The Angel of Darkness

727 Pages·1997·2.99 MB·English

by  Carr Caleb

“DARKLY COMPELLING …
VIVID AND ENTHRALLING.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Suspenseful … Through the observations, discoveries, and confusions of his
idiosyncratic detective squad, Carr deftly scrutinizes ‘the secret sins of American
society’ and the perpetual proposition that the greatest mystery is the human
mind.”
—Los Angeles Times Book Review
“[An] adept mixture of period detail and psychological sleuthing … Filled with
enough outsized personalities and sensational events to keep the most jaded tabloid
reader eagerly turning its pages.”
—The Wall Street Journal
“Here’s New York circa 1897, city of unparalleled corruption and splendor, city of
fine dining and seedy taverns…. Few writers are as adept [as Carr] at fashioning
revelations that detonate, chapter by chapter, like carefully positioned explosions.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Penetrating … An entertainingly convincing read.”
—People
“SOLIDLY SCARY…
A terrific sequel … Better and more suspenseful than its pulse-pounding
predecessor.”
—The Cleveland Plain Dealer
“[A] labyrinth of crime and psychology … What worked so well in the first book—
late-nineteenth-century New York City with all its splendor and warts—is just as
engaging in the second Is The Angel of Darkness as good as its predecessor? No. It’s
better.”
—San Diego Union-Tribune
“Another crowd-pleaser … This case begins with the brazen kidnapping of an
infant. Before it’s over, readers will be treated to some chilling insights from one of
the earliest practitioners in psychology; plunge into a courtroom battle pitted
against none other than Clarence Darrow; and follow Teddy Roosevelt with a
handpicked batch of sailors through the gang-infested streets of lower Manhattan.”
—Minneapolis Star Tribune
“A spirited yarn … Both a tale of serial murder and an argument for understanding
the criminal mind.”
—Boston Sunday Herald
“COMPELLING…
A HISTORY-RICH
PAGE-TURNER …
One that will keep you entranced until the final pages.”
—Memphis Commercial Appeal
“As it was for Arthur Conan Doyle in the Sherlock Holmes mysteries, the late
nineteenth century is a fascinating backdrop for a detective story…. For the
millions of readers who enjoyed The Alienist, this book is a delight.”
—Fresno Bee
“A bewitching and richly fabricated plot, dark and dangerous and as cluttered with
unexpected horrors as some of the alleys down which Kreizler and company trod in
pursuit of grim justice.”
—Eastsideweek (Seattle)
“Entertaining and enthralling.”
—The State (South Carolina)
“Absorbing… The ambiance is convincingly thick and period-flavorful, the
murderous details satisfyingly gruesome An enormously entertaining and satisfying
reading experience.”
—Kirkus Reviews
By Caleb Carr: CASING THE PROMISED LAND
AMERICA INVULNERABLE (with James Chace)
THE DEVIL SOLDIER
THE ALIENIST
THE ANGEL OF DARKNESS*
Published by Ballantine Books
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To my mother and father
“It is not having been in the dark house,
but having left it, that counts.”
—THEODORE ROOSEVELT

CHAPTER 1
June 19th, 1919
here’s likely some polished way of starting a story like this, a clever
T
bit of gaming that’d sucker people in surer than the best banco feeler
in town. But the truth is that I haven’t got the quick tongue or the slick
wit for that kind of game. Words haven’t figured much in my life, and
though over the years I’ve met many of what the world counts to be the
big thinkers and talkers of our times, I’ve stayed what most would call a
plain man. And so a plain way of starting will suit me well.
The first thing to do, along these plain lines, is to say why I’ve closed
the shop up and come into the back office on a night when there’s still
plenty of business that might be done. It’s a fine evening, the kind what I
used to live for: a night when you can take in all the affairs of the
avenue with nothing more than your shirtsleeves for cover, blowing the
smoke of a dozen good cigarettes up to the stars above the city and
feeling, on balance, like maybe there’s some point to living in this
madhouse after all. The traffic—gasoline-powered automobiles and
trucks these days, not just clattering old nags dragging carriages and
carts—has slowed quite a bit with the passing of midnight, and soon the
after-supper ladies and gents will be over from the Albemarle Hotel and
the Hoffman House to pick up their fine-blended smokes. They’ll wonder
why I’ve closed early, but they won’t wonder long before heading for
some other shop; and after they’ve gone, quiet will settle in around this
grand Flatiron Building with a purpose. She still lords it over Madison
Square, the Flatiron does, with her solitary, peculiar silhouette and her
fussy stone face, all of which, at the time she was built, had architects
and critics going at each other tooth and nail. The Metropolitan Life
Tower across the park may be taller, but it doesn’t have near the style or
presence; and next to the Flatiron, buildings like Madison Square
Garden, topped by its once-shocking statue of naked Diana, just seem
like hangovers from another age, an age that, looking back, feels like it
passed in the space of a night. It was a gay night, many folks’d say; but
for some of us, it was a strange and dangerous time, when we learned
things about human behavior that most sensible people would never
want to know. Even the few that might’ve been curious got all the
grimness they could stand from the Great War. What people want now’s
a good time, and they want it with a vengeance.
Certainly that drive is what’ll be powering the type of folks who’ll be
on their way over to my shop to try and buy the smokes they’ll need for
long hours at the city’s gaming tables and dance halls. The weather
alone would rule out any darker, motivations. The breezy, light arms of
the night air will wrap themselves around all those keen, hopeful souls,
and they’ll tear into the town like a meat district dog who’s smelled out
a bit of bone at the bottom of an ash heap. Most of their activities won’t
amount to nothing, of course, but that doesn’t matter; part of the strange
fun of getting rooked into thinking that anything’s possible on the
beaten, dirty streets of this Big Onion is knowing that if you don’t find
what you’re looking for tonight, it’s all that much more important that
you try again tomorrow.
I remember that feeling; I had it many times myself before I reached
my present lamentable state. Being forever on the verge of coughing up
a lung has taken away much of my joy in this existence, for it’s hard to
relish the world’s pleasures when you’re leaving pools of blood and pus
wherever you go like some wretched, wounded animal. Still, though, my
memory’s as good as ever, and to be sure, I can recall the raw joy that
nights like this used to bring, the feeling of being outside and on your
own, with the whole world stretched out and waiting. Yes, even with the
hack I know that you don’t come in from a night like this without a
damned good reason. But that’s exactly what Mr. John Schuyler Moore
has given me.
He came in about an hour ago, drunk as a lord (which will surprise
exactly nobody what knows the man) and spewing a lot of vitriol about
the cowardice of editors and publishers and the American people in
general. To hear him talk (or maybe I should say, to hear the wine and
whiskey talk), it’s a miracle this country’s made it as far as we have,
what with all the secret horror, tragedy, and mayhem that infest our