“All the same, it begins in the lab with brilliant young men like Thomas Coogan,” said Declan, dropping into a metal chair for a moment’s respite.
“And yourself, Declan,” Thomas, blushing red, returned the compliment.
“So how long before a cure is found?”
“How long indeed.” Declan laughed.
“Years quite possibly, if at all.”
Ransom didn’t care for the sound of that. “There’s still a fourth missing man out there, the agent, Tuttle.”
“That’s where you come in, Detective. You must locate Tuttle, whether dead or alive.” Thomas stood over the microscope again and studied the enemy, his eyes on the parasite under the light. “I’ve always wanted to say that—wanted, dead or alive like you Americans say.” Thomas abruptly changed his tone. “Look here, Declan, at these little beasties. There’re a few left, cannibalizing the others. We might try taking the stronger cells. See if we can save the little buggers.”
“Perhaps I should get on that search for our missing agent.” Ransom stepped toward the door, his stomach churning. “Do my part… find Tuttle, last seen aboard Titanic.”
“We’d much prefer Tuttle alive, but if so, he may prove a terrible danger to you, detective,” replied Declan, who’d returned his eyes to the scope.
“Do hold on, sir,” suggested Thomas, “and wait for what we find in Uncle Anton.”
“Why bother? You don’t need to open him up now!” countered Ransom, stepping closer. “I mean you’ve got your comparisons with the two miners. You have your aunt’s feelings to consider. You don’t need to cut on your relative.”
But it was as if the young interns, once underway with their scalpels, could not be deterred by any logic Ransom might raise.
“We could be missing the bigger picture here, Detective.” Thomas now stood over his uncle’s body with the scalpel in hand, Declan nodding beside him, encouraging him. The moment gave Ransom pause; it had him recalling two things of great precision: How Dr. Christian Fenger and Dr. Jane Tewes acted whenever given an opportunity to operate—to wield a scalpel. It would appear the scalpel spoke the same language to these young surgeons.
The scalpel sliced through Uncle Anton’s chest, and again the crackling sound beneath the blade rose to their ears. Seeping from the cut, rising bubbles and brackish fluid, but this time the fluid and bubbles proved somewhat clearer. It just about proved Declan’s theory of the sequence of how these men died. McAffey in the mine with that beast they had uncovered from the wall—which now lay within one of the freezers in the wall here, followed by O’Toole, escaping the mine, coming into contact then with Anton Fiore—each man passing the disease to the other. Or so it would appear.
Thomas worked faster over his uncle when something hard hit the floor, the noise turning everyone to it. At first it was assumed that Ransom had bullishly knocked over a lab dish or instrument, but then they saw the white bone near his feet. “Something out of the pile of clothes tossed on that shelf,” Ransom said, shrugging.
“It’s the other sabre-tooth… must’ve been in one of the pockets,” said Declan, going to it and lifting it. “I’m quite willing to bet it’s empty of pulp.”
“We’ve no time for teeth or games of chance now, Declan.” Thomas had kept working as if to stop at any point would end it for him. He’d determined to give no thought whatever that the final dissection was over his beloved uncle. He obviously had made up his mind to treat Fiore’s body as he might any shell rolled into the dissection theater here at the university complex at Mater Infirmorum.
Ransom thought how much a man Thomas had become this night. Meanwhile, Declan pocketed the tooth, saying, “Well it may come in handy later on when we have to explain ourselves, eh?”
After making the initial Y incision on his own uncle, then cracking the chest open, then watching the dank, dirty-brown liquid bubble up, Thomas had felt his entire body relax. He was thinking, ‘I love the work, despite everything’ when suddenly he stumbled back with a startled gasp. This caused Declan to drop a metal dish, creating a gunshot-like sound.
Ransom, certain he’d been fired on, had dropped to the floor as the noise reverberated about the operating theater. “What is it? What’s happened?”
“Membranous tissue… ah-ah where it doesn’t belong.” Thomas pointed his leather-gloved hand with scalpel at the open chest.
“Are those sacs?” asked Ransom, shaken. “Some sort of… eggs?”
