“What do you mean?”
“The floors. They have the sand I would expect to see, but I can’t detect the presence of other men than the sailors. Unless we place our beliefs in water sprites or a kraken attack, this is most curious.”
“I’ll check the bow,” Gleascott said.
A few minutes later, Gleascott called, “Mr. Holmes! Come quickly! Bring binoculars!”
Grabbing a pair from the sailors’ quarters, I joined Gleascott at the very front of the ship.
“There’s a trail,” he said. “They’ve hidden the trailhead, but take a look at those trees. There are distinct gaps forming a line.”
I looked through and saw that the sharp-eyed young man was right. I discerned the outlines of a trail where trees had been cut to make room, and, presumably, supply timber for someone. The trail meandered in a northwest direction out of sight in the jungle.
“What now?” Gleascott asked.
“That is up to Mr. Khan,” I said.
Khan and the first mate emerged from the cargo hold.
“To my astonishment, the steam turbines have been left completely alone,” he said. “I must congratulate you, Mr. Holmes. You have not only assuaged my doubts, you have won a great deal of esteem.”
“I thank you, Mr. Khan. For your purposes, it’s best you know that all useful supplies and weapons have been taken, but that no damage has been done to this vessel, so far as I can tell.”
Gleascott said, “As soon as you get a capable crew in here, all you have to do is lift anchor and a tug can pull you out on the next high tide.”
“Excellent!” Khan clapped hands with joy. “I’d say you gentlemen have earned your rum for the day.”
“What we’d like to do is explore a trail we spotted from the bow,” I said. “There is still a crew missing. I should not rest easy in my mind until we have an answer.”
“You are right, of course,” Khan said, “but wouldn’t it be better to have a proper search party?”
“Yes,” I replied, “except for the fact that the jungle growth obscures more clues every day. I’m not proposing a full expedition. I just want to determine which way they might have gone and perhaps find a clue as to their possible fates. A proper search can wait a day or two. We shan’t be gone long.”
“Very well,” Khan said. “Keep in mind I must inform my superiors as soon as possible. If you have not returned within three hours, we shall have to leave, and you’ll have to await the search party, which will likely take at least two days to assemble.”
“We can come back to the ship,” said Gleascott. “Now that it’s already been plundered, I don’t think we have to worry about unwanted visitors.”
Gleascott and I spent a good three-quarters of an hour clearing brush away from the trailhead so that the search party wouldn’t have to look very far to find it. The undergrowth told us the trail saw infrequent use, and I found the impression of wheels in one of the muddier sections.
“Mr. Holmes, perhaps we should go back,” Gleascott said. “We have a trail, and we can follow it easily. Let’s do this properly.”
“I agree.”
We turned back, but a sudden movement in the bush stopped us. A man cried, “Hey! You there!”
When we looked over, a large catlike creature crouched under a tree leapt, knocking Gleascott to the ground and turning its hot, angry eyes on me. I had a walking stick, and cracked the brute squarely on its wide black nose. It yelped, and Gleascott rolled free.
“Run!” he cried.
Down we ran along the trail, but now several of these strange cats, not quite tigers, not quite leopards, and part something else, gave chase. I tripped on a root and fell to my face. Gleascott had grabbed a hanging vine and hauled himself into a tree. I heard bullets fly, and then a crash to the forest floor.
“Gleascott!” I cried.
Another bullet struck a tree not six inches from my temple, and I raised my hands in surrender as a young man, a student until recently, stepped into view. He wore khakis and a pith helmet. When he stepped from behind a tree, his rifle aimed squarely between my eyes.
“Ares! Hercules!” he barked.
I now saw what made these cats different: somehow, they had been given certain canine qualities, their sense of smell far more keen, and a willingness to be led by men. A closer look revealed that the jungle cat’s natural cunning had been replaced by the guard dog’s loyalty and obedience, a thought which offered no comfort whatsoever. In appearance, the best comparison I can make would be a combination of panther with Rottweiler.
“You can’t leave my friend behind,” I said. “Surely one of these beasts can carry him.”
“Do you hear him?” my captor said. “The man is dead, and better off for it. If I had any brains, I’d blow yours out right here. You two are alone?”
“Yes.”
“Ares and Hercules will escort you. Don’t try anything. Between those teeth and claws, you don’t stand a chance.”
After the first two miles, I was weak with thirst, and weary with fatigue. My skin crawled with insect bites, and I had thoughts of dying in a raging jungle fever, which would have been preferable to what happened once we reached our destination.
What appeared to be a small military compound had been carved out of the wild jungle. A stockade with a barbed wire perimeter around both the interior wall and the compound’s exterior kept the outside world out, and those inside prisoners. Most of the buildings were squat and wooden temporary affairs, with one stark, incongruous contrast: a small and solid manse which must have had several bedrooms. It stood out like a castle in a suburb. Near that, a plain but solidly constructed bunker from which emanated the chemical smells only associated with those of a laboratory. But I also heard something else: the terrible, familiar cries of animals being tortured by Dr. Moreau.
