A/N: Very long chapter ahead, and lots of stuff going on. :)


10. A Man in Trouble

Late on Saturday morning Stephen Masbath accompanied Ichabod to City Hotel. Stephen had gone the previous afternoon to find out if Mr. Latham was still registered there, and he'd taken the initiative to leave word for him on behalf of Ichabod explaining that he was in need of assistance and was interested in speaking with him again; was he available the next morning or afternoon? Latham had never answered.

When they arrived and asked for him the man at the front desk told them that he had gone out.

"I can leave word for him again if you'd like."

"Yes." Ichabod left a message in writing, asking Geoffrey Latham to contact him as soon as possible, reiterating that he needed his assistance and left his home address as the place where Latham should contact him.

They left City Hotel and walked to the Tontine Coffee House.

"Do you think Mr. Latham is trying to avoid you?"

Ichabod laughed softly. "It's quite possible. For now I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. He may have already had a previously scheduled appointment today."

Stephen looked around the room carefully when they entered the main room of the Tontine and then leaned up to speak to Ichabod.

"I don't see the man I spoke to the other day," he said, sounding discouraged. "Maybe he's only here on Mondays."

"Keep looking. He might be upstairs or in another room and may appear shortly."

They kept walking, heading toward the back of the main hall, watching the servers moving back and forth among the tables and booths carrying trays of food and drink. There were several patrons sitting and drinking coffee but the place was not terribly crowded today. Geoffrey was not seated at any of the tables.

"Didn't you say that Mr. Latham wanted to meet with you here? Maybe he is here today."

"Good thinking, Stephen. You're learning fast."

Stephen couldn't help beaming at his compliment. They made another survey of the room and Ichabod searched for the large blonde man that he'd met a week or so before; it seemed longer than that. Latham was not to be found here either. The two of them headed back toward the entrance and approached the front desk, where Ichabod addressed the young man working there now.

"Good morning."

"Good morning, sir. How can I help you?"

"I am Constable Ichabod Crane. Is Mr. Horn in today?"

The man shook his head. "He'll be in tonight. I am Mr. Franklin. Can I help you with something?"

"Would you please check if Mr. Geoffrey is in? If so, please tell him that Constable Crane is here to see him. He knows me."

Franklin excused himself, withdrew a set of keys from a drawer in the desk and went upstairs.

While they waited Ichabod took out his ledger, pen and ink and set it on the desk, preparing to write. Stephen stood quietly beside him, his eyes still combing the room, searching for the man that he'd spoken to.

Ichabod was not surprised when Franklin returned and told him that Mr. Geoffrey was not in.

"Have you seen him at all, sitting in this room maybe, going in or out?"

"No, I haven't. I've been working since eight o'clock this morning. Sometimes when it's busy I don't necessarily see everything that happens here, but it's been a fairly quiet morning."

"One more question. Who is the doctor that you call if someone falls ill here? I'm assuming there is at least one, since you let rooms upstairs and someone may become sick during the night."

"Dr. Booken. Charles Booken. He resides and practices on William Street."

Ichabod wrote down the name and the address that Booken gave him in his ledger.

"Has something happened to Mr. Geoffrey?" Franklin asked, concerned. "Is he ill?"

"I'm simply considering all possibilities. Do you know what time Mr. Horn will be arriving tonight?"

"There is a party beginning at seven o'clock tonight, so he will be here before then, probably at about six."

"Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Franklin," he said, closing his ledger and gathering his things. "Good day."

"Where to now?" Stephen asked as they made their way up Wall Street.

"Dr. Booken resides very close to our house. We can go home directly from there, so for convenience sake I'd prefer to visit him last. But it is a little too early to return to City Hotel to ask for Mr. Latham again anyway, and a little too early to revisit the Black Cat, which I'd like to do today. I shall have to come out again later in any case. I intend to return to the Tontine tonight when Mr. Horn is there."

"Maybe the man I spoke with will be there later."

"Yes," Ichabod replied, taking his meaning. "You shall have to come with me."

Stephen grinned.

"I'm a bit concerned leaving Katrina home alone tonight though," he fretted.

"She'll only be disappointed that she's not coming with us, Ichabod. Otherwise she'll be fine. I'm sure she'll keep the doors locked when she's alone and I can leave her my pistol."

"Mm. Well then, Dr. Booken it is."

They turned onto William Street and made their way to his office, which was across the street and a few doors down from their house. Ichabod led the way up the two front steps and pulled on the bell. The door opened after a few minutes and a short plump man in his fifties with very little hair on his head stood before them.

"Good morning, Dr. Booken."

"Almost good afternoon," he replied, his tone tinged with a subtle but unmistakable air of condescension. "How can I help you?"

"My name is Constable Ichabod Crane. I am looking for a man named Thomas Geoffrey, who I thought might be your patient. We were supposed to meet yesterday and he never appeared. I've been concerned that perhaps he fell ill or was injured…"

"Come in, Constable Crane. I suppose I shall have to take your word for it that you are indeed a constable, as you are not in uniform today."

