The Final Descent (The Monstrumologist #4)(50)

“Signore Competello,” Mr. Faulk said. “This is Mr. William Henry, the doctor’s allievo.”

The Camorra padrone tilted his massive head back to stare down his thick, flat nose at me. He turned to Mr. Faulk without taking my offered hand.

“Where is Dottore Warthrop?” he demanded.

“The doctor wishes to convey his deepest regrets,” I answered. “He has been unexpectedly delayed.”

Francesco Competello lowered himself into the love seat next to the fire, holding the cane upright between his legs, and his companion stood behind him with his hands in his pockets, looking at nothing, observing everything. I returned to the chair across from Competello. Mr. Faulk remained by the door, hands empty and loose by his sides.

“I come here because I am a peaceful man,” Competello said. His English was heavily accented but flawless. “It is why I left my country. Wars, vendettas, blood feuds, oppression . . . I did not flee; I was driven out. I also come because Warthrop is not my enemy and I do not wish harm upon him.”

I nodded soberly. He went on: “I am a businessman, yes? You understand? Vendettas, they are not good for business.” His eyes narrowed and he jabbed a thick finger in my direction. “But family is family. Il sangue non è acqua. And Warthrop should be upset by this? I am the wounded party here! What I love has been taken from me and I am to do nothing? No, no. I am a peaceful man, a reasonable man, but blood calls for blood.”

I was still nodding. “The dottore understands. He is a peaceful man too. He is a reasonable man. He too has lost much—he loved von Helrung as a son loves his father. The ledger sheet has been balanced, Signore Competello.”

“That is why I have come, to hear this from his lips. He does not ask often, but when he does, he asks much. I give. I repay the debt I owe him, for bringing me and my friends to this great country, and how do I repay? In blood. But does he make recompense for my loss? No! He asks me to make good on his. ‘I need the mostro that was taken. You must deliver it unto me.’ ”

“And you have,” I said. “Although I’m sure he mentioned he preferred that you deliver it alive. It was the last of its kind.”

His black eyes narrowed. He drummed his thick fingers upon the golden head of his cane.

“My promises were kept,” he said darkly. “That is more than I can say for him!”

I pointed out it was not Warthrop who was responsible for the deaths of his men—neither the one in the Monstrumarium nor his nephews on Elizabeth Street. That Warthrop—and his fellow scientists—had no quarrel with the Camorristi. A truce was desired and entirely warranted. In truth, monstrumology needed men like Competello: reasonable, discreet, undeterred by the niceties of the law. That the first death had been without our knowledge and outside our control, and the two that followed had been a terrible misunderstanding. That we would mourn for von Helrung but accept the cost of our misunderstanding. That our sole and most fervent desire was for peace.

He listened closely, stone-faced, drumming his fingers. When I finished, he turned to Mr. Faulk and said, “Who is this boy and why is he talking like this to me? Where is Dottore Warthrop? I am a busy man!”

I stood up. I apologized. “We won’t keep you any longer, Don Francesco.”

I shot him in the face. His bodyguard fumbled in his jacket pocket, and I shot him. He swayed, staggered backward; the bullet had punched him in the chest, but he was a heavy man with a low center of gravity, and I must have missed his heart. I stepped forward and fired again, aiming higher this time. His body hit the floor with a muffled thump, for the carpet was very thick.

Mr. Faulk was beside me. He grasped my wrist and forced my arm down. He eased the doctor’s revolver from my paralyzed fingers.

“Have to be quick,” he murmured. I nodded but didn’t move. I watched him dig the gun from the man’s jacket. Standing by the body, he pointed it at my chair and fired twice. Then he took the dead man’s hand and wrapped it around the weapon.

“Go on now, Mr. Henry,” he urged, jerking his head toward the door leading to the back hallway. The knob of the other door jiggled; a frantic pounding commenced. I crossed the room upon feet made of lead. Mr. Faulk was standing where I had stood, between the chair and the love seat, holding the revolver.

“When they take you in for questioning . . . ,” I began.

He smiled tightly. “They might. Don’t think they will, though. Man has a right to defend himself.”

“That is the issue,” I said. The only one that mattered. Yes. The only one.

I left.

Canto 2

ONE

The room was dark as pitch. I stepped over the stygian threshold and closed the door. Blind, I knew he was there; I could feel his presence.

“You might have knocked,” the doctor said from the chair by the windows. His voice, strained from his fit, floated thinly toward me, hung like a fine mist, ethereal in the dark.

“I did not wish to wake you,” I said, standing very still just inside the room.

“I might have taken you for an intruder. Shot you, though shooting you might have proved difficult, since my revolver has gone missing.”

He turned on the light. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Why are you standing there like that?”

“There is no particular reason.”

I approached him. He regarded me with hooded eyes.