The blade took Andre high in the right shoulder. He didn’t make a sound when the impact jarred him sideways. Then he surprised me and perhaps Holmes as well. He did not continue his run for the far end of the alley. Instead he leapt up, caught hold of the lowest rung of a fire escape with his good arm. Using the strength of both legs to compensate for having the use of only one arm, he commenced scrambling up the fire escape like a monkey climbing a coconut tree.
We continued pursuit.
By the time I gained the fire escape, Holmes was already well overhead, stepping onto the rooftop. I hurried up after him. The metal rungs of the fire escape were slippery from the rain but I made good progress without losing hold of the pistol. I reached the flat roof.
Andre was cornered near a small structure that provided rooftop access from inside the building. The structure was topped by a flagpole without a flag this rainy day. Andre had lost his gun along the way. He had tugged Homes’ knife from his shoulder, using it to hold Holmes at bay with wide defensive swipes.
Holmes said to me, "Danielle?"
"The little minx had help waiting. One of Moriarty’s super motor carriages."
Holmes indicated Andre.
"I’m not quite certain what this fellow has in mind. His surest way out would have been to run away and lose himself in the crowd."
Andre laughed. The laugh was not quite sane. Another swiping gesture with the knife.
"You will not take me. I have the protection of a powerful force!"
I said, "We can take him together. It’s only a knife wielded by a wounded man."
Andre staggered. Another swipe with the bloodied blade.
"Try! I dare you."
Holmes said, "On the count of three."
But he did not even make the one-count, or if he did I didn’t hear it.
Every sound, every sensation, was abruptly drowned out at that moment by a bizarre, pervasive, thundering whompa!-whompa!-whompa! that vibrated the atmosphere with its throbbing, rhythmic palpitations, growing louder and louder.
Chapter 12
A flying machine of sleek black metal zoomed in from the low clouds like some bloated, evil insect.
The source of the whompa!-whompa!-whompa! that hammered the air came from the mighty steam engine that powered twin blades atop the aircraft. The propellers beat the thick damp air at an astonishing rate, creating the optical illusion of a large saucer hovering over us.
A pilot sat at the controls behind a wide windscreen that curved around the front. An ungainly human-like hulk stood at an open side door behind some sort of futuristic mounted weapon defined by a long muzzle that protruded from the craft.
The muzzle swiveled in Holmes’ direction.
A rattling crackle. A bluish-white bolt like lightning lanced out from the muzzle. A small explosion and a cloud of smoke where Holmes had been seconds earlier before flinging himself behind the small structure at the foot of the flagpole.
Andre laughed his insane laugh. He raised both hands.
"Take me away!" He screamed as if this was the Second Coming. "Take me, I say!"
The muzzle shifted in his direction. I couldn’t get a good enough look at whoever manned the weapon except to see that the body was abnormally proportioned. The muzzle unleashed another lancing bolt of bluish white light accompanied by loud crackling and popping.
The lightning bolt struck Andre. His body convulsed. He performed a crazed and savage dance. Then he exploded. There is no other word for it. One moment the man shimmied and shuddered as if possessed by a demon. Then the white light, a puff of smoke and Andre the knife thrower ceased to exist. Evaporated. Disappeared ... except for a slight mound of gray ash on the spot where he’d stood.
I could scarcely believe my eyes! I forced myself to stop staring.
I brought up the .44 into target acquisition. Took aim at the oversized figure that I could now see leaping about with odd, jerky movements behind the muzzle of the strange weapon. I triggered off one-two-three rounds in rapid succession.
The impact of my heavy bullets knocked the big figure backward into the cabin of the flying machine with such force that he rebounded from striking something inside and stumbled forward, toppling uncontrollably through the open side door.
I leapt back an instant before he landed with a thud! that made the rooftop shudder under my feet.
The gyro craft started to bank away.
Holmes was working fiercely at unscrewing the flagpole from its base, leaning into the task with maximum effort.
The fallen, broken body that had landed near me ... began to move!