"It is my day off. Still, I suppose I should have worn my uniform. I dislike it and prefer to take every opportunity not to wear it when I don't have to."

The doctor chuckled.

"Is Mr. Geoffrey here? Or has he been here in the past day or so?"

"No."

Dr. Booken led them down a hallway and into a sitting room.

"How did you come to search for him here?" he asked when they were seated around the low table in front of the fire.

"At the Tontine they told me that you are the physician they call on when someone there is sick or injured."

"Ah. Yes, this is true."

"Well, Mr. Geoffrey has been staying there. I thought that perhaps you met him or treated him…as I said, he seems to have disappeared and I'm concerned…"

"And you're leaving no stone unturned. Well, as a matter of fact, I did happen to tend to Mr. Geoffrey at the beginning of last month. He managed to make his way back to his room at the Tontine after…being injured…and someone came to fetch me."

"What kind of injury was it?"

The doctor studied him for some time. Ichabod sighed in exasperation.

"Do you remember the date?" he pressed.

"I don't remember it off-hand but I do have notes concerning my treatment of him. After the initial visit I still went to see him, to make sure he was healing properly and with no complications."

"Would you mind consulting your notes and checking that date for me?"

He stood up with a nod and left the room.

"He's an odd one, isn't he?" Stephen remarked softly.

"I suppose Mr. Geoffrey convinced the good doctor to withhold information in the same way he convinced Mr. Horn and the others at the Tontine to withhold information."

Dr. Booken returned several minutes later. "The seventh of March," he told him. "Or the sixth, depending on how you look at it."

"Excuse me?"

"It was long after midnight when I finally went to see him. So this occurred either late on the night of the sixth or the first hours of the morning on the seventh. I don't recall the exact time. I wrote the seventh down, but it was probably at least two o'clock in the morning on the seventh."

"I see." Ichabod withdrew his ledger and opened it, paging through it until he found the notes he'd made when he first came upon John Trent's body. Indeed he'd discovered it on the seventh of March, the morning following the brawl at Augie's place. He turned more pages until he found the notes he'd made after reading Constable Green's report of the riot. It had occurred on Thursday night, the sixth of March. Thomas Geoffrey had either been injured in the brawl or in the alley afterward, quite likely at the hands of John Trent. "He was at a tavern on the night of the sixth where a brawl broke out."

"Hmm, well he did have minor bruising on his face and arms. It's possible that those were caused when those parts of him made contact with someone's fist."

"But that is not what you were treating him for…"

"No. I treated him for a knife wound."

"He was stabbed?"

"Sliced." He made a gesture across his stomach. "He had a long gash right across here. Luckily it was a fairly superficial cut. His internal organs appeared to have been left intact and uninjured. I returned several times to change the bandage, to make certain there was no infection, to remove the stitches when the wound had healed. He was very fortunate."

"When did you last see him?"

"A week ago. Merely routine, to make sure he was healthy and that there weren't any unexpected…complications or secondary ailments that had arisen in the past month. Other than a sudden urge to dress like a beggar and a bent toward eccentricity he is fine these days."

"If he comes to see you again would you please contact me at the Broad Street Watch House? I should like to speak with him as soon as possible."

"I will. But be aware, Constable Crane, that if he is injured or ill when he comes to me my first duty is to heal him. I won't turn him over to you before that."

Ichabod's eyes narrowed. "And why would you be required to 'turn him over' to me, Dr. Booken? I merely said that I wished to speak with him."

Dr. Booken laughed. "It is only an expression, Constable. But if you prefer, I will treat him and make sure he is well enough before he speaks with you."

"Thank you for your time, Dr. Booken. Good afternoon." Ichabod glanced at the grandfather clock in the room. "It is good afternoon now."

"Touché, Constable," the doctor chuckled mirthfully. "Good afternoon."

"He's pompous," Stephen blurted out passionately as they crossed the street and walked to their own doorstep.

"Yes, he is, Stephen," he laughed. He admired Stephen's candor and honesty. "Pompous and patronizing."

Ichabod sighed.

"But then there are many who have the same perception of me."

Stephen looked up at him curiously. "I don't find you to be patronizing."

"Only pompous?" he asked amused, raising one eyebrow at Stephen as he gazed at him.

"You like to be right."

"Well," Ichabod laughed, "we all like to be right."

"Do you suppose he really did slip when he used the phrase 'turn him over to you'?"

"You're very perceptive. Yes, that is exactly what I thought. It's very possible that Dr. Booken already has it in his mind that Mr. Geoffrey is guilty of something and that I am on his trail. He recovered himself remarkably well, though."

"I wonder how he could have managed to kill Trent though. He would have had to somehow get his knife away from him, and after he was injured."

