"Absolutely time," Slaughter agreed, and seemed to be admiring his reflection in the knife's shine.
"Take what you please."
"I've come upon a bounty of blades just recently. I have a sufficient pistol, as well." He put the knife back upon its hook. "But tell me, what's missing right there?" He touched the empty space above the cords.
"A new item, brought from South America. A blowpipe. It uses a dart tipped with frog venom that causes "
"Instant death?" The way Slaughter said that, it was religious.
"The muscles to stiffen and the throat to constrict," she corrected. "Within seconds, the victim cannot move. It's being experimented with."
"Who has that job?"
"We have new blood among the brethren, since you've been gone."
"It's gratifying to know our profession shall not die for want of youth," Slaughter said, and then he, the lady and Matthew all looked across the cellar as Noggin came out of the passageway lugging a damp and dripping Mrs. Sutch burlap bag that appeared to be heavy with contents. Noggin carried it out the cellar door, bound for some destination Matthew didn't wish to think about.
"Can you trust him?" Slaughter asked, as Mrs. Sutch closed the box and slid the shelf back.
"He does what I tell him, when I tell him. He's dull, but smart enough to ask no questions." She shut the cupboard and pushed the latch home. "From time to time, I let him have one of the girls at Paradise."
The fate of Kitt, Matthew thought. And of how many others?
"You amaze me." Slaughter had turned toward Mrs. Sutch. He lowered the cloth from his head, and Matthew could see that the hair had been shaved away from the vivid red gash and its ugly stitches. "Always the spirit of industry. You can work any ten people into the ground."
"You know where I came from. What I went through, and what I saw. Poverty and misery have always been the greatest of incentives. Besides," she said with a faint smile, "I'm making a fortune for both myself and the professor."
"As if he needs more."
"He always needs more. And so do I."
They stared at each other for a moment. Then Slaughter reached out to touch Mrs. Sutch's cheek. She pulled away, her face grim. Slaughter let his arm drop.
"When you do the job," she told him, "come back here. Send Noggin for me. At that point, we'll consider what the next step ought to be. I'm not promising anything."
"I understand." Slaughter was all business now as well; the sparkle had gone out of his eyes.
"Do you have money?"
"Enough, yes."
"Then I want you out of here now," she said, and she went up the stairs. Slaughter followed her without a word, his face lowered and shrouded with shadows.
The door closed.
Matthew heard footsteps creak the boards. They were moving toward the front of the house. He was lightheaded, because he'd been breathing so shallowly. He drew a long breath and kept watching the cellar doorway, expecting Noggin to return at any minute. He didn't think any of the pistols in the cupboard would be loaded or he would have been up and at them already, if he could coax his legs into moving. Slaughter was on his way to kill Nathaniel Powers in the Carolina colony. Mrs. Sutch was in charge of the blood cards, and of arranging the murders on behalf of Professor Fell. His own name was on that list, of course, and he wondered what Slaughter's reaction would have been to hear it. How did Mrs. Sutch manage the job? Did she get some kind of message from Professor Fell, or from one of his associates, directing whose name should be added to the list? Did she then make the blood card here? Using blood from either the hogs or-more of a macabre touch the gutted guests of Paradise? He wondered if his own card had been daubed from the blood of Mr. White. A bizarre riddle occurred to him: what color was White on white?
Did Noggin deliver the cards? Maybe by packet boat from Philadelphia? Or did someone else carry the cards out? So many unanswered questions, and so little time.
But Matthew kept staring at the cupboard. In there was Quisenhunt's fifth thief trap, and within it was a book with the names of Fell's murder list. What else might be in that book, and what other papers in the box?
"Noggin! Noggin!" Mrs. Sutch was outside, calling for her handyman. Slaughter must have already ridden away. It sounded as if Mrs. Sutch was moving toward the rear of the place, back toward the pens or the utility building.
There indeed wasn't much time. Matthew stood up, went to the cupboard and found the latch. He put aside his mallet, opened the cupboard, slid out the shelf and looked at the thief trap.
"Noggin!" Mrs. Sutch shouted, still at the back of the house.
Matthew now faced a question regarding the box. Was it an armed thief trap, or simply a locked keyless safe? He ran his fingers over the latches. One was nearly horizontal, the other just to the right of vertical. If he turned the latches the wrong way, would smoke and sparks explode from the keyhole? What if the powder charge was not set, but the hammer mechanism was armed? Either way, the noise would bring Mrs. Sutch running. He could take the whole box, he decided. That would be the safest thing. Just take the whole box and get out of here. But he needed the lamplight to see what he was doing. In the dark, it would be impossible to line the latches up either perfectly vertically or horizontally. And which version of the two might this be?
He could take the box and a lantern. He reached up, lifted a lamp from its hook and then set the lamp atop the box. He picked the box up with both arms. It was heavy, but not unmanageable.
He turned toward the cellar door, took a single step and stopped as if he'd been slapped in the face.
He was no longer alone.
Standing in his way was Mrs. Sutch.
She smiled tightly; in the lamplight her eyes seemed to possess glowing centers of red. "Good evening, Mr. Shayne," she said in a quiet, strained voice. With an effort, Matthew answered, "Hello, Mrs. Sutch." They stared at each other, the lioness and her prey.
The moment hung, both Matthew and Mrs. Sutch standing motionless as paintings.
Mrs. Sutch suddenly lifted her arm, not without a certain feminine grace. The axe she'd picked up at the back of the house emerged from behind her gray gown. She had come prepared to do her share of the night's work. Her smile crumpled. She showed her teeth.
"Noggin!" she screamed, her face contorting into a picture from Hell, and Matthew thought she might well be announcing her target because she gripped the axe's handle in both hands and, rushing forward, brought it down for his head.
He lifted the box. The axeblade crashed into it and knocked it and the lantern from his hands to the floor. He spun around to get at the weapons in the cupboard, but he heard the whisper of the axe coming at him again. As he threw himself to the left the blade whacked into the cupboard. The guns, knives, and all the rest of the deadly collection jumped off their hooks.
The woman was on him before he had time to right himself. The axe was flying at his face, and as Matthew tumbled backward the blade hissed past, nearly rendering him noseless. Before she could bring the axe back for another blow, Matthew reached for the stack of burlap bags, picked one up and whipped it into her eyes. A second whip of the bag sent her reeling, and then Matthew leaped forward and hit her, female or not, smack in the forehead with his fist.
Mrs. Sutch fell across a coil of rope, but she did not relinquish her hold on the axe. All Matthew wanted to do was get out, devil take the box and everything in it; he found this intent denied, however, as Mrs. Sutch heaved herself up from the ground and stood between him and the cellar door, her teeth gritted and the axe upraised.
"Noggin!" she shouted, loud enough to wake the widow Ford. "Come here!"