Ghosts of Manhattan Page 12

  An electric lamp was glowing on Arthur's main desk, and the curator pulled up a chair, dropping into it with a sigh. The Ghost remained standing by the door; a habit, he knew, that was now too deeply ingrained to shake. He had to stay close to the exits.

  The Englishman looked at him expectantly. "You said it was important."

  "It is. I need you to take a look at this." The Ghost flicked the coin through the air toward Arthur, who scrambled to catch it in his spindly fingers.

  He scowled at the vigilante. "Show a little respect, man." He glanced down at the shiny object in his palm, turned it over gently with one finger. "Oh my," he said, all signs of irritation melting from his brow. "Now this really is something special." He raised his head to look again at the Ghost. "Where did you get this?"

  The Ghost ignored the question. It wouldn't do to make Arthur jumpy. Not yet. "Is it real?"

  Arthur nodded. "At least, I think so. Let me take a closer look." He stood, crossing to the viewing device on the other desk. He placed the coin-almost reverently-onto a glass slide and slid it carefully beneath the main shaft of the device. Then, standing back, he turned a wheel on the side of the main pillar. Cogs clicked and whirred, and the cluster of myriad eyepieces rotated until Arthur was satisfied. Then, stooping, he placed his eye to the lens.

  Minutes passed. Pacing, the Ghost could feel himself growing more and more impatient with the Englishman, who was giving nothing away; not a remark left his lips, not even a sound to indicate what he might have been thinking.

  Then, rubbing his lower back and easing himself upright once again, the curator turned to the Ghost with a wide grin on his face. "It's real. It's utterly remarkable, but it's most definitely real. Perhaps the best-preserved specimen of Roman currency that I have ever encountered. Tell me again where you got it from?"

  The Ghost shrugged. He couldn't avoid the question again. "I retrieved it from a corpse. A murder victim."

  Arthur let out a long sigh. He looked appalled. "This is what I've been reading about in the newspapers, isn't it? The handiwork of that ridiculous criminal who calls himself `the Roman."'

  The Ghost nodded.

  "I heard he was leaving Roman coins on the eyelids of his victims. Is that what this is?" He reached under the microscope and retrieved the coin, turning it over in his hand.

  "Yes. I wasn't sure that you'd want to know."

  "I don't."

  "Then tell me about the coin."

  The curator nodded once and then crossed to his desk, returning to his seat. He placed the coin on the desktop. "It's rare. It's from the reign of the Emperor Vespasian and dates from between sixty-nine and seventy-nine AD." He paused, as if lost in thought. "It's never been in the ground, that much is certain. It's almost perfectly preserved." He glanced up at the Ghost. "Are there more?"

  The Ghost shrugged. "At least one more the same-another one was left with the body, but I didn't have time for a proper look. There have been other victims, too. The people you read about in the newspapers."

  "Yes. Quite." He scratched behind his ear, and then removed his spectacles, wiping them clean on the end of his tie. "I wonder where he's getting them from."

  The Ghost rubbed a hand over his chin. "Is there anything significant about it, other than the condition and the age? Anything at all you can tell me?"

  Arthur looked puzzled. "I'm not sure what you're getting at."

  "Symbolism. Does it signify anything?"

  "Ah ... Well, yes and no. I wouldn't read too much into the coin itself. It's exceedingly rare, in any condition, but I don't think it symbolizes anything in the way you mean. Vespasian's was a short reign, and he didn't really do anything remarkable, other than begin the construction work on the Flavian Amphitheater-the Colosseum-or try to convince people that he had been granted a divine right to rule. The image on the other side of the coin is the goddess Fortuna, the capricious wielder of luck."

  "The dead man, Dr. Sinclair, wasn't very lucky," said the Ghost, dryly.

  "No, but that's the point. Fortuna was blindfolded and handed out her favors randomly. Not everyone could expect to be lucky. Not even her most faithful worshippers." Arthur looked around for his teacup, lifted it, and, seeing it was empty, waved it at the Ghost. "You want one?"

  The Ghost shook his head. Arthur looked disappointed.

  "I think the coin does tell us something, though."

  "Go on."

