Nothing is said before they reach the Thames Tunnel. The Swallow is running so hard that Sherlock can barely keep up. At the tunnel, the acrobat jimmies the lock, just like the Brixton Gang’s boy had done the night before, and they enter the rotunda and descend the stairs into the underground.
“How did you know I was there? Why did you help me?”
Their footsteps are echoing downward.
“Ain’t you the one who says folks should deal with one question at a time?” says The Swallow, his smile barely evident as they walk into the gloom at the southern end of the corridor, heading toward the pitch black of the center.
“How did you know?” repeats Sherlock.
“I’ve been following you.”
Now Holmes knows why he sensed someone trailing him last night, and near the warehouses this evening.
“You’re a right square bloke, Master ’olmes,” continues The Swallow, his voice echoing along the cylindrical passageway, “treated me right. I intend to be on the square myself, forever. I was worried about you. I knew you wouldn’t stop at just knowing ’ow the crime ’appened. I knew you’d go after … I knew you were a lunatic!”
They both laugh.
“I ’ad information about where the Brixton Gang was ’oled up, but I wouldn’t tell anyone on me own, of course … thieves’ honor … and saving me own neck!”
They laugh again.
“I didn’t see you until I was near the warehouses tonight,” remarks Sherlock.
“That’s because I weren’t following you until then. The night before I picked you up near your guvna’s ’ome, got to worrying when I saw who you was following, and really worried when ’e handed you off to that snake who helps ’em. Tonight, I just lay in wait in Rotherhithe, and sure enough, you comes along. I got up on the roof and watched. When they brought you in, I made me move. I won’t betray me old mates but I won’t let ’em kill a young man such as yourself, either.”
They are in pitch dark now.
“Yes you will,” proclaims Sherlock.
His words sound up and down the tunnel. The Swallow has stopped walking. The two boys can’t see each other.
“I beg your pardon, Master ’olmes?”
“You will betray them.”
There is silence for a moment.
“No, sir, I won’t.”
“I need your help, Johnny. I need you to stand up and be as brave as you are on the flying trapeze.”
“I am brave, sir, but I’m not stupid. In the amusement industry, we don’t do what we do to die. We do it to thrill others and, most importantly, to make a living. It isn’t about doing dangerous things, it’s about doing safe things that look dangerous.”
“You shall help me capture that gang!” insists Sherlock, his voice rising and resounding in the passage, “If you don’t, they will kill more people, innocent people, and keep robbing others.”
Sherlock needs that reward. And he’ll do anything to get it.
“We’re all thieves, Master ’olmes, in a manner of speaking. We’re all evil: unfair to each other, mean-spirited. I’m sure you is no angel. In fact, I know you ain’t.”
It is a comment that angers Sherlock Holmes, perhaps because it is correct.
“That is an excuse!” he snaps. “That’s what crooks and murderers say to justify what they do. I won’t accept it! And I won’t accept you not helping me. Come with me!”
“Where?”
“To Scotland Yard.”
They start walking again, their boots trudging on the hard corridor floor, not saying anything. Soon they emerge into the lighter area and the end of the tunnel appears ahead.
“I ain’t goin’ with you, Master ’olmes,” says The Swallow clearly. “And you can’t make me. I can get away from you and you know it.”
And with that he is off like a dart fired through the passageway. Sherlock is after him instantly. He must catch him! He can’t be sure that the police will believe his story on his own – with this famous young star by his side, with the respect he commands, it would be a cinch.
But it is breathtaking how quickly The Swallow gets away. His long strides on the staircases seem to take him upward a-half-dozen paces at a time. By the time Sherlock gets up into the rotunda on the north side, the other boy has disappeared into the dark city.
Sherlock feels like falling down on the muddy foot pavement and crying. The Brixton Gang is sitting there in that Rotherhithe warehouse, ready at any second to ascend to the upper floor, find that he is gone, and flee. And what can he do about it? The clock is ticking.