I saw some of the sailors through the barbed wire. I spotted fresh scars on their torsos and resentful fear in their eyes, but no one needed my acumen to see that these wretches had been tormented and spent their days in fear. They had been put to work as carpenters, erecting some kind of outbuilding. But the sight of their suffering slavery alone wasn’t what chilled my bones, Watson. They had supervisors I recognized all too well: giant dog-like rats! If work slowed down, or one of the men faltered, the rodents started chittering, and the application of some very sharp teeth solved the problem.
My captor forced me through a simple wooden door rather than announce our presence by entering through the main gate, but if the intent was to keep my presence quiet, it failed. When some of the sailors spotted me, they pleaded with their eyes for me to do something, anything, to take them from this manmade hell on earth.
My captor commanded my beastly guardians to herd me to an open lean-to on the eastern perimeter, where they had stacked the lumber to keep it out of the rain.
“Keep him here until I get back,” he told his beasts.
Grateful to be off my feet at last, I dropped into a corner, out of the oppressive sun. I fell asleep against the wall, dreaming of savage animals chasing me and clawing me. I dreamt of flowing blood. After perhaps two hours, the sound of pouring rain pounding on the lean-to’s roof woke me. I cupped my hands and drank as much rainwater as I could. This revived me somewhat, and I was better able to take stock of my situation, the essence of it being that the odds were against me and the situation grim indeed. Once the rainfall ceased, I tried to leave, but the two brutes guarding me prevented that until my captor arrived. I could now see that he was young, blondish and wore a bristled moustache intended to cover disguise a defective upper lip.
“May I have your name, sir? I am Sherlock Holmes.”
“Montgomery,” he said.
“Take me to Dr. Moreau,” I said.
His face paled. “How could you—”
“His handiwork is all around us,” I replied. “I see he has moved up from street rodents and house pets.”
“No one is supposed to know he is here.”
“I know much no one is supposed to know.”
“Hercules! Ares! Come!” Montgomery commanded, leveling a revolver’s barrel at my chest.
The strange animals did not allow me more than a foot of space as we marched across the compound. The captured sailors lived in makeshift grass huts, while the transmuted rodents seemed to live in large wooden crates with natural bedding. The sailors, I perceived, were erecting a second new building, and had just finished digging a foundation for it.
Montgomery led me to the small mansion, pulled a bell rope outside the mahogany door and waited.
After a short while, the door opened.
“Montgomery, this had better be—My God!” cried Moreau, who had become bloated and fleshier since our last meeting. Fatigue ringed his eyes, and I could see his labors in the House of Pain had cost him a great deal of effort.
“I never thought to look upon your face again, Mr. Holmes. Nelson never recovered from your escape,” Moreau growled. “I suppose you’d better come in. You, too, Montgomery. Keep that pistol handy.”
Inside was an island of civilization, a bold contrast to the filth and misery outside. Electric ceiling fans rotated lazily above us as Moreau led us into a well-appointed office, complete with gasogene and liquor, paintings of placid countrysides, and the shelves lined with books ranging in subjects from botany to poetry. Moreau sat behind a well-polished desk which had only an inkwell and blotter on its shiny wood surface.
Moreau also had a souvenir in the center of the bookshelf, a souvenir which caused me to shudder, despite myself – a preserved human brain, and preserved fairly recently.
“That, I’m afraid, belonged to an unfortunate who tried to escape from here. Fix yourself something to drink, Holmes,” he said. “It will be your last refreshment for quite some time.”
“I must ask about Gleascott,” I said. “The young man who accompanied me in the forest.”
“His body will be retrieved and disposed of,” Montgomery said. “The rain prevented us from finding it, but by now I imagine scavengers have found it since and begun their work. He’ll wait until morning.”
I poured some whiskey from a Waterford crystal decanter on a sideboard, mixing it liberally with water, for I knew not when, or even if, I would next find sustenance. Besides the decanter, Moreau had all the tools needed for instant entertaining: a silver bowl for caviar, a silver plate for the toast, and flat knives of the sort used for spreading butter. I palmed one and secreted it in my trousers. However, part of Moreau’s isolation in Sumatra showed in the implements. Not silver, but ordinary flatware.
“I suppose congratulations of some sort are in order,” I said, as Moreau gestured me to take a chair. “Your experiments have greatly advanced.”
Moreau nodded and showed his appreciation with a dry smile.
“It’s all in the chemicals,” he said. “As you know, I break certain chemicals down to their elemental form, and recombine them to make the grafts compatible. I have made particular progress in brain research. The creatures you see outside are far more than one would expect from a casual glance.”
“Most would shy away immediately after a casual glance.”
Again, the dry smile.
“They can comprehend simple words,” he said. “Using dogs, I give them the gift of being able to understand my orders and carry them out. I hope one day to endow them with the power of speech.”
“No doubt you are looking with great anticipation toward the day you may wield your scalpel upon some unlucky man.”
“I may never have need of that,” Moreau said, “though my techniques do hold great promise for mankind. But that is no longer my intent.”
“Benefiting mankind should have been your first and only concern.”
