Warlock Holmes--The Sign of Nine

by G. S. Denning

  “Ha ha! Maybe you can. Maybe,” said Holmes. He was wearing his friendly-as-you-like face, for I’d been coaching him on the brief walk to the door. We were not here to make any accusations, I had said, nor scare anybody. We wanted to be amiable. Harmless. We were here to charm information, nothing more. Holmes took a breath, forced his smile even wider and said, “But first you must tell me: who’s this charming young nipper?”

  “That’s Jack. Right little bastard today, let me tell you.”

  “Ha ha!” said Holmes. “Come here, Jack! Come over here and tell me: is there anything you would like?”

  The little boy shuffled forward warily, wiped his nose on one sleeve and shrugged. “Like a shilling, I guess.”

  “Nothing you’d like better?”

  “Like two shillings. And maybe you’d better hand ’em over, or I’ll tell everyone you ’sploded a demon in front of our shop.”

  “Ha ha! Um…”

  I found that I quite agreed with Mrs. Smith’s opinion of her son. He was a right little bastard. I stared at him levelly for a second, then said, “The policeman gave us three coppers; you can have those.”

  “Fine,” he said. “Whatever.”

  The bribe delivered, he scuttled off to finish destroying the family’s laundry. Mrs. Smith turned her eyes back to Holmes and me and wondered, “Anything real I can help you with?”

  “We were hoping to speak with your husband about renting a boat,” I said.

  “Well, you’re out of luck, for he’s gone in it. Won’t be back until the wee hours of tomorrow morning, from what I hear. Of course, there’s the dinghy. You can have that. But you might not want it, unless your plans is for a good Sunday drownin’. That’s all the boats I got, nowadays.”

  “You used to have more?” I asked.

  “Oh yes! Three steam launches for daily hire—and a good business we did with ’em, too. But then Jim—that’s me eldest—he convinces his father that the latest thing is them steam boys, so shouldn’t we sell all three of those slow old things we got and get one fast one. And Mordecai—bein’ a damned fool—does it!”

  My heart sank. Steam boys. Why did it have to be steam boys? Or, as they preferred the appellation, Steem Boyz. And they did tend to insist that—even when spoken—they could hear if you were spelling it the “correct” way or not. They were the bane of the Thames, and that was saying something.

  The River Thames is London’s foremost avenue of traffic and trade, filled with innumerable barges and scows, ferrying goods from the ports to the city and back. Yet, in this, the forty-seventh year of Victoria’s reign, the thing that most dominated the Thames was the steam launch. In the time of my grandfather, they’d been naught but a curiosity, occasionally exploding when something predictable occurred to their early-model boilers. But as the years moved on they became cheaper, better, less likely to disappear in a scalding puff of vapor, and evermore quick and nimble.

  So, of course, it wasn’t long until a certain class of young sailor emerged, who wondered just exactly how quick and nimble they could be made to be. Boat-tuners. Steem Boyz. Gangs of useless thugs who slouched along both banks of the Thames in packs, wearing extra-baggy canvas sailor’s trousers and turning their caps around backwards. One could find them lined up outside certain taverns at all hours, their launches parked in shining rows. Occasionally they’d all pile out onto the docks at once and stoke up all their boilers at the same time, just to see which one made the most smoke. They were numerous. They were devoid of tact or taste. They were convinced they were the fastest thing on the water.

  And the most infuriating thing about them?

  They were right.

  So my odds of tracking Mordecai Smith’s boat might be decent. My odds of catching it, out on the river… somewhat worse. At least I could gather information.

  “Just the one boat, then? What was her name? Galloper wasn’t it?”

  “What? No! The Aurora!”

  “Ah, yes. That was it. The black one with two red streaks. Black funnel with a white band.”

  “No, no, no,” Mrs. Smith corrected me—just as I’d hoped she might. “Bright blue! Chromed-out funnel—a great big wide one. She’s got the names of all the fellows who designed her bits painted all over her. The boiler’s done by the Mugen brothers in Portsmouth and her rudder and keel by that nice Mr. Nismo, from just down the way. They’ve painted a muzzy-haired lad on one side, making a sort of odd sign with his hand and sayin’ ‘Wozza!’ And there’s a little plaque stuck on the back, what says ‘Me other ride’s your sister’. God help me, but that’s the sort of thing that makes all the sailor boys laugh.”