  "I think it tells us about the character of this `Roman.' This is not a cheap trick, not a simple calling card. There's something else going on, something far deeper than we can see on the surface of it all. These coins weren't easy to come by. He clearly wants us-you, the police-to identify him with what he sees as his historical counterparts. But what is he trying to tell us by leaving them at the scenes of his murders?"

  The Ghost sighed. "That's exactly what I'm trying to find out."

  "Of course," the curator sat forward, filled with a sudden air of levity, "I could be completely wrong. I'm just a silly old Englishman who works in a museum." He wrinkled his nose.

  The Ghost smiled. "Yes. That's just what I was thinking." They laughed for a moment. "One last question for you, Arthur. Anything unusual been going on at the museum? Anyone taking their interest in Roman history a little too far?"

  Arthur thought for a moment. "No. Only the regulars. Although ... something a little odd did happen with Mr. Gardici the other day. He's been coming to the museum every week for over a year, a middleaged chap with jet-black hair and olive eyes. He sits in the Roman exhibit and studies the statutes. Says he likes to `soak up the atmosphere' of his homeland." Arthur shrugged. "He's an Italian expatriate who's lived in New York for years. He still has a thick Italian accent."

  "So what happened?"

  "Two weeks ago he asked the guard if he could speak with me. Now, as you know, these days I tend to have a lot of time on my hands, so I was only too pleased to hold a conversation with someone who shares my passion for the esoteric. But I found Mr. Gardici in an ... unusual mood. He wanted to buy one of the exhibits."

  "To buy one?" The Ghost was incredulous.

  "Yes, precisely." Arthur waved his hand dismissively. "Of course, I explained to him that none of the pieces on display were actually for sale, but he became quite forceful, insisting that he'd give a 'significant donation' to the museum on top of the asking price. When I refused, things became quite strained, and in the end the security guards were forced to escort him from the premises. He's quite a burly fellow so it took two of them to restrain him. He hasn't returned since, thankfully."

  The Ghost paced the floor, mulling over this new development. The likelihood was that it was nothing, unrelated to the Roman and the murders and the attempt to kidnap Celeste. But all the same ... He stopped pacing. "What was the piece? The artifact that this Gardici man wanted to buy?"

  "That's just it. The piece isn't anything special, not really. It's a marble decoration, recovered from a villa in Pompeii. Parts of it are etched with ancient symbols, but we haven't been able to decipher the meaning of them all yet. Still, I have no idea why this particular piece should be of interest to a man like Mr. Gardici."

  "Can you show me?"

  Arthur looked puzzled. "Yes, of course. If you think it's relevant."

  "Anything could be relevant."

  Arthur placed his empty teacup on the desk with a sigh. "Come on, then. Back downstairs. I'll blame you if we run into any difficulties with the guards."

  The Ghost smiled. He knew that Arthur's dourness was an affectation; that in truth he lived to discuss his work, and he would grab at any opportunity to do so, no matter what the circumstances. He understood the obsessive impulse; recognized a kindred spirit.

  The two men made their way along the silent passages of the museum, and again, the Ghost was struck by the stillness of the place, the reverence he felt. It was a cathedral, dedicated to the study of the dead. The realization did not sit well with him.

  Presently, Arthur
led them to the wing that housed the Roman collection. Glancing from side to side to ensure they hadn't been seen, he waved the Ghost through. In the half-light, the sea of white statues, with their blank, staring eyes and missing limbs, gave the hall an oppressive feel. Arthur steered him to the left, past a row of glass cases containing fragments of pottery and items of long-spoiled jewelry, toward a gallery lined with stone plinths, fragments of buildings and broken columns, stone tablets and engravings. Arthur flicked a switch on the wall and the lights stuttered to life, blinking as the electrical charge gradually warmed the bulbs running the length of the ceiling. Then, about halfway along the gallery, the curator came to a stop before a large marble wheel.

  "Here you are." His voice was a whisper. "This is what Mr. Gardici was so interested in acquiring."

  The Ghost turned to admire the artifact beside him. It was perfectly circular, about as tall as a man. The center had been cut out to form a ring of glistening white stone, and the band around the opening was as wide as the span of his hand. It was mounted in a tall wooden frame.

