Somewhere a scream rent the Limehouse night—whether that of a tramp beating her cautious way up the fog-shrouded Thames or of some poor unfortunate victim of the crime rampant in the streets of the ill-starred district, it was not for me to know.
A cab wheeled by, its curtains drawn, driver in muffled obscurity on the box, dark horses’ accoutrements jingling and creaking with the movement of the steaming beasts.
My companion and I walked nervously through the impenetrable murk until, drawn by the lights of a lower-class establishment where the very scum of Limehouse roistered out their pitiful nights, we had the good fortune to see a cab roll up and discharge its passengers, a couple of debauched-looking mariners obviously somewhat the worse for wear and seeking a place in which to squander what poor remnants of their seamen’s wage they retained after being gouged and cheated by parsimonious owners and dishonest pursers on their ship.
I was about to call the cabby when my companion stopped me with an urgent hiss and a pressure upon the arm.
A second cab pulled up before the tavern and as its load of unsavory occupants made their way from the conveyance we climbed into the cab and Irene softly delivered her instructions to the cabby, who peered inquisitively through the trap into the passenger compartment.
The first cab had departed and my companion leaned toward me saying, “I should have thought by now, Doctor, that you would know better than to engage the first cab you encounter.”
“But it had only just arrived,” I protested. “There could have been no way for a malefactor to know we would be seeking transportation just at this place in time to send a cab for us.”
At that point our conversation was interrupted by a flash of light and a loud report from a point directly ahead of our cab. The other vehicle had exploded in a gout of flame, and tongues of orange licked upward among clouds of black, oily smoke.
“Incredible.” I gasped in amazement. “How did you—?”
The Woman smiled inscrutably as our driver carefully picked his way around the first cab, now violently ablaze and all but blocking the intersection where the West India Dock Road was met by a winding thoroughfare that made its way upward from the Thames and into a safer and more reputable quarter than Limehouse.
We passed through numerous thoroughfares, some of them bustling and lighted as if it were noonday, others eerie and shrouded, until I felt that there was no way I could ever retrace our passage, much less deduce the location of the moment, when at last the cab drew up at a kiosk whence individuals dressed in every manner and description entered and emerged into the street.
I chivalrously went halfies with Irene as to the cost of the cab, despite the embarrassing deficit of my financial situation, and we climbed from the cab onto the wet cobblestones of yet another London square surrounded by shops and restaurants, all closed at this hour of the night. Without a word my companion led me carefully toward the kiosk and drew me with her down a flight of darkened and ill-kept stairs until we reached a platform illuminated by a form of lighting totally unfamiliar to me. The flames seemed to be wholly enclosed in miniature glass globes and to burn with a peculiar regularity and stability that permitted neither flickering nor movement. How they obtained the air to sustain combustion was a puzzle beyond my comprehension, but my companion refused to remain still long enough for me to make inquiry.
She led me past a large painted notice board marking the area of Ladbroke Grove, and depositing tickets in a turnstile device we made our way across the platform to wait for—I knew not what. There were railroad tracks before us, and my induction that this was a station of some sort was borne out in a few minutes when a train of a type and model unfamiliar to me approached. The train halted and we climbed aboard a coach, took seats, and rode in a strange and uncomfortable silence until my companion indicated that it was time for us to exit the odd conveyance.
II
We made our way back to the surface of the earth and I discovered that we were standing on the edge of a broad, level area as large as a cricket field and then some, but whose surface, rather than being of grass, was composed of a hard, gritty stuff that exhibited none of the usual give and responsiveness of a natural substance.
My companion led me by the hand across the hardened surface until we stood beside the strangest contraption it has ever been to my wonderment to behold.
The thing was as long as a coach and rested on wheels, two rather largish ones at one end and a small one at the other. Its main substance seemed to be devoted to a ridged cylinder some rod or so in length and covered with a stressed fabric glistening wetly in the night’s drizzle.
