The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [109]
“Stop it, John, the job’s done. You don’t have to go on,” Mr. Moore came loping in, giving Miss Howard a lusty look what seemed to be only half serious. “I don’t care,” he said. “Two hours in that hole, I’m going to make you pay—”
The Doctor looked at them both in bewilderment. “It’s a bit late for spring fever, Moore. What the devil are you up to?”
“You don’t have a sedative, do you, Doctor?” Miss Howard said. “Apparently John decided this morning that if he behaved like a disgusting pig while we were at the Hall of Records he might be released from his assignment. He’s been at me all morning—”
“Oh, I haven’t even started,” Mr. Moore said, making a move at Miss Howard. “You don’t know what disgusting is yet, Sara…”
“Moore,” the Doctor said, grabbing his friend lightly by the collar, “I should have thought such idiocy beneath even you. Kindly pull yourself together. We’ve had important developments, and now that you’re here, we can all go down to Number 808 and review them together.”
“All right,” Mr. Moore said, his eyes fixed on Miss Howard. “I can wait.”
She just turned and looked into the big mirror that hung in the front hall, securing her hair more tightly at the back of her head as she did. “I’m afraid I really will have to shoot you one day, John. Do you still have the diagram?”
“Yes, yes,” Mr. Moore answered, finally dropping the act and standing up straight. He produced a folded piece of paper from inside his jacket. “Two hours, Kreizler, in that musty old tomb—did you know they used to keep prisoners there during the Revolution? And all we come away with is a blasted pencil sketch. Still—I suppose it might’ve taken us two days.”
“Then you found something,” the Doctor said, ignoring Mr. Moore’s whining. “Records?”
“Only a copy of the permit,” Mr. Moore answered. “The plans themselves have—quite mysteriously, of course—disappeared.”
The Doctor looked from Mr. Moore to me, his satisfaction and excitement obvious. “Well—interesting developments on all fronts!” He rushed over to the staircase, calling up, “Detective Sergeants! Cyrus! Downtown!” Then he turned to me. “Stevie, will you tend to Gwendolyn and then follow along behind us? We’ll walk down Broadway to Number 808, so that the detective sergeants and I can tell these two about your discoveries of this morning.”
“Okay,” I said, moving to the door to follow the order. “But I want to hear why the detective sergeants want that jacket!”
Miss Howard looked confused. “Jacket?”
The detective sergeants and Cyrus had reached the bottom of the stairs. “Back to Number 808, I take it?” Marcus asked.
“Indeed,” the Doctor said. “And quickly.”
They all began to file out as I went to the calash, Mr. Moore bringing up the rear at a slow pace. “I don’t suppose it’s lunchtime yet,” I heard him mumble pathetically. “God, I never would’ve believed that detective work could give you such an appetite. It’s no damned wonder so many cops are fat…”
I gave Gwendolyn a lighter-than-usual brushing down and stowed the harness and gear without bothering to clean it all, telling myself I’d tend to the job later. Then it was back outside, making sure the carriage house was securely locked, and on down Seventeenth Street toward Broadway, scanning the crowds of Monday-morning workers and shoppers for my friends. I finally caught up to them as they crossed Fourteenth Street from Union Square. My timing was a little slow, though: the Doctor and the detective sergeants had finished telling Kat’s story a couple of blocks earlier, and I’d just missed Miss Howard’s summary of what she and Mr. Moore had found downtown. She, however, very decently fell out of the pack to give me a quick repetition.
Some two years previous, Elspeth Hunter and her husband, Micah, had indeed applied for and received a permit