by Michelle Cox
Henrietta stood shaking, terrified and utterly paralyzed. She wanted to run or to scream, but all she could do was stare at his gray, crooked teeth. She had become fixated on them. He was gripping her face now and she felt panic as he held the back of her head and put his mouth on hers, biting her lip as he did so. She let out a gurgled cry, the violation she felt worse than the physical pain. Small tears sprang to her eyes, and she wasn’t sure how much longer she could stand upright, the stench of his unwashed, greasy body and her abject terror threatening to overpower her. She felt her legs going, but he gripped her by the arm and forced her over to where the inspector knelt. “Oh, no you don’t, filly. No time for faintin’ just yet. Time enough for that later.”
He kicked the inspector in the stomach again, causing him to groan and double over so that he was almost prostrate now. “Get up, copper,” he said, nodding to Vic to hoist him to his feet. “I’ll deal with you later, too. Now you’ll see what it’s like to be on the other side of the interrogation table. You know what to do,” he said to Vic, before hurrying out, whistle in hand. “Don’t take too long; I’m gonna need you upstairs.”
Vic left the inspector swaying on his feet and strode over to Henrietta, who was trying to back away from him. Roughly he grabbed her and wrenched her hands behind her back and tied them with a rough piece of rope he produced from his pocket.
“Ow!” she cried, but he just gave her a little shove.
“Shut up! No funny business!” he snarled, his black pebbly eyes glistening below his bushy eyebrows. He pointed the pistol at them and picked up the dagger where Larry had dropped it on the bed. He waved the pistol at them, directing them to the door. Clive staggered through it. “Nice and easy now. Nice and quiet. One word and she gets it,” Vic said, stabbing the tip into the side of Henrietta’s arm as if to prove a point.
“Stop it!” she said, stumbling in front of him as she made her way through the door.
“Leave her alone!” Clive said, attempting to turn and face Vic in the narrow passageway.
“Shuddup!” he said, giving Henrietta a shove, though it was Clive who had spoken. “Just keep going, and hurry up!”
“I can’t see anything!” Clive mumbled from the front.
“Just keep movin’,” Vic said, “till I tell you to stop.”
They shuffled further down the tunnel, Henrietta trying to control her erratic breathing. She was pretty sure they were headed back toward the bar where Larry had first descended into the tunnels that day with her. God! She knew there was a reason she had always felt uneasy around him! She burned with fury at the memory of how she had once felt sorry for him, even bought food for him! She considered screaming for help, but she knew with the noise of the band up above them, no one would hear her, and she didn’t dare risk being cut by the dagger. Her two earlier pokes were trickling blood, though she wondered why she could barely feel them.
“Stop right there!” said Vic. “This’ll do.” They had stopped midway down the tunnel outside a small door that resembled a closet or a storeroom. Vic pushed past them, Henrietta falling back against the damp wall as he pulled hard on the door to open it, the bottom scraping against the rough stone floor. “Get in,” Vic said with a nod of his head. Henrietta hesitated as she peered in at the utter blackness. “I said, get in!” Vic said, giving her a shove. Clive tried to kick him, but Vic merely punched him in the face again and threw him into the darkness.
Henrietta fought her panic in the dark, claustrophobic space, made worse by the fact that her hands were bound, as the door closed and she heard the lock turn and then Vic’s heavy footsteps as he moved away and up the stone steps. She had been right; they were near the bar, and this must be some sort of storage closet. Maybe it held supplies for the bar? she guessed, trying to calculate what it might contain, if anything, that could help them. She could see nothing in this darkness, though, not even a hand in front of her face should she have been able to hold it up.
“Inspector?” she said quietly as she struggled to stand up, wondering why he didn’t speak, and bumping her head on a dangling light bulb as she did so. “Inspector?” she said louder, but there was still no answer. Fear gripped her anew at the possibility that he had been knocked out—or worse—and that she was alone. Panicking, she hurriedly shuffled toward the door, feeling with her arm for a light switch in hopes that it might still work. She leaned against the wall, feeling the rough stones near the door with her upper arm and shoulder until she felt a hard nub. It took several tries before she managed to put enough pressure on it with her shoulder bone to switch it on. She immediately turned her head away from the bulb, temporarily blinded by the dull light, but quickly looked around to find that they were indeed in some sort of forgotten, mildewed supply closet with shelves running along one wall holding ancient tins of what looked like cleaning fluid, boxes of straws and napkins, and old rags. Nothing very promising to help them escape. In the corner were a broom and a mop covered with a fine layer of cobwebs. Henrietta’s eye eventually fell on the inspector, lying in a heap on the stone floor, blood oozing from a gash above his eye.
“Oh, God!” Henrietta cried, sinking to her knees beside him.
“Inspector! Inspector Howard!” She tried rousing him with her knee, and eventually she saw his eyes flutter open, though he immediately squinted them closed again due to the brightness of the bulb swinging overhead. Finally, he struggled to sit up, breathing heavily from the exertion.
“Inspector! Are you okay? You look terrible!”
Despite the situation, his face relaxed when he saw her. “Thanks,” he managed to say, looking around the tiny closet, trying to assess the situation. “Where are we? Still in the tunnel?”
