The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [328]
“The department doesn’t want to get involved,” the Doctor said, “because no one that they view as being of any importance has yet been killed. You know as well as I do that such has always been the rule in this city, Marcus—we had a brief respite under Roosevelt, but none of the reforms really took hold.”
“Then what’s our answer?” Lucius asked, looking around the room.
I knew what I was thinking, and I knew that Mr. Moore and Marcus probably felt the same way: if nobody else was going to take care of the job, it was up to us to go down there, bust into that hell house on Bethune Street, and do what had to be done. But none of the three of us was going to give voice to this opinion while the Doctor was in the room, knowing, as we did, that he placed such a high value on our taking Libby Hatch alive.
Which was why his next line of thought came as kind of a surprise: “The navy,” he said quietly, his black eyes lighting up.
“The what?” Mr. Moore responded, looking dumbfounded.
“The navy” the Doctor repeated, turning to Marcus. “Detective Sergeant—we know that the Hudson Dusters relish conflict with the New York City Police Department. How would they feel, do you suppose, about an encounter with the United States Navy?”
“Kreizler,” Mr. Moore said, “you have obviously gone around some bend—”
Ignoring Mr. Moore, Marcus began to nod. “Offhand, I’d say they’d back off—navy men are, as you know, pretty renowned brawlers. And they carry the authority of the federal government, not just the city—political connections and local rivalries wouldn’t get into the thing.”
The Doctor began to bounce the knuckles of his right hand against his mouth. “Yes,” he said quietly. Then another thought seemed to flash in his head. “The White Star Line’s pier is, I believe, just a few blocks around the corner from Libby Hatch’s house on Bethune Street, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, it is,” Miss Howard said, looking puzzled. “At Tenth Street. Why, Doctor?”
Seeing a copy of the morning edition of the Times tucked into Marcus’s jacket pocket, the Doctor stood up and snatched it away. Quickly ruffling its pages, he searched for what seemed like some small but important piece of information. “No White Star ships currently in port,” he eventually said with a nod. “Then he could have a vessel land there, and we could approach the house from the rear—taking the gang by relative surprise.”
“Who could?” Mr. Moore near shouted. “Laszlo, what in hell—” All of a sudden, his jaw dropped as he got it. “Oh, no. Oh, no, Kreizler, that is insane, you can’t—not Roosevelt!”
“Yes,” the Doctor answered, looking up from the paper with a smile. “Roosevelt.”
Mr. Moore scrambled to his feet. “Get Theodore involved in this case? Once he finds out what’s going on, he’ll start his damned war against Spain right here in this city!”
“Precisely why,” the Doctor replied, “he must not be told all the details. Ana Linares’s name and lineage need not concern him. The fact that we are attempting to solve a string of murders and a kidnapping and can get no satisfaction from the New York police will be more than enough to rouse Theodore’s interest.”
“But,” said Miss Howard, who, like Mr. Moore and the Doctor, had known Mr. Roosevelt for most of her life, “what can even Theodore possibly do? He’s assistant secretary of the navy, yes, but—”
“And just now he’s treating the entire fleet as if it were his own,” the Doctor replied, holding up an envelope. “A letter from him came during our absence. It seems that Secretary Long is on vacation for the month of August, and Theodore has been making bold moves. He’s becoming known as ‘the warm-weather secretary’ around Washington, a fact of which he is inordinately—and typically—proud. I’m certain there are one or two serviceable vessels and crews out at the Brooklyn Navy Yard—perhaps even closer. More than enough men to meet our purposes. An order from Roosevelt is all the thing would require.”
Mr. Moore was gently slapping his own face, trying to come to grips with the notion. “Let me get this