  Despite the affront to decency and taste, I could not be better pleased. If that didn’t help me pick the Aurora out of the crowd, nothing would.

  “And you say you don’t expect your husband until tomorrow morning?”

  “Yeah. Two gentlemen hired ’im to carry them out to one of them rather suspicious steamers at the mouth of the Thames. So the boat’s off at the tuner’s today and they’re all gonna meet up tonight and God knows where me husband and me boy and the two gentlemen have got to.”

  “I think I know one of the gentlemen you’re speaking of. Had a peg-leg, right? Name was Miller, I think.”

  “Yeah, one of ’em had a peg and a big bush of hair. The other fellow, though! Short as a child and all wrapped up in that black cloak so no one could see ’im. Scared the hell out of the cats, he did! As to the name, I couldn’t tell you. Oh! But it’s right here, in the rental register. Let’s see… Signed as Michael Falsename. But then, don’t they all?”

  “Any luggage?”

  “Just one big iron chest, but they took it with ’em.”

  “Any idea which tuner has the Aurora?”

  “It might be any of ’em.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Smith; you’ve been most helpful. Holmes, shall we?”

  9

  I STOOD IN OUR SITTING ROOM, EYEING MY OPPONENT. I did my utmost to keep my expression stern, but thoughtful—an I’m-an-important-man-who-is-used-to-getting-my-way-and-I-will-not-be-out-negotiated kind of face. I drew a nonchalant breath and said, “Twenty heads of cabbage.”

  “Nah. It’s not worff it.”

  “Oh, come on, Wiggles!”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “I have a perfectly good description of the boat. And everybody knows the rats all listen to you. You could have thousands of them swarming every boat-tuner in London in less than an hour. It should be easy to find!”

  “Yeah, but it’s a Steem Boyz boat, though, eh?”

  “So?”

  “So what’s your description? Here, let me guess… It’s some garish color.”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “And it’s got a huge chrome funnel, thick enough to drop a cow down.”

  “Erm… again, yes, but—”

  “And it’s got a bunch of names painted on the side of it, what ain’t the name of the boat or the man what owns her. And there’s probably some little joke on the back what says somefing ’orrible about girls, right?”

  “What? How did you know?”

  “Because they all do! That’s every single one of ’em! And if you fink I’m gonna set half the rats in London huntin’ around to find some Steem Boyz ride what looks like every other Steem Boyz ride, for just twenty heads of cabbage, you might want to think again! And here’s where you might want to start your cogitations: wif forty heads of cabbage, aged free days!”

  “You actually want it spoiled?”

  “Don’t start fermentin’ until it’s spoiled does it? Forty heads. Free days. Half in advance.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “Now you’re just being ridiculous. How could I possibly pay you that, unless I’d bought twenty heads of cabbage three days ago?”

  “Not my problem. Shoulda thought of that free days ago.”

  “Fine. Forty heads. I’ll start aging them today and pay you in three days.”

  “All right
. I’ll be back in free days.”

  “Wiggles, no! I need you now. The murderer is going to escape tonight and I need to know where his boat is hidden before he sets off in it.”

  Wiggles gave me a lopsided, somewhat predatory smile. “Oh, I see,” he said. “This is one of them work-you-today-and-pay-you-next-week-if-I-remember sort of deals, is it?”

  “How dare you, sir?” I thundered. Not that it was customary to call street urchins who could transform themselves into rats “sir” but he had me riled. “Do you doubt my character, or are you simply saying that to insult me? I am a gentleman, sir, and I pay my debts!”

  “Oh yeah. Well… some gentlemen do, I guess.”

  “You know me, Wiggles.”

  “I do,” he said, snapping me a little salute, “and that’s the only reason I’d consider acceptin’ the job for the low price of sixty heads of cabbage, paid in free days’ time, with the understandin’ that if you don’t cough up, me an’ some of the boys is gonna sneak in here while you’re asleep and chew all your boots to shreds.”

