He was getting tired, though, and getting resigned to the idea that he would have to get some sleep if he were to resume the stakeout the next day, when a horse and wagon came up the street. The gas lamps were far apart in the block, but as the wagon passed by, he stared at the driver, a rumpled-looking man of middle-age dressed in well-worn and baggy gray coat and trousers. He appeared to be some kind of street peddler, although what, if anything, the wagon contained was not clear, and he was certainly nondescript, although a bit out of place in this neighborhood at this time of night. Still, he would have rated only a passing glance, except for the fact that he had come by twenty minutes or so earlier from the same direction.
The man in the wagon had circled the block.
The first time through, Moosic hadn’t paid him any more attention than any of the others, although Maitland was short and off the main track and hadn’t had a huge amount of traffic, but he still remembered him.
Beyond a few local residents, a strolling bobby, and the lamplighter, there hadn’t been much foot traffic, either, but just as the man with the wagon reached the end and turned right out of sight, another figure came from that direction and began walking up the street.
She was a plain-looking and weary woman with short-cropped hair and a long, light blue dress that had obviously been patched almost to death—obviously a woman of the lower class. A factory seamstress, or perhaps a hired cleaning woman for one of the houses—that would be about the highest she could have been. Her age was indeterminate, anywhere from eighteen to the mid-thirties. It was that kind of face and walk.
Concealed in the shadows and by the bushes of Number 38 Maitland, he remained unseen to her, but his eyes followed her intently. As she walked past Number 41, she paused for a moment and looked at the house, then around the street. His heart quickened, and, almost without thinking, he guided his hand to the revolver in his bag.
After a moment, she continued to walk up the street to the other end, young eyes with far too much knowledge in them tracing her way. He knew what he expected next, and waited for it.
It took the man with the cart only ten minutes to turn back in and start up the street, but as he passed the first gas lamp, it was clear that he and the woman had been satisfied. She now rode next to him on the seat, looking warily around. Either they were taking few chances or, even after all this time in assimilation, old habits were hard to break.
They seemed confident at last, though, and the man reined in his horse in front of Marx’s house, got down, then helped the woman down, although she clearly didn’t need such help. They looked more like father and daughter than anything else, and might well have been, Moosic realized. Still, he was pretty sure that they were also, originally, something quite different.
He resisted the urge to confront them immediately. There was no way to tell if either or both were armed, but they were both bigger than he. Short of shooting them down cold, on Marx’s front lawn, there was no way to do it safely here.
Abruptly he realized that shooting them cold was exactly what the admiral and the others who’d sent him here expected him to do. Worse, they were right—here, on this deserted and dark street, well-placed shots would do the deed and allow him a good opportunity for a getaway. There was no knowledge of fingerprints in 1875 that would stand up in court, so he could just shoot, drop the revolver, and make his getaway. Find the time suit, and off he would go to his own time.
They were on the porch now, ready to knock. He made his way across the street on silent feet, crept around the rear of their wagon, and, using the shadows, approached very close to the house. The man gripped the woman’s hand in a rather familiar gesture, but they hadn’t yet knocked. He stepped out, still unseen, grasping the pistol with both hands…
The man turned the bell on the front door. In a few moments the door opened, and Helene Demuth was there, framed by the interior light.
“Ja? Vat is it dat you vant?”
“Horace Whiting’s the name, mum, and this is me daughter Maggie. We’d like a word or two with Dr. Marx, if it be all right with him.”
“It is not all right at all!” Demuth huffed. “He’s been home only a few hours and is very tired. Any business you haff vith him can vait until the morrow.” She said this in a tone that indicated there was no business she could conceive of that Marx might have with such as these.
“Will you just do the courtesy of givin’ this note to ’m, if you please, mum. Then, if he won’t see us, we’ll go away and wait until tomorrow.”
She looked at them hesitantly, and with disdain, but she took the note. “Very vell. You vill vait here!” And then she closed the door firmly in their faces.
There’s still time, Moosic told himself, but he couldn’t make his finger close on the trigger. He knew who they were, and what they were, but he could not bring himself to shoot them down coldly in the back. He slipped back into the shadows.
“D’ya think he’ll take the bait, luv?” the man asked worriedly.
“We cum this far, ’e’s got to,” she replied. “We’re so far gone now we either git in ta see ’im or we ’av t’ risk another jomp. Another day ’ere and I won’t remember ’ow.”
The man scratched his head. “I ain’t so sure I want ta. I’m in trouble now jes’ rememberin’ that other one. I kind of loike who I be.”
With a shock, Moosic realized that time had played a cruel joke on the couple. Not only had it made the lovers father and daughter, it was Austin-Venneman who was the father and Sandoval the daughter!
He only hoped that Marx would refuse to see them. If so, then he could confront them. Then—when there was no chance of hitting anyone else.
The door opened, and Demuth was back. She still regarded the pair as she would a month-old dead fish. “He’ll see you,” she told them with her tone making no bones about how she regarded the decision. “Come into the living room. He vill be down in a minute.”
They entered, and the door shut, leaving Ron Moosic outside and his quarry inside with the man who was the object of it all. He cursed to himself that he’d let the golden opportunity slip away, that he’d given them license to do damage, by his own failure to be as coldblooded as they.
“But it wouldn’t be sportin’,” his Alfie part seemed to say. “If we did it that way, we’d be just like them, wouldn’t we?’’
To beat them, you often had to be like them, he reflected sourly. But he wasn’t like them, and never had been. Not yet.
The living room was on the first floor in front of the house, and the curtains were only partly drawn. Stealthily he crept up onto the porch and made his way to below one of the windows. Both were raised an inch or so to allow some air to circulate, and he could hear, and occasionally risk seeing, what was going on. That is, if the beat cop didn’t come around and catch him first.
Karl Marx was a striking figure in person. Although thin, he had an athlete’s build and broad shoulders that gave the impression of great mass and strength. His carriage was strong and upright, the body of a much younger man than his fifty-seven years. It was clear that his trip had done him much good; he looked excellent for any age.