In times of desperation, he sometimes thinks of his mother. “You have much to do in life” he remembers her saying, her last words before she died. They are seared into his mind.
He straightens his clothing and fixes his hair.
What can I do about it? A great deal, he upbraids himself. I can enter the Scotland Yard offices and tell them what I know in detail. I can demand that they bring a newspaper writer to the scene to verify everything … and if they won’t believe me, I …
That is a tougher one to solve. What could he do if they just won’t believe him? He imagines the scene at the police station – Lestrade laughing at him, throwing him in the street, allowing the gang to escape. What would he do if things went that way?
“I …” he says out loud, scrambling for an idea, “I … could steal a weapon…. They will have revolvers there, many of them, likely loaded. I just need to locate one. Lestrade wouldn’t expect me to pick one up … but I will point it at his head if I must. To him, I’ll be a wild boy, about to do something desperate.”
Sherlock sees a hansom cab moving past, its single horse trotting slowly in the gloom, hooves clapping on the cobblestones, the driver up above the cab at the back, reins in one hand, his whip still and upright in its leather holster as he lazily watches the night.
Sherlock has never been in such a carriage. It wasn’t a mode of transportation his parents could afford. But tonight he must move across London at a terrific pace. Time is of the essence. He has those two shillings in his pocket – the ones poor Mr. Bell gave him. The old man had handed them to him with a smile on his face, as if he were giving him gold. Sherlock had imagined the many things they could buy him – perhaps some new, second-hand shoes and many copies of The Illustrated Police News.
But he knows where the money is going now – into the coffer of that cabman. Holmes shall make him fly from where they are here, in Wapping by the river, across central London, to police headquarters in Whitehall near Trafalgar Square. His shillings should be more than enough to get him there. The streets are nearly empty – there will be a veritable racetrack stretched out before them.
Moments later Sherlock is bouncing up and down on the red, plush-covered bench inside the cab, anxiously looking out, as they gallop toward the police station.
He will do whatever he must to end the evil of the vicious Brixton Gang and save Sigerson Bell. He will take whatever chances he must and threaten whatever violence is necessary.
“To Scotland Yard!” he shouts at the cabbie. “Get there in less than ten minutes, and you keep both shillings!”
He will capture those devils. Tonight!
THE SCIENCE OF DESPERATION
The cabbie applies his whip to the horse and urges it on through the dimly lit London streets, its hooves smacking against the hard stone surfaces, foam forming on its sleek black hide, the hansom almost shaking apart. The driver takes pride in his job, but more importantly, wants to keep the two shillings he has tucked into the purse sewn into his trousers. Inside, Sherlock watches the night go by, almost hanging out the window, nervous and anxious. He hears the sounds of violins racing, his mother’s beloved instruments. They play in his head, swirling faster and faster. What is going on back in Rotherhithe? Is his prey long gone? And what will he really do at Scotland Yard? Will they even let him in?
He is betting that Lestrade will still be there. Malefactor knows the habits of every last d
etective in the London Metropolitan Police and often says Lestrade has a reputation for toiling late into the night. “An imbecile,” the young crime lord calls him, “but hard-working and as tenacious as a bulldog.”
The hansom flies down the hill from St. Paul’s, along The Strand, by the Charing Cross Railway Station, and turns just past the statue at Trafalgar Square. In seconds, the proud cabman is leaning down from his seat, peering through the window, announcing their arrival.
Sherlock alights. He fixes his rumpled frock coat and brushes his straight black hair carefully into place with shaking hands. He’s on Whitehall, the big avenue where all the government buildings are, including the Prime Minister’s residence. The front entrance to the Police Station House is on a little street just ahead. Lestrade’s office is at the back on Great Scotland Yard, so he enters a narrow canyon between two buildings that opens up onto a little cobblestone square. Sherlock Holmes has never been near police headquarters before; he has always tried to steer clear of it, but now has no choice. A mist hangs in the sweaty night.
