Page 46 of Angel of Vengeance
As she slipped the items back into her pockets and returned the jar to its place, she heard a faint noise. Instantly, she extinguished the candle and stopped its smoke with a pinch of her fingers to the wick. Another sound—a door, scraping a sill with a creak of hinges—and then a gleam of light appeared. It was Leng. The man, so regular in his eating habits, otherwise kept the most unpredictable hours. And it could only be him: no one else, not his gang or his servants or even the hated Munck, was allowed in the basement laboratory and storerooms. None of them, Constance believed, even knew of their existence. She had—over time—become the only person Leng allowed to assist him.
She shook away further recollections.
As the light moved into the chamber, Constance shrank back behind a row of shelves and pressed herself against the damp stone wall. The light continued to move down the central aisle, slowly and silently. From the dark of her hiding place she could see the patrician face of Leng, pale and hollow in the light of his lantern, his eyes glistening behind violet-tinted glasses. He was hatless, and his light blond hair, brushed back, gleamed with Macassar oil. At the sight of him, a hatred rose within her so violent that she feared he might detect the angry beat of her heart. But he passed by like a specter, intent on some late-night business of his own. Soon he had left the room and gone into the next—full of weapons, for the most part still boxed from shipping—and she took the opportunity to creep out of her hiding place and move deeper into the basement, away from Leng.
To isolate alpha-amanitin from the powder would be her next step. It would involve another trip to the laboratory, the borrowing of certain reagents along with a titration burette, analytical balance, mixing beakers, and tubes. It would have to be done tonight, and the equipment returned before morning—once again, to its precise position in the lab.
40
PENDERGAST TURNED ONTO 139TH street and headed east to Tenth Avenue, where Murphy was waiting with the carriage, along with a riding horse, saddled and bridled, tied up on a lead rope behind. He stepped into the coach, drew the curtains, then swiftly changed out of his disguise, shedding the crushed stovepipe hat and shabby greatcoat for a cloth cap and scarf, leather trimmed breeches and high boots, a musette bag, and a woolen riding coat of fine quality.
“He’s a good gelding, this one,” said Murphy, offering him the reins as he stepped out, completely transformed. “Name’s Napoleon.”
The chestnut beast eyed Pendergast, his ears perked. Pendergast stroked his neck, let the animal smell him a moment, and then took the reins, slipped his boot into the stirrup, and mounted.
“Take care, sir,” said Murphy.
“I will, Murphy, and thank you. He seems a fine horse.”
The two parted, and Pendergast started northward up Tenth Avenue, bent on his last and most important objective—finding Binky. He’d decided to layer his disguise: a farmer, supposedly returning to his farm from a day in the city, who in reality was an insufficiently disguised Pinkerton agent in pursuit of a fugitive.
By ten that evening, with the moon struggling to rise through icy vapor, Pendergast arrived at Kings Bridge, where the Boston Post Road crossed Spuyten Duyvil Creek, the body of water at the very northern tip of Manhattan Island separating it from the Bronx. Kings Bridge was the oldest bridge connecting Manhattan with the mainland, and as he approached he saw a faint light in the wooden tollhouse at its near end.
Pendergast halted, dismounted, and tied his horse at the hitching post. The toll master opened a small window and leaned out. “Greetings, traveler,” he said, in a tired voice.
As he approached, Pendergast took in the cozy hut, warm from a woodstove, with a coffeepot and a pan of corn bread. “Greetings to you,” said Pendergast.
“Ten cents, if you please.”
Pendergast removed a silver dollar and laid it on the sill. “My good man, permit me a question: early this week, did you happen to be on duty at about two or three o’clock in the morning?”
“I did indeed,” the man said, rousing himself at the question and by the sight of the silver coin. “What’s it to you?”
Pendergast assumed an arrogant tone. “I’m a farmer, returning from a day in the city, and I’m wondering if my brother came through here around that time, Monday or perhaps Sunday night. He’s an uncommonly tall fellow, thin, pale, face and neck wrapped up in a dark scarf, driving a cart loaded with hay hitched to a Belgian draft horse.”
“Your brother, you say?”
“Yes.”
There was a pause, and Pendergast ostentatiously laid a second Morgan dollar on top of the first.
The toll master eyed him up and down. “What’s it all about?”
“I’m afraid that’s none of your business,” came the officious reply, pitched in a tone designed to arouse suspicion.
“It is my business if you’re looking for information.” The toll master paused. “And if I may say so, sir: if you’re a farmer, then I’m President Hayes.”
At this, Pendergast paused a beat. Then he broke into a slow, cold smile. “I can see you’re not one to be easily fooled.”
“I am not,” the man said, a touch of pride in his voice.
Pendergast lowered his voice. “Well, then, I’ll be straight with you. Confidentially, of course.”
“That’s more like it.”
“I’m in pursuit of a fugitive from justice.”
The toll master nodded, eager to hear more.