Page 53 of Angel of Vengeance

This couldn’t be a coincidence… could it?

When he reached the servants’ entrance, he found the man had already tied his horse to a post and was approaching the door, a small oilcloth bundle draped over one shoulder. Their eyes met through the glass, and he once again raised a hand in greeting. D’Agosta unbolted the door, then stepped back several steps, bringing up his weapon and pointing it at the man. If the man noticed, it didn’t seem to faze him, because he opened the door and came in, stamping his feet against the cold, then doffing his hat.

“You’re Harrison, I presume?” he said in an accentless American voice as he replaced the hat on his head.

D’Agosta was careful not to register any surprise. “Who are you?”

“My name is Humblecut.”

“What do you want?”

“To speak with you for a bit.”

D’Agosta kept his face expressionless. He was just about to order the man to turn around and prepare to be searched when Humblecut spoke again.

“It would probably save us a lot of time if I simply told you that we have Joe. Also the housekeepers. If you cooperate, it would be better for them—and for you.” As his hand came down from arranging his homburg, it had a derringer in it. “And you could start by handing me your revolver.”

D’Agosta stared at the small weapon, astonished and dismayed at the way the man had gotten the drop on him. Here, in this strange place, on this distant island, his twenty-first-century cop instincts were of little use.

“Come now, let’s not waste time.” Humblecut twitched his gun hand slightly. “I’m not going to hurt either you or Joe—unless you force my hand. That’s not why I’m here.”

“You seem to forget I have a gun pointed at you,” D’Agosta replied.

“If you kill me, it would be the same as killing Joe. And I will get a shot into you, besides.” Keeping the derringer pointed, the man reached into his pocket and pulled out Joe’s deck of cards. He tossed them at D’Agosta’s feet. “If you care at all about Joe, put down your revolver… Mr. Harrison.”

D’Agosta hesitated, then placed his revolver on a nearby bench.

“A wise decision. Now, be kind enough to put your hands against that wall while I check you for other weapons. I hope you won’t mind my lack of trust—a necessity in this business, I’m afraid.”

The man frisked D’Agosta quickly and expertly, then pocketed his revolver. “Now,” he said, motioning again with the derringer, “shall we have our little talk?”

Keeping a safe distance to the rear, Humblecut instructed D’Agosta to walk through the scullery and the kitchen and into the rear parlor. Motioning D’Agosta to take a seat in the far corner, the man quickly locked the pocket door leading into the dining room passage, then took a seat of his own near the entrance to the kitchen. The confidence with which he did all this told D’Agosta the man was already acquainted with the interior of the house.

The man took off his homburg and laid it and his bundle on the floor, then opened the top buttons of his overcoat and pulled out a pencil and a leather notebook.

“Shall we begin?” he asked.

D’Agosta took a deep breath. The man had been sent by Leng; that much was clear. What did he want from D’Agosta? Maybe he could smoke the man out.

“I have a better idea,” he said. “Why don’t you kiss my ass?”

This was followed by a disapproving silence. “I can understand you’re annoyed by your own failings,” Humblecut said. “Nevertheless, we can still proceed like gentlemen.”

“Tell you what: I’ll loosen my pants, stand up, and turn around. That will make it easier for you to kiss my lily-white Italian moneymaker.”

Another silence. “Very well,” Humblecut said. “If you won’t act courteously, you don’t deserve courtesy in return. You will answer my questions… one way or the other.” He paused, looking D’Agosta up and down, as if considering. “Perhaps an audience will help.” And with this he reached over to the oilcloth bundle, loosened it, and—with a motion that, for D’Agosta, was ghastly in its similarity to a bocce player aiming for a pallino in Flushing Meadows Park—rolled the severed head of Mrs. Cookson out into the middle of the room. D’Agosta watched as it tumbled over and over, staring eyes glinting sunlight with each rotation, trailing a thin line of fluid, until—with a final bobble—coming to rest a few feet in front of him.

48

MOTHERFUCK!” D’AGOSTA SAID, RECOILING.

Humblecut smiled, amused by his reaction. Then, keeping the derringer pointed, he rose, stepped forward, picked up the head by its hair, and planted it upright in such a way that the saucer eyes stared fixedly at D’Agosta.

“Perhaps now we can steer our conversation back onto a more civilized course,” Humblecut said. He readied pencil and notebook. “Shall we begin?”

But D’Agosta was still staring at the decapitated head of Mrs. Cookson. “Jesus,” he gasped.

Then he forced his gaze back to Humblecut. The man took out a pocket watch and glanced at it. “Time is passing. Are you ready to answer my questions? Or shall I go fetch Mr. Cookson and add him to our audience?”