Ichabod shook his head. "Remember, Trent wasn't killed with a knife. In fact there were no stab wounds anywhere on his body, not even minor ones. He died from a blow to his head, a blow that was delivered with a blunt object. God knows where that object came from. It must have been something lying around the alley on the ground. Or maybe a third person inside Augie's tavern heard sounds in the alley and came out wielding it."

They reached home and entered the house, where Katrina was waiting for them with lunch prepared.

oooOooo

Ichabod almost laughed upon glimpsing the expression on Augie Smith's face when he looked up and saw him enter the tavern early that evening. He looked both apprehensive and annoyed. Stephen followed him in and Ichabod gestured for him to hold back until he signaled otherwise.

"What now, Constable?" Smith demanded. His breath reeked of liquor already. "Haven't I answered enough of your questions?"

"If you prefer I can drag you down to the Watch House."

"You're not in uniform," he retorted defiantly.

"That is a technicality that can be resolved. Constable Green is on this beat today and I can call him in if you insist on being apprehended by someone in uniform. Yesterday and this morning I discovered some new facts in this case and I should like to discuss them with you. These facts put your answers to my questions in a new light and I am compelled to investigate them further. You have not been truthful with me."

Smith's face reddened and he became obviously livid.

The door behind the bar was open halfway and Ichabod glimpsed Lydia's dark head. She peered out into the tavern, her eyes huge with surprise and fear. The same bruise was on her cheek but he was relieved to see that there weren't any new bruises; or at least they weren't on her face. Ichabod had been concerned for her well-being, worried that perhaps her father had caught her speaking with him in the alley and punished her with violence.

Augie glanced in her direction and she backed up, letting the door close behind her as she disappeared.

"Lydia," he muttered and followed up with several expletives that Ichabod was happy he couldn't hear clearly.

"I'm perfectly content to discuss everything here in the comfort of your tavern unless you insist..."

"This way, Constable," he replied, resigned.

Ichabod followed him to a table in the back of the room. Stephen bounded after them.

"So, you came back here to call me a liar?" he asked when they were seated.

"You were not truthful with me and you withheld information. Please don't attempt to deny it. Your daughter told me that she escorted both Mr. Geoffrey and John Trent, the victim, out through the back door from the kitchen on the night of the brawl. I think you knew that, despite the fact that you were busy speaking with Constable Green."

Augie Smith opened his mouth to protest but Ichabod held up his hand to silence him again.

"But whether you saw them leave or not you still lied to me about John Trent. When I questioned you both times you intimated that you didn't know him, other than having seen his face when he visited the tavern. You claimed that you didn't even know his name. But in reality you knew him quite well. And you disliked him."

Realization dawned in his face and Smith began to swear profusely. "Lydia. That stupid whore told you…"

Despite how shabbily he knew Augie Smith treated his daughter Ichabod was still shocked that he could speak of her in this manner. "She is your daughter!" he protested.

"And she's a whore."

He glowered at him defiantly when Ichabod said nothing.

"What are you looking at me like that for? You don't know me and you don't know her. Who are you to judge?"

Ichabod sighed and resumed his initial line of questioning. "You knew that she allowed them to leave through the back and yet you withheld that information from me. And you tried to intimidate your daughter and prevent her from speaking to me. I should arrest you for obstructing justice."

"I'm obstructing nothing, Constable. I didn't see what happened to John Trent, or whatever his name was. I came out into the alley much later and found him."

"But you knew that Mr. Geoffrey left with him, that he may have been the last person to see him alive, that perhaps he was the one that killed him. And you never came forward about it," he retorted sharply. "You left his body there in the alley without even contacting an authority!"

"There was nothing to be done about it. He was already dead and I figured one of you constables would discover him on patrol sooner or later. God knows Constable Green hovers around here enough. Chances were he would have at least stumbled across the body if nobody else did first."

Ichabod couldn't believe Smith's attitude.

"Mr. Smith, even if a crime had not been committed, do you understand that it was a health risk to leave a dead body in an alley? But this was murder, and there is a guilty man out there somewhere who is responsible, quite likely Thomas Geoffrey. You give me good reason to suspect that you might be protecting him now. Are you? He's not here but perhaps you know where he is."

He paused and studied Augie Smith closely when he received no answer.

"Well?"

"I have no idea where he is."

"Perhaps you are the one who killed John Trent."

"Well, the man was a low-life and I certainly wouldn't have hesitated to kill him had the opportunity presented itself. But fortunately, or unfortunately, someone else had the pleasure of doing it before I had the chance."

"It would seem you did not merely dislike him. You abhorred him."

"Of course I abhorred him. He was a despicable cold-blooded man. And that little whore was consorting with him on purpose to make me angry. Stupid. She could have gotten herself killed."

Ichabod winced as Augie Smith once more referred to his daughter in that derogatory manner.

"Well, it seems to have worked," he remarked, feeling a small twinge of pleasure when he saw that he was irritating Smith. "You're very angry. And it certainly gives you a motive to kill him."

"Yes," Smith sighed impatiently, "but I've already told you that someone else beat me to it."

