The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [184]
“Yes, sir,” Mrs. Hastings answered, turning away and throwing up her arms. “A few bales of cotton, sir, so’s you can shoot up the backyard!”
“This should be ideal,” Miss Howard said, still staring at the gun.
“Oh, yes,” Mr. Moore chimed in, his voice taking that turn toward whining it generally did at such moments. “Ideal. Don’t bother to explain it to the rest of us, though, whatever you do.”
Mr. Picton laughed at that, then turned to his old friend. “I’m sorry, John, we’re being a bit rude, aren’t we? How about this, to make amends—we’ve taken care of just about everything we can for today. In fact, I’d say it’s been a particularly successful afternoon! What about hopping on the trolley and heading up to Canfield’s? We can talk more about it over dinner—then some roulette, maybe a few hands of cards—”
“Silence!” Mr. Moore commanded, holding up a hand and suddenly looking eager and excited. “Everyone upstairs and into your dinner clothes, before there’s any more discussion or Rupert changes his mind! Go, all of you, go!”
“And if we don’t want to go?” Miss Howard protested, as Mr. Moore pushed her toward the stairs. “I’m not interested in—”
“Then you can simply eat and come right home,” Mr. Moore said, cutting her off. “Leave the rest of us to lose our wanton souls!”
I’d jumped for the stairs quickly, but then, remembering something, I turned to Mr. Moore. “You’ll lay my bets for me? They don’t let kids play in that place, I hear.”
“Have no fear, Stevie,” Mr. Moore answered. “I’ll follow your instructions to the letter. But all the same, you’re going to have to put on the monkey suit, just to get into the dining room.”
I nodded back at him and smiled. “That’s why I brought it—only thing that could get me to wear the thing’s an honest game!”
Charging on up the stairs, I shot into my room, closed the door, and tore open the big mahogany armoire where I’d stuck a set of evening clothes what the Doctor’d bought for me a year or so back. I think he’d been hoping, in those days, that I might develop some kind of a taste for opera and get to the point where I’d actually enjoy tagging along with him and Cyrus to the Metropolitan; but so far I’d been in the Doctor’s box at said house—and had said suit of evening clothes on—exactly once, and then only because it’d been important to the Beecham investigation. But this time around I was happy to cram myself into the stiff, starched white shirt and the black jacket and pants, if it meant that I could get some bets down on a reliable roulette wheel, which I’d always heard could be found at Richard Canfield’s famous gaming house and restaurant in Saratoga, known throughout most of the country as just “the Casino.”
Still, desire to get the clothes on wasn’t any substitute for experience at doing it: I huffed and cursed as I stuffed and belted and pulled my way into the things, finally leaving the tie for somebody else to take care of. By the time I got downstairs all the others were ready to go, and Mr. Moore grumbled impatiently as Miss Howard very decently did up the band of white silk what was dangling around my neck. Finally, we left the house and strolled down in the warm darkness to Ballston Spa’s electric trolley station, where we boarded a small, open car in high spirits—never suspecting for a moment that our host intended this little trip as something more than just recreation.
CHAPTER 32
The Ballston-Saratoga trolley system was only a year old, and looked it: the car that we boarded had polished railings and clean appointments, and it was set on top of a shining set of narrow tracks. The thing moved at a good clip through the four or five miles of countryside what separated Ballston Spa from Saratoga’s main street, Broadway, and the breeze that hit us in our seats at the front of the car was refreshing and even exciting, given where we were going. It was the kind of air what heightens anticipation, you might say; and though the trip lasted only fifteen minutes or so, it seemed to my young soul to go on forever.
When the car finally did slip into America’s