Slowly, steadily, with those strange twitching, jerking tremors, it first regained a knee and then rose to its feet. It is precisely the word. It moved with an abnormal, obscene sort of animation. The bullet holes I’d placed in its chest were plain enough, and the exit wound of each would be the size of a cricket ball. A quarter of his head was missing; the left side, from just above the eye to past the hairline. But his eyes were hungry!
A zombie!
It started for me, arms outstretched, hands grasping, the sickening dead stench reaching out for me as surely as those rotting fingers. The icy fingers found my throat. The thing closed in, its fetid mouth open wide, going for my neck.
I gave it the muzzle of the .44 instead. I rammed the gun barrel into its mouth. I pulled the trigger twice.
Its head erupted into a hideous, powdery cloud. It stumbled about, both hands frantically feeling the ruin where its head had been. Then it fell onto its knees. Then onto its face. The headless horror did not move.
Holmes succeeded in prying loose the flagpole from its base. He hurled the flagpole like a javelin. It flew unerringly, lodging itself between the churning propeller blades of the flying machine.
Abrupt silence when the propellers stopped. A startled cry from inside the aircraft. Then it plummeted to the pavement below, directly in front of The Empire Theater, and burst into a noisy orange-red fireball.
We surveyed the scene from the rooftop.
The flames that rose from the machine’s unrecognizable remains were becoming encircled by onlookers.
"Nice throw."
He nodded. "Quite a day for Leicester Square. A murder attempt in the music hall, upstaged by an incredible flying machine that dramatically crashes and burns, leaving behind a headless zombie. I daresay the mundane song and dance routines will have a difficult time topping that."
The clang of approaching official wagons carried to us from several blocks away, closing fast. I scanned the rooftop. The zombie’s headless form remained unmoving. Andre’s ashes had been muddied by the unrelenting mist.
I said, "Time to initiate a tactful withdrawal. Here I am back to slaying zombies when I should be at home relaxing with my wife."
Holmes said, "The appearance of Moriarty’s machines is hardly insignificant. It links him with the elusive Danielle, which in turn links Moriarty to the missing boy who is so enthralled with Danielle."
"But why would a world-class criminal like Moriarty waste his time with—" Then it came to me. "Ah. If Moriarty is aware of the boy’s connection to H.G. Wells, is he also aware of the time machine Wells claims to have built?"
"Not a pretty picture, is it?" said Holmes. "An evil genius. A time machine. Zombies. An ugly mix. A complex web. We need more information."
A sigh worked its way up from my boot heels.
"I need a straight up whiskey."
"Capital idea, Watson." He indicated the fire escape. "Please lead the way."
Chapter 13
Wiggins was waiting for us on the front stoop of 221B Baker Street. He leapt to his feet at first sight of Holmes, his fourteen-year-old freckled face beaming with enthusiasm. He threw a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the front door.
"That Mrs. Hudson, she don’t even want me waiting in the parlor! Says I’m a menace to the neighborhood."
Holmes laughed. "With those scarred knuckles and that pug nose, I might
have made the same deduction."
I nodded in agreement. "A bit of soap and water wouldn’t hurt you any, young man."
The boy gushed on to Holmes, "Sir, I’ve got all manner of information to report!"
Holmes opened the door and stood aside.
"Then do step in, Wiggins."
Mrs. Hudson had stationed herself just inside, blocking our passage, her hands clasped before her so tightly, her knuckles shone white.
"Mr. Holmes, you know that I insist on orderliness and respectability on these premises at all times." She scowled at the boy. "I’ll not allow street urchins—"
"My apologies, Mrs. Hudson, if master Wiggins in any way offended your sensibilities. But he is not of the idle poor. No indeed. Wiggins is an inspired entrepreneur."
"A what?"
I interjected, "The boy sells newspapers at Waterloo Station."
"Oh."
Wiggins piped up proudly. "Aye, and many’s the time me stock run out because I was too good at hawking the latest edition."
Holmes rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
"Compared to some of the riff raff who have graced these premises under the veneer of respectability, master Wiggins may look like a street urchin but he is in fact a most enterprising lad on the first mile of a successful path through life. Is that not that so, Wiggins?"