There are branch houses to the left, and directly in front, a two-storey stone structure. DETECTIVE DIVISION, reads a sign above the entrance. Sherlock sees gas lights glowing inside. Police doors are always unlocked: he races up the stone steps and opens the tall, arched entrance.
He is in a reception room in the foyer, with thick wooden chairs set against the walls, for citizens waiting their turns. But Sherlock doesn’t have time for that. He has to find Lestrade. He spies a hallway leading away from the center of the room and heads for it.
“May I help you?” It’s the night sergeant, sitting behind his long wooden counter.
“I must see Inspector Lestrade!” announces the boy. He is shocked at how distraught his own voice sounds.
“Tell me what this is about,” replies the sergeant coolly, “and I shall decide if we will disturb the Inspector.”
“He is here, then?”
“Tell me or I shall have you removed!” barks the policeman. Two burly Bobbies appear and approach the boy.
Sherlock is thinking about making a run for it: trying to get by the two big men and then darting down the hall.
“Sherlock?”
It is young Lestrade. He has stepped from an office a few doors down the corridor to see what the disturbance is about. He actually looks pleased to spot Sherlock Holmes.
“I have news!” shouts the boy, “very important news!” He steps forward and the Peelers grab him, each seizing an arm and lifting him right off his feet.
“Father,” says the junior Lestrade firmly, looking into the senior detective’s room while pointing at the foyer. As Sherlock kicks the air and feels himself propelled backward, the Force’s top plainclothesman emerges from his office and sees the struggle.
“It’s all right,” he sighs, calling out to the Peelers.
They drop him and Sherlock quickly makes his way down the hall and into Lestrade’s office. It is dim and cluttered inside the cramped room: full of papers sprawled across a big wooden desk, photographs of desperate-looking men on the walls, and a large map tacked heavily with red pins. Sherlock notices one driven into the Crystal Palace site near Sydenham.
The boy starts talking breathlessly, at steam-launch speed.
“The Brixton Gang killed Mercure. They robbed the Palace. I have proof. I know where they are. We can arrest them tonight!”
“Excuse me?” inquires Lestrade.
“I want the reward.”
“I haven’t even invited you in here yet.”
Sherlock glances around. And there it is. He is in luck.
Lestrade’s revolver is sitting on his desk just above the drawer at his right hand. But before it comes to that, Holmes wants to see if he can talk the detective into action.
“I will take you right to them,” he sputters, “but we must go now and bring the Force with us. I was in the building with the gang. They had me in their hands! I saw all their faces! I know their names!”
Again this unusual boy is presenting the old detective with a dilemma. Should he believe him? Young Holmes has in his favor that remarkable effort concerning the Whitechapel murder, and against him the embarrassing interview with the Crystal Palace guard. He is flushed with excitement and it doesn’t appear contrived. Lestrade wonders if he should gamble again. What does he have to lose? The party in question, after all, is the Brixton Gang.
“We have to go now!” repeats the ragged boy, his face pale and eyes on fire.
“Where?” asks the younger Lestrade, whose excitement is beginning to rise too. He believes Holmes, has since the moment he met him.
“To Rotherhithe,” says Sherlock.
“Where in Rotherhithe?” asks the detective.
“I … I can’t tell you, not yet, but I’ll take you there … and … and I must insist that we bring a reporter.”
Lestrade laughs. This is too much.
“I don’t think we will be going anywhere, young man.”
“Father, don’t you think …”
“Silence!” bellows Lestrade. “This young mongrel led us on a wild-goose chase once and it will not happen again. There isn’t a shred of evidence that the Brixton Gang is involved in any of this to begin with. Find them!? Why all of the Metropolitan London Police can’t find hide nor hair of them! It is one of this fool’s fantasies!”
Sherlock spies the revolver. He takes a step so he is standing over the desk. One long reach and he’ll have it in his hand. He knows he has the courage to point it straight at Lestrade’s head and that the detective will consider him desperate enough to use it.
He can’t let this go any longer.
