The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [329]
The Doctor’s mouth curled up gently again. “Essentially, yes.”
Marcus stepped in quickly. “It may sound outlandish, John,” he said, looking encouraged by the idea. “But it won’t play that way in reports. If any violence should occur, it’ll just read like a typical brawl between sailors and gangsters. And while it goes on, we’ll be able to do what we need to.”
Tucking his letter from Mr. Roosevelt into his jacket, the Doctor dashed for the stairs. “I’m going to telephone him in Washington straightway,” he said, heading down toward the kitchen. “There’s no time to be lost—the woman must even now be planning her flight from the city!”
Suddenly there was a new feeling of life in the house, one brought on, I knew, by the bare possibility of even indirect involvement in the case on the part of Mr. Roosevelt. He had that effect on people, did the former police commissioner: of all the Doctor’s close friends there wasn’t one with a purer love of life, of action—and most especially of a good fight, whether boxing or politics or war. But he was a kind man, too, was Mr. Roosevelt, as kind as anyone what ever came to the Doctor’s house in all the years I lived there; and I found that even I, in my saddened state, took a lot of heart from the thought that he might give us a hand in bringing Libby Hatch to justice. Oh, the idea was a crazy one, Mr. Moore was right about that much; but practically every undertaking Mr. Roosevelt got involved with seemed crazy, at the start—yet most of them ended up being not only important but happy achievements. So as we waited for the Doctor to return from the pantry, we began to talk over the details of the plan with an interest what bordered on enthusiasm—enthusiasm what was very surprising, considering all we’d been through.
When the Doctor came back upstairs, he was, if not out-and-out excited, at least very satisfied. “He’ll do it. He wants us to wait here—he’ll have someone from the navy yard inform us of what vessel will be available and when. But he promises action tonight.”
Mr. Moore let out another moan of disbelief, but even he was smiling a bit by that point. “May God help us …”
So began more long hours of waiting. During the first couple of these our quiet anticipation grew, fed by more of Cyrus’s coffee, into a strange sort of hopeful fidgeting; but as the afternoon wore on this feeling started to ebb, mostly because the telephone and the doorbell remained notably silent. Mr. Roosevelt was not a man to waste time; and the fact that we weren’t getting word from any of his people, in Brooklyn or anywhere else, seemed what you might call mystifying. The rain didn’t let up, and eventually its steady rhythm helped exhaustion take hold of each of us: eager we might’ve been, but that didn’t change the fact that nobody’d really slept for more than an hour or so since Saturday night. One by one members of our group began to drift off to bedrooms for catnaps, and each, including me, woke from these fitful spells of slumber to the disappointing news that there’d still been no message from either Washington or Brooklyn.
Finally, as five o’clock drew near, the Doctor went back downstairs to call Mr. Roosevelt again; and when he returned this time his mood was very different from what it’d been earlier. He hadn’t gotten through to his friend, but he had come away from a conversation with Mr. Roosevelt’s secretary with the distinct impression that the man was in his office and avoiding the Doctor’s call specifically. No one could make any sense out of this at all: Mr. Roosevelt was not a man to avoid a straight, nose-to-nose jawing with anybody, especially someone he cared about and respected. If he’d found he couldn’t deliver on his earlier pledge to the Doctor, he would certainly have gotten on the telephone to say so. What, then, could be the explanation? Had he discovered the Spanish connection to the case of Libby Hatch somehow, and decided to pursue a separate