“But miscarriages—all of them, deflated, ill-formed, and unfinished.” Thomas’s leather-gloved right hand and scalpel still pointed at his uncle’s splayed open body.
Declan cautiously made his way to the open cavity into which he now stared long and hard. “They’re not doing well these little fellows, but you’re correct, detective.”
“This is some strange sort of life form alien to us, and it’s trying to incubate here.” Thomas perspired and looked as if he might faint out. The damnable things’ve filled the chest and abdominal cavities.”
“Now we know where all the fluids in the host body have gone… into this effort at survival and growth.” The consummate scientist, Declan appeared positively glowing with the excitement of discovering a new life form.
“Each attempt within each human host appears to be coming closer to completing itself.” Declan looked at Ransom, adding, “Tuttle’s body is likely riddled with these… these things. We’ve got to find him, like I said, dead or alive, and maybe even quarantine that so-called unsinkable ship.”
“Sun’s up,” said Thomas who’d looked out the door leading to the small supply room they had entered through. “We’re running out of time. We need to get our story organized and records in order if we’re to convince the Dean and Dr. B.”
“We need more time,” complained Declan.
Ransom put his hat on, lifted his cane, and checked his pocket watch to see that it was indeed nearing 7AM. “Well lads, it has been an adventure. Best be gone before your professor shows up. What time does the professor normally arrive?”
“Eight sharp, ready to cut!” said Declan with an abrupt laugh, and the two young men shook their heads, Thomas slapping Declan on the arm. Ransom realized it was an inside joke they shared about their teacher, and this suspicion was solidified when Declan, fatigue-laden to begin with, began walking in an exaggerated manner, leather-gloved hands snapping at suspenders in mimicking Dr. Bellingham.
While Thomas bent over with laughter—a much needed balm now, Ransom smiled wide, envying the boys their bond of friendship when a sudden, loud pounding all around them silenced the trio, and with guns pointed, police slammed through doors on either side of the operating theater. Constable Ian Reahall entered shouting, “Take them all in—all three, Sergeant! Use your irons!”
Dr. Enoch Bellingham rushed in just behind Reahall, and he stared hard at his two students and asked, “What have you done here? How could you go against my wishes? The wishes of the Dean? To break your vows to me, to ignore our Queensland University code of conduct?”
“But sir!” began Declan.
“You may be interns but you are here at the hospital representing the kind of young men we bring up through Queensland!”
“But Dr. B-Bellingham,” pleaded Declan, “you must examine our findings!”
“We’ve made startling discoveries, sir,” added Thomas.
Dean Goodfriar rushed in now, looking as disheveled as Bellingham, as if both men had thrown on their clothes only moments before. “This is an outrage!” he shouted, looking from one dissected body to the next. “You are looking at expulsion, you… you scamps! You young idiots! I will see to it!”
“The entire place will have to be disinfected,” said Bellingham.
“You’re all under arrest for breaking and entering.” Reahall turned to the dean and the professor, adding, “Your students are now my prisoners. Put the irons on ’em, Sergeant.”
Dr. Bellingham and Dean Goodfriar tried to intervene on behalf of
the boys, trying to reason with Reahall. Bellingham insisted, “This is a matter for the hospital and the university to deal with. This so-called detective is one thing,” he shoved a wagging index finger in Alastair’s direction. “But these are my students, and I will see to their punishment, you can be assured.”
“Then you can put up bail for them well enough. Sergeant Quinlan! Do your duty, man. I’ve been up all night, and I’m in no mood for pleasantries among you… you gentry.”
If he weren’t in serious trouble himself, Ransom would have laughed to see the poor sergeant going back and forth at the interns with irons in hand, going forth one step, back two depending on who was speaking. Whenever the dean or Bellingham took exception, he backed off; when Reahall spoke, he stepped to it. In the meantime, the young interns were struggling to get their hands free of the long leather gloves. At the same time, a second uniformed officer clamped irons on Alastair—hands and feet.
