The Alienist - Caleb Carr [141]
“I don’t care what Kreizler says, John,” Theodore announced, setting his jaw and balling his fists. “This is a race against time and savagery now, and I’m going to use the force under my command.” I followed him as he rushed to Sixth Avenue to find a hansom. “The Ninth Precinct is closest. I shall make all arrangements from there.” He caught sight of an empty rig, and approached it. “We know the basic pattern—he’ll be making for the waterfront. I’ll have detachments search every foot of—”
“Roosevelt—wait.” I managed to grab his arm and pull him to a halt just as he was getting into the cab. “I understand your feelings. But for heaven’s sake, don’t reveal any details to your men.”
“Not reveal—good God, John!” His teeth started to click louder and his eyes danced with rage behind the spectacles. “Do you understand what’s happening? Why, at this very moment—”
“I know, Roosevelt. But it won’t help things to let the whole force in on it. Just say that there’s been a kidnapping, and that you have reason to suspect the criminals are trying to leave the city by boat or by bridge. It’s the best way to handle it, please believe me.”
Theodore took a big, strong breath into his broad chest, then nodded once. “Perhaps you’re right.” He slammed one fist into the other hand. “Blast all, this damned interference! But I’ll do as you say, John—provided you’ll stand aside and let me get to it!”
With a sharp crack of his horsewhip Roosevelt’s cabbie commenced a fast trip up Sixth Avenue, and I returned to the front of the Black and Tan. There a small and already surly crowd had gathered and was being told the details of the evening’s activities by Frank Stephenson. Technically speaking, the Black and Tan was in the territory of the Hudson Dusters, and Stephenson owed no allegiance to Paul Kelly; but the two men did know each other, and the job Stephenson did exciting that little crowd outside his house that night made me very suspicious that Kelly had foreseen the possibility that one of Stephenson’s boys might be snatched or killed, and had paid him handsomely to make the most of such an event. Stephenson let off a lot of angry statements to the effect that the police had been on the scene and had exercised neither caution nor diligence. The victim was too poor, he said, and entirely too foreign to warrant police interest; if people in such neighborhoods as their own wanted to prevent these kinds of things, they’d have to take matters into their own hands. Marcus, of course, had already identified himself to Stephenson as a police officer; and as the crowd’s mood grew uglier and an increasing number of threatening glances were thrown our way, the Isaacsons, Stevie, and I decided to retreat to our headquarters, where we would try to stay abreast of events through the rest of the night by telephone.
Such proved a lot trickier than it sounded. There was no one for us to ring up—Theodore would never take a call from us while he was in the company of regular police officers—and no one was likely to get in touch with our headquarters. At about four we did have word from Kreizler, who said that he and Sara had gotten Cyrus comfortably settled in a private room at St. Vincent’s and would be returning to our headquarters soon. Other than that, however, there was profound silence. Lucius, though very much relieved by Kreizler’s call, nonetheless felt profoundly guilty about all that had happened, and paced the floor rather frantically. Indeed, had it not been for Marcus I think we might all have slowly gone mad sitting there with nothing to do. But the taller Isaacson decided that if we couldn’t lend our bodies to the search we could at least use our minds, and, pointing to the large map of