"I couldn’t have put it better meself!"
Mrs. Hudson had gone from clenching her fists to wringing her hands. Her eyes alternated between the boy and Holmes, uncertain of the former, trusting the latter ... to a degree.
"Mr. Holmes, you will assume responsibility for him while he’s under this roof?"
"Gladly and proudly, as will Doctor Watson."
Caught off guard, I mumbled, "Why yes, of course, certainly," not knowing what sort of mischief this boy was capable of.
"Very well then." Mrs. Hudson sent Wiggins a stern look and wagged a finger in his face. "And you, mind that you walk straight out ‘ere you take your leave of Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson. Don’t let me find anything missing."
She about-faced with erect bearing and marched off.
Wiggins sighed. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes. She’s a dragon, that old one."
"Indeed she is." Holmes opened the inside door. "Please, Wiggins. Do come in and deliver your report."
I prepared a drink and lit my cigar. Holmes seated himself and filled his pipe.
I said, "And kindly forgive our landlady. Mrs. Hudson was quite rude to you."
Wiggins made a dismissive gesture.
"Not at all, Doctor. The old dear read me like a book. There’s a silver candle holder in the hallway that would fetch me a pretty penny, no questions asked."
Holmes chuckled. He got his pipe going and spoke through a cloud of foul gray smoke.
"What have my Baker Street Irregulars learned thus far?"
"Plenty, Mr. Holmes. You’ve got to lay low! There’s a price on your head. Someone in London wants you dead. Someone real powerful."
"I do hate to disappoint you, Wiggins, but I am aware of that. What about Mr. Wells?"
Wiggins’ eyes took on the gleam of a rascal.
"There’s the juicy part, guv’nor, and no mistake. I was getting to that part next. The gent, Mr. Wells, he arrived by train not two hours after you put me on the lookout for him."
I interrupted with, "Are you sure it was Wells?"
Wiggins took offense. "Would I be reporting so to the guv’nor if it hadn’t been duly reported to me or if I hadn’t seen with me own eyes?"
Holmes uncharacteristically chose to calm troubled waters.
"Of course not, Wiggins. Do continue."
I decided to not say anything and absorb what I heard. This case was providing ample material for one of my stories, and I must remain attentive. But as I listened, I promised myself that when Mary and I had children, I’d see to it that none of them ever grew into anything like this scruffy lad.
Wiggins said, "I followed Mr. Wells me own self. Timmy had just got back from getting the word out about that chap Albert, so I set up him peddling papers and I stuck like glue to your Mr. Wells. Get this. The gent has himself a love nest! A flat near Cavendish Square." Wiggins recited an address which I jotted down, though I knew Holmes would be committing it to memory. "I did some reconnoitering," the boy continued, "under the guise of knocking on doors looking for work, chores and such, but while all that came of that was an offer to clean a stable—which I passed on quite politely, thank you—I did put together pieces of information."
Holmes said, between puffs on his pipe, "Watson, from the standpoint of pure narrative structure, I do hope that as a writer you’re noting how Wiggins masterfully creates suspense by withholding information."
"Holmes, must you always—"
Wiggins spoke over me, unwilling to yield the floor.
"Gents, here it is straight. Mr. Wells is playing house with a doxy named Danielle, who happens to be trollopin’ around behind his back with another bloke! Now ain’t that a pip, I ask you?"
"Do you have a name for this other bloke?"
"They call him Big Stan along the docks. He roughs people up for the moneylenders if they don’t pay up on time. That sort of bloke. Mean son and no mistake. Big Stan Auger. He’s sweet on Danielle, and they’ve got a hot thing going. I’m surprised Mr. Wells ain’t tumbled to it yet."
"And did you by chance learn where Big Stan might be found when he’s not sparking Danielle?"
The scruffy boy drew himself up to his full height.
"Not by chance, Mr. Homes. By skill and persistence, like you taught us."
Holmes said, "Touché," with a fleeting smile.
"Big Stan sops up ale at a dockside pub called The Surly Wench. He has a nasty red scar runs across the bottom of his face, or so I’ve been told."
