The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [349]
“Well, then, Doctor!” he boomed as we trotted past Perry Street. “It would seem that we’ve enjoyed a victory!”
“I shall reserve final judgment until we are safely cast off,” the Doctor answered cautiously, still watching the streets around us. “But the preliminary results are encouraging.”
Mr. Roosevelt roared with laughter. “By God, Kreizler, if I ever met a man more apt to see the dark side of a situation, I’m not aware of it! True, we didn’t take that infernal scoundrel Knox into custody—but we delivered a message that those swine won’t soon forget, and at the cost of only a few bruises to our own men! Enjoy the moment, Doctor—savor it!”
“Our casualties were no greater than bruises?” the Doctor asked, still not ready to give in to celebrating.
“Well, all right, two men’s arms were broken,” Mr. Roosevelt conceded. “And another suffered a fractured jaw. But I assure you, the culprits were paid back with interest. So I’ll have none of your melancholy, my friend, none at all! You must learn to enjoy your triumphs!”
The Doctor did smile at that, though I think it was as much out of amusement at his old friend’s incorrigible attitude as any real joy over what had just taken place at Number 39 Bethune Street. Oh, he was happy we’d rescued little Ana, I didn’t doubt that; but the final secrets of why all the horrors we’d experienced had been necessary in the first place were now lying forever hidden on the stretcher what the two sailors next to Detective Sergeant Lucius were carrying. Legally prevented, for the time being, from using the operating theater at his Institute, the Doctor had no place to perform a postmortem on Libby Hatch’s brain, to see if it’d been abnormal in some way; and even if he hadn’t been so restricted, the detective sergeants couldn’t exactly deliver a body with a dissected head to their superiors. Coming on top of Libby’s death, these considerations would, I knew, always prevent the Doctor from seeing our experience as “a triumph,” just as Kat’s death would always make the memory of the adventure especially bittersweet for me.
We got to the torpedo boats without any trouble, and got Libby Hatch’s body stowed aboard the closest of them. The Isaacsons planned to accompany said boat to a police pier down by the Battery, where they’d be able to close the case what their department had been so unwilling to open in the first place. Miss Howard, in the meantime, would take Ana Linares in the lead boat with the rest of us, first back to the Brooklyn Navy Yard and from there on to the Doctor’s house. Once safely home, Miss Howard would telephone the señora, who, since that afternoon, had been waiting for a message at the French consulate, where she’d gone to hide from her husband.
Her head now completely clear, Miss Howard got into the lead torpedo boat without any trouble, and waited for Lucius to bring Ana down the ladder to her; but, not unpredictably, Mr. Roosevelt stepped in to do the honors.
“You get back to your boat, Detective Sergeant,” he said, taking the baby. “I’ve had quite a lot of experience with such little bundles as this one, and you may rest assured that I shall get her safely aboard!” Cradling Aña in one arm, Mr. Roosevelt then made his way nimbly down the long ladder from the pier to our boat. He moved with much greater ease, considering his cargo, than any of us could have done; and I remembered, watching him, that he had five young kids of his own, who he must have toted around in similar if not identical situations many times.
Once he’d gotten aboard and was handing the baby over to Miss Howard, Mr. Roosevelt took a moment to actually look at Ana’s appealing little features. “Why,” he said, in a soft way what wasn’t at all like his usual manner, “what an extraordinary face. Look at her eyes, Doctor!”
“Yes,