  The Ghost stepped closer, leaning in. The artifact was covered with an array of unusual symbols and pictograms that had been cut into the facing of the marble. They were unlike anything he had seen before, closer to medieval occult diagrams than anything Roman; circles with geometric shapes enclosed within them, a finger touching a sixpointed star, a crescent moon at the center of a starburst, a tower with an open eye at its base.

  "What are these?" He traced one of the pictograms with his finger.

  "We don't really know. They must have some pagan significance. They're certainly not symbols that found general use across the Empire, or even elsewhere in Pompeii, as far as we know. These are the only known examples in existence. It makes the exhibit very valuable, but only as an academic curiosity; something for fusty old scholars like me to obsess over. Most historians simply write them off as `ritualistic' and carry on with the more interesting stuff."

  "Do you think Mr. Gardici knows something about them that you don't?"

  Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Hardly. I think Mr. Gardici is enamored with the mystery of the piece, and has much more money than sense."

  The Ghost nodded. "Thank you, Arthur. Will you call me if he comes back, or if anything else out of the ordinary occurs?"

  "Of course I will." He paused. "Are you leaving, then?"

  "Yes. Time I was elsewhere."

  Arthur smiled. "One thing ... What are you going to do with that coin? It's just that I ..." He stopped as the Ghost flicked the coin through the air toward him, glinting as it caught the light. He scrambled to catch it.

  "Keep it. I know where to find you if I need it again."

  "Thank you, Gabriel." He clasped the coin tightly in his fist, as if afraid that he might open his hand, only to find that the precious object had disappeared.

  The Ghost smiled. "Now, how the hell do I find my way out of this place?" He glanced in both directions.

  "This way," Arthur said, as he led his friend away from the gallery. "I'll show you out the way you came."

  Moments later the Ghost was standing in the chill darkness of the Manhattan night. His trench coat whipped up around his legs in the stiff breeze. He couldn't shake the feeling that what Arthur had told him-about Gardici-somehow fitted with the murders, and with Arthur's thoughts about the Roman. If the man really was trying to identify himself with the Romans of the past, could he be the one behind the attempt to buy the stone relic? Could Gardici be working for the Roman? Anything was possible. He needed to keep an open mind. Now, though, he needed to return to Long Island, to Celeste, to Gabriel Cross. Tomorrow, he would return to the city, to trail the policeman he had met on the roof at Suffolk Street.

  Tomorrow, he would become the Ghost again.

  onovan heaved a heavy sigh and glanced up at the clock on the wall of his office. It was late. It would be dark outside, with just the play of the airship searchlights hanging over the city, picking out the buildings with their brilliant shafts of white.

  He was alone in the office. Mullins and the others had all gone, back to their wives, their beds, their secret drinking dens. Back to the quiet monotony of their lives. Donovan envied them that. He wished for that monotony, cursed himself for years spent craving excitement and adventure. He had that now, in spades. Had it, and wished he didn't.

  He glared at the hands of the clock as if trying, futilely, to prevent them from ticking. The room was silent save for that constant reminder, that ever-present tick-tock, tick-tock, counting down the seconds, minutes, and hours until his impending appointment with Gideon Reece.

  He'd sent Flora away that morning, to her sister's place in Brooklyn. He'd told her it was a surprise, that he'd arranged everything with Maud, called her the day before to organize the trip. He'd stood over her while she threw some things in a bag, collected her shoes and her makeup. Then he'd driven her to the station, watched her board the train. She'd been bemused, excited, unsure what to make of this uncharacteristic gesture. He'd kissed her hard and full on the lips, told her he would marry her all over again if he only could, and she had waved to him as the train hissed away from the platform, both charmed and-he could tell-concerned for him. He wondered if it was a form of weakness that had caused him to send her away, but decided it was, rather, a form of strength. He was protecting her, from Reece, from the Roman-and from what she might see when they finally got to him.

  He had dealt with that eventuality. He'd arranged for Mullins to pick him up in the morning, just in case. He couldn't protect them all. Mullins would know what to do. Mullins would understand.

