Sigmund Shaw: A Steampunk Adventure

by Mark C. King

  When he reached the bottom, it was not a jolting stop but still caused him to roll off the ramp to the basement floor and grab his shoulder on account of the pain. A new wave of nausea struck Sigmund as he discovered that his left shoulder wasn’t where it should of been. With great control, he managed not to vomit again.

  Lying on the cool basement floor, he tried to take in his surroundings, but the darkness was near absolute. Not moving, he listened for sounds around him, especially above him. As a few seconds passed, he wearily allowed the thought that he might have escaped – for the moment anyway, as he had traded one problem for another.

  Out of the darkness, and from another room, he heard voices, footsteps, and the sound of a hand on a doorknob. Light spilled in as a door opened across from Sigmund. Hiding his eyes from the light, he could now see that he was in a small room. It was different from when he was here before. This room didn’t exist.

  A silhouette in the door, backlit, spoke, “What is the meaning of this? Who are you?”

  Sigmund recognized the voice, “Hello, Doctor Ferriss. It’s nice to see you again.” He winced as he tried to sit up.

  The silhouetted man stepped closer, stooped down and said, “Mr. Shaw? Is that you? My goodness, what is going on?”

  “I’m not entirely sure but I need your help. My shoulder is injured.” Sigmund slowly rose to his feet, gasping at the movement.

  The doctor leaned close, reached up to his forehead, clicked a switch, and an electric light turned on. Sigmund could see that the doctor wore an elaborate, multi-zoom-capable pair of goggles on his head – complete with a portable electric lamp – popular among surgeons. After only a moment’s observation, Doctor Ferriss declared, “Your shoulder is dislocated. We need to put it back into place.”

  Sigmund said nothing, just waited for the doctor to continue. And continue he did, “This can’t happen here, we need more room. Please, step into the theatre.”

  The doctor turned and stepped to the doorway, holding a hand out as if to help Sigmund if he fell. Sigmund walked to the door and into the other room, looking down as the light still pained his eyes. The chemical fumes and smells in the theatre were strong, some antiseptic smells, some foul. Sigmund had to fight the urge to gag once again.

  “Anthony,” said the doctor to someone else who must have been in the room, “please grab the ether and a handkerchief.”

  Sigmund’s eyes started to adjust to the light, his nose still far from adjusting to the smells. He looked around and saw someone walking to a wooden cabinet along the far stone wall, Anthony probably, and two other men standing and staring at Sigmund. The brightest spot in the room was near the cabinet where there was a gas lamp along with three lanterns and several candles – the main object of illumination was a wooden table. The table was not bare, for on it lay a man, naked, and quite dead. Surrounding the table were wooden trays with medical instruments. This operating theatre was in session. Sigmund looked away from the grim scene in disgust. His senses were overwhelmed, he could barely comprehend any more what was going on around him – in this grim surrounding, he didn’t want to.

  The doctor stood in front of Sigmund – who now noticed blood on the doctor’s apron – and gingerly felt around his wounded shoulder. Sigmund could see that the touch was gentle but it felt like knives of fire. He tried not to make too much noise, wincing and closing his eyes.

  “Here you are, doctor.” Said the student, Anthony, and handed over a small bottle with a handkerchief.

  “Jerome, Martin, I need you to stand on the other side of our patient. You will need to hold firmly his right arm.” The two students obeyed, moving around Sigmund and each grabbing his right arm. Knowing what was about to happen, Sigmund cringed. He knew it was for his benefit but he didn’t want to do it.

  To Sigmund, Doctor Ferriss said, “Mr. Shaw, we need to put your shoulder back in its socket. It will be painful but this should help some.” From the bottle that Anthony had procured, the doctor poured a small amount of the liquid onto the handkerchief, and held it up to Sigmund’s nose.

  Sigmund smelled a sweetish alcohol aroma and then his head started to feel dizzy while his stomach once again felt sick. He didn’t think he could stop from retching this time, “What is –”

  Sigmund’s body jerked as the doctor pulled on his injured arm. The sharpest, most extreme pain that Sigmund had ever felt rioted through his body. He screamed briefly, started to vomit, and then everything went black.

  10.

  The crime was clear. The motive was clear. The perpetrator was clear. But above all, what was most clear, the one thing in all of this that he couldn’t look past, was the failure.

  Chief Inspector Gabriel Holmes set the Times down on his desk and stared hard at the door to his office. The door itself was inconsequential, solid oak with no particular pattern, but it gave him a focal point while his mind drifted heavily into the analytical world that made him one of the most successful members of Scotland Yard.

  Those damnable reporters somehow knew it all – including that the suspect, this Sigmund Shaw, was in custody and had escaped. Now the world was aware of the blunder. How could there be such incompetence? He looked at the article title again:

  Minister of Defence Murdered!