“Yes, but we’re near the end of it, just below the bar, I think.” She looked him over carefully. “Your eye looks pretty bad,” she said, wishing she could touch his face and dab away the blood.
“I’ll survive,” he grunted. “Maybe a cracked rib or two. God knows I’ve had worse. Are you hurt?” he asked anxiously, looking at her and then averting his eyes from the sight of her body in the short nightgown and robe. “Did he . . . did he do anything to you?” He held his breath, waiting for her to answer.
“No, I . . . he was about to . . . he bit me,” she said quietly, tears welling up in her eyes. “I feel so ashamed, so stupid.”
Clive felt a surge of anger pulse through him, and he struggled to stand up. “I’m the one who’s been stupid! We’ve got to get out of here.” He stood and hit his head on the light bulb, causing it to swing wildly, bouncing the light all over the small room. He crouched over to avoid hitting it again as he looked for something sharp on the shelves. Unfortunately he could find nothing, and resorted to trying to kick the door open, but it was difficult with his hands tied and the injuries he had sustained, the pain nearly knocking him out again each time he tried. The door refused to budge, and after a few more feeble attempts, he gave up.
“This is all my fault,” he said, finally sliding down beside her again, exhausted, trying not to look at her body in the process. “I’m so terribly sorry to have put you in such danger,” he said, scooting his body so that his back was almost to hers now, just one set of shoulders touching so that he couldn’t see her exposed. “I should never have agreed to this,” he said thickly. “How could I have missed that the man I assumed was Neptune was just a front man? He’s obviously been playing the entire police force for a very long time. What a mug I’ve been,” he said disgustedly.
“You? I should have figured it out,” Henrietta countered. “A lot of things make sense now, but it makes my skin crawl to think how Larry was always slinking around behind the scenes. Sometimes even in the dressing rooms! And all the time he was probably picking out his next victim.” Henrietta suddenly felt in danger of being sick.
“I should have pulled the plug before it got to this,” Clive said angrily. He was kicking himself for not following his intuition.
“Don’t say that,” He
nrietta quietly urged. “It’s not your fault. It’s mine. I’m the one who insisted. I . . . I thought I could . . . ” She broke off here, not wanting to reveal her true motives. They sounded silly now, anyway. How had she imagined that she could impress the inspector with this foolhardy scheme of pretending to be a prostitute? It seemed stupidly naive now and ridiculous, as if it would have made her in any way more desirable to him, she realized, as she looked down shamefully at her flimsy nightgown. She had obviously failed in more ways than one.
Angrily, she pushed those thoughts away. What did it matter now, anyway? Right now they had to figure out a way out of here. “When . . . when do you think your men will turn up?” she asked, looking hopefully at the door.
Clive closed his eyes in pain and then forced himself to open them. Time to tell her they weren’t getting out of this alive. “That’s not going to happen, I’m afraid.”
There was silence between them as Clive merely studied the floor.
“What do you mean?” she said after a few seconds. “You do have a plan to get us out of here, don’t you?” she asked nervously, panic beginning to creep back in, making her chest feel tight. “What . . . what about Charlie?” she asked desperately.
“Your pipsqueak blew Charlie’s cover and got them both thrown out for fighting,” Clive said wryly. He turned to look at her, but the sight of the curve of her breasts through the nightgown caused him to look away again, swallowing hard.
“Pipsqueak? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know . . . the one that we picked up with you at Polly’s apartment.”
“You . . . you mean Stan? He was here?”
“Yes, with an absurdly false mustache, I might add. Can’t understand how he got in in the first place.”
“Oh, God. Elsie.”
“What do you mean?”
“I . . . I told Elsie . . . my sister. I didn’t mean to, but she found the feather, and I just thought someone should know—just in case . . . ” her voice trailed off as she realized that she might never see Elsie again. “I’m sorry,” she said hopelessly and felt tears well up, “she must have told Stan.”
“Well, he’s locked up now in the squad car where he can’t do any more harm. After I threw him in the car, I took Charlie back in with me. We went through the window with Kelly, but they knocked both of them out. They must have been tipped off.”
The inspector’s brow furrowed, and Henrietta again felt her stomach knot as she realized it had been her that had inadvertently led Larry to stake the window.
“Kelly looks pretty bad; I think he might have bought it,” he said grimly.
“Surely you have more men than that, though?” Henrietta asked despairingly. “What about the signal . . . the . . . the whistle?”
“There is no signal,” he sighed. “I just made that up to buy some time.”
“You mean there’s no backup?” she asked incredulously, her throat dry.
“No. Not like that anyway. I’ve men posted at all the entrances, but something tells me Neptune’s already set his dogs on them. I’m not too hopeful that they’ll get in. And if they do, it’s unlikely they’ll find us down here before Neptune puts us in a car headed for the river. I’m sorry, Miss Von Harmon. The game’s up, I believe. I really am most sorry. More than you know.”
