London Stock Exchange since 1853, but I suppose our dear Mr. Hawking would think that a waste of money as well.”
“If they were going bankrupt, I would,” Hawking answered. He pushed himself to his feet. “The laboratory is only a few hundred yards away, isn’t it? I thought I was the one who had trouble walking.”
Hawking loped toward the door, giving Carver a twitch of his chin to indicate he should follow. “Be seeing you, Septimus.”
Once they were in the hall, Carver figured it was safe to start asking questions.
“What… ?” he began.
Hawking sliced the air with his good hand. “Not in front of the agents. Good night, Jackson, Emeril.”
“Always good to see you, sir.”
“Good night, Mr. Hawking.”
Between the voice pipes, pneumatic subways, and spyglasses, Carver never wanted to leave, but Hawking led him back to the subway. He didn’t speak again until it was gliding back along the tunnel.
“It’s been settled,” he said. “You’re to be allowed full access.”
Carver let out an amazed laugh. “That’s terrific, sir. But Mr. Tudd seemed so against it. How did you get him to agree?”
Hawking shrugged. “A white lie. I told him part of the reason I wanted you to have access was because, from time to time, I’d have you run errands here for me. Giving you access would be the same as giving me access.”
“But… you have no interest in solving any crimes?”
“Not since the incident I’m sure Jackson and Emeril told you about in all its timeworn glory. There’s more they couldn’t even begin to guess and you shouldn’t bother asking about. My prime interest is passing along what I know with what time I have left. As for you, boy, now that you’ve seen all the fancy nonsense, we’re going to take a real look at how to study the criminal mind.”
The odd smile on Hawking’s face made Carver remember the conversation from the office. “Mr. Tudd said you spent all your time among the mad.”
Hawking tipped his head left, then right. “Some would call it a madhouse. I call it… home.”
15
“BLACKWELL Island Ferry,” Hawking announced to the cabdriver. Turning to Carver, he warned, “Don’t get used to this. It’s late and I want to get home. You’ll be hoofing it most of the time.”
That, Carver didn’t mind at all. Aside from hanging on the back of a streetcar or dodging past the ticket box on the elevated trains, he’d always roamed by foot. Two things did worry him, though: the surrender of his father’s letter and the fact that Blackwell Island held only a prison and an insane asylum. Oddly, the letter bothered him more. Try as he might to lose himself in the lazy, hypnotic clopping of the horses, he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling he shouldn’t have let it go.
At the ferry, the old detective insisted on climbingto the open top deck. They’d made it up the narrow metal steps to the prow when the captain gunned the engine. The sudden movement nearly threw Hawking. Carver moved to catch him, but his claw-like right hand snatched the railing.
“It’s a game he likes to play,” Hawking said, sneering back at the captain. From behind the wheel the grizzled fellow chuckled. If only he knew, Carver thought, that he was insulting a master detective.
A fine wet spray hit Carver’s face. The trail of coal smoke drew back. The smell of brine came through. It was cold, but so hard to worry about anything with the lights of New York and Brooklyn on either side, reflecting in river water that rippled black as oil.
After about a mile, the tip of Blackwell Island came into view. It was so low and flat, the grim gray stones of the Penitentiary Hospital seemed to sit on the water. The ferry neared a pier. Well, living among medical staff wouldn’t be
so
bad. But when all the other passengers exited, Hawking shook his head.
“Next stop.”
The boat chugged along, passing the last vaguely pleasant sight he’d see, a garden where the prisoners grew their
“If they were going bankrupt, I would,” Hawking answered. He pushed himself to his feet. “The laboratory is only a few hundred yards away, isn’t it? I thought I was the one who had trouble walking.”
Hawking loped toward the door, giving Carver a twitch of his chin to indicate he should follow. “Be seeing you, Septimus.”
Once they were in the hall, Carver figured it was safe to start asking questions.
“What… ?” he began.
Hawking sliced the air with his good hand. “Not in front of the agents. Good night, Jackson, Emeril.”
“Always good to see you, sir.”
“Good night, Mr. Hawking.”
Between the voice pipes, pneumatic subways, and spyglasses, Carver never wanted to leave, but Hawking led him back to the subway. He didn’t speak again until it was gliding back along the tunnel.
“It’s been settled,” he said. “You’re to be allowed full access.”
Carver let out an amazed laugh. “That’s terrific, sir. But Mr. Tudd seemed so against it. How did you get him to agree?”
Hawking shrugged. “A white lie. I told him part of the reason I wanted you to have access was because, from time to time, I’d have you run errands here for me. Giving you access would be the same as giving me access.”
“But… you have no interest in solving any crimes?”
“Not since the incident I’m sure Jackson and Emeril told you about in all its timeworn glory. There’s more they couldn’t even begin to guess and you shouldn’t bother asking about. My prime interest is passing along what I know with what time I have left. As for you, boy, now that you’ve seen all the fancy nonsense, we’re going to take a real look at how to study the criminal mind.”
The odd smile on Hawking’s face made Carver remember the conversation from the office. “Mr. Tudd said you spent all your time among the mad.”
Hawking tipped his head left, then right. “Some would call it a madhouse. I call it… home.”
15
“BLACKWELL Island Ferry,” Hawking announced to the cabdriver. Turning to Carver, he warned, “Don’t get used to this. It’s late and I want to get home. You’ll be hoofing it most of the time.”
That, Carver didn’t mind at all. Aside from hanging on the back of a streetcar or dodging past the ticket box on the elevated trains, he’d always roamed by foot. Two things did worry him, though: the surrender of his father’s letter and the fact that Blackwell Island held only a prison and an insane asylum. Oddly, the letter bothered him more. Try as he might to lose himself in the lazy, hypnotic clopping of the horses, he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling he shouldn’t have let it go.
At the ferry, the old detective insisted on climbingto the open top deck. They’d made it up the narrow metal steps to the prow when the captain gunned the engine. The sudden movement nearly threw Hawking. Carver moved to catch him, but his claw-like right hand snatched the railing.
“It’s a game he likes to play,” Hawking said, sneering back at the captain. From behind the wheel the grizzled fellow chuckled. If only he knew, Carver thought, that he was insulting a master detective.
A fine wet spray hit Carver’s face. The trail of coal smoke drew back. The smell of brine came through. It was cold, but so hard to worry about anything with the lights of New York and Brooklyn on either side, reflecting in river water that rippled black as oil.
After about a mile, the tip of Blackwell Island came into view. It was so low and flat, the grim gray stones of the Penitentiary Hospital seemed to sit on the water. The ferry neared a pier. Well, living among medical staff wouldn’t be
so
bad. But when all the other passengers exited, Hawking shook his head.
“Next stop.”
The boat chugged along, passing the last vaguely pleasant sight he’d see, a garden where the prisoners grew their
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