“It’s not Mr. Wyland’s doing, Dr. B., Dean Goodfriar, please, I mean… Thomas and I pushed him into this business, but please, whatever you do with us, you must examine our findings. I’ve kept exact notes on our findings, please, sir… please it is a serious disease we’re faced with, one without a name! And we need your help… we all need to work together—as a team, sir—like you always say ‘we men of science must work together’—remember?”
Thomas lifted his hands to Dr. Bellingham, hands in chains now, and said, “Sirs, this disease could be of great importance to you both; in fact, it may even be named after you. Goodfriar’s disease… or Bellinghamitis. Look as interns at the university, Declan and I have no claim to it, and besides, we need your backing, sirs… please.”
Goodfriar considered this argument, tugged at his whiskers as if considering the import of what the boys were saying, but then he took command, saying, “Yes, you’re right, Constable Reahall—shackle them and take them away! After all, we’ve heard the confession. Don’t you agree, Bellingham? We’ve heard enough.”
Ransom saw the old dean’s devious eyes had lit up with this last suggestion coming from Thomas. He could almost see the phrase alight in the man’s mind reading: Goodfriar’s disease. One for the ages. Immortality of a sick kind, literally speaking.
“You can place bail tomorrow at court if you want them back,” Reahall said to Bellingham, “but to get the lesson across, you shouldn’t be rushing to their defense or to place bail without exacting time behind bars—in my humble opinion—sirs.”
Ransom knew that Reahall wanted only him, and that he also wanted to question the lads, especially his paid informant, Thomas, to determine if Ransom had given anything away. The constable now stepped to within inches of Ransom and stared into his steely gray eyes and said, “I don’t suppose anyone will be bailing you out, Detective ahh… Wyland.”
“Constable,” Ransom calmly replied, “tell me you’ve located Tuttle, the Pinkerton agent.”
“That’s naught to do with you now, Mr. Wwwyland.” The exaggeration of Ransom’s alias told him once again that Reahall believed him to be the escapee from the hangman in Chicago. What Reahall hoped to do with that knowledge, Ransom hadn’t a clue, but he knew human nature only too well, and he suspected the constable, up in years himself, was most likely thinking of how he might turn it into ready cash. After all, the Chicago style of politics was born in Ireland.
“Take ’em away, Sergeant, and see that you and your men keep a sharp eye out for this sly fox; I believe he’s escaped justice many times. Take nothing for granted with him; do you understand? If he so much as asks about your health or family, gag the man.”
“But Dr. Belligham, Dean Goodfriar–” cried out Declan—“we’re all in danger of the plague! Not only Belfast but quite possibly Southampton where Titanic’s going next. If this agent is aboard—whether alive or dead—he’ll be spreadin’ the disease!”
“The ship must be quarantined and now!” added Thomas at the top of his lungs.
Ransom joined in as he was led out, “Fools! Damn fools, all of you! You’ve got to listen to the lads!”
“Look at the records I’ve kept, Dr. B, like you’ve taught us—please!” poured forth Declan’s final plea.
Ransom fought his handler, Sergeant Quinlan, long enough to stand before Dr. Bellingham and Goodfriar to add, “This situation needs you men to step up. You’ve a pair of bloody smart doctors in those two lads, and you best heed them! I implore you!”
Reahall had snatched out a bandana, and he now gagged and silenced Ransom. He then gave Ransom a shove and shouted at his subordinates, “Get a-moving, you men!”
In the court yard outside the building Ransom saw the dreaded paddy wagon awaiting him and the young internists, as they made their way down the long walkway past nurses and doctors coming on duty for the morning shift at the hospital proper, many stopping to stare and wonder at the commotion. Ransom took in the last breaths of a breeze, sorry for the boys who must feel the heat of anxiety welling up from within them. Their lives could well be ruined by the night’s work, he imagined. On the other hand, he faced a rope should Reahall discover his true identity.
The two young interns appeared despondent and defeated. But there was a bounce in Constable Reahall’s step as he ushered Ransom along. From just behind Ransom, Reahall whispered in Alastair’s ear, “You’re the bloody fool now aren’t you? Man, you could’ve been away—out of my jurisdiction. Why did you linger?”
