Ghosts of Manhattan Read Online Free Page A

reasonable hour of the morning, at least until he'd showered and eaten his breakfast. But then Mullins had told him who had been murdered, and suddenly everything had changed.
    Now, at a quarter after eleven, his head was still thick with lack of sleep, and he was desperately in need of a coffee.
    "Inspector?"
    Donovan turned to see Mullins standing sheepishly behind him. The sergeant was a portly man who sported a short, clipped moustache and appeared to Donovan to have a permanently ruddy complexion. He was currently dressed in a long, gray overcoat, which covered his disordered blue suit: a symptom of being roused from his bed at such an ungodly hour of the morning. The inspector could forgive him that. Donovan himself, however, was dressed immaculately, as usual; his black suit and crisp white collar were pressed and pristine, and he had taken the time to freshen up before driving out to the scene of the crime. It was a small, fruitless rebellion, but it made him feel better just the same. After all, he was alive and the victim was dead, and the dead man wasn't going anywhere in a hurry. Regardless, the man had been an odious toad. Politicians, Donovan found, were very rarely anything else.

    He regarded Mullins with an impatient eye. "What is it, Sergeant? Have you finally managed to search out some coffee?"
    Mullins wouldn't meet his eye. "No, sir. Not coffee. But there's a gathering crowd of reporters out front, and they're calling for a statement. Are you planning to say anything?"
    Donovan looked round at the tall revolving doors of the lobby. Beyond, through the glass panes, he could see a gaggle of reporters and photographers being shepherded back from the sidewalk by a couple of uniformed men. Flashbulbs blinked, reflecting in the glass and causing miniature, shimmering coronas to burst momentarily to life.
    He and Mullins were standing in the lobby of the Gramercy Park Hotel, all plush modernity and chandeliers. It was a bit rich for Donovan's decidedly down-to-earth palate. He gritted his teeth. "No. They can wait." He looked back at Mullins. "They can wait like everyone else. We haven't even informed his wife yet, for God's sake." He was muttering now, as if to himself more than to his sergeant. "How the hell are we going to break it to his wife?" A sigh. "And then there's the matter of the scandal. The Commissioner might want to keep the details out of the press." He gestured at Mullins. "Tell them to get back to the gutter."
    Mullins sucked in his breath. For a moment Donovan thought he looked even redder in the face than usual. He hadn't thought that was possible. "They're asking, sir, if it's the work of the Roman."
    "Well, yes. I'd very much imagine they are." Donovan gave another, plaintive sigh. His voice was tinged with weariness. "Mullins, do me a favor and find that coffee. And let's have another look at the crime scene. Then the ambulance crew can take the bodies to the morgue. After that-we'll see about facing those reporters."
    "Yes, sir." Mullins nodded and shot off in the direction of the kitchens.
    The murder of James Landsworth Senior had taken place in the early hours of the morning on the top floor of the Gramercy Park Hotel. It was a sordid affair, and Donovan, standing on the threshold of the room with a cigarette dangling from his lips, didn't quite know what to make of it.

    The dead man was a senator-a well-respected one at that-and this whole affair, Donovan had concluded, had been set up to discredit him. There was no doubt the scene inside the hotel room had been posed; a grisly diorama intended to embarrass the government.
    Landsworth was-or had been, Donovan corrected himself-a middle-aged man of about fifty, with a full head of graying hair and a significant paunch, and he had built his career on a foundation of right-wing policies and conservative opinions. He supported Prohibition. He had a healthy hatred for the British Empire and he campaigned against "progress," claiming that