The Edge of Dreams (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #14)

“Sullivan,” I said, and we shook hands. I felt like a fraud as she closed her door, leaving me standing on the deserted street.

I felt so excited I was shaking now. Dr. Werner, who had been described as “a fine man,” and recommended by none other than Professor Freud, was initially friendly to his neighbors, but then he had recently become abrupt and rude. My preposterous idea now seemed to take on shape and reality. And Edward Deveraux had grown a beard. Mabel was in terrible danger. I couldn’t wait to find Daniel and tell him this. They were probably staying in one of those harbor-front rooming houses, close to the ships. I was about to walk away when I noticed one of the drapes was not completely drawn across the front window of number 18. I glanced both ways before I crossed the street, went up to the window, and tried to peer inside. Now that I had chatted with Mrs. Rogers about renting the place, I had a perfect excuse for nosiness. It was quite dark inside and I could see almost nothing, just the indistinct shapes of furniture under sheets. It certainly looked as if the place had been shut up and was no longer occupied.

My nose picked up the smell—sweet, cloying, and somehow familiar—a fraction of a second before everything went black.





Thirty-four

I opened my eyes to darkness. I was lying in a dark and confined space. It smelled damp and musty. As I lay there, I heard a rumbling sound that set objects rattling, and I could feel it in my bones. I knew exactly where I was. I was in the place of my dream. But I was definitely not asleep. And unlike in my dream, I could move. I turned my head. I noticed a faint chink of light coming from under a door. And when the rumbling came again, I identified it. I was in the basement of number 18, and the new subway line ran close by.

That sweet, cloying smell was still in my nostrils, and I recognized it too. Chloroform. I had encountered it before. And the murderer had obviously used it on Mabel the night he killed her parents, making her ask “Why does it smell so sweet?” in her dream. I was about to sit up when I heard movement outside the door. The handle turned. I lay still and closed my eyes. Light flooded in from beyond the door. From under my lashes I watched the tall, thin figure come into the room. He came right up and stood there, looking down at me. He bent over me. I could sense his breath on me. And I knew that he had been Mabel’s snake, probably wearing a mask of some sort, bending over her to see if she was asleep. I willed myself not to twitch or move a muscle, keeping my breathing slow and regular. Then I saw that he held something in his hand. It was a syringe, and I knew then what he planned to do, and why I hadn’t been able to move in my dream.

He bent low over me, and I couldn’t tell whether he wanted to make sure I was still under the influence of the chloroform, or whether he was gloating over having taken me so fortuitously. He felt my arm, then to my horror, he started to lift up my skirt. I had not expected this behavior from him, until I realized that I was wearing a wool jacket, too thick to plunge a needle through, and he was going for my thigh instead. I waited, watching my skirt lifted higher and higher. I could hear his breathing quicken as if this act excited him. He raised the syringe, positioning the needle. I summoned all my strength and without warning, delivered a mighty kick to his midsection. I must have struck lucky or had more force than I expected, because he doubled over, gasping, and the needle flew from his hand, clattering to the stone floor. I leaped up, going after it. Although he was still gasping he lunged at me. I kicked the needle across the floor, threw myself after it, and bent to pick it up. He grabbed at me but only got hold of my skirt. I wrenched myself away. I heard a ripping sound, unnaturally loud in that confined and echoing space, and he came away with torn muslin in his hand as my own hand closed around the syringe.

I stood up, triumphant, as I turned to face him. He stopped short and took a step away from me, still holding his middle and gasping for breath.

“Well, Mr. Edward Deveraux, we meet at last,” I said.