"Thomas Geoffrey?"

"I have no idea."

"You referred to the dead man as 'John Trent, or whatever his name was'. Do you have reason to believe that John Trent was not really the man's name?"

"A lot of people lie about their names, Constable. Surely you've met many men who have. Sometimes it's to their advantage. It was certainly to John Trent's advantage."

"Of course it was, and Lydia thought the same thing, that it wasn't necessarily his real name. He was a thief who..."

"A thief?" he guffawed. "He was more than a thief."

"Yes, well, be that as it may I was under the impression that Trent intended to rob Mr. Geoffrey all along and that he lured him into the alley…"

Augie Smith snorted and leaned forward. "Is that what Lydia told you? My daughter thinks she's clever but as usual she had it all wrong. This is why I need to keep an eye on her and steer her right."

"What do you mean?"

But Smith merely leaned back in his chair and waved his hand in a dismissive gesture.

Ichabod gazed at him in thoughtful silence, waiting for him to say more. "I suppose you made it your business to find out all you could about John Trent."

Smith still didn't answer.

"It's understandable. You wanted to know as much as possible to protect your daughter."

"Constable, your so-called victim wasn't an upstanding citizen, and he was far worse than you imagine," he began quietly after some time, glancing around the room and then leaning in to speak to Ichabod confidentially. "John Trent was an assassin for hire."

"What?" Ichabod stared at him in incredulous silence for several minutes. "Mr. Smith, I don't know how you could possibly know that for certain. Did Mr. Trent advertise the fact that he was a hired killer so that his victims would recognize him and have fair warning?"

"It was known...among certain people, and I was able to find out about it. I'll leave it at that."

"I see. And so you became aware of this fact about Mr. Trent and never brought it to the attention of the authorities?"

"In the first place I never saw him in the act. I only know what I heard from people who kept their knowledge closely guarded. In the second place no one was going to cross a man like Trent, and that includes me. I was not interested in becoming his next victim simply because of what I happened to know. Why do you even care anyway? John Trent was paid to kill men who hadn't done a thing to him, men that he didn't even know or care a whit about, and he did it willingly. He had no reason other than money and gave it no other thought beyond that. Is the world really worse off without him in it?"

Ichabod fixed him with a steely stare and spoke sharply. "And so you are arguing that he deserved to die in the same way that he lived?" he challenged him in a cold tone. "That his life was worth nothing and that the murderer who took it from him should get away with it? The Court and the laws exist for a reason, Mr. Smith. It is not for any one man to take it into his own hands."

Augie Smith said nothing.

"But, if what you say about Mr. Trent is true then there is a very good chance that Mr. Geoffrey killed him in self-defense."

"Well, as I said, I didn't see him get killed. Maybe he did intend to murder Geoffrey. Or maybe they became friends over a drink and simply decided to escape together at the first sign of trouble. Unless you can find someone who did see it happen…well then, as far as I'm concerned the only thing that Geoffrey is guilty of is leaving the tavern with John Trent and being the last man seen with him."

"Yes," Ichabod sighed. "It does seem circumstantial at best. Except that Mr. Geoffrey was also wounded. He was sliced across his stomach. Did you know that?"

For a minute Augie Smith stared in silence at his hands, which were pressed palms down on the table.

"I had no idea," he answered finally.

Ichabod studied him closely.

"You don't believe me."

"Forgive me if I offend you, Mr. Smith, but you have not given me good reason to have confidence in the veracity of your answers."

"Is there anything else you wanted to know?"

He shook his head. "That will be all for now. Thank you for your time."

oooOooo

The Tontine Coffee House was packed when they returned at seven o'clock that evening. The veranda on the second floor was overflowing with men and women in elegant suits and gowns and people spilled out of the front entrance on the first floor onto the portico. Ichabod and Stephen made their way up the front steps and pushed through the crowd to get to the door. The ball that Mr. Franklin had mentioned was already in progress.

"There he is." Stephen pointed excitedly to a man who stood behind the main desk when they had finally made their way inside. "That's the man I spoke to."

Mr. Horn was standing beside him. They approached the desk and Ichabod greeted Mr. Horn.

"Good evening, Constable. Mr. Franklin told me that you were in earlier today."

Ichabod turned to the other man. "Good evening. May I have your name, sir?"

"It's Burke. Richard Burke."

"Mr. Burke."

"I see that you brought your little assistant with you," Horn remarked.

"My companion spoke with you on Monday about Jonathan Drake, Mr. Burke," Ichabod began, ignoring Horn's comment. "You told him that he tried to take a room here on the twenty-third of March."

"Yes. I don't remember the exact date but the twenty-third sounds about right. We were full that night."

Ichabod's eyes shifted to Horn, who had raised his hands and was grimacing at Burke in vain. Burke was looking straight ahead at Ichabod. Horn ceased his movements, trying to make it appear as if he were merely flexing his hands rather than holding them up in an attempt to stop Mr. Burke from telling him about Jonathan Drake.