Two open seats were located on the upper side of the thing, with curved shields of celluloid or isinglass before each and a set of bewildering dials and knobs in one of them. Stubby projections extended from the sides and rear of the machine, and a large wooden device not dissimilar to a marine screw was attached to one end, mounted to a black and powerful-looking contrivance resembling one that I sometimes saw being used in small experimental marine craft.
Oddest of all, four free-swinging vanes projected from a pole mounted on top of the machine, their ends drooping of their own unsupported weight and their entirety creaking and swaying slightly with each variation in the icy, drenching wind.
My companion reached into the closer seat and pulled from it a headgear for herself and one for me, demonstrating wordlessly the manner in which they were to be worn. Each was made of soft leather and wholly enclosed the wearer’s cranial projection. A strap caught beneath the wearer’s chin, thereby ensuring a snug and secure fit to the headgear, and a pair of goggles fitted with transparent lenses could be slipped into place to protect the eyes from wind or moisture or raised onto the forehead to facilitate an unencumbered view in time of eased conditions.
My companion placed one shapely foot upon the stubby projection that stood away from the side of the machine and climbed gracefully into the seat. By means of silent gestures she communicated her desire that I emulate her actions, and not wishing to distress this lovely and courageous woman I acceded, climbing upon the projection and thence into the second seat. There I found myself seated upon a not uncomfortable leather cushion.
My companion turned in her place and indicated by gestures that I was to secure my seating by clamping a webbed belt across my lap. Again I acceded, watched over my companion’s shoulder as she belted herself into position, and gasped in amazement to see a grease-covered mechanician clad in canvas coveralls suddenly appear from a nearby outbuilding, race across the open area to our machine, grasp the wooden member which I could not help dubbing (in my mind) an aerial screw in his hands, and whirl it.
My companion, having acknowledged the arrival of the mechanician with a one-handed thumbs-up gesture, adjusted some of the controls before her, whereupon the self-contained engine at the front of the strange little craft coughed and sputtered its way into life. After warming the engine for some minutes my companion again gestured to the mechanician, who pulled a set of inconspicuous chocks from before the wheels of the vehicle, and we rolled forward at an astonishing rate of speed, the wind whipping past us making me grateful for the helmet and goggles provided by my companion.
Before I had time even to wonder at the destination of this unusual mechanically propelled journey I was distracted by the sound of a strange whoop-whoop-whoop coming from directly overhead and obviously keeping perfect pace with our own progress. I cast my gaze above in hopes of detecting the source of the peculiar sounds and discovered that they were coming from the four vanes mounted on the low tower above the cockpit where I sat.
The vanes were revolving so rapidly that I could barely follow them with my eye, and startlement was piled upon startlement when I felt the odd craft into which I was helplessly strapped actually rise from the field it had been crossing and move unsupported through the thin air.
I must have shouted my astonishment, for my companion turned toward me with a grin of such total confidence a
nd surety of self that I laughed aloud at my momentary panic and vowed inwardly that I should permit nothing to interfere with my enjoyment of this unprecedented experience. The God of the Naked Unicorn might be missing, the great detective might be lost to the world, but all was well with myself, and I would take the pleasure that was offered to me and worry later about my problems.
We flew—yes, I use the word advisedly and with full awareness of the gravity of its employment—in a great circle over the edges of London, watching the sun rise over the distant Channel to the east, passing over the very sites where my lost companion and I had striven to face down perils and to unravel puzzles, then swung in a northerly direction, passing over dark green woodlands and lighter meadows, leaving behind us England, Wales, Scotland, and the Orkney Islands.
No word was spoken—none could have been heard over the steady droning of the engine that turned the aerial screw that gave us our forward headway through the sky and dragged the windmilling vanes of our overhead rotors through their vital revolutions—but I was amazed, from time to time, to see my companion half climb from her cockpit and reach down toward the stubby projections from the sides of the craft and retrieve small teardrop-shaped containers of fuel, which she emptied into a nozzle mounted on the body of the craft in front of her own celluloid shield.