Ransom’s answer came as a garbled sound like a dying goose, until Reahall loosened the gag which fell about Ransom’s chin. “Let us say I had an itch needing scratching and an arse needing kissing, and I chose you to take care of it, Constable.”
“You’re sure to feel most at home in a Belfast cell.” Reahall had come around to walk alongside him, and Ransom saw a glint of absolute gleeful satisfaction in his green eyes.
“How much?” Ransom asked.
“A hundred fifty pounds. I’m not a greedy man.”
“You’ll release me then?”
“Aside from myself, no one knows your history; I’ve made it my study of late. But for all anyone knows, you’re arrested for breaking and entering… and this could remain the only charge before the judge. One I can nullify… if you get my drift.”
“I don’t have that much coin,” replied Ransom. “What then?”
“Then I contact your friends in America; you must know someone there who could forward funds. It is, after all, the country where the streets are paved with gold.”
Ransom laughed. “There’re no golden streets in Chicago; golden properties waiting to be developed, yes, but I have no friends back there with deep pockets.”
“Then you are confessing to being Inspector Alastair Ransom here and now?”
“No, not in the least.”
“But you just said you have no friends in Chicago.”
“Correct as I have never lived in that city, although I did visit it once for the World’s Fair. You have me confused with someone else, Constable.”
“Stubborn fool.”
Ransom reiterated his cover story: “As I’ve told ya, Constable, I’ve no friends back there—meaning America and Chicago in particular. I’ve only visited Chicago. I’m Boston born and bred. A seaman at heart, really—hoping to get a berth here in time.”
“Visited Chicago, yes, for the fair… the World’s Fair, so you’ve said.”
“It’s true. I went up on Mr. Ferris’ wheel—a hundred seventy feet into the sky. Terrifying.”
“Liar; you’ve been lying so long, I suspect you think it the truth.”
“Truth be known, you are a common thief, aren’t you Reahall?”
“Not so common, not really.”
“You hold all the cards, sir.”
Reahall smiled. “That much I know… and I know you are a card player—poker, yes? They tell me that’s your game.”
Ransom smiled at this, wondering how many men around the table at the Red Lion were on the constable’s payroll, and how man
y men in Belfast Reahall had his hooks into. When Walter McComas had volunteered so readily to join them in going to the mine was he, too, on the take—a Reahall snitch? Belfast politics and graft seemed a long way from Chicago’s ills, and yet not so far after all, not now, not as Ransom and his two young clients were forced into Reahall’s paddy wagon.
The ride in the back of the smelly wagon that bumped its way over cobblestone streets gave Alastair pause. Belfast remained behind the times, and his situation now recalled a time when he’d ridden in such a wagon down Chicago streets in 1893, the year of the great fair, the fair that ended with the assassination of Chicago’s most beloved mayor. But why dwell on the unchangeable past, he silently counseled himself, and instead he stared across at the two boys arrested with him. He asked himself the question Reahall had put to him: Why didn’t I disappear when I had the chance? At the same time, the lads kept up a constant chatter about what fools and idiots they had to put up with, and how disappointed they were in their Dr. Bellingham. They outright cursed Dean Goodfriar as a hopeless cause.
The sputtering mechanical wagon, powered by an easily choked off engine, jerked, their bodies reacting, as it pulled for the waiting Belfast jail. When the wagon smoothed out a bit, rattling over the cobblestones, Ransom recalled the evening before when Reahall and Bellingham had come on scene where the ancient creature lay alongside McAffey’s body. He recalled the familiarity between Bellingham and Reahall, and he felt rather lonely in being the only one in the rear of the wagon who knew that Professor Bellingham and quite possibly Dean Goodfriar were as surely in bed with the local constable as any of the toughs at the Red Lion Inn.
EIGHTEEN
It was determined that while they searched for the missing crewman, Houston Ford, that Scorpio would continue toward Titanic without further delay; already a half day had been lost. A search party made up of crewmen who knew Houston Ford had been organized, and every inch of Scorpio was being searched, but so far, nothing had come of their scouring the ship—although the searchers had even gone so far as to open the ovens in the galley to be sure, much to Cookie’s seething anger.
Titanic 2012 (inspector alastair ransom) Page 21