The Final Descent (The Monstrumologist #4)(44)

“No,” Warthrop said firmly. “It was handed over by a certain mentally challenged apprentice possessing all the subtlety of a three-toed sloth!”

“I will endure no more of these uselessly cruel remarks,” von Helrung said sharply. He wagged his finger at the doctor.

“Very well; I shall stick to only the useful ones.”

“The murder of that man in the Monstrumarium wasn’t Dr. Warthrop’s fault,” I said. “So why was Dr. Warthrop kidnapped?” I, the three-toed sloth, was trying to think it through.

“Because kidnapping me had nothing to do with it!” The monstrumologist couldn’t help himself. “Do you begin to understand the terrible burden under which I labor, von Helrung?”

Von Helrung patted the terrible burden’s leg. “Pellinore went to Competello to offer his condolences—and to ask for help, as I explained yesterday, Will. My old pupil ignored my advice that a sleeping dog is best left undisturbed and it was in bad form to ask a favor from one who had just repaid one in blood. Competello took offense, as I warned you he would,” von Helrung said to Warthrop, glaring at him beneath his bushy white brows. He turned back to me. “You know the rest. He made Pellinore his ‘guest,’ pending payment for his generous ‘hospitality.’ Not for the money so much, I think, but to make a point.”

“You might have told me this, Meister Abram,” I scolded him. “You should have told me. If you had, those men would still be—”

“The point is they are not,” Warthrop barked. “And now not only have you turned a potential ally into a deadly enemy, you have jeopardized the survival of the greatest find in monstrumology in the past hundred years! The last of its kind! I would have thought that you, being the apprentice to the greatest aberrant biologist who has ever walked the face of the earth . . .” He sputtered for a moment, the thought skittering away. “That that fact might have occurred to your reptilian brain before you took it upon yourself to play white knight to my damsel in distress!”

“Damsel in distress?” von Helrung wondered.

“An awkward metaphor—but not inaccurate.”

“I’ll go to them,” I said, pushing myself to my feet. “I will explain to Competello—”

“Oh, that seems like a capital idea!” Warthrop replied sardonically. “I am sure he will be more than understanding.”

“Young Will is correct, though,” von Helrung said. “We must make peace with the Camorra.” He puffed out his chest. “And that duty falls by necessity to the president of the Society.”

“Absolutely not,” the doctor replied. “You are no Daniel and this is no lion’s den, Meister Abram. More like a pit of vipers. Ha! An entirely accurate metaphor. I agree we need an emissary, someone to represent the Society, but not one so vital to it or in any way connected to this affair. Someone, to be perfectly frank, whom we can afford to lose should our apology be rejected . . .”

The bell rang. Warthrop dropped his hand into his coat pocket. My hand closed around the handle of the switchblade in mine, and I took a step toward von Helrung. The old man’s butler appeared.

“Sir, Dr. Walker is here.”

“Well,” said Warthrop. “Well!”

THREE

Our return to the Plaza Hotel was marked by silence; the atmosphere in the cab was positively arctic. Warthrop stared at the landscape and I at nothing. We both seethed. I was not convinced that I had failed to save his life once again. He was equally convinced that what I had done would ultimately cost him that—and worse, his precious reputation. Time was running out. The grand presentation of the crowning jewel of his career was nearly upon him, and the possibility of professional failure was more appalling to him than death. In part I understood. Heaven and hell, he often said, he left to the theologians and those “pious hypocrites” who dropped a dollar and a prayer in the basket every Sunday like wily gamblers hedging a bet. Warthrop was neither a gambler nor a hypocrite. The only judgment he feared was the eternal damnation of a life unrecognized and forgotten.

A tall, broad-shouldered man was waiting for us in the lobby. Warthrop stiffened at the sight of him.

“Mr. Faulk,” he said tightly. “I don’t recall requesting the pleasure of your company.”

“Came to tell Mr. Henry something,” Mr. Faulk replied. “But now it doesn’t matter, seeing that you’re back safe and sound.”

“I am neither.” And I remembered his wound. I hadn’t noticed him walking with a limp, but that would not be unusual. The monstrumologist took grim pleasure in hiding his pain.

“I think it would be a good idea if Mr. Faulk remained in the lobby until we hear back from Dr. Walker,” I suggested.

The doctor started to say something, then nodded curtly. “Would that be a difficulty, Mr. Faulk?” Slipping him a twenty.

“No difficulty at all, Dr. Warthrop,” murmured the faithful Mr. Faulk. “Down here? Might be better to wait with you in the room.”

“No, no, not necessary.” There seemed to be something about the big man that unnerved Warthrop. Not me. I quite enjoyed his company.

Mr. Faulk shrugged. “That’s fine. I’ll ring your room if anyone comes making inquiries.” He turned to me. “More blue then red, Mr. Henry?”