It was Saturday again, my designated day for leading Maxwell to breadcrumbs, and I knew exactly where to lead him.
But Maxwell had other plans. Despite the fine weather, he wasn’t waiting for me on his stoop. And when I drifted upstairs to nudge him out the door, I found him sitting comfortably at his desk with no sign of wanting to leave. I gave him a little push to urge him on, and he smiled.
“Ah, you’re here,” he said. “Before we leave, I have a request.”
I was intrigued. A request?
Maxwell pointed to his desk, and I saw a strange object upon it. At first glance, it looked like a clock resting on its back. It was the size of a dessert plate, with a brass frame and a curious brass knob in the middle. The knob was engraved with the lettersSJA, which I assumed, at the time, were the initials of the device’s prior owner. Looking more closely, I realized that along the edge of the clock were not numbers, but letters, along with the words “Yes,” “No,” “Don’t know,” and “Change the question.”
Now I understood, and I couldn’t have been more pleased. It was a spiritoscope.
“I’m glad you approve,” Maxwell said in response to my burst of enthusiasm. “First. You must tell me your name, if we are to converse properly.” He gave a wry smile. “I hope it isn’t very long.” Maxwell placed his fingers on the brass knob and began slowly turning the dial, the brass hand clicking as it reached and passed each letter. When the brass hand arrived at theS, I pressed a sense of encouragement upon him, and he stopped. “Excellent.S.”
We had some confusion with theA, for he thought I was still referring to theS, but soon enough he understood and moved on to the next letter. Maxwell repeated the process until he reached theM, and I sent him my approval.
“S-A-M. Sam.” He said my name aloud, and it was curiously thrilling to hear myself addressed in this way, as if I were truly in the room. “Is that your whole name?” He turned the dial to the “No.” I waited. Then he turned it one notch further.
Yes.
“Sam, thank you. Now we can talk more directly.” He sat back in his chair. “I’m deeply grateful to you for all your assistance this summer. You’ve helped me time and time again. However…” Hepaused. “The unfortunate corpse you led me to signals some very grave crimes, I believe.”
Yes.
“And you wish to help me apprehend the perpetrators?”
Yes.
He nodded. “This will be dangerous work, Sam. It is essential that we communicate clearly. So now…” He sat up in his chair. “Let us look to the crimes at hand. You first made yourself known to me on the day I was investigating the death of Elizabeth Baines. Correct?”
Yes.
“Good.” He nodded. “That crime remains unsolved, as do the other four stoning deaths. Elsa Manning, Florence McGuire, Viola Miller, and Gertrudis Buendía. Were all these crimes committed by the same person?” He turned the brass hand to the “Yes,” but I couldn’t agree. They were, and they weren’t. After a moment, he shifted to the “No.” That wasn’t correct either. He turned the dial to “Don’t know.” I waited. Lastly, he turned to the phrase “Change the question.” I affirmed his choice.
“Hm…” He sat back, thinking. He looked out the window, and I followed his gaze to a pair of boys who ran along the sidewalk, racing each other amicably toward the corner. Maxwell frowned. “Perhaps there isn’tonekiller, for the stones were many. Sam, were these murders committed by the samepeople?”
Yes.
“Ah!” Maxwell nodded. “Good. Now…are the authors of these crimes connected to the creature in the wood?”
Yes.
“Perhaps it is no mere connection. Are the same people responsible forthatcrime?”
Yes. I felt such relief—finally, finally someone understood!
“I thought so.” Maxwell sat up straight in his chair. “Now, Sam. The crux of the matter. I need a name. Someone who is part of the group, the name of a street, anything. Give me a name to start with.”
This was both simple and not. Simple to name the villains, impossible to describe their entire membership, the list of participants, the workings of the complex scheme on the table at the Embalmer’s house. It would take us years spelling out words on the little spiritoscope.
Maxwell patiently placed his finger on the brass knob. I led him toC, and thenI, and thenS. But then, instead of continuing, he rose slowly to his feet and stared across the room at some indeterminate point. He had a tension about his face, a repressed energy in his stance, that I hadn’t seen before. Reflexively, his hand moved to the ring on his hand—the token that altered his appearance—and he turned it once, twice, as if to assure himself of its presence. Now he spoke in a low voice. “Sam. Is it the Cisneros Society?”
He knew. Heknew! No, he suspected. Something had made him suspect the shadowy Cisneros Society—perhaps its very secrecy—and now I gladly confirmed his suspicion.
“Excellent.” Maxwell smiled grimly. “I know of the Society, but I don’t know its members. Can you show me them?” I didn’t respond, for I could think of nothing worse than Maxwell confronting Draken on his doorstep. His brow furrowed, and he walked back to the desk. “Tell me, Sam. What is your hesitation?” He put his hand on the brass knob, and I made him spell out my fears, letter by letter:D-A-N-G-E-R. “I know, Sam,” he said quietly. “I know. We have our work cut out for us. But we must act.What if you point them out to me, and I won’t take any action until I have the numbers to do so?” Still, I hesitated. “I will be careful. I promise you.”
Finally, I assented.Yes.
“Good.” He carefully tucked the spiritoscope into a leather carrying case with a long, wide strap. Then he sat on the little bench by the door to lace his boots; he donned his hat, took up his truncheon, and placed the Ovid in his coat pocket. “Lead on, Sam. I’m ready.”
