and quiet war. I don’t understand the meaning of the maneuvers, only the stakes. Hoffmann’s desire for vengeance has grown in the years since his defeat on November twelfth. The gambling parlors, the protection rackets, the black markets—these have always been means to an end, a web from which to feed through the long years of his preparations. His true goal is the destruction of the boundary between the city’s rational mind and the violent delirium of its lunatic dreams. His ideal world is a carnival, everything illusory, everything in flux. We’d all be butterflies dreaming we were people if he had his way. Only the Agency’s rigorous adherence to the principles of order and reason have held him in check. Your work, Mr. Unwin, and mine.”
From the north came the sounds of traffic, of the city awakening. Unwin’s clothes were torn and bloodstained. How many people would have seen his name in the papers by now? It would not be good for his defense, he thought, to be found covered in another man’s blood. He wondered whether there was a subway station nearby, one with access to the eight train.
“You realize by now that your search for Sivart is hopeless,” Moore said. “He is probably dead.”
“He contacted me,” Unwin said.
“What? How?”
“He appeared in my sleep two nights ago. And again, I think, last night. He told me about Chapter Eighteen.”
“Impossible. Sivart knows nothing about dream infiltration. None of the detectives do; they’re given expurgated editions of the Manual, like yours.”
“But the watchers—”
“The watchers never reveal the true source of their knowledge. It is disguised as intelligence gleaned from mundane informants. This is standard protocol; it’s all in the Agency bylaws. The unabridged edition, of course.”
“Someone told him, then. Zlatari saw him reading at the Forty Winks, just before he disappeared. It must have been a complete version of the Manual.”
“Who would have given it to him?”
“The same person who showed you the gold tooth in the mouth of the Oldest Murdered Man,” Unwin said. He stopped and took Moore’s shoulder. “I thought you were only being forgetful when you said you dreamed her. But maybe it really did happen in your sleep.”
Moore appeared suddenly dazed. He closed his eyes, and Unwin saw them darting back and forth under the lids. “It was Cleopatra Greenwood, I think.”
“Are you sure?” Unwin said. “Describe her.”
“You’re right,” Moore said, his eyes still closed. “She was younger than Miss Greenwood. Just as pretty, though. And very quiet, as if she thought someone else might be listening. Brown hair under her gray cap. Eyes gray, almost silver, like mirrors. She was dressed for bad weather. She was wearing, I think, a plaid coat.”
The act of remembrance had left Moore in a stupor. Unwin stood with his hand still on his shoulder. The woman in the plaid coat had broken in to the old clerk’s dream and shown him the thing he could not forget. She had unveiled Sivart’s gravest of errors.
Little surprise that Moore had mistaken her for Cleopatra Greenwood. The resemblance, now that Unwin considered it, was obvious. The woman in the plaid coat was Miss Greenwood’s daughter. And she was most certainly “in on it.” But what did she have to gain from revealing the fake in the Municipal Museum? Or from stealing a copy of the Manual and giving it to Sivart?
Moore’s eyes popped open. “We have a ride,” he said.
A taxicab was approaching from a narrow side street farther up the block. Moore stepped out from under the umbrella to signal it with both hands. The taxicab lurched to the curb and idled there, its checkered chassis shuddering.
“We’ll go to my place,” Moore said to Unwin, “and plan our next move.”
The driver of the cab was a slouched, thin-faced man. He lowered his window a few inches and watched them cross the street. Unwin drew his coat tighter over his shirt, trying to conceal the stains.
“You’re available?” Moore called.
The driver took this in slowly, refusing to meet Moore’s gaze. At last he muttered, “Available.”
Moore nodded sharply and reached for the handle of the door. He tugged at it a few times, but the door held fast. “It’s locked,” he said.
The driver ran his tongue over his teeth and said, “Locked.”
“Will you take us?” Moore demanded. “Yes or no?”
“No,” the driver said.
Unwin lowered his umbrella over his face and searched for an escape route. Had the cabbie recognized him? He wondered if the newspapers had used the photo on his clerk’s badge.
Moore