The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [126]
Finally, night did fall, and the detective sergeants and I loaded into the calash. I could still read great misgiving in the Doctor’s face as we left, and some of the same in Cyrus’s features; but Miss Howard and Mr. Moore were there to keep their spirits on track, and by the time we rattled away from Seventeenth Street they were full of genuine encouragement. Our arrival at the stable had gone without a hitch—or at least, so it seemed to Marcus and me under our tarpaulin—and that had made the first period of hiding and waiting considerably easier. The plan from there on in was for Lucius—who was toting a .32-caliber New Service Revolver, the very latest thing to come out of Mr. Samuel Colt’s arms factory—to watch the Hunter house from the cover of a factory doorway across Washington Street and, when he saw Nurse Hunter depart, to return to the stables, explaining that he’d forgotten something. He’d then let us know we were clear to get under way, and afterward resume his post. At 11:45 he’d come back again, giving us something like an hour and a half to complete the job—more than enough time, if everything went off right.
Marcus and I lay in the calash, like I say, for about twenty uncomfortably warm minutes after Lucius’s first departure. We heard the occasional sound of a carriage or a horse coming or going, but we didn’t move barely a muscle until we finally heard a little rap on the side of our rig. Without taking the tarp off of us, Lucius began to root around inside the bed of the carriage, taking out a small case that he’d left positioned under the driver’s seat. It contained a twelve-gauge Holland and Holland shotgun, along with a box of shells: while he waited for us, Lucius figured to be the most heavily armed man in the area—and in that neighborhood in those days, that was saying something.
“Okay,” he whispered to us through the tarpaulin. “She just left. Light’s gone out on the third floor, looks like she already put her husband to bed. She’s wearing an awful lot of makeup, and—”
Even in the darkness under the tarp, I thought I could make out Marcus’s hot scowl. “Lucius!” he whispered back.
“Hmm?” his brother noised.
“Shut up and get the hell out of here, will you, please?”
“Oh. Right. The attendant’s still out front. I think he’s been drinking.”
“Will you go?”
“Okay, okay …”
We heard footsteps fading away from us, and then there was silence, except for the faraway rattle of firecrackers and the boom of bigger fireworks over the river.
“All right, Stevie,” Marcus whispered after a few minutes, pulling the tarpaulin back a bit. “I’m just going to have a look …” He poked his head out and up, then ducked back under. “All clear—let’s move!”
With almost no sound we got out of the calash. The night was hot, but the most miserable of the summer heat still hadn’t arrived yet—and that made the dark clothes we were wearing less of a burden. I had a simple pair of light leather moccasins on my feet, while Marcus was in just his socks for the moment. Around his neck was a satchel similar to the one Mike was wiggling around in, but bigger: in it he was lugging a pair of studded climbing shoes, a bar spreader, a coil of heavy rope, a crowbar, and a hefty hammer. He had a holster strapped to his hip, and in it was a pistol identical to his brother’s, but with a .38-caliber barrel and chamber, to provide a little extra punch if things got ugly. In my own pocket I was carrying Miss Howard’s Colt Number One derringer, half a dozen .41-caliber bullets—and a nice eight-inch piece of lead pipe.
When we got out of the calash, we found that Lucius had been able to park it right next to one of the rear windows of the stable, as far as possible from the entryway and the attendant. Because of that, it was no big job for us to get the window open and move into the alleyway behind the place; but when we completed our quiet run along the back of the building, we found ourselves face to face with a ten-foot