The Vanishing Stair (Truly Devious, #2)(71)

“You think I’m an old fool,” Albert Ellingham said.

“You are neither old nor a fool. You are a father in grief and a very rich man. People will want to take advantage of you.”

“I have handled much more than that, Robert.”

“I know . . .”

“You are trying to protect me, because you have always kept my best interests at heart. But it is my money to do with as I see fit. And this is what is fit. It is your duty to get the statement written up, and I will print it in my paper starting next week.”

Albert Ellingham looked at the passage again. Mackenzie had a point, of course. By making this offer, he was opening himself up to every kind of flimflammery the world had on offer. Ten million dollars would have the greatest con artists on the planet beating a path to his door.

But it would also turn the entire world into his private detectives.

It was a risk, and Albert Ellingham was comfortable with risk. He had created himself from nothing, and he would take himself back to nothing quite happily if it meant seeing Alice again.

He put the documents back into the large folder, and placed it in his desk drawer.

Second, the Western Union slip. He had written it out earlier in the morning. The riddle had come to him several days before, but he had not yet been able to bring himself to commit it to paper until now, because that meant confronting the truth. How long had he known? Probably since he’d first read the copy of the book. He stared at the riddle for a moment and shoved it into his pocket. Then he drew The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes toward him. This particular copy belonged to the school library, and he had found it in the dome when he came to on that fateful evening of the kidnapping. At first, he thought nothing of it—there were too many other things going on that night. Surely, a guest of his had borrowed the book and read it; all of his guests were invited to use the school library for their pleasure reading. But then, as time went on and his thoughts cleared, he made inquiries into the book. No, no guests of his had taken out the book. Dolores Epstein had had possession of it almost exclusively.

Which is how he came to understand that Dolores had been coming to his little hideaway to read, and she had brought one of her favorite volumes that day.

Albert Ellingham had grown up in one of the poorest neighborhoods of New York City himself; perhaps that was why he felt such affection for little Dolores Epstein. He had worked as a news seller from the age of eight, collecting his pennies and nickels. More than once, he had spent a cold night sleeping in a doorway. He sometimes found shelter in the New York Public Library, where he had read Sherlock Holmes—read all the stories, committed many lines to heart.

He opened the book and searched for one that often figured into his thoughts. It was from a story called “The Boscombe Valley Mystery”: “There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact.”

Indeed. This was so.

He had kept this book in his office, and it was by chance that he noticed the mark on the page. It was quite early in the volume, in A Study in Scarlet. This had been the thing that set his thoughts in motion. Dolores Epstein, that marvelous, brilliant girl, thinking until the end. To have her sharpness, her presence of mind . . .

Finally, he reached for the wire. He would need to listen one more time, just to be absolutely sure. He stood and went across the room, to a collection of cabinets. He opened one, which contained a Webster-Chicago wire recorder. This machine had been outfitted with a pair of listening headphones. He inserted the wire on the reel, then sat down, put the headphones over his ears, and played the recording.

After several minutes, he switched the machine off and removed the headphones. Everything was there, all falling perfectly into place. When he added in what Margo Fields had revealed . . .

It was all very complete. It was time.

He pressed the buzzer on his desk that summoned Robert Mackenzie. Mackenzie appeared within a minute, notebook in hand. He saw Mackenzie note the open curtains.

“I am going to the yacht club,” he said. “The weather is fine and clear. I’ve asked Marsh to come with me. We could both use some time in the air. We’ve been in dark places too long.”

Albert was moved by the look of genuine pleasure that passed over his secretary’s face. Mackenzie cared for him. He was perhaps the last person who did.

“That’s a very good idea,” Mackenzie said. “Would you like me to arrange for a picnic basket for the trip?”

Albert Ellingham shook his head.

“No need, no need. Here. I wrote a riddle this morning. What do you think?”

He surprised himself with this action. The riddle was a private one, but he shared all his riddles with Mackenzie. This one, perhaps most of all, deserved his consideration. Mackenzie snatched it up, obviously happy that he was returning to his old ways.

“Where do you look for someone who’s never really there?” Mackenzie read. “Always on a staircase, but never on a stair.”

Albert watched Mackenzie very closely. Would he know the answer? Was it visible to all?

“It may be the best riddle I’ve ever written,” he said. “It’s my Riddle of the Sphinx. Those who solve it pass. Those who don’t . . .”

He reached over and took the slip of paper back, setting it neatly on the middle of his desk. Mackenzie was turning the riddle over in his mind, but Albert could see that his attention was not on it. Mackenzie was studying his demeanor for clues. Mackenzie himself was looking much older than his thirty years. He needed to get out in the world and live.