“You saw them?” Skeeter sat forward quickly.
“Where?” Kaederman had surged to his feet.
“At the Egyptian Hall. They were attending a lecture by the man we identified as Jack the Ripper. In fact, they were following him, for reasons we have yet to ascertain, although I suspect it has something to do with Ianira Cassondra. We trailed them right across London into the East End, but a street meeting jammed our way and we lost them in the crush.”
While Skeeter’s imagination betrayed him with monstrous visions of what Jack the Ripper would do to Ianira Cassondra, Sid Kaederman bellowed, “You lost them? My God! What a bunch of incompetant jackasses! I don’t care what that interfering old bastard Carson said, I’m taking over this search operation—”
“Like hell you are!” Skeeter snapped. “Last time I checked, nobody had appointed you God.”
“You insufferable little—! How dare you talk to me that way! I’ve a good mind—”
“Enough!”
Coal dust settled in the aftermath of Malcolm Moore’s bellow. Malcolm pinned Kaederman with his gaze. “You will please be good enough to refrain from further outbursts, Mr. Kaederman. And we can do without the barbed remarks, Mr. Jackson.”
“Huh. You weren’t stuck for two weeks in Colorado with this pompous—”
“Enough!”
“Oh, all right,” Skeeter muttered. “Shutting up.” He sprawled deeper into his chair, wishing to God he’d never agreed to come in the first place.
“That’s better. Now, then. We’ll take this one at a time, gentlemen.” Malcolm glanced at Kaederman, who returned his gaze coldly.