"Very good, Wiggins. Most thorough. And what of the missing Albert?"
"Alas, Mr. Holmes, as well as we have this city covered, so far there’s not been one sighting of anyone matching that name and description."
"Then we must step up the search. See to it."
"You know I will, guv. I mean to say, yes sir, Mr. Holmes. Soon’s I hear anything about Albert, I’ll get word straight to you."
"Then off with you. As our American cousins would say, we’re burning daylight."
"Yes, sir!"
With an informal but heartfelt salute, Wiggins started for the door with the animated enthusiasm only a boy his age can muster.
The door was opened by Mrs. Hudson.
"Commander Standish and Inspector Lestrade," she announced.
Wiggins darted through the doorway, past them before our new visitors could enter. Next to the Inspector, the portly Commander, who was in uniform, stepped aside for the boy, who halted just outside the flat when he got a look at Lestrade, who was in plainclothes. Wiggins made a sniff-sniffing sound.
"I smell copper."
Mrs. Hudson glared at Holmes.
"There, you see! A disregard for authority! Antisocial behavior! A criminal in the making."
Wiggins said, "Relax, luv. There’s better pickings anywhere in this man’s town where Sherlock Holmes ain’t residing. As for you, Mr. Copper," he added to Lestrade, "don’t bother telling Mr. Holmes that there’s a shoot-on-sight bounty out on him because that’s old news."
He departed. Mrs. Hudson followed him like a shadow.
Lestrade and Standish joined us.
From their formal manner and grim expressions, one did not need to be a Sherlock Holmes to deduce that this was decidedly not a social call.
Chapter 14
Inspector G. Lestrade of Scotland Yard was a lean, dark-eyed man. He nodded to me.
"Doctor."
"Inspector."
He indicated the Commander.
"This gentleman and I just happened to arrive at the same time."
Holmes performed a proper introduction.
As they shook hands, Standish said, "I’ve never had the pleasure of
making the Inspector’s acquaintance, though of course I’m familiar with your name, Lestrade. The newspapers feature you often when you solve those baffling murder cases."
Holmes nodded. "The Inspector’s rise through the ranks at Scotland Yard has indeed been remarkable."
What I knew to be Holmes’ sarcasm was, apparently and gratefully, lost on both men.
Lestrade said, "Thank you, Mr. Holmes. You see, Commander, it is Mr. Holmes himself who has, er, uh, at times assisted me, shall we say."
"Most impressive," said Standish, "knowing that two such impressive minds can work together."
I made myself another drink. I asked around. Lestrade and Standish declined.
Lestrade was in fact a dull-minded, slow-witted, unimaginative bureaucrat whose plodding methods and mentality could resolve only the most cut and dried investigations. Great minds working together? The only reason for Lestrade’s rise through the ranks at the Yard was that he called, and often, upon Sherlock Holmes for assistance and advice.
Holmes said, "Have a seat, gentlemen."
Standish said, "Thank you," and claimed an armchair near a low fire in the grate.
Lestrade remained standing.
"Sorry, but I can only spare a minute." He scowled in the direction of the doorway through which young Wiggins had exited. His dark eyes reminded me of a ferret. "And it would seem that the wind has been taken out of my sails, for in fact I have come by to warn you about the rumor of there being a reward out for your demise. I thought you should know."
"I am much obliged, Inspector."
"I can offer police protection. I can have men assigned—"
"That’s very kind but no, thank you. Doctor Watson’s presence is sufficient."
I lifted the lapel of my coat. Nappy McGuire’s .44 rode comfortably under my left arm in a shoulder holster supplied by Holmes, who had also provided me with a box of ammunition that resided in my pocket.
A frown creased Lestrade’s features.
"You know it’s against the law to carry a concealed weapon, Doctor."
I said, "Couldn’t the same be said for putting a death bounty on a man’s head? You offered Holmes protection. Can you refuse me offering him the same, and speak of technicalities if he accepts?"
Sherlock Holmes: Zombies Over London Page 6