you must be strong too, Mr. Boot,” Eve said. “You’re a commanding performer. We both saw you onstage. You can be that pillar of strength, guiding audiences through Heaven and Hell. Guide us.”
Boot straightened and seemed to sober almost instantly; it was unsettling.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “All I wanted was just to be a performer. I…I fell in with folks I shouldn’t have.”
“Like Snare and Fiddle?” Horowitz asked. Boot paled and pursed his lips shut. “I hear you owe them.”
“I do not. They were paid off.”
“Entirely? Seems some folks in London aren’t pleased with you. We’ve got it on good report from a source in your field.”
“But…Montmartre took care of it.”
“Montmartre paid your debts? To criminals?”
“He paid what I owed,” Boot insisted. “And got me work.”
“Performing?” Boot nodded. “And what about working with Arte Uber Alles?”
“They were devotees of the work and the art. I was just a figurehead. I just did what they wanted me to do, which was perform. I promise you, the darker stuff, the body parts in the set, the blood as paint… I thought things smelled a bit musty but I didn’t know… I guess I didn’t want to know.…” Boot stared off into the distance.
“Did you ever know Montmartre by another name?” Horowitz asked. Boot shook his head. The detective reached in his coat pocket and withdrew a photo from a newspaper clipping, an article about the Prenze company from a few years back, featuring both twins. Jacob folded down Alfred and put Albert before Boot’s face. “Is this Montmartre?”
“Looks mostly like him, but his hair is different. Glasses. Expression.”
Eve nodded; that checked out.
“Did you have any idea Arte Uber Alles was engaged in experimentation, in suicide, in mesmerism and coercion?”
Boot shook his head and began humming. He ran over to a small metal pail and reached in with both hands. Returning, the stink of cheap gin washed over them. “No, no, I was just working the stage.”
“Would anyone in London, say, Scotland Yard, be wanting you for questioning regarding those Snare and Fiddle characters? You say Montmartre took care of it, you, but what if he didn’t, at least, not entirely? Should we let Scotland Yard know you’re in here for collaboration in the desecration of corpses, coercion, and violations of the Bone Bills? Possible accessory to murder? Would they like to trade for you, do you think?”
“They’ll kill me over there, and I won’t let him in here to take me over!” Boot cried, jabbing his finger to his temple. “I want free of this!”
Letting out a sudden shriek, in a bold, startling move, the prisoner slammed his own head against the iron bar between them, causing Eve and Horowitz to jump back. A spurt of blood erupted from the crown of Boot’s head as he staggered back and fell down on the wet ground.
Eve looked back at the warden, who just shrugged, as if it wasn’t the most jarring thing he’d seen today, or any day in the Tombs.
“Well that’s a way to avoid questioning,” Horowitz muttered. “If he babbles anything that might be related to what we asked him, please wire me directly.” The detective handed the warden his card. The somber, unaffected man nodded. “If you have to move him somewhere padded so he doesn’t strike himself dead, do. He’s likely wanted for fraud or worse in England and I’m sure you don’t want Scotland Yard interfering.”
The warden shook his head, holding up his hands. “No, thanks. The more jurisdictions the more confusion.”
A fresh yowl and sundry commotion, a furious clatter of chains against bars started up on the second floor of cells. The warden excused himself to tend to the disruption with a heavy sigh. “You can see yourselves out?”
They were glad to.
Exiting, Eve kept pace toe to toe; even though the detective was nearly a head taller, determination was as good a factor in one’s pace as height.
“At least there’s a solid identification of Montmartre as Prenze,” Eve said. “That will correlate well with the Arte Uber Alles writings you collected from families in the Font and Zinne cases mentioning him, yes?”
“Indeed. And with trails of money as well. We got something out of it.”
“What’s next?” Eve asked as they walked east along Canal Street at their strident clip. The distinct, rich smells wafting out from Chinatown kitchens grounded her to an important intersection of the vibrant community.
The detective pointed ahead toward Broadway, the angling, ever-bustling central artery they most often used as their pathway uptown. They’d made a preferential habit of walking. Constantly hiring carriages was hardly financially sound, and walking was a way to still be alone, uninterrupted by the clutch of fellow passengers on the elevated rail or a crammed trolley car where Eve had to have a hairpin at the ready to defend against stray hands. Walking afforded two professional people who were having a hard time admitting how much they cared time to be together without the pressures of coming calling.
“Would you like to be more specific than generally leading me uptown?” Eve asked with a smile.
The detective patted his breast pocket. “One of these warrants is to get into Dupont’s parlor. After Officer Bills processed Dupont’s charge through the Irvington courts, he helped push for an extension of evidence gathering here. The second one is to gain access to Dupont’s house.”
Eve clapped her hands together. “Brilliant! We went into the parlor, the girls and I, unofficially, but we didn’t dare try to break into the home. This is the key to getting anywhere with Prenze; tie him to Dupont’s bizarre fetishes and the mysterious deaths of Dr. Font and the blood-let Mr. Zinne. What has Dupont been charged with, officially?”
“Theft and abduction with a few counts of desecration, which was a bit of a stretch considering the bodies hadn’t been interred when the souvenirs were taken. There might be a few other charges depending on the Bone Bill statutes, but seeing as those went in to deter grave-robbing full corpses, I don’t know if they’ll cover blood or ‘tokens.’ Though considering Dupont’s current mental state after the trepanning attack, none of his actions will likely go to trial. He’ll be sent to the same island asylum as Heinrich Schwerin.”
Eve sighed. “I hope that is enough to bring the spirits and people Dupont unsettled lasting peace. Good work on the warrant. I doubt anything is left behind as I’m sure Prenze has cleaned it all out, but one never knows. I’m still getting accustomed to a trained physical eye, not just my third eye, and looking at these spaces will do me good.”
“It’s a different way of thinking and seeing, but I know you’ll be just as adept at changing the lens.”
Eve smiled, touched by his confidence. Coming to consciousness at Sanctuary had rattled her so deeply, she allowed for Jacob’s belief in her to reassert her own. This was no time to wither and crumble from within. That was their villain’s hope. Psychological warfare waged its worst when the good and gentle were hardest on themselves. “Thank you for that.”
“I’m grateful they never assigned me a partner at headquarters,” Horowitz said, pausing as they hesitated on the next street corner for a joyful group of lady bicyclists in riding habits to fly by before crossing, continuing north.
“My friend Fitton would have been a great partner,” he continued, “if he hadn’t been reassigned all the way downtown, but it’s worked out for the best.” He glanced at Eve. “I’d like to think it’s you who’ve become my partner, de facto, though I know you’ve a team and precinct of your own.…”
“I can be both,” Eve said. “I work well with my girls and I…work