by Alex Simmons
“Me, I feel sorry for Mr. Quick,” another seaman said. “He has such a hard time keeping workmen at his warehouse.”
Wiggins put down his plate. “We can go now.”
He got sidelong glances from his friends, but they were happy enough to put down the muck they had been eating. No one said anything until they were well away from the pub. At last, Jennie burst out, “We all heard it, but I’ll be hanged if I understand what that sailor said.”
“I wouldn’t suppose you would,” Wiggins replied, “nor Owens, or even Dooley. He’s often down around the docks, but he’s never been on the river as much as I have.”
From the time he started organizing the Baker Street Irregulars, Wiggins had gone out of his way to make friends with people who might help him on jobs for Sherlock Holmes. Some of the most useful had been the river men who ran small boats up, down, and across the river. They’d often given Wiggins rides along the banks of the Thames. When Dooley’s brother had been killed, the boat-men had searched the river and found him.
Wiggins explained this as he led his friends down the street. “Downriver, toward Gravesend, we’d pass a run-down warehouse. In better days, the owner had painted his name on the wall facing the river in letters at least ten feet tall. It’s a sort of landmark for the river men. I’ve seen it a dozen times. And now that I know my letters . . .”
Stepping over to a grimy doorway, he traced five letters on the dirty wood: Q-U-I-C-K.
“Dooley, are any of your dad’s mates around here? We need to know when the tide goes out.”
“Right over there.” Dooley pointed to a knot of men by a wharf. The Raven Leaguers rushed over but let Dooley do the talking.
“That will be this evening, about a quarter after eight,” a man with a pockmarked but genial face told them.
Thanking him, they moved off so they wouldn’t be overheard. “I think I know how the smugglers work,” Wiggins said. “The ‘passengers without tickets’ wait at the old Quick warehouse. The smugglers come out by boat to deliver their cargo—”
“Human cargo,” Jennie muttered.
Owens spoke more plainly. “Crooks on the run.”
“—to outgoing ships,” Wiggins finished. He glanced up at the sun, trying to judge the time. “That means we have a few hours before the Sea Foam sails. So the question is, how can the four of us, and a hunted Indian, scuttle this whole scheme?”
Chapter 14
“IF ONLY MR. HOLMES WERE HERE.” DOOLEY’S MOROSE voice seemed to sum up their problem.
“Well, he’s not,” Wiggins replied. “He’s in Scotland, so we can’t talk to him. And the police are busy looking for Silent Eagle, so they won’t leap onto a suggestion from us to raid the Quick warehouse—”
His eyes grew wide. “Or would they?”
“You usually say the police wouldn’t do anything on our say-so,” Jennie reminded him.
Wiggins nodded. “But they might go to the warehouse—if they believed Silent Eagle was there.”
Jennie looked ready to argue but only stood with her mouth open.
“That’s brilliant!” Owens exclaimed. He broke off as a detachment of police officers came marching down the street. They entered each building while scouring every possible outdoor hiding place.
One of the men in blue mopped his red, sweating face. “How long do we have to keep this up?” he asked.
“Inspector Desmond says until we catch the savage,” the answer came from a police sergeant. “He’s got the lads out all over the East End.”
The members of the Raven League hurried away.
“We’ve got to get Silent Eagle out of Mr. Shears’s shop—and the East End,” said Wiggins.
“And fast,” Owens added.
“How?” Jennie asked. “Silent Eagle stands out in a crowd.”
Wiggins’s brow furrowed as he thought hard. “Benny Flagg isn’t out with his cab. His horse is still recovering —and he’s still recovering from all the drinks he got after the horse came back. Suppose we rented the cab—”
“Colonel Cody didn’t give you enough money to do that,” Jennie objected. “And even if you did get it, then you’d have a cab without a horse and driver.”
“But we know someone who can solve all those problems, don’t we?” Wiggins replied. “Colonel Cody could provide the money and the horse. He could even drive the cab to pick up Silent Eagle—”
“He could,” Jennie said doubtfully. “But would he?”
“Buffalo Bill said he’d do anything to help Silent Eagle,” Wiggins said. “We can only ask him. That means a trip to Piccadilly.”