“But you made sure I could never do that!” Moreau exclaimed. “Your short-sighted understanding of what we were doing and your premature public disclosure closed that door to me forever. You have no one but yourself to blame for this state of affairs, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!”
I did not know how to reply to this outburst. I finally said, “What I have seen here tells me I did the right and Christian thing. You keep your slaves in line by the same methods you use to control your … beast things. Fear and torture.”
“Two of the most effective persuaders mankind has ever known. You must be aware you have cost yourself immortality,” Moreau said, lighting a cigar. “However, some good has come from our adventure together. I have managed to create more complex and more intelligent animals, and, once the new laboratory is equipped, I hope to begin research on primates.”
“Is that the House of Pain?” I asked.
This caught Moreau by surprise.
“There is no way you could know that name,” he said.
“Untrue, obviously, since I know it. Everyone does, actually. It’s the name Pike gave your laboratory in the pamphlet.”
“Hmmph. So that’s where I heard it. I put that sensational publication from my mind years ago. You are a man of many surprises, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. What am I to do with you?”
“We both know perfectly well you have decided upon my murder.”
“Not necessarily. You have scientific gifts which might prove useful.”
“I will never use my skills to further your research. You must know that.”
“Did I say I wanted that? No, no, not at all. Your brain is unique in my experience. It may contain many wonders as my research advances.” Moreau turned to Montgomery. “We will need special care with this guest. As it happens, your guess is correct. The House of Pain next door is indeed part of my complex here. And now you will experience it firsthand.”
“You must be aware that my employers know I am here,” I said. “Your days in this place are numbered.”
“That may be. But that number is far higher than yours. I am prepared for the eventuality of discovery. Take him away, Montgomery.”
Even today, I can barely recall the memory, Watson. It refuses to come to the surface, refuses to let me fully remember. For Moreau did not want anything from me except my screams of agony. In his demonic researches, he had also created entirely new instruments of torture, the sort of which a monster like Torquemada would only envy.
“You provide an ideal subject,” Moreau said during a break. “Notice that I have yet to penetrate your skin. I can bring you to the edge of unconsciousness and back, I can take you to the highest of agonies, and yet leave not a single mark. I thank you for your assistance in refining my techniques.”
With that, the torments resumed: vile chemicals inducing pain and hallucinations, giving me visions of demons and hellfire. Moreau plied an instrument which pulled and pinched the skin in such a manner as to give the sensation of piercing by a thousand sharpened needles. My ankles were twisted to the breaking point, and simple taps upon certain pressure points led to explosions of agony.
“Why,” I wheezed, “haven’t you killed me yet?”
“I need you to persuade my workers not to get any ideas,” he said. “You will be displayed to them in the morning, and I want them to hear from your own lips what awaits any mutineers. After that, you’ll join the work force. A few more sessions in my little chamber and you’ll be docile enough. It’s worked on better men than you, I promise.”
Only Montgomery’s arrival, announcing dinner, ended that horrific session. I could barely move. Montgomery and another servant hauled me out of the torture chamber and inside Moreau’s home.
Dr. Johnson once famously said that the possibility of being hanged concentrates the mind wonderfully. So did the possibility of another session in the House of Pain, or being torn to tiny shreds of blood
y meat by Ares and Hercules. Montgomery led me up to the second story to a disused bedroom that had been used mostly for storage. This had been cleaned out, and I was left a cot, blanket, some cheese and water, and a chamber pot.
“Don’t get any ideas about the window,” Montgomery said as he led me inside. “I will have some guard rats stationed below. They aren’t nearly as considerate as Hercules and Ares, who would merely immobilize you. Do you understand?”
“You have made yourself quite clear.”
After I had a bit of the cheese and especially the water, I forced myself into a state of calm and assessed the situation with the coldest objectivity I could muster. I toyed with the butter knife I had filched from Moreau’s sideboard. A will and a way, Watson, a will and a way.
The window did offer a way out, so I opened it, to see the nasty red eyes of two gigantic rodents glaring back at me, their evil black whiskers glinting in the waning sunlight. Even if I could get to the ground, I would not last three steps before the brutes felled me. I did find a little solace in the fresh air, and tried to see some hope in developing rain clouds.
I checked a closet, and was able to pry loose the wooden bar underneath the shelf. I found no easily exploited flaws with the rest of the room, no boards I could pry up, no weaknesses in the walls, at least none I could use without creating a great deal of noise. As the sun’s rays grew longer, they crept up the door, and that’s when I realized something: this being a bedroom, the door’s hinges were on the inside.
Using the butter knife, I carefully worked at the screws, the process proving slow, dull, painful and frustrating. Ares and Hercules scratched at the door when they heard the noises I made, but did nothing to attract Montgomery’s attention. I had, unfortunately, failed to realize the noises would heighten their interest. But, so long as I was able, I continued.
By the time the light had all but faded altogether, I had one hinge free, and was able to use my sense of touch to remove the screws from the other one. At one point, I heard something outside the door; Montgomery had brought new creatures to guard me, as even such animals as these needed rest and food.
Sherlock Holmes and The House of Pain Page 8