Free Ripper by Stefan Petrucha Page B

least Carver was free of the asylum, free of Hawking. Calling his mentor eccentric didn’t do him justice. He was like a bear trap, ready to snap off your foot if you weren’t watching your step. Every conversation was a test. He’d even underlined the opening of
Rue Morgue
:
    As the strong man exults in his physical ability, delighting in such exercises as call his muscles into action, so glories the analyst in that moral activity which
disentangles.
He derives pleasure from even the most trivial occupations bringing his talents into play. He is fond of enigmas, of conundrums, of hieroglyphics; exhibiting in his solutions of each a degree of
acumen
which appears to the ordinary apprehension preternatural.
    Whatever that meant. Carver liked the story well enough. The twist ending, involving an orangutan, was fun. But for the whole of breakfast he’d worried he’d be quizzed about it. The detective, though, was interested only in typing. When Carver was about to leave, Hawking had ripped out the sheet, stuffed it in an envelope and warned him not to read the contents until he’d reached his “gilded” destination. Carver slipped it into the same pocket where he’d last held his father’s letter.
    A chest-shaking whistle snapped him into the moment. The ferry was docking. He was back, back in the city he knew so well, despite what his teacher had to say about it, and on his way to a grand adventure.
    On foot, with barely enough money for lunch and the return ride, Carver trotted happily along the streets, swerving close whenever a peanut or baked potato vendor appeared, enjoying both the smell and the tiny blast of warmth from their smoking carts. It
was
cold for September. But the day was clear and the view of Broadway went on forever.
    Eager as he was to return to the New Pinkertons, he found the corner at Warren Street was covered by a sea of bobbing hats. Thinking it’d be a stupid mistake to let anyone see him use the secret entrance, Carver crossed to City Hall Park, hoping the crowd would thin.
    After about twenty minutes, he couldn’t wait any longer. He crossed back and, trying to look as innocent as possible, twisted the brass pipe in sequence. To his relief, when the door popped open and he slipped inside, no one so much as slowed to look.
    He managed the elevator easily but forgot how Hawking had started the train car. After a moment’s panic, he remembered a lever being kicked. Finding the same seat, he pushed his heels tothe base. When nothing seemed to happen, he kicked harder, again and again. He was still kicking when a glance at the window told him the car was already gliding along.
    The two young agents were at the platform. The pallid Emeril was in mid-yawn, reading a copy of
Judge’s Quarterly,
a humor magazine. The meatier Jackson, jacket off, shirtsleeves rolled, bent and rose in a calisthenic routine.
    “Young Sherlock at last,” Emeril said as Carver emerged. “Tudd saw you on the street.”
    Jackson grabbed his jacket from the railing. “We wondered what took you so long.”
    “I didn’t want anyone seeing me,” Carver explained.
    Jackson patted him. “Good thinking, but unnecessary. It’s just a door on the side of the building.”
    “And a useful habit of people not to notice things,” Emeril said. “No one knows we exist, so no one looks for us.”
    “
I
found you,” Carver said.
    “Hawking
led
you to us,” Jackson said.
    “Let’s get a move on,” Emeril said, pocketing his rolled-up magazine. “We’re to be your guides. Tudd wanted to be here, but he’s busy with his pet case. Hawking thought you should start with the athenaeum,” Emeril said.
    “A fancy word for
library,
” Jackson added with a wink.
    At the plaza they steered him right, over a small bridge, to a second structure. It was half a block long but very plain, its face a flat brick wall with double doors in the distant center.
    “How is it living with Hawking in that madhouse?” Jackson