Sherlock Holmes: Zombies Over London

by Stephen Mertz

  I said, "Here comes result number one."

  The man’s ham-sized hand rested on my friend’s shoulder.

  "Well, if it ain’t Mr. Sherlock Holmes, come calling where he don’t belong."

  Holmes half-rose, half-turned. One arm snaked around the man’s thick arm. The other captured the big fellow in a head lock. Holmes twisted sharply, using the man’s own strength against him. He flipped the man over his shoulder.

  I leapt to my feet, stepping away just in time to avoid the big fellow landing on his back full-force upon the wooden table, crushing our table into kindling beneath the impact of his weight.

  A brief hush. Then booming, earthy laughter. Conversation and merrymaking resumed at the surrounding tables.

  The booming laughter continued. The giant picked himself off the floor. He was the source of the laughter.

  I didn’t know what to expect. Did he have friends about to rush us? I drew up my fists, ready for a fight. Then I lowered my fists.

  Holmes was smiling. Not that quirk-of-the-lips hint of a smile that I was used to, but a full-on almost boyish grin of recognition.

  "Hello, Nappy. I thought you knew that I granted no man the right to lay a hand on me."

  Up close, the bruiser appeared even bigger and wider. A giant of a man, craggy of face and wild of eye. Nappy red hair, worn short, clung to his head like a strange cap. His ugly face shone with a wide grin.

  "I did not know that, Mr. Holmes, but I certainly knows it now! You never come visit me once after they sent me up."

  "I’m a busy man, Nappy. Too busy to stay in touch with every crook I put away. But you’re a free man again. I see you’ve not changed your taste for the gaudier side of life."

  "If you mean betting on the nags and chasing the skirts, right you are, Mr. Holmes, and The Empire is the ideal place for both! Track touts with inside tips a fella can use and, well, you can see for yourself by looking about that the pickings is ripe for any bloke what got him an itch to chase women, cause it don’t take much chasin’. But don’t you worry none about me, Mr. Holmes. Me crook days is behind me. It’s honest work what keeps me busy here. They call me a bouncer." He chuckled and brushed away a spec of remaining dust from a broad shoulder. "Though I reckon t’was me got bounced by you this time."

  "Nappy, I’m rather glad to see you too."

  The big man offered his hand. "When that waiter told me who it was poking around, I had to come over and say hullo. Reckon I came on a bit over-friendly."

  They shared a hearty handshake.

  "Nappy, I want you to meet my good friend, Doctor Watson. John H. Watson, this is Nappy McGuire. I sent Nappy up for two-to-five, wasn’t it, Nappy?"

  The ugly giant again proffered his ham-like hand, and so we shook hands. His grip was firm to the point of grinding my knuckles.

  "A counterfeit rap, it was. Dr. Watson, your friend here is the finest gent in all of London and, believe me, Nappy McGuire is a boy what’s been around. Know what he done?"

  I retrieved my hand from his grip. The knuckles ached but nothing seemed to be broken.

  "Uh, no ..."

  "When he sicced the coppers on me, it was for a one-time job I done to pay for me mother to have an operation."

  I said, with what I hoped was a touch of levity, "My dear fellow, you needn’t offer your defense to me. I’m not the prosecutor."

  He glowered.

  "You calling me a liar?"

  Holmes reached up and placed a restraining hand on a massive shoulder.

  "He meant no offense, Nappy. We’re here on business. We can use your help."

  "Well, all right," Nappy said. "Any friend of yours, Mr. Holmes." He turned to me with that huge grin plastered across his broad face. "After I was sent up, Mr. Holmes claimed the reward."

  I said, "Pardon me for saying so, Nappy, but you seem remarkably forgiving of the man who put you behind bars. And you, Holmes. It’s extremely unusual for you to accept a reward."

  "This," said Holmes, "was an exception."

  "Yuh see," said Nappy, "after Mr. Holmes cashed the reward, know what he done with it? He handed over every last shilling to pay for me mother’s operation. It saved her life."

  Holmes said, "And how is the old dear?"

  Nappy guffawed. "Oh, Mum’s fit and ornery as the day she had me." Then his craggy features grew serious.

