Page 37 of The Devouring Time

Adrian winces. “I doubt I’ll have the chance.”

“Then let’s hope she doesn’t notice the spare suit you store at her place is gone, or there’s going to be hell to pay for both of us.” Harry hands the cowhide bag over, tips his hat to me, and leaves without an introduction.

Adrian sighs and re-locks the door after him. “Harry thinks I need to find a wife and settle down, find something more respectable than working for an insurance company.”

“More respectable?” I ask. “It’s steady work, isn’t it? Certainly compared to Cleo’s.”

“Oh, he doesn’t approve of Cleo either, but knows better than to try and argue with her. Let’s just say Harry doesn’t hold insurance companies in high esteem.” Adrian waves the sentiment off and opens the bag. “Here.”

The dark blue suit, matching hat, fresh shirt, and underwear he hands me are familiar. “Wait—these are mine!”

“I passed your address along while I was on the phone with Cleo. She gave it to other people, who in turn know people who are good at getting in and out of apartments without being seen.” Adrian grins at my shocked look. “Don’t worry about it, I didn’t see anything there worth stealing. No offense.”

“Offense taken,” I mutter, clutching my suit to my chest. “I’m going to get dressed.”

I retreat to the bedroom and, for the second time that day, try to put myself in order. The sun has set on the short fall day, and the clock on the wall indicates we have a bit over an hour to get to Washington Square and NYU’s Main Building.

Adrian’s suit is more somber than the one he wore before, not to mention several years out of date. Still, he seems to be one of those men who can look good in anything. For once, I’m more appreciative than envious.

We walk to the nearest El station only a few blocks west of Cleo’s apartment, both of us on the alert for anyone following us. I don’t notice anything out of the ordinary, but that means little, considering the bustling nightlife all around. Women have switched out day dresses for beads and T-strap heels, while the men wear wide-legged tuxedo trousers with silk stripes. A touch of autumn chill hangs in the air, though the leaves in Central Park haven’t yet begun to fall.

I’m on edge until we board our train. Adrian chooses a seat all the way at the back of the final car, so no one can come up behind us. We keep a careful eye on everyone who boards afterward, but none of them seem to be paying us the slightest attention.

Eventually, we alight on 8th Street and walk the rest of the way to the university. Though Washington Square is used for after-dark assignations, these streets are notably quieter than the ones in Harlem or Greenwich. This time of night, few students or professors are about, and we have to knock on the great brass doors of the Main Building and summon a security guard to let us in. Adrian slips him a folded bill, and he directs us to Dr. Werner’s office on an upper floor.

The office door stands open; when he sees us, Dr. Werner rises to his feet, a broad smile on his face. He’s perhaps in his early sixties, his hair gray with a few strands of dark brown yet mixed in. A thick beard brackets his smile, and he wears a sober tweed suit and gold-rimmed glasses. “Mr. Evans! Right on time.”

26

Adrian shuts the door behind us when we enter. The office gives the impression of being smaller than it actually is, mainly because every wall is lined with bookshelves, and every flat surface buried under more books, scholarly journals, and other papers. Warm light glows from the green-shaded lamp on his desk.

“Dr. Robert Werner, this is my colleague, Sterling Caine,” Adrian says, and Werner shakes my hand enthusiastically.

“Always good to meet a friend of Mr. Evans. Here, just let me clear off this second chair—I didn’t realize we’d be joined by another investigator.”

Neither of us disabuses him of the notion. I gaze around the cluttered office as he settles back into his comfortable-looking leather chair, and am struck by a sudden pang. I can envision myself someplace like this, not that it was ever an option. My father and older brothers all work at the Springfield Armory factory, and I’d been expected to follow in their footsteps whether I wanted to or not. University was for other people, not hard-working men like us, or so they told me whenever I brought it up.

Then the war came, and I was drafted and issued a weapon built in that very factory. After, I was less concerned with what my family thought of me—it seemed so unimportant, compared to the things I’d seen and done. James had spoken of his dream of owning a bookshop when we met near the end of the war, so I joined him in New York and never looked back.

“It’s been a while since your firm had any need of my particular brand of expertise,” Werner goes on, settling himself. “You said your current case involves some sort of cult stealing fine art?”

“I’m afraid so.” Adrian leans forward. “Their symbol is an hourglass with a death’s-head hawkmoth superimposed over it.”

Werner pulls a clean sheet of paper out of his desk and passes it over. “Can you sketch it for me?”

Adrian is no artist, that’s soon very clear. “Here—let me,” I say, and manage to draw something that’s no work of art but at least resembles something the human mind can comprehend.

Werner studies it solemnly for a long moment, then shakes his head. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I don’t recognize it.”

Damn it. My shoulders slump, and Adrian sighs. “Thanks anyway, Dr. Werner,” he says.

“That doesn’t mean I can’t help you at all.” Werner sits back. “Can you tell me anything of their practices?”

“We saw one of their…meeting chambers?” I say, uncertain of the correct terminology. As I describe the place Davis took us to beneath his pharmacy, Werner’s brows crease in thought.

“It sounds familiar, but there have been many religions throughout history that conduct at least some of their rituals underground. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“They stole a painting, The Wheel of Aion by Bianca Giuliani,” Adrian says. “And a rare book, the Key of Mithras.”