The sun had risen fully, the sky was a sparkling northern blue with only spotty clouds of pure white dotting its cerulean regularity, and neither land nor handiwork of man was visible on the sparkling aquatic surface beneath us. I know not how long we flew nor how far north we had proceeded, save to make note that the air around us was growing increasingly frigid and I increasingly grateful for the foresight that caused me to dress warmly before leaving my Limehouse chambers, when there appeared below us and in the far distance a glimmer of blinding white.
My companion reached for the last remaining fuel container mounted on the vehicle and emptied its contents into the nozzle she had used before her shield. Glancing over her shoulder toward me she pointed ahead of us and shouted a series of words that were lost to me in the drone of the engine and the rush of the air past my leather-covered ears.
But I soon came to understand the significance if not the actual content of her speech as, under careful guidance, our little craft nosed downward and began a long, steady approach toward what I came now to recognize as nothing less than the great ice pack of the north polar regions of the planet. Lower and lower our little craft made progress, as the dark waters beneath our extended wheels gave way to jagged white icebergs, pack ice, and finally great glaciers.
The mountainous formation of the ice slipped beneath our droning craft as we sped through the lower reaches of the atmosphere, in due course to be replaced by a flat and level area of glistening white. We crossed this new expanse and at length my companion swung the craft into a pattern of tight circles, spiraling slowly downward before a formation I had initially taken to be anizy projection of unusual beauty and regularity, and only after many moments recognized for an artifact created by human efforts.
There—in the northernmost wastes of the polar ice fields—was the handiwork of man. I nearly wept at the audacity and beauty of the construction and was distracted from this train of thought only by the landing of the craft in which I rode. The vehicle rolled across the hard-packed snow and came to a halt near the entrance of the gorgeous building.
A gale sped across the gleaming ice cap and flung a playful spray of snow against the exposed lower half of my face. I ran my tongue around my lips, tasting the clear purity of the melting crystals. No sign of life or activity emerged from the glittering spires that confronted us. Neither greeter nor guard debouched from the arched entry of the edifice.
Before we even reached its portals I said, “Irene—what place is this? I thought that we were going to your capital. Instead we have reached the northern polar cap of the planet, a region always believed uninhabited save for polar bears, seals, and gulls. Yet we find this magnificent structure.”
Blinking my eyes in wonder, I cried out, “I beseech you to elucidate.”
She turned upon me the dazzling smile that had melted the hearts and won the applause of audiences the world around and that had brought her to the side of one of the crowned heads of Europe in as brilliant, if secret, a marriage as the century has seen. “Pray exercise patience for a few more minutes, Doctor. All will be made clear to you once we are inside the Fortress.”
“The Fortress?” I echoed helplessly.
“The Fortress of Solitude. The structure, which appears to be part of the ice floe upon which it stands, is actually constructed of marble, pure white marble quarried from a secret deposit and transported here in utmost concealment. Within it are—those who have summoned you. Those whose willing agent it is my honor to be.”
We strode beneath towering portals and through echoing corridors until at last we entered a chamber occupied by a single bronzed giant seated in a posture of intense meditation. As we entered the room he seemed momentarily to be stationary, but in a few seconds I realized that he was engaged in a series of the most amazing solitary exercises.
Before my very eyes he made his muscles work against each other, straining until a fine film of perspiration covered his mighty frame. He vocalized softly, and I realized that he was juggling a number of a dozen figures in his head, multiplying, dividing, extracting square and cube roots. He turned to an apparatus that made sound waves of frequencies that disappeared beyond the limits of audibility for me, but which he could, from the expression on his face, detect.
At the end of the series he looked up at my companion and myself. In a voice that commanded confidence and obedience he spoke. “Hello, Patricia,” he said informally. “I see he came with you. I knew of course that he would.”
