The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [146]
“Which it will almost certainly do,” Marcus said.
“—then the mere fact that the McPherson boy died while in my care may be enough for Welles.”
“Yes.” Lucius’s voice was a strange mixture of hope and gloominess. “That’s why we thought we’d better come—to let you know that it’s really going to ride on the hearing itself. It’s been delayed a bit, by the way. Apparently, Welles will be on vacation until the first week of September, and—”
The sudden sound of people entering the house and loud voices echoing up the staircase made me stop listening and jerk my head around; then, realizing that the Doctor and the detective sergeants could probably hear it, too, I got to my feet and started downstairs, not wanting to get caught eavesdropping. Looking down between the banisters, I could just see Mr. Moore, Miss Howard, and Cyrus pounding up the stairs.
“Well, then, where the hell is he?” Mr. Moore was asking, in a loud, breathless voice.
“I believe that the Doctor is in his study, Mr. Moore,” Cyrus explained in a baffled and not altogether pleased tone. “If you’ll just tell me—”
“No, no,” Mr. Moore answered. “We’ll tell him—we’ll all tell him! Come on, Cyrus, you’re part of this, too, you’d better hear about it!”
They kept on coming up at the same fast pace, Mr. Moore taking the stairs two at a time and, when he saw me, just about falling in a faint at my feet.
“Stevie!” he breathed. “Is he up there? My God, I’ve run across half the damned city—”
“Oh, really, John,” Miss Howard said. She was a little out of breath, too, but nothing to match Mr. Moore. “From your house to my house to Seventeenth Street hardly constitutes half the city. If you’d just get some blasted exercise occasionally—”
“It is—a well-known fact,” Mr. Moore panted, “that—too much exercise—is not good for you. And I’m living proof, just at the moment…. Well, Stevie?”
I indicated the study with a nod. “He’s in there. With the detective sergeants.”
That got Mr. Moore right back up. “Excellent,” he said. “Saves any more running around.” He made for the study door, the rest of us behind him; and I was surprised when he didn’t bother knocking, but just burst on in.
The Doctor looked up from his desk, a little shocked and, like Cyrus, a little miffed at the lack of courtesy. The detective sergeants got to their feet, also looking surprised, as Mr. Moore leaned on the doorknob and kept on panting.
Then he held up an envelope. “This just arrived … special delivery… from Rupert Picton.” He took another deep breath. “I really do hate this case …”
CHAPTER 26
Mr. Moore opened the envelope as Cyrus, Miss Howard, and I filed into the study with the others. Unfolding the letter inside, our exhausted friend took a deep breath and tried to start reading it; but he’d only gotten as far as the salutation—“Moore, you swine!”—before he fell to his knees, still trying to catch his breath. Handing the letter to Miss Howard, he said, “Sara, you read it,” then crawled over to the sofa and pulled himself up onto it.”
“What the devil’s the matter with him, Sara?” the Doctor asked. “Is he drunk, or has he merely been shot?”
“Worse,” Miss Howard answered. “He’s been running. But he’s right about the letter, Doctor. Listen to this, it’s dated yesterday: ‘Moore, you swine! I would take the time to elaborate on what a mud-dwelling, feculent—‘”
“You don’t have to read that part!” Mr. Moore protested from the sofa.
Miss Howard only smiled and went on: “‘—but the communications from you which I found heaped on my desk when I returned from the Adirondacks today actually must take precedence. All joking aside, John, listen to me—if you have indeed, in your infinite