Page 27 of Angel of Vengeance

“Have another.”

She took another.

“Take them all, my dear Daisy. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the journey to my home.”

19

LOITERING IN THE SHADOWS of Longacre Square, Pendergast saw the loaded wagon approaching, drawn by a pair of stout Clydesdales driven by Bloom. He waved to the foreman and had him pull up to the curb near the entrance to Smee’s Alley.

“All in order?” he asked in a low voice.

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s have a look at those explosives.”

Bloom got out, went around to the back, and pulled aside the canvas flap. He lit a small lantern and Pendergast quickly surveyed the interior. Everything looked to be in good order: wooden planks and braces for scaffolding; a neat stack of bricks; some bags of dry cement, sand, and aggregate; tools, nails, and spikes. To one side, cushioned between sacks of lime, was a small wooden box. Bloom slid it out and opened the lid, revealing four sticks of dynamite with fuses and a clock apparatus. Pendergast took one, hefted it, took another, and then slid each into interior pockets of his frock coat, along with the clock.

“Now, Mr. Bloom, kindly wait with the wagon. I am going into Hockelmann’s Brewery to pay the owner a visit.”

Pendergast strolled along Seventh Avenue, then turned into Smee’s Alley, where he paused. The shimmering portal was still nowhere to be seen: just dirt, horse manure, and peeling playbills on the brick walls. The cul-de-sac had a single entrance into the tenements on the right side. At the end stood a wooden gate that, Pendergast knew, was the back entrance to the brewery’s courtyard. Even at this hour the brewery was going strong, coining money for the owner, Heinrich Hockelmann, who in turn was busily buying up and emptying the surrounding tenements in preparation for expansion.

Pendergast walked to the end of the cul-de-sac and noted the padlock on the wooden gate. He grasped the lock in his hand and, using a metal pick, gave it a twist. The lock fell open. He let himself into the courtyard beyond, where two burly men were rolling barrels of beer up a ramp into the back of a wagon. A strong smell of fermenting barley and hops drifted in the air.

The two saw him and halted their work. “Who might you be?” one yelled out.

Pendergast opened his frock coat to display his badge. “Building inspector, here to see Mr. Hockelmann.”

“A moment, sir.” The workman murmured a word to his companion before heading into the brewery itself. Without waiting, Pendergast followed the man inside.

The brewery was a remarkable example of nineteenth-century industry: huge oaken fermenting barrels, twenty feet tall, lined one wall, with a welter of copper pipes going every which way. At the far end, a great iron cauldron of boiling mash sat on a fire, fed by a group of men shoveling coal, the flames casting a reddish glow across the dim space.

After a moment, the burly man returned with a short, fat fellow hustling along behind him on stumpy legs, with a white beard, flushed face, and red button nose, looking very much like an alcoholic Santa Claus.

“What’s going on here?” the man demanded, coming up to Pendergast. “A building inspector? At this time of night?” His voice was thick with beer. He stared at Pendergast’s badge. “What’s your name? I want to see your bona fides.”

“Alphonse Billington, at your service.” Pendergast removed the portfolio from his case.

Hockelmann opened it, looked over the credentials within, grunted, and handed it back. “So what might you want here? Everything’s in order!”

Pendergast let an uncomfortable silence build. “The brewery may be in order,” he intoned at last, “but your tenements are certainly not.”

“What d’ye mean? Those tenements are mostly empty.”

“I am aware of that. I’m here to inspect them.” Pendergast brushed past and, working from his memory of the plats in the building inspector’s office, walked briskly through the huge space and down a corridor, the brewmaster skipping and hopping to keep up. He stopped at a heavy door in the east wall of the building and, apparently just brushing his hand over the lock, opened it.

“Hold on here—I’m telling you, sir, that building beyond is empty.”

Pendergast stepped into a passway through two adjacent walls and found himself in the ground floor of a tenement building: a dark, foul passage illuminated by a single gaslight that led past a row of stinking garbage containers and leftover construction materials. He knew Hockelmann had been mercilessly evicting the immigrant tenants, intent on using the buildings for his growing business.

He charged along, turned a corner, and halted at an alcove containing a stack of old lumber. “This, Mr. Hockelmann, is a serious fire hazard.”

“But there are no tenants in this building—”

“A fire endangers the entire city.” Pendergast was in motion again. He paused at a brick wall, stopped, took out a tiny ball-peen hammer, and tapped the wall with it. He tapped again, putting his ear close to the masonry. Tap tap tap.

“Oh, dear,” he murmured.

Tap tap tap.