The Final Descent (The Monstrumologist #4)(11)

“You will take delivery upon our reaching a fair price.”

“I will take delivery when and only when I’m assured you aren’t a scoundrel trying to separate me from my money.”

Maeterlinck threw back his head and laughed heartily. “My client warned me you were tight with a dollar,” he said after catching his breath. Then he grew serious. “You do understand, sir, that there are a dozen men who would gladly fork over their weight in gold for it—well, who would sell their own daughters for it, truth be told. Men who are the furthest thing from a natural philosopher as you can get. I could bring my offer to one of those men . . .”

“Yes, you could,” the monstrumologist said, becoming very still in his chair. He was furious, but his guest had no inkling of it. The more emotional Warthrop became, the less emotion he revealed. “A living specimen would be worth twice the fattest person’s weight in gold and then some. It would also bring upon this continent a scourge more devastating than the plagues of yore sent down to teach the Egyptians a lesson.”

“And surely no one wants that!”

Warthrop rolled his eyes. He took a deep breath to steady himself, then said, “For the sake of argument, I will assume that you have it in your possession and this is not some elaborate hoax. What is your price?”

“Not my price, Doctor. My client’s price. As his broker, I will receive a modest commission. Five percent.”

“And that is . . . ?”

“Fifty thousand dollars.”

Warthrop barked out a laugh. “That is his price?”

“No, Dr. Warthrop. That is my commission.”

Warthrop was better at math than I. He had the answer quickly: “One million dollars?”

Maeterlinck nodded. He actually licked his lips. He smiled, as if he found Warthrop’s stunned expression amusing.

“It’s worth three times that to the men we’ve been talking about,” Maeterlinck pointed out. “Even at two million it would be a bargain, Doctor. One million is a steal.”

Warthrop was nodding. “I agree it has all the characteristics of a theft.”

He rose from his chair. He towered over Maeterlinck, who seemed to shrink before my eyes, dwindling down to a nub of his regal self, like a bit of kindling thrown into a crackling fire.

“Out!” Warthrop roared, his self-control slipping. “Get out, get out, get out and do it now, at once, with all alacrity, you despicable scoundrel, you perfidious, pretentious rascal, before I toss you out on your avaricious ass! Science is not some two-penny whore for your buying and selling, nor are those who practice it patsies and fools—well, not all of them, anyway, or at least not this one. I do not know who sent you—if anyone sent you—but you may tell your client that Warthrop will not take the bait. Not because the asking price is too high—which, by the way, it is—but because he does not bargain with self-important, half-witted swindlers who believe, unwisely, that a student of aberrant biology would be ignorant of aberrance of the human kind!” He turned to me, eyes burning with righteous indignation. “Will Henry, show this . . . this . . . salesman to the door. Good day to you, sir—and good riddance!”

He stormed from the room, into which a distinctly uncomfortable silence descended.

“Actually, I expected a counteroffer,” Maeterlinck confessed quietly. I noticed his hands were shaking.

“It wasn’t the asking price,” I said. The doctor could easily afford it. “It’s an enormous sum to bandy about with no product to justify it.”

“I thought we could negotiate as gentlemen.”

“Oh, you’ll find very few of those in monstrumology,” I answered with a smile. “Living ones, that is.”

I walked him to the door, helped him on with his cloak.

“Should I return with it?” he wondered aloud, perhaps seeing the wisdom of my observation. “If he saw it with his own eyes . . .”

“I’m afraid he would refuse to even examine it. The bridge of trust has been burned.”

His shoulders slumped. A desperate look came to his eyes. “I could sell it—and get a nice price, too, if they don’t kill me instead.”

“Who? If who doesn’t kill you?”

He seemed shocked that I asked. “Profiteers.”

“Oh. Yes, they are despicable. Profiteers.”

I opened the door and he stepped outside. Night had fallen. I joined him on the stoop, closing the door behind us.

“I’ve made a tactical error,” he acknowledged. “I wonder if I might find some other philosopher to consider . . .”

“That heartens me,” I confessed. “It renews my faith that you are willing to sell to science what you could sell to profiteers at three times the price. It speaks to your good character, Maeterlinck.” I glanced around and lowered my voice, as if the doctor might be hunkered down in the bushes, spying on us. “Do not rush off just yet. It so happens I manage the finances as well as every other aspect of the doctor’s life. Are you staying in town?”

He eyed me warily. Then nodded: First impressions, after all, can be deceiving. Perhaps he had misjudged me.

“At the Publick House.”

“Excellent. Give me an hour or so. I will speak to the doctor—he spoke true when he confessed his trust in me. I may be able to convince him to at least have a look at it.”