Page 47 of Angel of Vengeance
“Let’s just say I’m a private detective from an outfit that isn’t exactly unknown—if you get my meaning.”
“The Pinkertons?”
“I didn’t say that!” Pendergast leaned forward and lowered his voice still further. “The man I just described is a murderer and kidnapper. The fiend was last seen spiriting a young girl out of the city, trussed up in a hay wagon.”
The man’s eyes widened. “No!”
“I fear greatly that it’s a fact. Now: did you see the man I described pass by?”
“Sir, I did in fact see the man you’re describing. It was after midnight, in the wee hours of Monday morning. Not only that, but at the time I thought I heard a sound from the hay. It seemed the mewling of a cat… but I suppose it could just as well have been the muffled crying of a child.”
“Is that so! I commend your abilities of observation. Did you exchange any words with him? Any clue, say, as to where he might be going?”
“He was completely silent. He drew up to the window, paid his dime, and then shook the reins and was gone over the bridge in a flash.”
“He was moving fast, then?”
“Yes.”
“No idea which road he took on the far side, where the toll road branches?”
“No, sir.”
“Had you ever seen him before, coming and going?”
“I can’t say—his face was entirely muffled up, as you noted, and it was a dark night—like tonight.”
“Had you seen the horse before?”
“Can’t say that, either. There are a lot of Belgians come through this way, pulling loads. That’s a popular breed. The wagon looked like any old market wagon. Stank like sheep shite, I recall.”
“You’ve been quite helpful.” He gestured at the two dollars. “You’ve earned them.”
“I’m not one to take money for doing good. I hope you catch the man, sir. I did feel he had an evil air about him.”
Pendergast retrieved the coins, replacing them with a dime. “You are an honest man and a fine citizen to boot. Now: if anyone should inquire about me or this encounter, what might your response be?”
“That I’ve no idea what they’re talking about and never saw the gentleman in question.”
“Excellent. Thank you, toll master.” Pendergast unhitched Napoleon from the post. And then, with a single, agile movement, he leapt into the saddle and pressed the flanks of the horse with his heels; in an instant they were galloping across the bridge and into the deep gloom of night.
41
AROUND FOUR PM, PENDERGAST halted at the second major fork in the Boston Post Road and looked about. It was an even lonelier spot than the first. Here, the Post Road continued northeastward, while another road went off to the left heading due north, in the direction of White Plains. It was rutted and strewn with dead weeds crushed into the frozen mud by wagon wheels.
After he’d passed Kings Bridge the night before, the road had entered a hilly region of farms and small villages, and after half a mile he’d come to the first main fork. The left-hand fork followed the route of the railroad, past the grand estates perched on the bluffs over the Hudson, meandering through such villages as Dobbs Ferry, Tarrytown, and Pocantico Hills. The right-hand fork was the continuation of the Boston Post Road.
At this point, Pendergast had been presented with his first decision. He stopped the horse and took a deep breath of the cold night air. The crossroads was cold and silent. He was on a high point of ground, and from it he surveyed the countryside. It was remarkable how dark the world had been before the advent of electric lights; how starry the night sky, and silent the landscape. He could see to his left a faint illumination of the Hudson Line, and a sprinkle of dim lights he assumed must be the village of Spuyten Duyvil. To the right, the Post Road continued on through Williamsbridge and Pelham, then northeastward along the shores of Long Island Sound and its many seaside villages.
It seemed likely Leng was taking Binky to a working farm, not a nouveau riche mansion set on manicured grounds, where a dirty farm wagon would attract attention and a flock of sheep would not be welcome. But he’d reminded himself that nothing about Leng could be taken for granted—and he’d spent much of the morning and early afternoon examining the least likely routes before returning… and choosing the right-hand fork.
Another few miles had brought him to the second major fork—and another decision. As he sat on Napoleon, looking up the long, desolate lane that again veered off from the Post Road, with mist rising from its half-frozen ground, he felt a strong sense of desuetude. He knew from a recent study of local maps that this road led to the scattered dairy farms and smallholdings of the Van Cortlandt region, initially settled by Dutch farmers in the seventeenth century and still relatively remote. He closed his eyes, calmed his mind, and considered the matter. Within moments, he felt certain no more time was needed investigating probable red herrings—this was the road Leng had taken. The man was going to a place he knew well and had long used. This northern road led into an area that was quiet and isolated, far from the gossipy small towns on Long Island Sound as well as from the conspicuous mansions along the Hudson. Somewhere along this road there would be a prosperous, working farm owned by Leng, no doubt in another guise—one with livestock and, in particular, sheep.
Sheep. That seemed odd. He had learned, firsthand, that the wagon that had spirited away Binky stank of sheep. But the wool trade was no longer practiced in the Hudson River valley, and mutton, being a poor man’s meat, was not a profitable trade. Why sheep? There were many dairy farms in the Van Cortlandt valley—but they were stocked with cows. And as he tried to penetrate the Umwelt of Leng, he suddenly understood: this farm to which the haycart had been headed was not about mutton or wool: it was about cheese.
He opened his eyes and breathed deeply of the cold winter air and then exhaled, staring as his breath took on shape and form as dark once again began to fall. The air smelled of ice. He gave Napoleon a nudge and sent him down the road less traveled.
As Pendergast rode along, he became aware that this might be the most difficult part of his pursuit: finding the right farm in this vast winter nightscape. But he also felt certain there would be evidence of one kind or another to guide his way.