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affair at the museum. Nevertheless, the commissioner—and as far as Donovan could tell many others in the department—felt the Ghost was a menace who should be strung up for his crimes. Donovan suspected that, really, they were more concerned with the manner in which he showed up the police department for what they really were—a law-enforcement agency that spent more time pandering to the whims of the Senate rather than getting on with their jobs.
    Donovan shook his head. “You just worry about getting a statement from that girl, Mullins. Leave the Ghost to me.”
    “Yes, sir,” said Mullins, and he clumped away to his desk on the other side of the office to make the call.
    Donovan stubbed the still-smoldering end of his cigarette in the ashtray beside his notebook and grinned. Perhaps they were getting somewhere, after all.
     
    Two hours later, Donovan was ushered into the commissioner's office by a desk sergeant who bore an expression of forced jollity and calm.
    The commissioner's office was situated on the floor above the main precinct, and compared to the sparse, economical circumstances in which the rest of the department worked, the room was palatial. In fact, Donovan mused as he climbed the stairs to the second floor, puffing slightly with the exertion, it would be more accurate to describe the commissioner's lair as a suite of rooms.
    Decked out with furniture and fittings that Donovan always felt were more suited to a domestic dwelling—armchairs, coffee tables, portraits in gilded frames—the three connected rooms were more like those one might find in a top-end hotel like the Gramercy Park than anything one expected to find in a police station. He couldn't see how they were in any way conducive to getting any police work done—but then, that assumed the commissioner was still interested in doing any work. Realistically, Donovan knew, the commissioner was far more concerned with schmoozing politicians and showing off his pretty young wife around town.
    Still, someone had to talk to the politicians, and he'd rather it was Montague than him. At least this way, Donovan could keep out of their way while he got on with the real police work.
    At least, that was what Donovan had thought until he crossed the threshold into the commissioner's office and heard the desk sergeant pull the door shut behind him.
    Donovan's heart sank as he saw who was sitting with the commissioner, reclining in one of the armchairs, puffing on a fat cigar. He'd never met the man, but he recognized him from the photographs he had seen in the newspapers: Senator Isambard Banks.
    The man was balding, in his mid- to late fifties, and wore a pinstriped suit and white shirt, open at the collar. He was clean shaven and full faced and his forehead was glistening with perspiration. Pungent cigar smoke hovered in the still air around him, as if concealing him behind a semitranslucent veil.
    Donovan sighed. So, now the Senate was leaning on them again, no doubt instructing them to bring a swift conclusion to the matter of the abductions. Well, it wasn't as if he wasn't trying.…
    “Ah, there you are, Felix. Come in, take a seat. Can I fix you a drink?”
    Donovan gave the commissioner a sideways glance. Why the sudden geniality? It wasn't like the old fool to behave in such a fashion. Usually when Donovan was hauled into the commissioner's office it was to be faced with a series of curt commands and sage advice on how he should really be conducting his investigation. He'd never been offered a drink before. Perhaps the commissioner was showing off, attempting to impress the senator. Or perhaps Donovan was being welcomed into some sort of secret clique, and from now on he'd be expected to associate with these people and attend their drink parties and sell his soul to the devil just to keep his job. Well, he supposed he'd faced that problem before.
    Donovan suppressed a laugh at his own expense. He could tell he'd just about reached his limit—he