"Did you refer him to another inn?"

"I referred him to City Hotel."

"City Hotel?" Ichabod repeated, blinking. It was too much of yet another coincidence.

"That's right."

Stephen tugged on his arm and Ichabod turned to him.

"City Hotel is one of the places I went to on Monday when I was looking for the place where Jonathan Drake might have registered. There was no Jonathan Drake registered there."

"He may have chosen to go somewhere else." He turned to Horn. "What do you have to say, Mr. Horn?"

"I'm at a loss, Constable Crane. I never saw Mr. Drake this time and had no idea that he had come here."

"Do you expect me to believe that?"

Richard Burke's eyes darted back and forth between his boss and Ichabod. They came to rest on Ichabod then and he spoke up. "Sir, Mr. Horn would have already been gone for the evening. It was fairly late at night when Mr. Drake arrived, and he hadn't written ahead as he usually does. I think he had to travel here to the city unexpectedly and didn't have time to contact us."

"You work at night?"

"Yes, I work from midnight to eight o'clock in the morning usually. Sometimes I'm in earlier, on nights such as tonight when it is busy and there is a party. This past Monday when the young man was in I was covering for someone for a few hours in the afternoon. But I'm not here at that time normally."

"I see."

"I'm here in the evenings to oversee things, Constable," Horn added, "but I leave early unless there is an event happening, such as the one tonight. And I do stay later on the weekends."

Ichabod took out his ledger and withdrew the sketch that Thomas Geoffrey had given to him.

"Mr. Geoffrey drew a sketch of the man whose murder I'm investigating." He handed it to Burke. "In the drawing he is wearing a laborer's clothes. But when I discovered him he was dressed in very fine clothes, as if he were a gentleman or a businessman. He may have patronized the Tontine. Do you recognize him?"

"Yes, that's Jonathan Drake. But he is drawn wearing his usual attire."

"What?" Ichabod exclaimed shocked.

Burke looked up.

"Mr. Burke, someone who knew Jonathan Drake came to identify the body of the man. He said that it wasn't him. I can't believe that he'd lie about such a thing."

"You think that Jonathan Drake is dead?"

"As far as I…" Ichabod trailed off and shook his head. "You said that this is his usual attire?"

"Of course it is. He is a well-established and well-to-do merchant." Burke held up the paper and turned it, and Ichabod saw that he'd been looking not at the picture of John Trent but at that of Geoffrey Latham. "He's dressed as he always is."

"Wait a minute," he began, the suspicion beginning to dawn on him. "There are two sketches, one on either side. Which one is Jonathan Drake?"

Richard Burke tapped the picture of Geoffrey Latham.

"Are you certain that is Jonathan Drake?"

He looked confused. "Yes, of course."

Realizing that there was a sketch on the reverse side, Burke lowered the paper and looked at the drawing of John Trent closely. "This man I don't know."

Burke glanced surreptitiously at Horn then handed the paper back to Ichabod. Ichabod stared at the sketch of Geoffrey Latham for a moment, dumbfounded. Then he held out the paper to Horn.

"Do you recognize one or both of these men?"

Horn glanced at one side and nodded, then turned the paper over. "This man in workman's clothes I don't know. I've never seen him in here. But the other man is Jonathan Drake, as Mr. Burke says."

"The first man, the one in workman's clothes, is the man I discovered dead in an alley. His name is John Trent. But I met this other man," Ichabod told them in a thin voice, taking the paper back from Horn. "The one you are both calling Jonathan Drake. He introduced himself to me as Geoffrey Latham."

Ichabod watched as the two men exchanged a bewildered glance between them. Then Horn turned to him and spoke.

"Constable Crane, Mr. Burke has told you all that he knows. I'm the one that you wish to speak with. May Burke be dismissed?"

Ichabod stared at him quizzically for a minute.

"I'm the one who has some of the information you're seeking."

"I see. Of course. Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Burke."

Richard Burke nodded and glanced nervously at Horn. Mr. Horn gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, grabbed the set of keys they'd seen Franklin take earlier and gestured for Ichabod to follow him. They left Burke working at the desk and walked up the stairs to the second floor. There was a large ballroom at the front of the building and to their right, which was filled with a large crowd of men and women, dancing, chatting, socializing. Horn led them in the other direction, down the hall to a room at the back, which Ichabod recognized to be the same room belonging to Mr. Geoffrey. Mr. Horn unlocked the door, opened it and gestured for them to enter.

"We're meeting in Mr. Geoffrey's room?" Ichabod asked.

"We can speak privately in here."

He followed them in, closed the door behind him and motioned for them to sit down in the plush chairs around the coffee table. He took the third chair.

"First of all, I didn't know that Jonathan Drake was here. At least not right away. Burke was telling the truth. I was not here when he attempted to take a room this last time."

"Alright," Ichabod replied with a nod. "But at some point later you discovered that he was in New York City?"