He rose from his seat and crossed the room toward us, embracing the woman known as The Woman in two mightily muscled arms of bronze. Yet, for all the affection that was visible in that embrace, it was clearly one of brotherly—or perhaps cousinly—fondness, nothing more.
Patricia, I pondered. He had called her Patricia. But was her name not Irene? No time was available for consideration of this conundrum, for the bronze giant released her and turned toward me.
“And you, sir,” the bronze giant said, extending a mighty hand in manly greeting, “you are none other than John H. Watson, M.D., are you not?”
I gave him my hand in as strong a grip as I could muster, and will confess that I felt pleased to receive it back in one piece, the bones not crushed farther than they were, in the viselike grip of the man of bronze. “I am indeed. And may I have the honor of your own credentials, sir?”
He smiled most disarmingly, and said, “Of course, of course. My name is Clark Savage, Jr. I hold a few degrees myself, picked up here and there over the years. Most of my friends just call me Doc. I’d be honored if you would do the same.”
For some reason I felt more flattered than offended by the offhandedness and informality of the man, and agreed to call him by the name he preferred. Doc it would be. “I suppose,” I said in reply “that we might avoid some certain degree of confusion were you to call me what my dearest friend, now lost these several years, always did. That was, simply, Watson.”
“I’ll be happy to do just that,” the bronze giant said.
“But did I not hear you address our female companion as Patricia?” This, I had decided, was my opportunity to unravel a puzzle all my own.
Doc Savage nodded his bushy, copper-colored poll in agreement. “My cousin, you see.”
Perturbed, I said, “But is she not—” I turned to The Woman and addressed her directly. “But are you not the former Irene Adler, now, Her Royal Highness—”
“Please,” the charming young woman interrupted. “To Doc I am known as his cousin, Patricia Savage. To you and your associate, I am known in another persona. Let us leave it at that, I pray you.”
Her words puzzled me no end, but I felt that I had no choice under the
circumstances in which I found myself than to accede.
“You must forgive me, Watson,” the bronze giant said. “My cousin has helped me in a minor deception that was necessary to get you here to my polar Fortress of Solitude. If word had become current in the capitals of the world of the meeting to which you have been secretly summoned, an outbreak of crime unprecedented in the entire history of human civilization would be bound to take place.”
“You mean—” I stuttered dumbfoundedly, “—you mean that The God of the Naked Unicorn has not been stolen? It is not being ransomed for a sum of 80 trillion grudniks? It is not going to be displayed in St. Wrycyxlwv’s Square if the ransom is not paid? This entire proceeding has been some sort of hoax?”
“Oh, the robbery is real enough, Dr. Watson,” The Woman stated. “The God of the Naked Unicorn is missing, and everything that I described to you will happen if it is not recovered. But this is merely one tiny part of a worldwide threat.”
“Exactly,” Doc Savage said. “I have only myself returned from a trek across the earth, escaping the clutches of a fiend unparalleled in the annals of crime. What is taking place here today is nothing less than a council of war, a council of war against one who menaces the orderly structure and just proceedings of the entire world order. Someone whose very identity, no less his base of operations, is a mystery wrapped in a puzzle locked inside an enigma.”
“Well said,” I applauded. “But is it just we three who stand between the forces of order and civilization and this fiend?”
“Not we three, Doctor,” said The Woman. “I must leave you now. My role has been played, my exit speech spoken. It is time for me to leave the stage of this drama and return to the side of my husband and the supervision of my child, there to watch and pray for those into whose hands the very fate of the world may have been given.”
Once more she exchanged a chaste contact with the man of bronze, then shook my own hand heartily and disappeared from the room. In a moment I heard the sound of her machine as it coughed into life again, then began its steady droning and the whoop-whoop-whoop that meant its rotors were spinning, lifting its fabric-covered body into the chilly air above the arctic reaches. Then it faded slowly from audibility.
Sherlock Holmes: The Hidden Years Page 44