The earlobe was missing. Lasher’s first bullet had torn it off.
He fished out his handkerchief, pressed it tight to stanch some of the blood flow. “Appleby,” he said. “Appleby!”
The printer blinked, turned his head, blinked again. “You’re bleeding.”
“That’s right, blast you. Do you keep any medical supplies here? Carbolic acid, iodoform, bandages?”
“It looks as though you need a doctor—”
“Medical supplies! Yes or no?”
“Yes. For emergencies—”
“What the devil do you suppose this is. Where are the supplies?”
They were in a small room opposite the office containing a cot and other furnishings; evidently Appleby lived as well as worked on the premises. Quincannon dampened a large ball of cotton with carbolic acid. When he applied it to the wounds, he was forced to bite down hard to keep a pain-cry locked in his throat. Another soaked cotton ball, a gauze pad, and strips of adhesive tape made a temporary makeshift bandage.
“Where is the nearest doctor?” he demanded then.
“Two blocks from here.”
“Good. Take me there. Don’t try to run away — you’ll regret it if you do. And don’t say a word to the doctor when we get there. I’ll do the talking.”
“What about Paddy?”
“He’s not going anywhere,” Quincannon growled. “We are. First to the doctor’s office, then to the U.S. Mint. Now move!”
26
Sabina
She was worried about John.
He hadn’t been the same in the two weeks since his single-handed cracking of the counterfeiting ring. There had been little of his usual ebullience at the successful culmination of an investigation, his explanations to her relatively brief and lacking in dramatics. He’d become quieter, more withdrawn in a brooding kind of way. Part of the reason, she supposed, was that Mr. Boggs, while grateful for the results, had expressed in no uncertain terms his disapproval of John’s “vigilante tactics” in obtaining them.
But she suspected that a larger part of the reason was John’s brush with death. She had been horrified when she saw the wound in his scalp, the missing earlobe; the knowledge that Paddy Lasher’s bullet had come within a fraction of ending his life was chilling. He had attempted to brush off the near miss, terming it another in a long line of occupational hazards. He had been wounded before in the heat of battle, he said, and survived with no lasting ill effects. Which was quite true, yet she sensed that this encounter had had a more profound effect on him than any other except the accidental shooting of the pregnant woman in Arizona.
He kept self-consciously fingering his damaged ear, as if he couldn’t quite believe the lobe, a small piece of himself, was gone and could never be replaced. The deformity, small though it was, embarrassed him, too; now that the bandage had been removed, he sought to cover the ear with an unbecoming beaver hat in place of his usual derby. A constant reminder of how near he had come to perishing.
For most of his adult life he had been courageous to a fault. This had led to his reckless behavior, for he had convinced himself that he was fated not to die in the line of duty as his father had — and as Stephen and so many others in their profession had. Now, it seemed, the once iron-willed belief had been shaken; that this narrow escape had finally made him realize he was not indestructible after all, forced him to confront his mortality. Whether the effect would be permanent or not remained to be seen. If the incident made him wiser, more cautious, and less cocky, then that was all to the good. What concerned her was that it might have an adverse effect, erode his skills and his self-confidence and render him less effective.
She attempted to draw him into talking about his feelings, but neither direct nor subtle overtures succeeded. The lack of success only made her more determined. If he remained uncommunicative and morose, she would take drastic measures. Just what those measures might be she wasn’t sure yet. Not quite sure, anyway.
But it might not come to that. The first indication that he might be ready to emerge from his shell came late Friday afternoon of the third week. Since returning from a routine insurance claim investigation, he had been sitting tilted back in his desk chair, smoking his pipe and lost in thought. When she brought him out of his reverie by informing him that it was nearly five o’clock, he tilted forward, touched his ear, and said without preamble, “Have dinner with me tomorrow evening, Sabina.”
It was the first social invitation he had tendered since his close call. “Oh,” she said lightly, “are you finally going to honor your promise?”
“Promise?”
“Of dinner in payment for my interviewing Dinger Jones’s mother. You do remember?”
“I remember.”
“The name of the restaurant I suggested, too?”
“Delmonico’s.”
“Yes. Delmonico’s.”
Sabina expected a whimper if not a bleat of protest, and was prepared to substitute a less expensive selection, but John didn’t bat an eye; she might have suggested a food cart at the nightly Market Street bazaar for all the reaction he exhibited. He merely nodded and said, “I’ll call for you at seven o’clock.”
Curious, Sabina thought. Normally his invitations were put forth with smiles, banter, terms of endearment. This one had been solemn and earnest, as if there were more to it than a desire to spend a pleasant evening out with her.
Delmonico’s was a purveyor of French cuisine, arguably the finest such fare in the city. Onion soup, sole meunière, coquilles Saint-Jacques, blanquette de veau, and for dessert, the house specialty of fried cream flambé. Sabina ate with her usual hearty appetite, but Quincannon picked at and barely tasted any of the dishes. It was an effort to maintain polite, much more so intimate, dinner table conversation. His mind wandered, his nerves felt so tightly strung he could almost hear them twanging. And he couldn’t seem to stop fingering his mutilated ear, which he was sure every other diner in these opulent surroundings had noticed when he removed his hat and was covertly studying.
The multicourse meal, one he would have enjoyed in different circumstances and in spite of the outrageous prices, seemed interminable. Sabina, always sharp-eyed and intuitive, noticed his discomfort, of course. Twice she asked if he was feeling well, and twice he assured her that he was in fine fettle — half-truths that sounded false even to him.
When she had finished the last of a large portion of the rich fried cream, she sighed contentedly, dabbed at her lips with her linen napkin, and said she believed she had just enough room for a cup of café au lait. The last of Quincannon’s patience evaporated at this. He leaned forward, reached out to touch her hand.
“My dear, we needn’t have it here.”
“No? Where, then?”
He drew a deep breath. “At my flat.”
“Ah. Your flat.”
“I have no designs on your virtue,” he said, and was unable to resist the urge to dandle his ear again. “There is something important I want to discuss with you.”
“Why can’t we discuss it here?”
“Best said in complete privacy. And the night is too cold for a buggy ride or a long walk. Will you come?”
He managed not to fidget while she studied him for what seemed like a long time. Finally, to his relief, she said, “Yes, I’ll come.”