"You have to understand, Constable Crane, our customers sometimes request a certain amount of privacy. Part of our way of serving them is to be discreet and ensure that they keep that privacy. It was not my desire to deceive you…"

"Please come to the point, Mr. Horn," Ichabod said impatiently, leaning forward on the edge of his chair.

"Geoffrey is in trouble, Constable. But I'm sure you already know that. Whether his trouble is related in any way to the case you're investigating I don't know, but he's been in trouble for some time now. Yesterday after you came here looking for him I left word for everyone, on all shifts, to let me know when he returned. They had instructions to call for me at home if I wasn't here. I wanted to be the one to pass on your message to him. But he never came back. He has not been here since Thursday morning. You can see that the divan has not been slept on and his things are exactly as you saw them. Nothing has been moved."

"Do you believe that something may have happened to him?" Ichabod asked.

"I don't know. Geoffrey was injured at the beginning of March. There is a doctor…"

"Yes. I went to see Dr. Booken today to ask after him and he told me he treated him then. Mr. Franklin gave me his name this morning. If Mr. Geoffrey did fall ill or was injured he did not go to see Dr. Booken this time. I also questioned the man at the Black Cat today, which is where the incident occurred last month. He told me he was not aware that Mr. Geoffrey had been injured in any way despite the fact that it no doubt happened in back of his tavern. However, Mr. Geoffrey was not merely 'injured' as you put it. He was attacked with a knife and his attacker was able to take a good slice out of him before...well, I'm not certain what happened next. Somehow Mr. Geoffrey survived and his attacker wound up dead in that alley. I don't know for certain exactly what happened."

"But you think Mr. Geoffrey killed him?"

"Possibly. Or perhaps there was a third person there who did it."

"It would have been self-defense if he had."

"I'm well aware of that, Mr. Horn. Someone here helped Mr. Geoffrey the night he was injured and fetched Dr. Booken to tend to him. Correct?"

"Yes."

"I'm curious as to how Mr. Geoffrey managed to make his way back here. Although his wound wasn't as severe as it could have been, he still..."

"He had help, Constable. Two men brought him here. Carl was working that night; he sent for the doctor and hurried to my home to tell me what was happening. It was the middle of the night but still…the situation could have been volatile if people heard that a man who'd been stabbed was lying in a room here so we had to handle everything as discreetly as possible."

"Who were the two men that helped Mr. Geoffrey here?"

"I don't know. They were gone by the time I returned with Carl, but he may remember them. He'll be working again on Sunday evening. Tomorrow, that is."

"I see. Based on what I have found during this investigation I believe that the other man in the sketch, John Trent, is no doubt the one who sliced at Mr. Geoffrey with a knife."

"Geoffrey never told us the name of his attacker. Perhaps he didn't know it. But the man who attacked Geoffrey with the knife…it wasn't a robbery or anything like that. According to Geoffrey his intention was to kill him. The man was a hired assassin."

Ichabod's eyes widened. "Yes, the owner of the Black Cat told me the same thing."

"After this happened he asked us to protect him. He paid a lot of money."

"He bribed you."

"He asked for our help and we gave it to him."

"What did Mr. Geoffrey do, or what was he doing, that would have given someone reason to hire an assassin against him?"

"He didn't discuss the details and we didn't ask. Geoffrey escaped his fate but he was worried, with good reason, that when the man who hired this John Trent realized he'd failed he'd hire another man to try again. Anyone who came looking for him could have been an enemy, even those that he thought were friends. Our instructions were to tell them that he wasn't here, no matter who they were, take their information and then report back who it was that had come and asked for him. He started to dress in rags and covered his face in ash and grime to make himself unrecognizable. And up until now he has successfully hidden in plain sight."

"I came and asked for him, too. You didn't send me away."

"He told the desk that he was expecting a Constable Crane. We knew it was alright for him to see you."

"Mr. Geoffrey said he knows Mr. Drake, and he's drawn a sketch of him here. Since they both frequent the Tontine perhaps you know something of their relationship."

"They're business partners. And they've made investments together."

"That's extremely vague."

Horn shrugged. "I don't know the details that you're interested in."

Ichabod sighed. "What times does Carl arrive tomorrow? Does he start at midnight, the same as Mr. Burke?"

"No, he'll be here at eight o'clock."

"Then I shall return here at that time." Ichabod stood up, walked over to the writing desk and lingered for several minutes, staring down at Geoffrey's ledger filled with sketches. "I should have realized that something was wrong when I saw that he left his sketch book. He never went anywhere without it."

He took a seat at the writing desk now and opened up his own ledger to record everything he'd learned that evening.

"Do you have more questions for me, Constable?" Horn asked anxiously. "It is a busy night..."

"I won't be much longer, Mr. Horn," Ichabod cut him off and turned to face him while he asked more questions so he could observe his reactions. "Can you think of anyone that Mr. Geoffrey may have gone to for help in the last day or so? Perhaps he wished to hide and that person is helping him to do so."