  “Please, Wiggles, please! You’ve got to help me,” I said, shooting a nervous glance towards Holmes’s room, where he puttered with his alchemical devices, humming a little tune. “Holmes is talking about ending our partnership. I need to prove my usefulness. Do you understand?”

  There are many that say that, when speaking to a friend, honesty is always the best policy—that a man can never do better than stating what he wants and why he wants it.

  Do you know who says that?

  Bad bargainers.

  Wiggles’s smile widened. “Well now I understand. Tell you what: sixty heads of cabbage, aged free days, two bushels of floppy carrots, your word that Mrs. Hudson won’t lock the rubbish bins for the next two weeks and I’ll be taking whatever you’ve got left in that brandy bottle wif me when I go.”

  “Oh, you furry little bastard!”

  Wiggles shrugged and turned for the door.

  “Fine! Fine!” I cried, as the last shreds of my dignity dissipated into thin air. “You win. But you had better be able to pinpoint the Aurora for me before dusk tonight.”

  “Easy,” said Wiggles, swinging open my front door and popping on his ragged cap. “Have it in two hours, I bet.” He started out, but then stopped himself with an exclamation of happy remembrance. A slight detour brought him within snatching distance of the bureau, from which he gleefully lifted my brandy bottle. As he left 221B, he gave me a smirk that preserved little doubt as to his low opinion of my character. And I left him with some parting words that showed he was absolutely right.

  “I hope a cat gets you!”

  * * *

  At least my next group of friends treated me better.

  Not at first, of course.

  From behind his desk in the darkest, most-forgotten corner of Scotland Yard, Lestrade raised an eyebrow at me. “Let me get this straight, Dr. Watson… You want me to blockade the Thames?”

  “Exactly.”

  Vladislav Lestrade turned to Torg Grogsson and gave him the sort of incredulous head-shake that was intended more as a question than a statement. The question being, of course, “Has Dr. Watson’s fragile grasp on reality finally given way?”

  Grogsson gave a dispassionate sort of shrug, designed to communicate, “Yeah. Probably.”

  “Well, if not that,” I grumbled, “then at least you must find any suspicious freighters near the mouth of the Thames and stop them from putting to sea tonight.”

  “I could do that,” said Lestrade, “But first, let me just swat every single midge in Scotland. That will be easier, as I think there may be fewer of them.”

  I fumed. Fortunately, Grogsson chose that moment to play the rarest of his roles—the voice of reason.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Because Holmes and I have a strong lead on the murderer of Bartholomew Sholto. He’s stolen a great treasure and means to spirit it away tonight, by way of a boat called the Aurora, to some unknown freighter. Wiggles located the launch and examined her to see if the treasure was already on board; it was not. I went round and spoke to the owner of the jetty she’s docked at—Mr. Edelbrock. He says he expects the Aurora’s owner to retrieve her tonight. But only her owner. My guess is that he is picking up his passengers and their cargo on the water, and by then it will be too late. If we can’t catch them on land, we can’t catch them at all.”

  “Why?” said Grogsson, again.

  “Because she’s a highly tuned craft—she’s owned by one of the Steem Boyz.”

  I don’t think I have ever given Torg Grogsson a finer present than that single sentence.

  “Gwwwaaaaar! Gwaaaaaaah! Steem Boyz! Yaaaaaaaah!” he cried, then rose and shattered Lestrade’s desk with a single punch. All eyes turned—both criminal and constable alike. Scotland Yard got strangely quiet. Vladislav Lestrade gave a look of extreme annoyance as the two battered halves of his desk fell in on themselves—a look aimed not at Grogsson, but at me.

  “Thank you, Dr. Watson.”

  “What did I do?”

  “Steem Boyz! Yaaaaaaaaaah! We can beat them!” Grogsson roared.

  Lestrade put one hand to his brow and said, “I think I would have preferred it if you could have mentioned this particular challenge to my colleague in a less public area. Ideally an open field, where there was nothing expensive lying about.”

  “Well I didn’t know,” I said, with some annoyance. “Why does Grogsson care about the Steem Boyz, anyway?”

