The Manual of Detection: A Novel - By Jedediah Berry Page 0,48

did Sivart know what had happened that morning, when everyone else was fooled? The best explanation he could find, and the only conclusion the file would ever have, was Sivart’s assertion that he had simply remembered.

UNWIN’S UMBRELLA WAS FOLDED on the bed beside him, droplets of water clinging to the black fabric. The bed was made, though the blankets were soggy and rumpled, as were his clothes. His briefcase was on the floor by the bed. From the kitchen came the sound of the icebox door clinking open and closed. A woman was humming to herself, and Unwin recognized the tune from Miss Greenwood’s performance the night before.

It hurt too much to move his head, so he raised his wristwatch to his eyes. Six thirty-two—still early. But early for what? For work? They would apprehend him as soon as he brought his bicycle through the lobby door. For coffee at Central Terminal? They could be waiting for him anywhere: in line at the breakfast cart, next to the information booth, beneath the arch of Gate Fourteen. Even the woman in the plaid coat, it seemed, was in on it.

Then he remembered Edwin Moore, remembered how he had looked in the back of the steam truck, shivering among all those alarm clocks. They will find me, Moore had told him in the museum storeroom, and he was right—they had found him. Would the Rooks murder him, as they murdered Detective Pith?

“Breakfast is ready,” Emily called from the kitchen.

He sat up slowly. What was his assistant doing in his apartment? The sleep drained out of his head and pooled sickeningly in his stomach. He peeled the damp socks off his feet and dropped them onto the floor next to his shoes. He would have to find Edwin Moore, and quickly.

He rose shakily and went to the kitchen. Buttered toast was piled at the center of the table, and a pair of eggs, sunny side up, were set on a plate for him. Emily was swirling more butter over the hot surface of a skillet. It had been a late night for her, but she appeared rested, dressed now in a gray skirt and pinstripe blouse. The pencils in her hair were freshly sharpened.

“I hope you don’t mind that I let myself in,” she said. “I found the spare key in your desk yesterday. And since I couldn’t go back to the office, I came right here. I figured you’d want to start on your case first thing.”

“You stole my spare key?”

“ ‘Stole’ is unfair,” she said. She selected an egg from the open carton, cracked its shell, and spilled it into the skillet, all with one hand.

“Emily, we don’t have time for breakfast. One of my . . . primary contacts. He’s been kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped? Who is he?”

Unwin wondered whether her question was genuine. Emily always seemed to know more than she let on. Still, she had only helped him thus far, so he would have to trust her for now. “He’s a museum attendant. He—”

“Eat while you talk, Detective. I won’t consider it rude.”

It was more a command than a suggestion. Unwin helped himself to his plate from the table, took some toast, and ate standing up. He was hungrier than he thought, and the eggs were perfect, the whites cooked through but the yolks still runny. “His name’s Edwin Moore,” he said between bites. “He told me he used to work for the Agency.”

She thought that over for a moment. “He could be valuable, then—if he’s telling the truth. Where is he?”

“The Rook brothers took him.”

She stood still, running the tip of her tongue along her crooked teeth. Then she sprinkled pepper over the eggs in the pan. “Nobody’s seen the Rooks since Hoffmann went into hiding,” she said.

“Emily, do you remember anything about last night? About the Cat & Tonic?”

He saw a twitch at the corner of her eye, magnified by her glasses. Some part of her knew what he was talking about, but she said, “I went straight home after I dropped you off at the Gilbert. I worked on a crossword puzzle and went to sleep. Cat, tonic. It sounds familiar. Did you do the same puzzle? I think maybe ‘cat’ was one of the answers, and so was ‘tonic.’ They might have shared their letter t. I’m not sure, though. I don’t remember what the clues were.”

She would not remember their dance, then, or anything else she had seen.

Unwin sat down. “Enoch Hoffmann’s back,” he told her.