  The ‘Bomb Bandit’ Escapes Custody

  It didn’t matter that the initial response teams and events of the previous night were not under Holmes command, this case was now his responsibility, which means that anything that happens, or happened, good and bad, reflected on him. Fairness was not part of the equation, it was the perception of the situation, a perception that Holmes shared. No one expected, demanded, more of himself than he did. This failure burned at him, making him angry. Through years of experience Holmes knew that this anger would turn to motivation. Sigmund Shaw would be caught, there was simply no alternative – it was a fact that just hadn’t been realized yet.

  And then there was the name that the paper has given to this criminal, the ‘Bomb Bandit.’ How cute, Holmes growled. Why sensationalize this murderer? The Minister of Defence was dead! Innocent people were dead! And now this sub-human had a fancy title that will be on the lips of the entire populace. Anger. Motivation.

  What kind of MO was it to bomb a place you want to steal from? There are much better ways to cover one’s tracks. I guess this Sigmund Shaw found that out the hard way. How surprised he must have been to find out he was caught because he was knocked out by his own bomb! If criminals were smart then they wouldn’t be criminals. Well, he wasn’t exactly caught. Anger. Motivation.

  “Chief Inspector.” Came a voice from behind his door, followed by a quick rapping.

  “Come in.”

  Entering his office was Sergeant Monroe, a large man, strong, dark hair and mustache. His brown eyes stared straight ahead while he waited to be addressed by the Chief Inspector.

  “What have you to report, Sergeant?”

  Now addressed, he turned his eyes to Holmes and the Sergeant spoke with barely bridled excitement, “We have completed the search of Sigmund Shaw’s home and we have found many interesting things.”

  “Define interesting.”

  “Mr. Shaw seems to be a bit of an inventor. I can’t say we understood all that we saw but he had creations that would allow him to, well, gain access to places that otherwise wouldn’t allow access. He had tools to defeat all kinds of security.”

  “Is that so? What of bomb making materials?”

  “There was nothing overtly of that manner, sir. Again, some of the devices are still a mystery to us, but they appear strictly mechanical, not chemical or explosive. We will keep searching of course.”

  Holmes nodded as he thought about this information.

  The sergeant, standing at attention, allowed a hint of a smile on his lips. He knew he had done well – and doing well for Chief Inspector Holmes was a good way to move ahead at the Yard.

  “Very good sergeant.” Holmes said flatly, hiding his own satisfaction.
“Please continue with this lead. Find out all you can about him, his family, his friends – nothing is too small.” He then turned to some papers at his desk showing that he was done with the sergeant.

  “Yes, sir, Chief Inspector.” The sergeant turned and left the office.

  With his door closed, Holmes went back to his stare. It seemed that Sigmund Shaw was perhaps more complicated than he originally thought. Devices to gain access? Ways to defeat security… like a pair of handcuffs, perhaps?

  Chief Inspector Holmes had solved many cases in his 27 years on the job. Many of them important, some of them had high visibility, but none were of this magnitude. Not a person in London, and probably most of Europe, was not aware of this case. Holmes did not crave attention, he only craved results. The public nature of this case would simply be an added feature that he had to deal with, and, he admitted reluctantly, perhaps use to his advantage. By placing a picture, or in want of a picture, a sketch of Sigmund’s face in the newspapers, it would practically turn all of London into a pool of informants.

  Holmes couldn’t help but think about a case he had as a young sergeant, how hard he had worked, and how the solution had nothing to do with hard work, the criminal had turned himself in simply because his face was in the paper and he couldn’t take the pressure from his mum. Holmes learned that hard work was not always enough to be really successful, you needed to be smart as well, use all advantages available.

  He broke his stare as his thoughts were interrupted by a commotion outside his office. A storm was coming. He expected this, wasn’t looking forward to it, but knew it was inevitable.

  Without a knock the door swung open and in walked Sir Edward Bradford, Colonel and Police Commissioner. He had a sharp look in his eyes – intensity or ferocity, probably both. Not a large man but one that commanded attention and respect. His record of military service and the fact that he lost his left arm in a tiger attack gave the white haired, thickly mustached Commissioner an air of legend. Bradford had taken over as commissioner during a troublesome period and had established a sense of order that the several commissioners prior to him were unable to achieve. His knowledgeable, unswerving approach, along with his generally easy-going manner made him popular and effective. But his face, as he walked into Holmes office, was anything but easy-going.

  Bradford was followed closely by the deputy commissioner, Superintendent Wesley – Holmes direct supervisor – along with several aids and yes-men. The commissioner was not going to go through the ‘proper channels’ on this case. He was skipping several ranks in talking directly with the Chief Inspector. There would be no sugar coating or bush beating of the information. This was much of the reason for Bradford’s success and it suited Holmes just fine.

  The Chief Inspector stood from his desk and waited for Commissioner to speak.

  “Chief Inspector Holmes,” Sir Bradford said in an authoritative voice – loud but controlled. “I trust you have made progress in this bombing.”

  Before Holmes could answer, one of the aids cried out excitedly, “Holmes! Like the stories in the Strand? Where’s Watson, eh?”

