40

40

P ENDERGAST TURNED ONTO 139TH street and headed east to Tenth Avenue, where Murphy was waiting with the carriage, along with a riding horse, saddled and bridled, tied up on a lead rope behind. He stepped into the coach, drew the curtains, then swiftly changed out of his disguise, shedding the crushed stovepipe hat and shabby greatcoat for a cloth cap and scarf, leather trimmed breeches and high boots, a musette bag, and a woolen riding coat of fine quality.

"He's a good gelding, this one," said Murphy, offering him the reins as he stepped out, completely transformed. "Name's Napoleon."

The chestnut beast eyed Pendergast, his ears perked. Pendergast stroked his neck, let the animal smell him a moment, and then took the reins, slipped his boot into the stirrup, and mounted.

"Take care, sir," said Murphy.

"I will, Murphy, and thank you. He seems a fine horse."

The two parted, and Pendergast started northward up Tenth Avenue, bent on his last and most important objective—finding Binky. He'd decided to layer his disguise: a farmer, supposedly returning to his farm from a day in the city, who in reality was an insufficiently disguised Pinkerton agent in pursuit of a fugitive.

By ten that evening, with the moon struggling to rise through icy vapor, Pendergast arrived at Kings Bridge, where the Boston Post Road crossed Spuyten Duyvil Creek, the body of water at the very northern tip of Manhattan Island separating it from the Bronx. Kings Bridge was the oldest bridge connecting Manhattan with the mainland, and as he approached he saw a faint light in the wooden tollhouse at its near end.

Pendergast halted, dismounted, and tied his horse at the hitching post. The toll master opened a small window and leaned out. "Greetings, traveler," he said, in a tired voice.

As he approached, Pendergast took in the cozy hut, warm from a woodstove, with a coffeepot and a pan of corn bread. "Greetings to you," said Pendergast.

"Ten cents, if you please."

Pendergast removed a silver dollar and laid it on the sill. "My good man, permit me a question: early this week, did you happen to be on duty at about two or three o'clock in the morning?"

"I did indeed," the man said, rousing himself at the question and by the sight of the silver coin. "What's it to you?"

Pendergast assumed an arrogant tone. "I'm a farmer, returning from a day in the city, and I'm wondering if my brother came through here around that time, Monday or perhaps Sunday night. He's an uncommonly tall fellow, thin, pale, face and neck wrapped up in a dark scarf, driving a cart loaded with hay hitched to a Belgian draft horse."

"Your brother, you say?"

"Yes."

There was a pause, and Pendergast ostentatiously laid a second Morgan dollar on top of the first.

The toll master eyed him up and down. "What's it all about?"

"I'm afraid that's none of your business," came the officious reply, pitched in a tone designed to arouse suspicion.

"It is my business if you're looking for information." The toll master paused. "And if I may say so, sir: if you're a farmer, then I'm President Hayes."

At this, Pendergast paused a beat. Then he broke into a slow, cold smile. "I can see you're not one to be easily fooled."

"I am not," the man said, a touch of pride in his voice.

Pendergast lowered his voice. "Well, then, I'll be straight with you. Confidentially, of course."

"That's more like it."

"I'm in pursuit of a fugitive from justice."

The toll master nodded, eager to hear more.

"Let's just say I'm a private detective from an outfit that isn't exactly unknown—if you get my meaning."

"The Pinkertons?"

"I didn't say that!" Pendergast leaned forward and lowered his voice still further. "The man I just described is a murderer and kidnapper. The fiend was last seen spiriting a young girl out of the city, trussed up in a hay wagon."

The man's eyes widened. "No!"

"I fear greatly that it's a fact. Now: did you see the man I described pass by?"

"Sir, I did in fact see the man you're describing. It was after midnight, in the wee hours of Monday morning. Not only that, but at the time I thought I heard a sound from the hay. It seemed the mewling of a cat… but I suppose it could just as well have been the muffled crying of a child."

"Is that so! I commend your abilities of observation. Did you exchange any words with him? Any clue, say, as to where he might be going?"

"He was completely silent. He drew up to the window, paid his dime, and then shook the reins and was gone over the bridge in a flash."

"He was moving fast, then?"

"Yes."

"No idea which road he took on the far side, where the toll road branches?"

"No, sir."

"Had you ever seen him before, coming and going?"

"I can't say—his face was entirely muffled up, as you noted, and it was a dark night—like tonight."

"Had you seen the horse before?"

"Can't say that, either. There are a lot of Belgians come through this way, pulling loads. That's a popular breed. The wagon looked like any old market wagon. Stank like sheep shite, I recall."

"You've been quite helpful." He gestured at the two dollars. "You've earned them."

"I'm not one to take money for doing good. I hope you catch the man, sir. I did feel he had an evil air about him."

Pendergast retrieved the coins, replacing them with a dime. "You are an honest man and a fine citizen to boot. Now: if anyone should inquire about me or this encounter, what might your response be?"

"That I've no idea what they're talking about and never saw the gentleman in question."

"Excellent. Thank you, toll master." Pendergast unhitched Napoleon from the post. And then, with a single, agile movement, he leapt into the saddle and pressed the flanks of the horse with his heels; in an instant they were galloping across the bridge and into the deep gloom of night.