The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [330]
Such questions were not exactly the kind what would’ve revived our weakened enthusiasm; and by seven o’clock the whole bunch of us were strewn around the Doctor’s parlor, dozing. The rain had finally lightened up, and I was lying in front of one of the open French windows on the carpeted floor, letting the cool air that the storm had brought into the city play over my face and lull me into the first really decent rest I’d had all day. Still, it was a light sleep, one easily interrupted by noises from outside; and the noise what I heard coming from that direction at about seven-thirty was one what was at once so familiar yet so out of place that I honestly couldn’t tell if I was asleep or awake:
It was the forceful, high-pitched sound of Mr. Roosevelt’s voice.
“Wait here!” it was saying; then I heard the sound of a carriage door closing. “I shall want you to take us to the yard as soon as we’ve had a chance to speak with the others!”
“Yes, sir!” came a crisp, efficient answer, one what caused me to roll over and look outside.
And there he was, all right, the assistant secretary of the navy, done up in his best black linen and walking side by side with an older man who wore a navy officer’s uniform.
“Holy Christ,” I mumbled, rubbing my eyes to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. “Holy Christ!” I repeated, loud enough for the others to start coming out of their slumbers. Unable to stop myself from breaking into a smile, I scrambled to my feet and began shaking whatever shoulders I could grab fastest. “He’s here! Doctor—Miss Howard—it’s Mr. Roosevelt! He’s here! Holy Christ!”
At this news the others got to their feet, looking just as confused and unsure of their senses as I’d felt—that is, until they heard the sound of the front door opening.
“Doctor?” came the bark from downstairs. “Moore! Where in thunder are you all?” Heavy footsteps pounded on the stairs as the shouting continued. “And where is the brilliant Sara Howard, that former secretary of mine?”
A few more heavy steps, and then those unmistakable features began to appear in the shadows at the top of the stairs: in a sort of reversed version of Mr. Lewis Carroll’s Cheshire Cat, Mr. Roosevelt generally became visible grin first, his big teeth standing out in even the deepest blackness. Next to be seen were the small, squinting eyes behind the little steel-rimmed spectacles, and finally the square head, the broad mustache, and the huge barrel chest, the last of which had been built up, after enduring a childhood of terrible asthma, to become one of the most powerful in the world.
“Well!” he cried out, as he moved down the hall followed by the much calmer—and very wise-looking—navy officer. “I like this! Crime and outrage running rampant, and you all lollygagging about as if there were no action to be gotten!” He put his hands to his hips as he came into the parlor, still grinning from ear to ear; then he shot his right paw out to the Doctor. “Kreizler! Delighted to see you, Doctor, dee-lighted!”
“Hello, Roosevelt,” the Doctor answered with a smile. “I suppose I should’ve known you wouldn’t miss this chance.”
“Hell,” Mr. Moore said, “we all should’ve known.”
Making his way around the room, Mr. Roosevelt pressed the flesh hard with everybody, and accepted a warm hug from Miss Howard. He was especially glad, it seemed to me, to find that the Isaacson brothers were there, and still on the police force—for it was himself who’d brought them in, as part of his effort to loosen the grip what the Irish clan of Tammany hirelings had on Mulberry Street. When he finally got around to saying hello to me, I’d gotten so excited by his presence and the new hope it seemed to bring that I was shifting from foot to foot nervously. Still, there must have been much of the morning’s sadness left in my face, for Mr. Roosevelt’s smile shrank a little as he leaned down to shake my hand and look into my eyes.
“Well, young Stevie,” he said, with real sympathy. “You’ve had a hard time of all this, I understand. But don’t doubt this, my boy—” He put one of his tough