“And he can think up a place to stash Silent Eagle too!” Dooley said.
Jim the valet wasn’t much pleased to see them, but he took a message to Colonel Cody. A moment later, he was ushering them into Cody’s rooms.
“You have news for me?” Buffalo Bill asked eagerly.
Wiggins waited until the servant left, then reported what the members of the Raven League had found out, along with the plan he’d hatched.
Cody nodded and grinned like a young lad. “Deal me in.”
“Er —” Jennie looked slightly embarrassed as she spoke up. “I think you’ll need a disguise, sir. Your face is on posters all over London.”
“By golly, you’re right.” Buffalo Bill went to the door. “Oh, Jim. Can I borrow that new round hat I saw you wearing?”
The valet stared. “My derby, sir?”
“Yes, I’ll need it for this afternoon. On the bright side, though, you’ve got the rest of the day off.”
Jim walked off, muttering about eccentric Americans. Wiggins told Cody how to find the stable where Benny Flagg kept his cab. “We’ll take care of a disguise for Silent Eagle,” he promised. “Meet us there in an hour and a half—and bring money.”
The next hour passed in a blur. The Raven League returned to the East End. Jennie and Dooley went off with more expense money to buy new clothes for Silent Eagle. Now he’d have to look like someone who could afford to ride in a hansom cab. Owens went to Mr. Shears, bringing the news of the coming move. Wiggins began hunting through neighborhood pubs in search of Benny Flagg.
He caught up with the cabman in the Raven, where Benny was working his way through a pint of beer.
“Got some business for you, Benny,” Wiggins said.
“I got no business,” Flagg responded with a shrug and a beery sigh. “My horse is laid up, and so is my cab.”
Wiggins lowered his voice. “I’ve got a gent who wants to rent your cab.”
Benny put down his beer. “Why would someone want to do that?”
“It’s for a joke,” Wiggins said with a shrug.
“Oh.” Benny often told tales of gentlemen who’d had too much to drink and the lengths they went to play pranks and jokes. “Has he got money, then?”
“Come to the stables and see,” Wiggins told him.
Flagg almost called off the deal when he saw the apparition awaiting them. Buffalo Bill leaned against a wall well down the line of horse stalls, far away from the open double doors and the light that came in. He had tucked his trademark long auburn hair into the derby. A stained long cloth coat, a duster, covered most of his clothes. He’d turned up the collar of the coat and wound a scarf around as well to hide his face and the distinctive imperial beard and mustache he wore.
Benny began backing away. “I don’t think—”
Buffalo Bill reached into his right coat pocket, then opened his hand to reveal a small stack of gleaming coins.
“Five guineas!” Benny gasped. He stared as if mesmerized as Cody brought out his left hand and slowly clinked another five gold coins onto the pile.
“Well,” Benny said, licking his lips, “I suppose I can enjoy a joke as well as the next bloke.” He rushed down the central aisle of the stables to snatch the offered coins, muttering, “You done me a good turn, young Wiggins. I’ll remember that.”
Moments later, Benny was scuttling off, his pockets a-
jingle, as the stable man showed Buffalo Bill the available horses. Cody broke all the rules of horse-trading, paying heavily for the healthiest-looking cab horse without bargaining. Climbing onto the two-wheeled rig, he leaned over and whispered to Wiggins, “You know, son, as soon as that cabbie gets a few drinks in him, this story will be all over town. We need this business finished, and quick.”
Climbing into the passenger’s compartment in the front of the cab, Wiggins sat as Cody whipped up the cab horse, taking them out of the stables. Minutes later, following Wiggins’s directions, they pulled up in front of Mr. Shears’s barbershop. Wiggins spotted Jennie and Dooley peering out between the multiple panes of glass.
As Wiggins leaped to the pavement, the shop door opened and Owens led out an elderly invalid. Wiggins blinked. Wait a tick! That’s Silent Eagle!