"I'm sorry, I have no idea."

"Let me ask you...for some reason Jonathan Drake is pretending to be someone named Geoffrey Latham..."

"It appears so, yes. I don't know the reason."

"My question is, who is Geoffrey Latham then? Is there someone by that name who frequents this establishment? Do you know anyone by that name?"

There was no doubt in Ichabod's mind that Horn was jarred by this particular question. "I'm not certain. The name sounds familiar, but perhaps it is a common name."

"Well, this Geoffrey Latham likely came from Hartford."

Horn shook his head. Ichabod suppressed an exasperated sigh.

"One more question. Do you happen to know a man named Lefty?"

"Lefty?"

"Yes. The first time Mr. Geoffrey came to work for me Lefty accompanied him. Both of them worked. It occurs to me that perhaps he is one of the men who helped to bring him here the night he was attacked."

"I don't know anyone named Lefty, nor have I ever heard Geoffrey mention him."

Ichabod put away his ledger, pen and ink and stood up. His eye fell on Geoffrey's ledger of sketches once more and he stared at it for several minutes, deep in thought. He picked it up gingerly and began to flip through the pages, examining the sketches once again. An idea came to him then, and he moved back toward the coffee table and handed the sketch book to Mr. Horn.

"Would you please look through all of these sketches and tell me if you recognize anyone else besides Jonathan Drake in the drawings?"

"Certainly," Mr. Horn answered, opening the ledger with slightly trembling fingers and beginning to peruse the drawings.

Ichabod took a seat once more in the empty chair at the coffee table and watched Mr. Horn's face as he looked at the sketches.

"There is the same picture of Mr. Drake that you showed us." He flipped the page. "And the other man on the reverse."

"Yes, Mr. Geoffrey very kindly copied an identical sketch of both for me to use."

"Surely if he was guilty of something, Constable, he would not have aided you in that way."

"Perhaps. People are sometimes compelled by odd motivations." He nodded toward the book. "Have you seen anyone else you recognize?"

"Not yet." Horn continued turning the pages. "Ah, here you are, Constable. And I recognize Assistant Attorney General Colden. Oh, and there is James Watkins. A lot of these men I recognize, they frequently come in here."

"Of course. And you know all their names?"

"Yes. But there is no one here that I can identify as Geoffrey Latham. And I don't see Jonathan Drake in any other of these sketches." He continued looking through the book page by page. "I see this is all drawn in the court room. Wait a moment, is this the Eldridge trial that Geoffrey is sketching?"

"Indeed it is."

"This is amazing!" he exclaimed.

"Yes. Mr. Geoffrey is very talented."

"Very."

"He has decided to chronicle the entire Eldridge trial. That is another reason why I was concerned when he didn't appear yesterday. He seemed set on capturing each and every day of the proceedings. It didn't make sense that he would miss yesterday unless there was a very good reason for it. Perhaps the man who hired John Trent to kill him learned of his failure and hired someone else to try."

"That...has occurred to me, too, Constable Crane. It would mean his life may be in peril as we speak."

Ichabod nodded and stood up. "I shall do my best to find him before that happens. And...if you are holding anything back, Mr. Horn, I urge you not to. You must tell me what you know so I can help him if he needs it."

Mr. Horn nodded but didn't say anything. Ichabod sighed softly in frustration.

"Please contact me immediately if you hear anything concerning him," Ichabod added.

"I will."

They left Horn in the room and returned to the first floor, pushing their way through mobs of people until they finally made it back out to the street.

"So, the man who told you he is Geoffrey Latham is really Jonathan Drake?" Stephen asked wide-eyed as they made their way up Wall Street.

"It would appear so, though I cannot for the life of me fathom why he is pretending to be someone else. He not only lied to me as a perspective client but as a member of the constabulary. The truly puzzling...and very interesting thing is his certainty upon speaking with me that the body that we were exhuming for identification would be Jonathan Drake. Obviously he knew it wasn't going to be Jonathan Drake, since he is Jonathan Drake."

"But he did know who it was, didn't he? When he saw the body, I mean."

"Yes. He did know the man in the grave, I'm certain of that now. But the man in the grave was not who he thought it would be. That is why he looked so horrified. Before he even viewed the body he was expecting to see somebody different when I opened that sack."

"Who?"

"I don't know. Perhaps he expected to see the real Geoffrey Latham, whoever that is."

"Why would he want to change places with a dead man? Or a man he thought was dead?"

"That is a very good question, Stephen."

"I wonder what he would have done if you had agreed to take whatever was offered in your father's will."

"My guess is he would have signed all of those papers under his false name and later, if the fraudulent identity of the signing attorney became discovered, those papers would have been null and void."

"He must have known what a risk that was. When you found out..."

