Ghosts Of Manhattan Part 6

He swallowed the remains of his drink in one gulp. "I was."

She sat forward in her chair. She was both appalled and enamored. "Really? You went back. You brave, foolish, wonderful man!"

Gabriel waved his cigarette nonchalantly. "I didn't get very far. I asked a lot of questions. I discovered that the man we saw-the thin man in the evening suit-is called Gideon Reece. He works for the Roman, the mob boss who's been causing a stir. The police are looking into him, too. I met a nice inspector."

Celeste was just about to reply when a man Gabriel didn't recognize approached the veranda from across the garden. He wasn't wearing a bathing suit, but was dressed instead for the winter weather: a dark wool suit and a beige overcoat. He was wearing a brown hat. He beamed up at Gabriel and flashed Celeste a wide grin. "Quite a party you've got going on here, Mr. Cross. Unusual to see people in swimwear at this time of year."

Gabriel smirked. "Yes, indeed. Trying out my new acquisition. It's called the Johnson and Arkwright Filament. It heats the pool, you see- "Yes, I'd gathered as much." He looked down at his right hand, as if studying the palm, and then thrust it out in Gabriel's direction. "The name's Houseman, Jack Houseman. I'm with the New York Times."

Gabriel looked the man up and down appraisingly. There was an awkward moment while he made up his mind whether to take the man's hand or not. Then, remembering he had a role to play, he slid his gla.s.s tumbler onto the table beside him and leaned forward on the lounger, grasping the reporter's hand. "Good to meet you." He looked over the other man's shoulder. "You're welcome to join the party."

Houseman grinned. "Deadlines, Mr. Cross. I'm sure you understand."

"I'm sure he doesn't!" Celeste half-whispered, a sweet smile on her lips.

Houseman laughed. "I understand there was an ... incident the other night, downtown."

The smile suddenly faded from Celeste's face. She glanced nervously at Gabriel to see how he was going to react.

"And what incident would that be, Mr. Houseman ... Jack? I can call you Jack?"

Houseman nodded. "You can call me Jack. The incident with the vigilante. The Ghost." He raised his eyebrows in antic.i.p.ation, as if what he really meant to say was, "How could I mean anything else?"

Gabriel laughed. "Oh, that. Yes. The incident." Celeste fell back in her chair, clearly relieved, and retrieved her gin and tonic, sipping at the straw, turning her attention to the revelers by the pool. Gabriel watched her for a moment. Then he turned to the reporter. "You want to know what happened?"

"Yes. I'm writing a piece about him."

"Well, I'll tell you. He's a menace. Make sure you get that in. A menace. I was driving through town the other night, on my way to a party, when he simply ran out in front of my vehicle. I had to slam the brakes on and nearly knocked the guy across the street." Gabriel rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, as if unconsciously remembering the pain. "Jarred my neck, banged my hand. And all he did was lean on my hood and stare at me through the winds.h.i.+eld. I think he must have been in a sc.r.a.pe, judging by the state of him." Houseman frowned, but Gabriel continued before he'd had chance to speak. "I mean, who does this guy think he is, anyway?" And then, "I'll tell you something. I'm going to find out. I'm going to discover the truth behind this so-called vigilante. I'll expose his true ident.i.ty, and then everyone will know what a danger he is to the people of New York!"

He sat back, looking satisfied with himself. He knew this wasn't quite the true picture of how events had played out, but then, everyone was ent.i.tled to embellish things a little on occasion, and it suited him to add a touch of drama to proceedings.

Houseman looked rather taken aback by the outburst. "I can see you feel quite strongly about the matter, Mr. Cross. Can I ask: how do you plan to go about exposing this man?"

Gabriel sniffed. "Money, Jack. You can buy anything these days, for a price." He only wished this wasn't true. He glanced at Celeste out of the corner of his eye. Perhaps there were some things that money couldn't buy, after all.

Houseman nodded, as if he suddenly understood. "Very well. I think I have everything I need. Thank you for your time, Mr. Cross."

Gabriel nodded. "Are you sure you won't join the party?"

Houseman paused. "That's a merry-go-round I don't think I can afford to be a part of, I'm afraid." He turned and walked away across the lawn, heading for his parked car, back on the graveled driveway. Gabriel watched him drift away. A merry-go-round. Yes, that was a good description. Sometimes he wished he could jump off, too.

Celeste rubbed her arms, feeling the cold. "Can we go inside?" she said. Then, after a moment, "Can we go to bed? I want to be held."

Gabriel nodded, all of the bravado and flippancy suddenly gone. "Yes," he said, his voice quiet and serious. "Yes, we can go inside."

He dropped the end of his cigarette into the ashtray and stood, taking her by the hand. Together, they left the veranda, the party, the New York Times, and all of their fears, and Gabriel led her up to his bed.