The Indian walked slowly, with a slight crouch. He had a white shirt and a tie under a slightly worn but still presentable jacket. Over his shoulders he wore a shawl, using it to shade his features. After taking a careful look, Wiggins had to grin. Apparently, Mr. Shears had added an artistic touch, powdering Silent Eagle’s face to give him some pallor.
When he climbed into the cab and sat back, the Sioux warrior looked like any other London cab passenger. Cody gave the Raven Leaguers an appreciative nod and started the cab off at a sedate pace for his rooms in Piccadilly.
Wiggins rubbed his hands together. “Now all we have to do is find Inspector Des—”
As if on cue, Inspector Desmond came around the corner, heading toward them. “We’ve had several reports of people spotting your Indian friend hereabouts,” he said with a smile. “So we’re starting a house-to-house search.”
Wiggins sent up a silent prayer of thanks that they’d just sent Silent Eagle on his way. “Actually, we were looking for you, sir,” he said. “We think Silent Eagle is hiding farther along the river, in a warehouse.”
Desmond frowned as Wiggins spun a quick story about spotting the Indian skulking around the old Quick warehouse. Then Desmond nodded. “Right. We’d better get over there and have a look, shouldn’t we?”
He gazed down the street, and Wiggins’s heart sank. Buffalo Bill’s cab had gotten caught behind an unloading wagon. “I say! Cab! Cab!” Desmond called after it. He began moving toward the disguised Western hero, with the members of the Raven League trailing nervously behind.
“Oh!” the policeman said as he got closer to the cab. “It’s taken.” He shrugged and looked back at Wiggins and the others. “Well, a hansom would have been a tight fit for all of us. Let’s go round here and see if we can’t hail a growler.”
That was a narrow squeak, Wiggins thought, his heart returning to its normal pace.
Soon, they were boarding a larger, four-wheeled cab. Wiggins boosted Dooley into the seat beside Desmond while he, Jennie, and Owens sat facing the inspector.
As they rattled along the streets to the riverside, Wiggins glanced at his friends. They looked as nervous as he felt. This was not falling out the way he’d imagined. He’d expected Desmond to gather up as many constables as he could and then rush off to surround the warehouse. Instead, the inspector apparently intended to scout the area first and wanted them along.
Desmond dismissed their cab some distance from the warehouse, then slowly approached the building on foot. “The place certainly looks deserted,” he said to Wiggins. “Are you sure this is where you saw him?”
“This is where we saw him,” Wiggins insisted.
“Aren’t you going to get some reinforcements?” Jennie asked in a worried voice.
“I think we’ll take a look first.” The police inspector walked right up to the door and pushed it open.
Wiggins’s jaw dropped. He couldn’t believe this copper was going in alone! Did Desmond have some clever plan up his sleeve?
Desmond peered inside, then stepped in. “Doesn’t seem to be anyone here, but it is fairly dark—”
The copper was just strolling into a smugglers’ den! Wiggins darted forward, followed by his friends. Even though his eyes weren’t used to the dimness inside, he spotted several people in the large, echoing room. Desmond must have been dazzled by the sunlight not to see them, he thought.
Five of the figures retreated into the deeper shadows. Two came forward. Wiggins saw familiar faces—Zeke Black and Chinless Ed Gorham. He pointed at the American gangster. “That man is a wanted fugitive from the United States.” Wiggins glanced over his shoulder, sincerely hoping that Inspector Desmond had brought a gun.
Instead, he saw that Desmond had retreated to the warehouse door —and was closing it. “So, you found out about that too,” the inspector said. “It seems you’ve discovered all our little secrets, except one. I work with these people.” His voice grew harder. “Or, more precisely, they work for me.”
Zeke Black closed in on the Raven Leaguers, his initial look of surprise turning into a scowl. Beside him, Chinless Ed Gorham held up a small pocket pistol.
Wiggins and his dismayed friends turned to face Inspector Desmond. He leaned back, arms crossed, blocking the door that led back to sunlight and safety.
“Oh, I’m not the chief of this operation,” the rogue policeman said mildly. “There are others whom I work for. They told me how you and Mr. Holmes had already involved yourselves in their business.”
“You—” Jennie choked on her words. “You’re a police officer. But you work for people who have plotted against the law?”