  "And Danielle? She does perform here?"

  "Aye. Dani’s about to go on, soon as these jokers are off."

  The curtain closed on the comedians, who were taking their bows to another smattering of applause intermingled with catcalls and heckling.

  Holmes said, "We’ll require only a minute of her time. By the way, Nappy, you don’t happen to recall a German teenager named Albert as numbering among Danielle’s recent admirers?"

  Nappy rubbed his lantern jaw.

  "Dani’s the one to talk to."

  "I would impose upon you to introduce us."

  "Glad to! A tasty little morsel she is, though no one knows much about her. She came with Andre as part of his act."

  "Andre?"

  "The knife thrower. This way. They’re about to go on. We’d best hurry."

  Chapter 10

  We followed Nappy down the broad main aisle to the front of the music hall. At the orchestra pit, we cut across, passed the front rows. A door led backstage.

  And there, in the wings of the stage, stood Danielle.

  There are many types of feminine beauty. Holmes often chides me for being a romantic at heart, as if that were a weakness. There’s the beauty of my Mary: clear eyed, steadfast, peaches-and-cream complexioned. There is the languid, smoldering beauty of Jane Wells, sensuality incarnate.

  And there is the beauty of one like Danielle.

  No more than nineteen years old. She belonged on the stage, where radiant beauty like hers could be appreciated; an essence of beauty mostly physical yet which exuded a somehow wholesome quality that touched the schoolboy that lives always deep within most man. A woman-child. Untamed hair that shone in the stage lights. A sparkle in her eyes, and smiling. Her stage costume revealed lovely, long legs.

  Stage hands scampered about, setting up a backboard support center stage.

  In the wings on the opposite side of the stage, a dark young man, his features partly concealed by shadow, busied himself straightening rows of long-bladed knives that rested upon a wheeled table.

  Andre.

  Satisfied, he allowed the stage hands to wheel the table upstage from the backboard, upon which a chalk outline closely approximated Danielle’s figure.

  She turned her sparkling smile on us upon our approach. This young woman, who apparently intended within the next minute or so to stand against that board while knives were thrown at her, exuded the effervescence of a high society ingénue at her coming out party.

  "Yes?"

  Nappy said, "Dani, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

  She blinked. Her eyes widened.

  "Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the detective?"

  "One and the same," said Holmes.

  She extended her hand in the Continental fashion. "A pleasure to meet you, I’m sure." Her tone and manner of speech were not in Nappy’s coarse Cockney, but carried the lilt of breeding and education.

  Holmes leaned forward and kissed the back of her slim, tapered fingers in the Continental fashion.

  "I do apologize for intruding here on your job, Miss—" He let the sentence taper off into a query.

  Nappy said, "Y’know, now that he mentions it, Dani, I’ve never heard your last name bandied about."

  From the wings opposite, Andre strode to center stage., revealing himself to be a lean fellow, his dark hair curled over his collar. He wore black. He looked pointedly in our direction.

  Danielle said, "Mr. Holmes, I’m due on stage. What is it you want of me?"

  "I’d like to ask you briefly about a young man. He’s sixteen years old. German. He’s attended your performance, perhaps more than once."
<
br />   From the pit, the orchestra struck up a fanfare.

  Dani cast a nervous glance at Andre.

  "I’m sorry, I can’t help you."

  Holmes drew from his pocket the flyer bearing her signed photograph, allowing her to clearly see her signature.

  "His name is Albert. Albert Einstein."

  "I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes, but on a good day I sign fifty or a hundred of those flyers. I know nothing about your missing German boy."

  From the stage, André said, "Danielle." Her name on his lips sounded cold as a knife blade.

  Dani said, "Excuse me, gentlemen."

  She flitted away on those lovely legs. She and her partner exchanged words. They spoke without looking in our direction. Andre’s demeanor was intense.

  Nappy said, "Uh, Mr. Holmes. I caught a gander of this lad you’re asking about. Dani signed her picture for him yesterday, at the morning show it was. Before that, before she went on, I happened to be walking by his table when he ordered a cup of tea. Tea, mind you, in a place like this! He had a German accent, right enough."

