmas.” The man handed him the keys to their suite and they walked over to the elevator, where a young man dressed in burgundy velvet with gold piping held open the cage doors.

D’Agosta halted, staring at the rickety-looking cage. “Um, maybe we should take the stairs.”

“Sir, I can personally vouch for its safety,” said the operator, in a speech that was clearly rehearsed. “This is the very latest in steam-powered elevators, absolutely guaranteed by Mr. Otis himself to be safe—even if the cables do break.”

“Break?” said D’Agosta.

Pendergast entered the elevator, then turned. “Are you coming, Vincent?” he said in the peremptory tone of a master addressing his inferior. “You heard the man. Get cracking!”

D’Agosta got in. With a hiss, the elevator began its creaking, swaying, wheezing progress to the third floor.

A minute or two later, they entered their suite—two bedrooms and a sitting room. The two suitcases Pendergast had brought with them, and which D’Agosta had temporarily been forced in his position as servant to carry, had preceded them and were stowed near the door. Pendergast took off his cape while D’Agosta dumped his greatcoat across a massive Victorian armchair and collapsed on top of it. “Not bad for a hundred and forty years old,” he said, looking around. “How much was it?”

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