“Against the Crown,” Desmond corrected her. “We have a shared interest in keeping things as they were meant to be, keeping people in their proper places—unlike our American cousins, with their foolish democratic notions.”
Owens’s eyes narrowed. “And the proper place for most folks is down?”
“Good lad. You know what I mean, right enough.” Desmond’s lips twisted beneath his immaculately trimmed mustache. “People over here are picking up ridiculous American ideas. The last thing we need is our nations coming closer. That’s what a popular American like this Cody creature could achieve.”
“So you went out to get him and his Indians in trouble?” Dooley asked.
“Cody’s sudden celebrity caught our leaders by surprise,” Desmond admitted. “They wanted to dampen the public’s admiration for Cody, and that meddling constable gave us the perfect opportunity. After we dealt with him, our political connections worked to exploit the situation.”
Desmond sneered. “They often used that idiot Pryke to stir up the rabble. A small investment to rent the beginnings of a mob, and he certainly set the lower classes afire. The man overreached himself, however, shooting his mouth off about people who were not to be mentioned. His punishment helped fan the anti-American flames to a gratifying height, though.”
“You mean after Pryke mentioned the ‘higher-ups’ that day we saw you,” Wiggins asked, “you had his head broken?”
He suddenly felt angry with himself. I should have seen this, he thought. When we first approached him, Desmond told us he’d already heard that the gun had gone missing from Buffalo Bill’s Wild West. But Nate Salsbury, who knows everything that goes on at the show, said he hadn’t mentioned it. So where did Desmond find that out?
Now Wiggins realized that the information could only have come from Constable Turnbuckle’s attackers.
“You four have shown unexpected ingenuity,” Desmond said, “although it put you in the middle of another of our ventures. At first we gave all the credit to Sherlock Holmes.”
Dooley suddenly stepped forward, his face a pale mask. Obviously, he’d been putting Desmond’s hints together. “These people you work for —they had my brother killed to keep their secrets. I felt better because the man who did it got caught, but he died in his cell. Was that because of your precious bosses too?”
“You mean Bruiser Rowley?” Desmond gave Dooley a cold smile. “He knew too much. And that murder charge might have pried some information out of him if he weren’t silenced. You should thank me, bo
y. I personally dealt with your brother’s murderer.”
Dooley looked as if he were going to be sick. Desmond didn’t even appear to notice. “My expectations were for more of an executive role in the organization. Instead, I found myself involved in a duel of wits with a bunch of children.”
His handsome face took on a hard and cruel expression. “That charade I staged by the docks should have scared you off, or at least persuaded you to give me the information I wanted.”
His eyes narrowed. “Now is the time to reconsider your situation. I assure you, young Wiggins, mine is the winning side. We’ve used this operation to bring in a number of useful agents unknown in this country.” He nodded toward Chinless Ed, standing guard beside Zeke Black. Then he turned his gaze to the group of men hiding in the shadows. “We’ve also moved many ‘clients’ out of Britain, creating a web of people who will do our bidding all over Europe.”
“You dress like a posh bloke and talk about ‘we,’ ” Wiggins shot back, “but to the real posh blokes, there’s not much difference between you and Pryke and me. They’re using you to get what they want so they don’t have to dirty their own hands.”
Black and Gorham tensed, ready to punish Wiggins for his bold words. But Desmond stopped them with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You flatter yourself for the small part you played in thwarting my superiors’ last little effort.”
Wiggins’s eyes grew wide. “You were part of that?” he asked.
Desmond grinned. “I played a small part too,” he admitted. “But I’m to take a larger hand in our next project. When all is ready, we’ll unleash a stroke that will bring this city to its knees.”
Chapter 15
INSPECTOR DESMOND FLICKED THE END OF HIS NEATLY trimmed mustache. “By the end of our campaign, we will be masters of the British Empire. You have a chance to establish a position for yourselves, depending on how forthcoming you are in the course of our next chat.” The rogue policeman turned to Zeke Black. “You and Gorham make sure our visitors are properly secured.”
Desmond started walking away, then glanced over his shoulder. “And Black—no mistakes this time, eh?”