Gabriel stirred and opened his eyes. He'd been asleep for some time. It was mid-afternoon and the sun was setting outside, the light becoming hazy, textured, as if seen through a filter of gauze.

Celeste was nearby, perched on the edge of the bed. He watched her for a while, choosing to feign sleep for a little longer. She had her back to him. If he'd been a religious man he might have seen G.o.d in the curve of that back. But Gabriel had abandoned G.o.d long ago. The war had done that to him. Now, he had faith only in money and, perhaps, in the woman who sat on the edge of his bed, languorously smoking an unfiltered cigarette.

She turned to look at him, glancing back over her shoulder. Her painted lips were slightly parted, red and glossy. She blinked, and her long lashes stirred like brushes. She allowed a thin plume of smoke to escape from her nostrils. "When we do that ... it's the only time I see you." Her voice was soft, subdued, as if she was aware of the weight of her words. She took another draw on her cigarette, the crisp sound of the smoldering paper the only noise in the room.

Gabriel let the moment pa.s.s. She was right. Of course she was right. It was the only time he let his guard drop. The only time he wasn't in control, wasn't Gabriel Cross. But he couldn't bring himself to give voice to that, to share that recognition with her. He couldn't admit that the man he saw in the mirror each morning was a reflection of somebody else. So instead he smiled and leaned back luxuriously on his pillow, reaching for his cigarette case on the bedside table.

"Then we should do it more often." He smiled, but the moment was gone.

She looked at him, confusion in her eyes. "What is it? What happened to you out there? What caused so much damage that you have to hide behind this preposterous facade?" She turned, crossing her legs on the bed so that she could face him. She traced her fingers over the scars on his chest, running her fingertips over the puckered skin. Some of those scars were fresh. Some of them were very old. Each one held a memory.

Gabriel looked away, watching the sunset through the window. "I I saw things out there. Things you would never believe. Things that no man should ever have to see. I know what lurks in the shadows, Celeste. I know what's out there in the darkness."

Celeste lay down beside him, resting her head on his chest. Her auburn hair was like a splash of bright red blood against his pale flesh. Her voice was barely a whisper. "I know more than you think, Gabriel."

He closed his eyes, and wondered if she really knew. She couldn't. She couldn't have seen what he had seen. She couldn't even begin to imagine. If she knew ... if she had any notion of what was waiting out there in the night ...

Yet she clearly knew something. Something that meant she had to hide out here on Long Island, to shut out the world and pretend that nothing had happened back at Joe's. Something to do with Gabriel Reece and the Roman, a secret life he knew nothing about. So what was she trying to tell him? What did she mean?

"Celeste ... I ..."

Celeste gave a long, tired sigh, and he realized she had finally fallen asleep. He smiled. The revelations would have to wait.

He stayed like that for a few minutes, stroking the back of her head, waiting until he was sure she had fallen into a deep slumber. Then, lifting her head gently so that he could slide his arm out from beneath her, he arranged her carefully on the pillows and searched out his clothes.

Henry would have the car waiting for him round the front, and he had somewhere he needed to be.

rthur Wolfe was an Englishman, which, given the current political climate in Manhattan, was perhaps not one of the most healthy provenances for a museum curator-or anyone else, for that matter. He'd lived in the city for over thirty years, since well before the outbreak of war, and long before the accession of Queen Alberta I. In those days he'd been welcomed as a kindred spirit, an expatriate from the motherland, an intelligent man in an intelligent city, a city full of metropolitan ideals and acceptance. Then the war had come, and whilst the British Empire had allied itself with its American cousin, the alliance had proved uneasy. When the British finally wheeled out the great weapon that won the war-the Behemoth Land Crawler-the Americans had grown concerned. The British were a superpower with a long history of invasion. They had once conquered half the globe, holding most of the known world in their sway. And now Alberta I was on the throne and had proved cold to her mother's former allies, referring to them in public as "those upstart colonists." She was a traditionalist, and believed that the British Empire needed to reclaim its former glories. The White House was worried, precisely because they believed she had the power to do it.

The result had been the dawning of a cold war between the British Empire and the American Republic. And in turn that had led to a rea.s.sessment of the allegiances between former friends. It started first with strangers, visitors to the museum picking up on Arthur's unfamiliar accent, offering sly comments and sideways looks. But it soon spread to those Arthur had considered friends; the dinner invitations dried up, and he was no longer deemed a desirable person to have at a party. He'd continued working at the museum, tolerated because of his expertise in European history. But times were hard for Arthur Wolfe, and the Ghost, who'd never given much credence to the notion of racial responsibility, still considered the man to be a good friend. Indeed, he was the only person in the world to whom the Ghost had revealed his true ident.i.ty, and to that end, he was one of the vigilante's most trusted companions.