“If you two must waste my time and have me explain why I severely doubt this,” states Lestrade with a sigh, “I shall do so …” he turns to Holmes, “… as a preamble to having you dropped on your derriere on the street.” He sighs again. “There are at least two problems with your ploy this evening, beyond your being completely wrong about this case in general. They are as follows. Even if you are telling the truth, then you are, first of all, asking me to accept that you have escaped the clutches of the most slippery, bloodthirsty gang London has seen in years. And secondly … that they are still there waiting for us to pick them up long after realizing that you have run for help!!”
Sherlock knows that this makes sense. But he is desperate. He is hoping that there is some chance that the gang is still there, or that evidence can be found in the warehouse and a hot trail pursued. But he doubts now that he can convince Lestrade.
He eyes the revolver and reaches out –
At that instant, there is a commotion in the hallway then a voice at the door.
“They’ll be there!” barks a proud figure.
“The Swallow,” says young Lestrade, his face glowing.
Two constables come steaming up the hall.
“Sir, he just raced past us, as quick as a bird, sir!” sputters one of them, as he and his partner grind to a halt at The Swallow’s side. The boy stands erect, chest out, hands on hips.
Lestrade waves off both policemen. “L’Hirondelle,” he says in a tone of respect, approaching the famous young acrobat. “What do you have to do with this and what do you know of it?”
“I know they’ll still be there, sir. Move now and you can capture the Brixton Gang. Everything that Sherlock ’olmes ’as told you is the gospel truth.”
Lestrade’s face colors. He appears to be growing excited. He begins to pace in the tight space.
“And how do you know that?”
“I was raised in Brixton. I lived for a time in Lambeth apprenticing for a life o’ crime under the notorious Ahab Spell…. I know two o’ the Brixton Gang … well.”
Lestrade’s mouth gapes.
“I know ’ow they do things,” continues The Swallow grimly. “They put Master ’olmes on the top floor of a building they was usin’ for a dog-and-rat fight. Then they dropped to a lower floor to talk. They intended to kill ’im,
they did. But they wanted ’im to stew first…. Sadists, they is. They wanted ’im to sit there all desperate-like and weepin’ for hours, just to make ’im suffer, so ’e would tell ’em what they need to know before they perished ’im. They’re still there. I’d wager a bar of gold on it.”
Lestrade keeps pacing.
“But they won’t be forever, sir. Either you go now, or you won’t ever catch ’em. Every second is a lost one. They may be climbin’ them stairs right now … or fleein’ down the streets o’ Rotherhithe. This is a big chance for you, sir.”
Lestrade bursts into action.
He rushes to his desk, opens a drawer, pulls out a carton of bullets and seizes his revolver, spinning its cartridge and feeding it.
It wasn’t loaded! thinks Sherlock.
Lestrade stuffs the other bullets into his pocket, whirls, grabs his long brown overcoat and iron bowler hat off a hook, and sweeps into the hallway, the three boys following closely behind.
“You two stay here!” he shouts at the constables. In the foyer, he calls back over his shoulder to the desk sergeant, “Send a note down the building to Division A that I want ten men on horseback to meet me at the Southwark end of the London Bridge in fifteen minutes! I have two men with me! I want arms for all of them! And four bull’s eye lanterns! Send your note NOW!”
The desk sergeant begins writing furiously.
Sherlock is full of energy, immensely excited. “And send a reporter to meet us,” he growls at the desk sergeant, “from The Times! NOW!”
The sergeant hesitates.
“Do it!” screams Lestrade, leading his motley crew out the big black doors.
The stables are in Great Scotland Yard square not more than fifty feet away. Lestrade bangs open the doors and demands that a dozen horses be saddled immediately. Sherlock can smell the strong stench of manure. Two stable boys dive into their work.
But The Swallow doesn’t follow the others into the stable. He seizes Lestrade by the coat sleeve.
“I don’t want me name mixed up with this, nor do I want the Brixton Gang on me trail,” he says earnestly. “I’ve left that life behind. You lot do this. And don’t mention me name in any report or to the press. I’ve done me bit.”
Death in the Air Page 17