"I suspect that by the time the fraud was discovered Mr. Drake would have been long gone, out of everyone's reach." Ichabod sighed. "But that wasn't going to happen and he knew it. One thing I'm certain he wasn't lying about was that he knew my father, and attended his church in Hartford. And he was counting on the fact that I would have no interest whatsoever in my father's will."

His face and body flushed with anger as he thought of it. How easily these men from the reverend's church had played on his sentiments about his father, how vulnerable and foolish he was to allow it. He cursed under his breath.

"Where are we going now?" Stephen asked, interrupting his thoughts.

"To City Hotel."

Stephen looked taken aback by his suddenly curt tone. Ichabod took a deep breath and allowed his expression to soften when he realized that he had snapped at the boy. He reached down and patted his shoulder reassuringly.

"If we're lucky Mr. Drake has finally returned to his room."

They turned onto Broadway and City Hotel came into view. Ichabod somehow knew it was futile but they stopped at the hotel anyway and asked at the front desk for Geoffrey Latham.

"I've been trying to reach him for quite some time," Ichabod explained. "It is quite urgent that I speak with him. Has he returned yet?"

The clerk working at the desk called for the manager, who sent someone up to Mr. Latham's room to knock on his door after Ichabod explained who he was and why he needed to speak with Mr. Latham so urgently.

A few minutes later, while they waited, a lanky young man entered the hotel, strode up to the front desk and handed the manager a folded message. The messenger turned to go, but the manager called him back.

"Wait. I may be required to send a reply."

"But..." the youth began to protest but the manager cut him off with a stern look and reiterated that he wanted him to wait.

The manager broke the seal and opened the thick stack of paper. A key slipped out of the pages and dropped onto the desk with a dull thud. He picked it up and stared, puzzled, at it. Then he began to read the message on the pages that he held in his other hand, his expression changing to one of slight embarrassment and disbelief.

"You will want to read this," he said finally, somewhat awkwardly, and handed Ichabod the message.

Ichabod read it, his anger beginning to simmer as he did. It was addressed to the managers of City Hotel and signed Geoffrey Latham. Latham explained that he'd had to return to Hartford unexpectedly several days earlier and had never checked out; he was returning his key forthwith. His bill was paid through that Sunday morning and no additional money was owed. There was no return address provided.

Without a word Ichabod handed the pages back to the manager. He turned to the messenger and studied him closely.

"I am Constable Ichabod Crane, and I'm investigating a murder," he told him.

The young man blinked nervously. "I'm just delivering a message, sir..."

"You're not in trouble. I simply want to ask you some questions. Where did you come from?"

"From Pelham, sir."

"Pelham?"

"Yes, sir. From my father's tavern there."

"The man who wrote this message, did you see him?"

"No, sir. My father said that he's been holding this message for a man who was there a few days before. He had instructions from the man to deliver it here sometime today and he sent me with it."

"And you're just delivering it now?"

"Yes, sir." He looked sheepish. "I'm afraid I was...detained."

Ichabod sighed. "I see. What is the name of your father's tavern?"

"It's called the Watering Hole."

"Very well. I have no more questions for you."

"May I go then?" he asked the manager.

"Yes. Obviously I have no reply to send."

Looking relieved the young man hurried out of the hotel. Moments later the man who had gone upstairs returned and explained that Mr. Latham wasn't there.

"Thank you, William. It appears that Mr. Latham has already checked out. Here is the key to the room. I assume that his things are gone, but please open up the room and make sure." The man William turned and went off on his errand and the manager faced Ichabod. "My apologies, Constable. I believed that he was still registered here. We all did."

"It isn't your fault. Unfortunately Mr. Latham didn't leave an address in his message to which you can forward his things on. I expect that he took everything with him and if he did leave anything behind it is now the property of the hotel with his blessing. Did you take his address when he registered?"

"I'll look in the register book, but I doubt it. It wasn't necessary in his case. He paid in advance through this Sunday, which is when he originally intended to check out."

"I see." Ichabod waited while the manager reviewed the book, confirming that his address had not been obtained at the time he checked in. Moments later William returned and informed them that all of Mr. Latham's belongings were gone.

"Thank you for your assistance," Ichabod said politely. "Good night."

Stephen looked up at him questioningly when they stepped out onto the street again. He looked exhausted after his first full day of investigating. Ichabod placed a hand on the boy's shoulder.

"So Mr. Latham isn't registered here anymore? I mean Mr. Drake? Even though they said he was?"

"No, he left without formally checking out. That letter was his manner of doing so." Ichabod explained how Drake had left for Hartford but made it appear as if he was still registered at City Hotel. "I should have kept a watch over him. I let him slip away."

"But how could you have watched him? You had to be in Court every day."

He gazed at the boy warmly. "Thank you for your help today, Stephen."

"I hardly did anything."

"You made some good suggestions last night and today, and you helped me to gain information that I otherwise may have not obtained."

His eyes shone brightly and he smiled at Ichabod with pride.

"Where to now, then?"

"It's late and it's been a long day. We're both exhausted. Let's go home and get some rest."