Page 44 of Angel of Vengeance

At this, she burst into laughter. “You always give me something to think about, you do! Now remember: supper’s at half past six. We’re having roast hogget.”

“In that case, I’ll come back with an extra-sharp appetite.” Wrapping the scarf tightly around his neck and tucking it into his coat, he opened the front door and—black upon black—strode out into the failing light.

38

THE ODD FIGURE WOBBLED down West 137th Street, a man with long black hair, a swollen nose with burst veins, a shabby frock coat and filthy gaiters, and a partially crushed stovepipe hat perched on his head as the final touch. He trailed a distinct smell of whisky behind him. He approached the corner of Riverside Drive, passing by the somber Beaux Arts mansion that dominated the block, turned the corner, and continued north, humming tunelessly. Veering diagonally across the drive, he jauntily staggered down into newly built Riverside Park, converted from a railyard only a few years before and still not finished. Here, he spied two other malingerers sitting on a stack of granite blocks not far from the tracks of the Hudson Railway.

“A good evening to you, fellow bindlestiffs!” he cried, pulling out a quart bottle and waving it like a white flag before taking a good pull. The two tramps, who had been guardedly watching his approach, softened their expressions.

“Come join us, friend,” said one.

The tramp seated himself and offered the two others his bottle. “Old Overholt,” he cried. “Not as aged as one might like—perhaps Young Overholt would be a more appropriate name. Ha ha ha! But never mind: fine stuff, fine stuff!”

One took it, swigged, and passed it on. The newly arrived tramp stuck out his hand, fingers protruding from dirty fingerless gloves. “Stovepipe’s my moniker.”

The two tramps introduced themselves as Galloon and Howitzer.

“Help yourselves to more refreshment,” said Stovepipe, courteously refusing to accept the bottle reluctantly passed back to him. This considerably cheered the tramps, who took several more enthusiastic pulls each.

“Thank you, friend,” said one, wiping his mouth. “That’s some good coffin varnish.”

Stovepipe issued a cracked laugh and gave the man a slap on the back. “Yessir!”

The bottle went around again, the two tramps indulging themselves even more liberally than before.

“Haven’t seen you in these parts,” said Galloon.

“Just arrived,” Stovepipe said. “Looking for work.”

“What kind of work?”

“As little as possible.”

This got a round of laughs, and the newcomer continued. “Stableman, when I have to be. Just got here from old Boston. I’m a little light on the spondulix at the moment, and I heard the city’s a-growing, lots of jobs.”

Galloon spat. “Not for us.”

Stovepipe waved his hand. “With all the rich people around here? Take that mansion up there. They must have at least a coach and four.”

Galloon shook his head, taking another pull. “Skinflints.”

“You seen what kind of coach they drive? Asking for professional reasons, you understand.”

“Oh, a big old varnished thing, four-in-hand, like you said. Comes and goes at all times of the night and day.”

“Anything else?”

“A wagon, pulled by a Belgian.”

“A four-in-hand and a Belgian? My word. Where do they keep the horses?”

“In the mews right around back of the house.”

“Now that’s some useful information!” Stovepipe scratched thoughtfully at his stubbly chin. “What kind of wagon did you say?”

“A farm wagon, just a horse and cart. I saw it not but a few days back, headed out around midnight.”

“A few days back? You mean, Monday?”

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