  Gabriel Holmes bristled at the question. First, it was far out of place for the situation, and second, he loathed the comparison and Arthur Conan Doyle for naming his character as he did – not to mention for the way Doyle portrayed Scotland Yard as a bunch of incompetents. Since the popularity of Sherlock Holmes introduction, Gabriel Holmes had to field this type of nonsense far more often than he cared for. Fortunately, Holmes authority as Chief Inspector allowed him to shut down these inquiries fairly easily. Not wanting to allow this foolish question to detract from the situation or weaken his position, Holmes, forgetting the commissioner for the moment, responded sharply to the man that questioned him, “Do I look like a work of fiction, sir? Would you like me to play the violin for you, or perhaps I should try and solve crimes from an opium haze?”

  “Enough!” boomed the commissioner. Holmes point was made. Bradford looked back at the aid that asked the inane question – the man appeared to shrivel in his place, a look of horror in his eyes at the attention. Turning back to Holmes, Bradford demanded, “Chief Inspector, what progress on the bombing?”

  “Yes, sir. We have completed a search of the criminal’s home and have found a collection of criminal tools.”

  “And the man himself?”

  With a deep shame born from the previous night’s failure, Holmes said, “Still unaccounted for, sir.” He waited for the outburst but it didn’t come.

  “Understood.” Replied the commissioner. Holmes again appreciated the reasonableness of this man. “I am sure you are aware of this but so the point is perfectly clear,” The last part was said especially loud, evidently for the sake of those around him and not necessarily for Holmes “There is nothing that is of higher priority than this. We have a dangerous man on the loose that murdered six people, including a high ranking official of the Empire. He is a traitor of the highest magnitude. His… escape,” Bradford spat out that word, “is the most embarrassing event in my term. Chief Inspector Holmes you will have every resource at your disposal.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  The commissioner stormed out with the same commotion as he stormed in, demands given, people rushing to and from him.

  Holmes walked around his desk and stepped over to his door and called out, “Sergeant!’

  Immediately Monroe’s head popped up from his desk and the man hurried over to the doorway. “Yes, sir?”

  “When you locate the places that Mr. Shaw is known to visit, I want an inconspicuous officer placed outside of each one, watching. A rotation will be setup so that we have a twenty-four hour watch cycle. Do you have any questions?”

  “No, sir. I will get straight to work on this.”

  Holmes nodded, turned back into his office, and closed the door behind him. He could hear that Monroe stood at the door for a moment and then footsteps as the sergeant turned to the task he was just assigned.

  Sitting in his chair, Holmes turned his eyes to the door and went back to going over the evidence in his head. The lack of bomb making material was disturbing but there were explanations for that – the simplest being that all the materials were used in the bomb itself. Experience told him, however, that that was not usually the case. His men would need to track Shaw’s movements over the past several weeks and see if they could find where he purchased the supplies needed for a bomb. Although, if Sigmund was a thief, he might have stolen such items. That was more likely the case. He would need his men to ask companies to validate their inventory, looking for missing supplies – be it TnT, or chemicals for nitro-glycerin. There was much work to do to solve this case. It could have been so easy, just keep the man in custody…

  Anger. Motivation.

  * * *

  The slightest hint of light was starting to register in Sigmund’s brain. It hurt. A sour smell didn’t help. Cracking open his eyes a little he saw dark parallel shapes above him – wooden rafters. Where am I? This is the second time that he has awoken in a strange place without memory of how he got there. Blinking a few times as if to wipe away the sleep – and confusion – the previous day started to come back to him. The bomb, the police, his escape, his shoulder, and Doctor Ferriss.

  Sigmund considered how fortunate he was to be in the area of the doctor last night, a man he had met a couple years prior – a man he had hoped to never see again. He thought back to the bizarre request and the ghoulish motivation that led to Sigmund being associated with this doctor. It was a couple of years back that he had overheard a man talking about a peculiar request, a horse pulled trailer that allowed specific size boxes to fit in a cradle and that the cradle could be swiveled to the side and one end lifted by a mechanism to slide off the box. Sigmund had never heard of something quite like that but knew that his mechanical abilities would be up to the challenge to allow him to design and build it. He approached the man and a deal was struck.

  Doctor Ferriss
had provided a new horse trailer and Sigmund added the mechanism to hold the box, swivel it to the side of the trailer, and then a circular crank to raise up one side of the cradle. The process was simple and could be done by one person – a requirement by Doctor Ferriss. After a couple weeks Sigmund finished the construction, delivered the cart to the doctor, and received praise as to a perfect design. Ferriss then told Sigmund that this was only half the design, and that he needed a chute for the boxes to be slid into and delivered to his basement. The full design would allow for a person to bring the box to the doctor’s home, swivel it to the side, raise it up, slide the box off the trailer into the chute, and down to the doctor’s basement. Sigmund asked what it was all for and the doctor said that he received medical equipment and needed an easy way of unloading it as he often had no help.

  Sigmund spent the next two weeks working in the basement on a hidden door – so thieves wouldn’t take advantage of it – and a slide mechanism for the boxes to make the journey from street to basement.