Night was falling as the Ghost made his way across Central Park, his hat pulled down low over his face. He kept to the shadows that pooled beneath the clumps of trees like inky puddles, careful not to be seen by any casual observers. In truth, the park was near deserted, but he knew there were uniformed police officers patrolling the area, and he was anxious not to run into any trouble. At least not yet. There'd be time for that later.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art was an immense, gothic structure that squatted like an ancient stone monolith beside Fifth Avenue. It was a repository of exotic treasures from all over the world, and Arthur Wolfe had spent years acquiring statues, artifacts, and trinkets for the Roman exhibition, turning it into one of the finest collections outside of Rome itself. During the day, people swarmed to see the vast forest of marble figures that filled the exhibition halls, or to admire the gla.s.s cases full of spear tips, arrowheads, and Roman coins.

It was for this reason that the Ghost had decided to pay a visit to his friend that evening, and had called ahead to ensure that Arthur would be able to meet with him. The man had seemed fl.u.s.tered on the holotube, yet cheerful in his peculiarly British way, and had relented when the Ghost explained the situation, agreeing to cancel his planned trip to the theater to meet with the vigilante at the museum. It wouldn't do for the Ghost to be seen taking the steps up to the main entrance, even at night, and so they had agreed to meet at the rear of the building so that Arthur could admit him by a back door.

As he hovered beneath a tree, waiting for his friend to show, the Ghost turned the Roman coin over and over between his knuckles, giving the illusion that it was trickling over his hand like a s.h.i.+ning stream of bronze. It was a trick he'd learned as a boy, and he did it now, absently, as he reviewed in his mind the details of his meeting with the policeman the previous evening. He needed to find out more about the man. He could be useful. If he was also looking for Reece, there was a chance that, with the resources of the police department at his disposal, he could find him first. And that would lead the Ghost right to the Roman's door.

There was a sound from across the path. A door opened and a man appeared in the shadows, glancing from left to right. The ghost recognized him immediately.

"Are you there?" Arthur's voice echoed on the still November air. The curator had never been one for subtlety.

Sighing, the Ghost stepped out from beneath the tree and, glancing up and down the path to ensure there were no pa.s.sers-by, darted across to greet the curator. "Yes, Arthur. I'm here."

The Englishman-tall, gaunt, with a floppy, angular crop of mousy hair, thin wire-framed gla.s.ses, and a crooked nose-regarded the Ghost with the haughty air of someone who had been very much caused to go out of their way. He peered down his nose at the vigilante. "It's late."

The Ghost nodded. "That's rather the point, Arthur."

The man seemed to think about that for a moment. Then, turning his body slightly but still keeping hold of the doorframe, he ushered the Ghost inside. "Well, I suppose you'd better come in, then."

The Ghost stepped through into the museum. The lights had been turned down, and the place had the eerie atmosphere of a mausoleum: funereal, silent, as if the weight of history was bearing down on them. The exhibits seemed to watch the two men as they made their way across the hall. Monolithic structures and blank faces loomed over them in the gloaming. Gla.s.s cases filled with unimaginable treasures covered every wall. They emerged in the rear of the American Wing. Arthur had let him in through a fire escape.

The Englishman lowered his voice to a whisper, catching the Ghost by the elbow. "Come on, let's go to my office. There are still guards about. I don't want to have to answer any awkward questions."

The Ghost nodded but remained silent, partly in reverence to the ancient artifacts that surrounded him, partly to avoid drawing any unwelcome attention to his late-night visit. He followed Arthur as the curator wound his way through the exhibits, took the stairs to the next floor, and led the Ghost along a row of small offices to his room at the end of the corridor. "In there. We can talk without being interrupted."

Arthur's office always reminded the Ghost of his workshop. It was scattered with all manner of bizarre antiquities: the marble head of a statue, a broken amphora, a sheaf of old ma.n.u.scripts, a stone casket, a map, and an a.s.sortment of clay tablets impressed with text in a variety of ancient languages. Many other peculiar items lined the shelves and surfaces, cramming the small s.p.a.ce, filling the air with an old, musty scent. Then, incongruous amongst the dusty relics, there was the viewing machine that dominated completely an entire desk; a series of mirrored plates and long bra.s.s scopes, each one capped with a different lens, fixed to a rotating pillar. It was essentially an enormous microscope, but its power was beyond any similar device that the Ghost had ever encountered. He'd witnessed Arthur using it on more than one occasion, and it never failed to impress him with its results. He hoped the curator might use it now to investigate the bra.s.s coin he had come to discuss.

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 s.h.i.+ny 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 gla.s.s 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 cl.u.s.ter of myriad eyepieces rotated until Arthur was satisfied. Then, stooping, he placed his eye to the lens.

Minutes pa.s.sed. 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 G.o.ddess 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 wors.h.i.+ppers." 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 pa.s.sion 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 circ.u.mstances. He understood the obsessive impulse; recognized a kindred spirit.

The two men made their way along the silent pa.s.sages 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 gla.s.s 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."