  Lestrade sighed. “The force has long since come to recognize its weakness against tuned steam launches. The Thames has become a perfect highway for smuggling, for though we attempt to intercept the launches as they land, they travel faster than we can get word up or down the shore. And while they are afloat, there is little we can do. Grogsson is the most successful at dealing with them. He has personally sunk three high-speed launches.”

  “How?”

  “By throwing rocks from the shore.”

  “Egad!”

  “Hmm. Yes,” said Lestrade. “He’s practically as good as a cannon. Still, it is not an ideal solution. All the barge captains are afraid of getting hit by a stray rock as the launches dodge between them, so if any of them see Grogsson on the shore, they tend to drop anchor to wait it out. Traffic on the Thames has been brought to a standstill twice. And even when Grogsson does hit a launch, the result is less than satisfactory. They’re built for speed, not toughness, so there tends to be little left of them and nothing left of their crews, who—let us recall—have not been found guilty of any crime. And, of course, any evidence that they were currently engaged in one tends to end up at the bottom of the Thames. Suffice to say, this particular method of enforcement has not proved popular with the London populace.”

  “One supposes not,” I agreed.

  “Hgraaaah! Long arm!” Grogsson cheered, picking up one half of Lestrade’s former desk and smashing it to bits on the floor. Carefully cataloged case files splashed across the carpet. Lestrade favored me with yet another look.

  “By God, he’s worked up,” I noted. “Is he bragging about his arms now?”

  “He is suggesting a solution,” said Lestrade. “My fellow detective inspector is of the opinion that we should make use of Scotland Yard’s newest method for countering the Steem Boyz. Why don’t you both come with me—far from this desk I used to love—and I will show you.”

  * * *

  She was exactly as you’d expect: a good idea but a secret, poorly kept.

  Lestrade led me to a secret berth on the Westminster wharf, partitioned on the landward side by a fence and guardhouse and on the river by a shoddily constructed wooden framework, hung with old sailcloth. Behind this semi-concealing screen of oh-what-could-the-policepossibly-be-hiding-back-there-I-wonder lay the latest addition to Scotland Yard’s arsenal: Long Arm.

  She was long, sleek and low. Her sides were painted plain black with a single white stripe, and her deck was simple varnished wood. These w
ere modest colors, even dowdy, designed to say, “Oh look: a boat like grandfather would approve of. Feel free to ignore it.” Yet the black was a bit too black—shiny and slick. The varnish upon her deck gleamed more than it ought and every plank was flawlessly flush and straight. If these giveaways were too subtle, one had only to look at her power plant—a shining silver monstrosity with a funnel so wide, any Steem Boy who saw her must flush with envy. Lestrade must have seen me raise an eyebrow, for he said, “Yes. We know. Not as understated as we would like. Sadly, the boiler and funnel could only be done in nickel, with polished brass strapping, because nickel is the best at being… er… you know…” He faltered.

  So I volunteered, “Shiny and awesome?”

  “Yaaaaaaaaaaah!” Grogsson confirmed.

  “Look, this will work. She is fitted with all the latest technology,” Lestrade assured me. “Stepped hull, to keep drag as low as possible. The boiler is custom designed by the head of Cambridge’s mechanical engineering department—their first female department head, Mercedes Dinan. The propeller is by the Korean genius Soobaru Hankook.”

  Indeed, I could see their names painted on the side of the hull in subtle charcoal-gray, hardly visible against the black hull. Clearly the defining aspect of Scotland Yard’s campaign against the Steem Boyz was a secret desire to be Steem Boyz. They even had the requisite gender slight, though this had been executed with the Yard’s typical misunderstanding of youth culture. A polished plaque at the back of the boat read, I WISH GIRLS WOULD TALK TO ME.

  “What do you think?” Lestrade asked, eager—I could tell—for me to fawn over her.

  “Is there anything that marks her out as a police boat?” I asked. “Anything other than her failure to be hot pink, I mean?”

  “That green lantern.”

  “Remove it,” I said. “And make her ready. I shall be back with Holmes as quickly as I can. It’s getting dark and I don’t know what hour our quarry will take to the water, but I know this: tonight, I will show Holmes my worth. The murderers of Bartholomew Sholto will face justice. And Long Arm will best the Aurora.”