A long silence followed Hobbs’ declaration; a moment, Jocasta imagined, of stunned incomprehension. She waited, arms and legs braced against the inside of the bed frame, so that a casual inspection under the bed would not reveal her presence. From the moment Hobbs left the room, she had been free — free to escape through the window thrown open to the tempestuous night — but flight had never been her primary intention.
Her recollections from the missing time period were fractured. Like something from a dream, the memories and impressions of those events were slippery and her conscious mind wrestled to bring the pieces into place. The first step in unraveling the mystery was to gather as much information as she could and that meant lingering in the lion’s den a little longer.
"So what do we do now?" This was from the red-head—Molly, Jocasta thought. Some relation of the good Padre. Interesting; they never would have let a girl tag along in the old days.
"We have to go after her," asserted Hurley. "Put out a police dragnet and shut the city down."
Another silence, broken at last by Hobbs, now more subdued after his outburst. "You know she’s too smart for that."
Why thank you, Nathan.
"No," he continued. "We may have to accept that the Staff is lost for now. We need to focus our efforts on exposing the villain behind all of this."
"Schadel. The Child of Skulls."
"In my worst nightmares, Hurricane. We won’t be able to follow Jocasta, but if we can figure out where this Schadel is, maybe we can kill two birds with one stone."
Kill? Tsk. You have changed, dear Padre.
"What about Dodge?" asked Molly. "They’ll be after him."
Jocasta cocked her head. Dodge?
"He can take care of himself." Hurricane’s tone lacked conviction.
"You think he’s already dead."
"Molly." Hobbs’ voice was likewise brimming with defeatism. "We’ve no way to contact him and time is of the essence."
Jocasta pondered the significance of the exchange. Evidently, a new player had joined Falcon’s little team. And yet, where was their fearless leader? As she brushed the dust from the memory, she discovered a strange void in her heart. Dear me, am I still burning a candle for Zane Falcon?
The canopy of the stretched fabric mattress above her sagged as someone sat down on the bed, startling her from her reverie and nearly dislodging her from her hiding place. "He would never give up on you," pouted the girl, the nearness of her voice indicating that it was she who had collapsed down on the bed.
When Hurley spoke again, it was as if the issue of Dodge’s fate was settled. "What’s your plan, Padre?"
"The most extensive records concerning that Child of Skulls prophecy rest with the Trevayne Society in London."
"London!" gasped Molly. "The Staff is here. Dodge is here."
"Molly." Hobbs spoke the girl’s name with the finality of a death sentence. "We can be there in two days’ time with the plane. The hangar is one of the first places Dodge will think to look for us. If he’s not there by the time we depart, we can leave a message."
"We can’t leave until the storm passes," Hurricane offered. "And if our enemies know about the plane, they might be lying in wait for us."
"We can’t stay here. Jocasta could lead them back to us. We have to gamble on our foes not expecting us to leave the country."
Another silence followed, but this time the pause was brief and relatively free of tension. "Well that’s that," declared Hurley. "Let’s go."
Jocasta tensed, waiting for something unexpected to derail this bit of luck, but the only thing she heard was the creak of fabric on the frame as the seated girl got to her feet. There was a further murmur of voices exchanging little details, but a few moments later, the light was doused and the door pulled firmly shut, sealing Jocasta in the darkness. She waited a few moments longer, fearing a ruse, then dropped lightly to the floor and rolled from her place of concealment. Her eyes were already adjusted to the lightless environment and she had no difficulty navigating to the narrow window that she had earlier used to stage her mock escape. She paused and took out the object at the center of the conspiracy.
She had stolen many rare treasures in her career—career, she laughed. More of a hobby, really—objects of intrinsic value, beautiful works of art, precious metals and jewels. That this odd length of metal should be so valuable defied comprehension. She searched her memory, trying to remember if some clue had slipped out during the conversation. Something about an outpost…that bears looking into.
She shook her head. Schadel would have the answers she sought and this time she would be prepared for his treachery. And when she had determined the real worth of the strange dingus, she would make Schadel pay. The thought brought an odd smile to her lips.
There were no taxis running on the storm swept streets, forcing her to make a long trek on foot toward the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, where she had booked a suite earlier that same day. Upon arriving however, she did not proceed into the lobby, but rather skirted the structure and made her way surreptitiously through the rear door into the kitchen and from there continued up the fire stairs to the roof. Immediately upon reaching this destination, she procured a thin rope from her gear pack, tied it off to a vent pipe and free rappelled over the edge of the building. Only then did haste give way to cautious observation.
She lowered herself to a position just to the left of an illuminated top floor window — the window to her own suite. The simple fact of a light burning in a room that by all rights ought to have been empty, justified her unusual methods, but she continued to watch. Edging closer, she peeked into the room.
Two men lounged within, their attention evidently fixed on the cigarettes they smoked and the music issuing from the large console radio. From her vantage, Jocasta’s face creased in a grim smile and then she drew back, swinging over to the darkened window of a neighboring room. Detecting no activity, she used her skills and tools to force the portal open and climbed inside.
Her goal was not shelter from the storm, but rather a single object that was not quite portable enough for her needs: the telephone. She expertly cut and stripped the phone wires, then spliced in a long section of wire from her pack. Satisfied with her handiwork, she returned to the window, hooked onto her fixed rope and swung over the window of her own room where she at last lifted the telephone receiver. The switchboard operator answered immediately in a cheer, Bronx twang. "What number please?"
Jocasta told her and after a second, a metered clicking noise sounded in her ear, simultaneous with the muted jangle of the telephone inside the suite. The two men seated within exchanged a nervous glance, then one of them picked up.
"Hello?"
"I wish to speak with Mr. Schadel."
There was a long silence at the other end of the phone line. The man that had answered had covered the receiver with one hand and was talking animatedly with his companion. Finally, he spoke again and this time his German accent was unmistakable. "There is a mistake. You must have rung the wrong room."