  "I asked you about him, Nappy. Why didn’t you tell me straightaway? Do you have something to hide?"

  Nappy snickered. "Who don’t? But nothing to do with this, I assure you. I figured it was between you and Dani. That kraut boy was here again today for the morning show. Him and her talked some, they did. Then the German kid left. I figured she’d tell you about that. But she lied. Y’know one ting I’ve learned in my life’s misadventures, Mr. Holmes? Women are funny."

  "Nappy, your grasp of the obvious is matched only by your physical endurance."

  "Huh?"

  Onstage, the curtains parted. The orchestra began playing a low-keyed mood piece. The incessant chatter of the audience died down.

  Andre and Danielle took a bow, whereupon Dani’s shapely bare legs carried her in the direction of the backboard.

  I said, "Holmes, she referred to the boy as missing. You never told her that we were looking for Albert because he’s missing."

  That got me the flicker of a smile.

  "Very good, Watson."

  Andre remained facing the audience, seeming to check the balance of the steel blade in his hand. This could only have been for the benefit of the audience. Andre surely well knew the tools of his trade. The mounting anticipation in the hall became a palpable thing that rippled across the stage to where the three of us—myself, Holmes and Nappy—stood grouped together in the wings.

  Nappy said in a low voice, "There’s something else, Mr. Holmes, though I don’t reckon it’s connected with whatever has brought you here. But the word is out on you."

  I frowned. "The word?"

  Holmes nodded, keen eyes thoughtful.

  "So the word has gone out to hunt me down."

  "Aye, guv’nor. I heard tell of it not ten minute before you gents walked in. The underworld is on alert. You’re a walking target. There’s profit for the lad or gang what takes you down. I just heard a couple of blokes laying odds that you won’t last twenty-four hours."

  Holmes regarded me with a single arched eyebrow.

  "What do you say, Watson? Dangerous men lurking around every, poised to attack from cover when least expected with the intention of killing me. As you are often in my general vicinity of late, I should advise—"

  "Trust me, Holmes, I consider this development a direct threat against my personal safety as well as to yours. Now I really wish I was packing hardware."

  Nappy eased aside the lapel of his jacket. A heavy .44 revolver rode in a shoulder holster beneath his left arm.

  "If anything happens in my vicinity, you can bloody well believe that this bouncer is primed and ready."

  Onstage, Danielle, pirouetted gracefully before placing her back to the board in a pose that naturally brought her hips and breasts into prominence. Andre hurled the first knife. It thudded into the board, its ornate handle quivering less than an inch from Danielle’s left ear. This elicited a collective gasp from the crowd. Danielle, however, did not bat an eye.

  I felt myself growing edgy again. No matter that this was a well rehearsed routine performed many times before, I am not a man to comfortably stand by while knives are thrown.

  Andre, grim of face and narrow of eye, threw his second knife ... straight at my companion!

  In the stage lights, the knife’s blade glinted in furious flight.

  I had only time to shout, "Holmes, look out!"

  Chapter 11

  A woman in the audience screamed.

  There was no time for me to lunge at Holmes to heave my friend out of the knife’s path. No time for Holmes to dodge injury even after I drew his attention to the impending danger.

  Only Nappy found time to react in those fleeting seconds through the simple expedient of lifting his huge right hand, palm forward, in automatic reflex. The knife pierced the hand as if Nappy had purposefully caught it, the knife’s handle protruding from his palm wile the blade, slick with dripping blood, extended from the back of his hand.

  Nappy emitted a grunt. He faltered but remained standing, clasping the wrist tightly beneath the injured hand.

  "Damn, that smarts!"

  Holmes said, "Stout fellow, Nappy. You saved my life."

  Nappy winced. "That’s for saving me mum’s life."

  Everything happened at once after that. Andre whirled, sprinting for the opposite side of the stage. Danielle scampered after him.

  I gripped Nappy’s arm with both hands.

  "That knife’s got to come out fast."

  "Aye, Doctor. Make quick work of it, gents. I’ll not scream like a girl."

