But make it we did, in every sense of the word. Not only did Judge Samuel Welles surprise us by declaring that the affairs of the Institute were in order and the case of Paulie McPherson was “an obvious aberration,” but he went on to shock the entire courtroom by giving those city fathers what had brought on the investigation a tongue-lashing. Dr. Kreizler’s methods might be unorthodox, Judge Welles said, and some people might not be comfortable with them; in fact, he wasn’t so sure that he was comfortable with all of them himself. But you couldn’t argue with results, and the plain fact was that in all his years of operation the Doctor had lost exactly one kid, one who, as the detective sergeants’ investigation had plainly revealed, had been at least thinking about suicide before coming to the Institute, and who’d brought the instrument of the “crime” with him when he was enrolled. Reminding the Doctor’s critics that New York’s courts had better things to do than pursue unwarranted investigations, Judge Welles declared the whole matter dismissed.
We’d known that Welles was an unpredictable character; but no public official had ever made that kind of statement in support of the Doctor’s work, and the event was enough to make you think that maybe there was some kind of justice in the world, after all. Mr. Moore’d taken the hopeful chance of engaging a private room at Mr. Delmonico’s restaurant for after the hearing (such rooms being the only places in the joint where Cyrus and I were allowed to eat), and during the meal that followed the adults stuffed themselves on more kinds of strangely named French food than I could possibly rattle off all these years later. As for me, I made do with a steak and fried potatoes, and Mr. Delmonico even rounded me up a bottle of root beer (though I think he had to send one of his boys out to fetch it from a local grocer). But even if I can’t remember just what it was that everybody ate, I can remember that it was an evening of a type what was rare for us: there’d been no killings or kidnappings, and no great mystery was the main topic of conversation. In fact, crime didn’t come up much at all-it was just a time to be happy in each other’s company, and remember that terrible events were not the only things that bonded us together.
Being as the rest of the day had gone so well, we probably should’ve known that some unpleasant or at least disturbing surprise would be waiting for us at its end. The Doctor invited everyone back to his house after the meal at Delmonico’s, and when we arrived we discovered a very handsome brougham sitting at the curb in front of the front yard. But the two men sitting up on the driving seat didn’t exactly match the rig: wearing rough sailor’s jackets what indicated a familiarity with the seamier parts of the waterfront, they had the kind of deep brown features, thin, drooping mustaches, and large, dark eyes what immediately suggested they were from India, or that general part of the world. I was riding in a cab with Detective Sergeant Lucius, whose face-always jolly and rosy after a big meal and lots of red wine at Mr. Delmonico’s-suddenly went straight, even a little pale, when he saw the carriage and the men.
“What the-” he whispered. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, no?” I answered, looking at the brougham and then back at the detective sergeant. “What’s ‘oh, no’ about it? Who are they?”
Taking a deep breath, Lucius said, “They look like lascars.”
“Lascars?” I repeated, now a little disturbed myself: even I knew about the tough breed of sailors and pirates whose home waters were the Indian Ocean and the South China Sea. “What the hell are they doing here?”
“Care to guess?” the detective sergeant said. “Lascars are a very common sight-on the Manila waterfront.”
“Oh,” I noised, glancing again at the two mugs on the brougham. Then I just sank down into my seat. “Aw, shit…”
By the time Lucius’s and my cab stopped, the others had already gotten out of a second hansom and the Doctor’s calash, and were gathered around the door of the brougham. There was no sign of life from inside the thing yet, and the first such that we got was a question:
“Dr. Kreizler?” said a deep voice, one what bore a strong Spanish accent.
The Doctor stepped forward. “I am Dr. Laszlo Kreizler. May I be of assistance?”
The door of the brougham finally opened, and out stepped a very dark, handsome man of medium height and build, his hair carefully fixed with pomade. His clothes looked to be about the best that money could buy, and had that formal cut what seems to always mark the diplomat. In his hand he carried a walking stick what had a heavy ball of silver for a handle.
“I am Señor Narciso Linares. I believe you know of me.”
The Doctor just nodded with a small smile, having already guessed, like the rest of us, who the caller was. “Señor.”
Señor Linares flicked his stick toward the house. “Is there a place where we may speak? The matter is most urgent.”
“Please,” the Doctor said, indicating the front door. The señor moved toward it and the Doctor followed, after which the rest of us moved to do the same: but then the two lascars jumped down off the brougham and stood in our way at the gate to the front yard, folding their arms and seeming ready for an argument.
The Doctor turned around, an expression of shock coming into his face. “Señor,” he said, very sternly. “What is the meaning of this behavior? These people are residents of and guests in this house.”
Considering the matter for a moment, the señor just nodded and said, “So.” Then he mouthed some words in Spanish to the lascars, who glumly moved back toward the carriage. After that we all went inside, Cyrus keeping a very careful eye on the two boys at the curb as we did.
The Doctor led Señor Linares up into the parlor and offered him a drink. When the visitor requested a glass of brandy, Mr. Moore fetched it, while the rest of us took seats. Cyrus stood by one window and opened it, still watching the lascars.
“Dr. Kreizler,” Señor Linares said in some surprise, when he saw that we all intended on staying in the parlor. “My business with you is of a private nature-it is certainly not for the ears of servants.”
“There are no servants here,” the Doctor replied. “These are my colleagues.”
The señor glanced at Cyrus. “The black, as well?”
Trying hard not to get openly irritated, the Doctor just said, “If you have something you wish to discuss, señor, you must do so in front of our collected company. Otherwise, I must bid you good evening.”
Shrugging, Señor Linares drained his brandy and put the glass aside. “I shall come to the point, then. I have reason to believe, Doctor, that you know the whereabouts of my wife and child.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes. If this is so, I most strongly recommend that you reveal those whereabouts to me, unless you wish to provoke a diplomatic incident.”
The Doctor paused and took out his cigarette case. “I had always understood that diplomats were tactful men,” he said. “Perhaps I was misinformed.”
“The time for tact is long past,” Señor Linares answered testily. “I know that, some time ago, my wife sought the assistance of this woman-” He waved his stick in Miss Howard’s general direction. “Since then, my life has been a succession of difficulties. I warn you, sir, I am most sincere in my threat of an official protest.”
As he lit one of his smokes, the Doctor studied the señor for a few more seconds, then sat back. “Actually, you are not.”