No sign of Wyte. The other detectives had left, too, except for Gustat, who was frantically packing up his things. Finch looked at the smaller man with a kind of scorn. Gustat ignored him in his haste. Strange horselike footfalls across the carpet. The croaking bang of the door behind him.

Then it was just Finch.

Soon the curtains at the back of the room would part. Night would truly begin.

Wyte had placed a hasty typo-filled report on Finch’s desk about the situation in Bliss’s apartment. “John Finch” typed at the bottom. Brave of you, Wyte. A blotch of purple obscured a few words in the middle. A smudged green thumbprint on the left corner. Wyte had tried to wipe it away, which just made it worse.

Under it, another sheet, handwritten, with some crude facts about Stark.

“Stark is now the operational head of Stockton’s spy network.”

Stating the obvious. No one started liquidating the competition unless they were already secure in their position.

“He carries a sword.”

Who didn’t, these days? Thought about pulling his own sword out. As he did several times a week, when he thought the others weren’t looking.

“He has a taster for his food … He’s a psychopath … He’s been seen…” well, practically everywhere and nowhere, if Wyte’s information was correct.

Nothing solid. Nothing that linked Stark to the case except Bliss saying Stark had asked him about those words they’d found on the scrap of paper. Bellum omnium contra omnes. Wondered what Bliss would’ve said if he’d shown him the symbol too.

Finch kept a stack of cigars in his desk in a box converted to the purpose. He took one out. Trillian brand. Several years old. Common and popular in its day. A little dry now.

Nothing new in this city. Not whiskey. Not cigars. Not people.

The kind of thing his father used to say.

He cut the tip. Used his oil lamp to light it.

The ash was even. The burn slow. He puffed on it, waiting. The congregation will be here soon enough.

His thoughts went back to Wyte’s flask. In a flush of inspiration, Finch went over to Blakely’s desk, opened the top drawer. Sure enough. Something plum-colored in a bottle. Homemade cork. He pulled it off. Took a whiff. Rotgut, but good enough. Took a couple of swigs right from the bottle. His throat burned. His tongue felt numb.

Saw double for a second. Another puff on the cigar fixed that. Went back to his desk.

Waiting this way, helpless, his vision became apocalyptic, false. In his mind, mortar fire rained down on the city. Artillery belched out a retort. Blasted into walls, sending up gouts of stone and flame. The war raged on, unnoticed by most. He was an agent of neither side. Just in it for himself.