I finally spotted Jackaby on the far side of the statue, working his way inward through the field of uniforms, when there erupted a hubbub to my left. I turned and watched as idle chatter rapidly died away, and the wall of blue coats parted to allow through the commissioner himself. The officers’ reactions to Marlowe’s entrance now seemed lackadaisical compared to their instant metamorphosis in Swift’s presence. Guts were sucked in, lit cigarettes vanished, and orderly ranks miraculously formed from the chaos. Charlie, uncharacteristically, seemed the exception to the spreading current of professionalism. He stayed to the back of the crowd and continued to glance from side to side, as if thinking of slinking away at any moment. Something else seemed odd about him. It took a moment to really see it across the square, but in spite of the icy chill, I realized Charlie was glistening with sweat. He was nearly obscured by the crowd’s foggy breath and fading cigarette smoke, but I now noticed the steaming heat rising off him like a furnace. He was breathing hard, and I worried that his overexertions had made him terribly ill. Something in me ached to rush to his aid. My attention, however, was dragged back to the commissioner as he crossed into my line of sight.

Swift had taken the time to pull on his long, dark coat with the deep red trim and matching crimson derby, but below the charcoal hem of the coat, a pair of silk pajama legs was visible. His leg braces had been strapped over these with haste, leaving the material creased and folded. He marched with his usual determined, steady stride, sheer force of will driving him past pain and into general malice. Whether from cold or because he had not had time to oil them, the braces punctuated each step with a louder-than-usual squeak and clink.

“This had better be good,” he snarled to the chief inspector, drawing to a stop beside him. The commissioner’s voice was deep and ragged, and although he stood half a foot shorter than Marlowe, the chief inspector still straightened, looking like a boy called to the front of the class. Like Marlowe, Commissioner Swift now stood, surveying the crowd of men, scowling darkly as he did.

Shuffling through the crowd in the commissioner’s wake came the scrawny fellow in the straw boater I had seen at the station. He drew up beside Swift and whispered something in his ear. I caught the word “constituents.” Swift’s eyes darted up to the faces in the windows and to the pedestrians beginning to gather on either side of the square. He met an eye here and there and attempted to turn his scowl into a congenial and reassuring political smile. The expression failed to extend to his eyes, and the result was an even more unpleasant grimace.