The Curse of the Wendigo (The Monstrumologist #2)(48)

Warthrop, for his part, seemed nothing but annoyed by all the fawning and scraping, further evidence of his distress over the looming battle with von Helrung. Under normal circumstances he would have basked in the glow of their adoration for however long it shone.

So he cut short their slavish greetings, curtly informing the manager that he was tired and wished to be shown directly to his room.

There followed many repetitions of “Yes, Dr. Warthrop” and “Right this way, Dr. Warthrop!” And in a thrice I was aboard the first elevator in which I had ever ridden, operated by a boy not much older than myself, who was wearing a bright red jacket and a pillbox hat.

Our digs, a spacious suite on the eighth floor, with magnificent views of Central Park and Fifth Avenue, were lavishly appointed, if wondrously cluttered, in the Victorian style. How odd it felt, upon crossing that threshold, to have awakened in the dusty, shadow-choked old house on Harrington Lane and then, in a matter of hours, to find oneself in the lap of gilded luxury! I practically skipped to the window and pulled aside the heavy damask curtains to ogle the landscape from my vertiginous perch. The westering sun glittered off the pond nestled in its verdant bower, where toy sailboats bobbed in the gold-tipped swells. Lovers strolled arm in arm along West Fifty-ninth Street, the women with their brightly colored parasols, their beaus with their walking sticks. Oh, thought I, could there be a more pleasurable place than this? Why couldn’t we live here, in this city of wonders?

“Will Henry,” called the doctor. I turned to find him shirtless, holding a burgundy cravat. “Where is my cravat?”

“You’re—It’s in your hand, sir.”

“Not this cravat. My black cravat. I specifically asked if you packed it before we left. My memory is quite clear on that.”

“I did pack it, sir.”

“It isn’t in our luggage.”

“It must be, sir.”

I found it right away, and he snatched it out of my hand as if I’d pulled it from my back pocket.

“Why aren’t you changing, Will Henry?” he asked querulously. “You know we have less than an hour.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know, sir. Less than an hour to what?”

“And for goodness’ sake run a comb through that mop of yours.” With black-rimmed eye and unkempt hair tortured into cyclonic waves by his restless fingers, he added, “You look terrible.”

On the eve of every congress, a reception was held in the grand ballroom at Charles Delmonico’s restaurant on Fourteenth Street. Attendance was not mandatory, but few members failed to make an appearance. Food and libation were provided in abundance, and it was the rare monstrumologist who could resist free provender. A band was always hired to play the latest in popular music (“Over the Waves” and “Where Did You Get That Hat?”), and it was the sole function—formal or informal—in which women were allowed to participate. (The first female monstrumologist, Mary Whiton Calkins, would not be admitted to the Society until 1907.) Fewer than half of the men brought their wives, only because most monstrumologists were committed bachelors, like my master. This is not to say they were indifferent to the fairer sex or misogynistic in their perceptions—rather, monstrumology attracted men who were solitary by nature, risk-takers for whom the thought of hearth and home and the unending demands of domesticated bliss were anathema. Most, like Pellinore Warthrop, had fallen in love long ago with an enchantress whose face they were doomed to never clearly see.

Hardly had we been relieved of our hats and overcoats when a little man materialized out of the milling crowd. He wore a black swallowtail coat over a vest of the same color, black trousers, a white shirt with a high, stiff collar, and patent leather pumps that added an inch or so to his diminutive height. His mustaches were waxed, twirled into points that curved upward toward his cheeks.

He greeted the monstrumologist in the typical continental fashion—faisant la bise, a peck on either cheek—and said, “Pellinore, mon cher ami, you do not look well.” His dancing dark eyes fell upon me.

“Damien, this is my assistant, Will Henry,” the doctor said, ignoring his colleague’s observation. “Will Henry, Dr. Damien Gravois.”

“Delighted,” said Gravois. He squeezed my hand. “Comment vas-tu?”

“Sir?”

“He is saying ‘How are you?’” Warthrop informed me.

Gravois added, “And you say ‘Ça va bien’—‘I’m doing well.’ Or ‘Pas mal ’—‘Not bad.’ Or to show what a polite boy you are—‘Bien, et vous?’”

I struggled to form the last suggestion, and either the awkwardness of my attempt or the futility of the attempt itself amused him, for he chuckled and gave my shoulder a consoling, if slightly patronizing, pat.

“Pas de quoi, Monsieur Henry. La chose est sans remède. You are an American, after all.”

He turned back to Warthrop. “Have you heard the latest?” He was grinning wickedly. “Oh, it is terrible, mon ami. Scandalous!”

“If it involves scandal, I’m sure you will share it, Gravois,” replied the doctor.

“I have it upon good authority that our esteemed president intends to shock us at the conclusion of this congress.”

“Really?” Warthrop raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. “In what way?”