  I steadied Nappy’s arm. Holmes slid the blade from the hand. Strands of gory tissue drooled from the blade. I grabbed a bar rag from a nearby table and wrapped it around Nappy’s wrist as an emergency tourniquet.

  I flung open a lapel of Nappy’s coat, revealing the .44 in its shoulder holster.

  "May I?"

  "With my blessing. Take it and get them snakes in the grass!" He continued applying pressure to the veins at his wrist. The trickle of blood had subsided.

  I relieved him of the gun.

  "See to it that your wound is properly dressed."

  "Forget about me. They’re getting away!"

  He was right. Holmes had given chase. I left Nappy and joined him, racing across the stage in pursuit of Andre and Danielle.

  Disconcerted rabble of the audience washed over us. The orchestra started playing a peppy number while a tuxedoed master of ceremonies made placating gestures with both hands, assuring the crowd that what they were witnessing was all part of the show, folks!

  As he passed Andre’s wheeled table, Holmes snared one of the knives. We reached a heavy metal backstage door that was still in the process of swinging shut. I took point, since I had the pistol, shouldering open the door with Holmes at my heels.

  A shrouding mist beneath the black midday sky dappled rain puddles that spotted the alley like scattered discs of silver. Footfalls hurried away from us in either direction. Like any self-respecting criminals attempting to elude pursuit, they had separated, Danielle halfway to the mouth of the alley where it fed onto busy Leicester Square while André was taking off in the opposite direction.

  Since I was closest to Danielle, I charged her after her.

  She was clearly in my sight, having almost reached the cross-flow of pedestrian and vehicular traffic at that end of the alley. People with umbrellas, their outer garments wrapped tightly about them, scurried to whatever imperative destination had forced them into these inclement conditions. There was the brittle clacking of passing hooves and carriage wheels on wet pavement.

  Then I lost sight of her amid a cluster of peddlers. I clearly heard the click-clack-click of her high-heeled boots. Then a quick glimpse of that saucy backside darting around a corner.

  The peddlers left in her wake leaned forward, their jaws agape from the vision of a gorgeous young woman, clad only in sparse, sparkly stage attire, flashing
like a fantasy through their midst.

  No more than thirty seconds behind her, I eased Nappy’s pistol under my coat so it would not be visible and cause complications. I barreled through the clot of peddlers, overhearing remarks indicating a collective lingering doubt. Was she real? An illusion, perhaps. An angel appearing among us! Naw, wise up. ‘Twas only that chippie from The Empire. Aye, but an angel just the same. Then I was through their ranks, reaching where the alley gave onto the Square.

  A tumult was erupting in Leicester Square. Beyond my immediate line of vision, people started shouting in panic and surprise. Horses whinnied in panic. A runaway drawing a carriage bolted past, the animal’s eyes wild with fear.

  What the devil?!

  Then I saw it. Too late!

  One of those steam-powered, futuristic motor carriages identical to the ones I recalled from Castle Moriarty! The over-sized vehicle was speeding away, withdrawing at an alarming rate, a trail of steam and fiery sparks nosily spewing in its wake.

  I lifted the revolver, started to take aim but held my fire. Everywhere around me people were craning their necks to gawk, bystanders gathering downrange for a better view of the incredible machine roaring away.

  I lowered the .44.

  Someone in that strange contraption had either been waiting for Danielle or had somehow otherwise managed to appear on the scene to whisk her away.

  A pistol shot cracked from the alley behind me.

  I ran toward the gunfire. Around me, disoriented onlookers were scattering like startled pigeons.

  In the alley, I found Holmes crouched for cover behind a pyramid of stacked crates. Andre held a pistol that he must have worn concealed. Andre’s attention was on firing at Holmes. He had not yet seen me. He fired again.

  The sound of a ricochet.

  I raised and bent my left elbow, resting the barrel of the .44 on the elbow to steady my aim. This would be quick work, plunking one right through Andre’s brainpan. I eased into the trigger pull.

  Holmes saw me.

  "No, Watson! We want him alive for interrogation!"

  I eased up on the trigger pull.

  Holmes left cover of the crates in a somersault, righting himself onto one knee. He flung his knife before a startled Andre could fire.