  Donovan sighed a second time. He'd spent the day searching for the car with three funnels. It had proved fruitless, a waste of time. And besides, he knew that car would be coming to find him that very evening, regardless of whether he was able to locate it or not. In truth, the whole thing had been an exercise in trying to do somethinganything-that made him feel less impotent; anything to slow the inexorable movement of those ticking fingers toward their inevitable destination.

  He would fight back, of course he would. He had his automatic in his pocket, and he was handy with his fists. He would try to take Reece down with him. That much he had decided. But he knew that in the end, that, too, would prove futile. A gesture born out of desperation. Even if he managed it-even if he put a bullet in the vile bastardthere were fifty, a hundred more men like him, just waiting for their chance to step up and take his place. That was the nature of the mob. He knew that it wouldn't end, not until the rotten core had been exposed and flushed out, the wound cauterized. They needed to find the Roman himself. But they were a long way from that. At that moment, Donovan was having difficulty even proving the man existed.

  In his frustration, in the small hours of the morning, he had briefly entertained the notion of accepting the bribe. He'd dreamed up a whole scenario in which he managed to get inside the Roman's organization, becoming a trusted advisor, worming his way insidiously into the heart of the operation, and then, when the opportunity presented itself, taking out the men who mattered. But he knew how ridiculous that really was. He was no killer, no duplicitous agent, and he didn't have the stomach or the patience to see such an operation through to the end. He'd never win their trust, never do what was necessary. He'd be dead within a fortnight, and he'd die with a sour taste in his mouth and a stain on his hands. His colleagues-his friends-would look on his grave with disdain. No, he wouldn't take their blood money. Not tonight, not ever.

  The clock chimed as it reached the hour. Nine o'clock. Enough. He'd wallowed for long enough.

  Donovan got to his feet, abandoning the file he'd been pretending to read and reaching for his overcoat. It was a clear night, and he would walk home with a cigarette, maybe two. After all, he wasn't in any particular hurry.

  His heart pounding in his chest, palms sweaty in anticipation of the meeting to come, he flicked the light off in his office and took his leave.

  The Gh
ost, wrapped in his trench coat and clinging to a perch about thirty feet above street level, watched the policeman depart from the precinct building. A bone-deep cold chilled him to the core, and his breath fogged in the still air. The sky was clear: a thick, black canopy above the city, peppered with shimmering pinpricks of light.

  Far below, people were still milling about on the busy thoroughfare, hailing cabs, waiting for buses; going about their busy lives in search of distraction or entertainment. Going home to eat, drink, and fuck.

  The Ghost watched as Donovan joined the flow of bodies, keeping his head down, his collar pulled up around his neck against the chill. The end of the policeman's cigarette was like a firefly in the gloom, bobbing and dancing erratically as he strode along the sidewalk. Other pedestrians danced out of his way, a symptom, the Ghost suspected, of a hard stare and a purposeful stride. The Ghost wondered what was bothering the man.

  Stirring from his position on the ledge of the building, the Ghost tracked Donovan as he crossed the street and disappeared around the corner of an adjacent block, watching through the red filter of his goggles. He scrambled up onto the roof, securing his hat against a sudden gust and reaching inside his jacket to find the cord that would fire his rocket propellants. He gave it a sharp tug and the canisters ignited with a roaring flame. He felt himself lifting slowly off the rooftop and angled his body so that he could drift over to the roof of the department store across the street. From there he'd be able to hop from building to building, tracking the other man along the street, at least until he changed direction again.

  It hadn't been difficult to locate the policeman. The Ghost had found him emerging from the ruins of the Sensation Club a few hours earlier and had tracked him back to the precinct building, keeping to the rooftops and alleyways to avoid being seen. He'd taken the risk of venturing out in the mid-afternoon twilight, anxious to get on the trail of the man he hoped would lead him to the Roman. Donovan-that was the name he'd overheard one of the other detectives call him-had then holed himself up in the precinct and had remained there whilst a steady parade of junior officers quit the building, drifting away into the night. The Ghost had considered trying to find a way inside, or else a means to discover what the policeman was up to inside his office, but had given it up as a bad idea when he'd noted the police dirigible drifting ponderously above the precinct building, its searchlight sweeping languidly back and forth across the rooftop. So, instead, he had waited it out, and it looked as if his patience was about to pay off.