“Oh, Inspector!” Henrietta cried. She was trembling now, and the drink Jenks had given her earlier was making her feel clouded and fuzzy. That or she was in shock, or both. She wasn’t sure what was real and what was not anymore. “But surely you’ll think of something!” she said, breaking down now in real tears, unable to keep up the pretense any longer. “I’m so very frightened.” Without thinking, she leaned her head against the inspector’s shoulder, and she felt him tremble, or was it a shudder? He was probably repulsed by her, she realized, and she could see why. She felt dirty and cheap, used and altogether ashamed, and so with a supreme effort, Henrietta made herself lift her head from his shoulder though she was so dreadfully tired. She wouldn’t burden him any longer. She suddenly thought of her mother and wished she had taken time to say goodbye to her earlier today as she had hurried from the apartment . . .
“You . . . you can rest your head there . . . if you want,” Clive said gently, his voice catching a little.
Surprised, Henrietta shifted her body and looked up at him. She no longer cared if he saw her in the nightgown. His eyes looked so very sad.
As Clive looked at her now, too, he could no longer contain what was in his heart for her. It would all be over soon enough, anyway. He realized with utter despair that it made no difference now; that love was slipping from his grasp just as he was beginning to realize that it had existed at all.
“Miss Von Harmon . . . Henrietta,” he began.
Henrietta started slightly as he finally called her by her Christian name. But that made sense, didn’t it? That they might as well dispense with the formalities, knowing as they both did that Vic or Larry would be back any time now.
“Henrietta,” he said again, turning a bit to be able to better look into her eyes. “There’s something you should know . . . something I have to tell you,” he said softly.
Despite her fuzzy brain, Henrietta realized that he wanted to tell her about his girl, about his love. Maybe he wanted her to give Katie a message? But that didn’t make sense, neither of them was getting out of this, were they? She shook her head slightly; she couldn’t think straight. She was touched by his need to confess, however, but out of love for him—yes, love, she knew now—she decided to spare him this pain.
“Oh, Clive,” she said his name hesitantly, tenderly. “Stop, please. I know what you’re going to say, and there’s no need for you to go on. You don’t have to say it,” she said looking up at him eagerly, her face flushed. She felt so very warm, so sleepy, as if she would not be able to stay awake much longer.
“You do?” he asked, drawing in his breath. Had she guessed his feelings and sought to silence him before he even had a chance to utter them? Was he too old for her as he had suspected? Still, soon it wouldn’t matter. He was determined to get this off his chest, to say the words aloud despite what her answer would be.
“Yes, of course, I do,” she smiled knowingly. “I know that you’re in love with a certain someone.”
“In love with a certain someone?” his mind raced despite the sharp pain behind his left eye. What could she mean?
“I . . . I know you must love and care for her very much,” Henrietta went on, “and I . . . I admire you for that,” she added in a low voice. “Deeply. I only wish I could have someday met someone like you.” She could not believe she was saying such things. Part of her brain seemed stuck in molasses while this other part could not stop speaking. It somehow seemed like the obvious thing to do. She looked up into his eyes again. “I know it doesn’t matter now, but for what it’s worth, I just want you to know you’re someone I could have fallen in love with. Very easily.”
Clive felt his heart explode as she put her head on his shoulder again, an electric shock running through him, but she had it all wrong! “Who do you suppose I’m in love with?” he asked, confused, his heart beating unnaturally fast. What had he ever said or done to give any indication of his affections for another woman?
“The woman you live with, of course,” she said not lifting her head. “I suppose she won’t mind, will she? If I rest my head here? It’s very improper, I know,” she said, drowsily, “but . . . ”
“The woman I live with? How on earth did you ever get an idea like that in your head?” he asked, mystified.
“One of the officers at the station told me. Murphy, I think his name was. The night I stopped in . . . he said you were at home with your girl, but the sergeant—Clancy, is it?—said you had no family, so I figured she must be your . . . your lover . . . not your wife. Katie is her name, right? But still . . . ” her voice trailed off as she closed her eyes.
“I’m going to kill Murphy and Clancy
,” he muttered. Agitated now, he tried to turn until he faced her completely, causing her to lift her head from his shoulder and stare up at him again. “Is that what you really think of me?” he asked incredulously. “That I’d take a woman to my bed who’s not my wife?”
“I don’t know,” she said, baffled as much by his urgency as the nature of his strange question.
He uttered a sigh of disgust and looked away. “I . . . ”
“Would you have taken me?” she interrupted quietly. “If I had asked? If you were free?” She was barely able to brace herself for his answer.
“No! Of course I wouldn’t.”
Henrietta winced and felt hot tears come to her eyes again. Of course I wouldn’t! he had said. Well, of course. The pain of these words struck her harder than Larry’s slap had earlier. She could no longer control the pent-up emotion that she was struggling to contain and, turning away from him again, began to silently weep. She tried terribly to hide it from him, but she couldn’t help the rasping noises as her breath caught in her throat. Of course I wouldn’t! Oh, how could she have been so stupid?
“Henrietta?” he asked, surprised by the muffled sounds coming from her. Though she had tried to turn her head away, he saw her tears, and his heart melted entirely. “Oh, Henrietta . . . please don’t cry. I . . . what a fool I’ve been!” he pleaded, suddenly realizing how his answer must have sounded in her ears. “That isn’t what I meant at all . . . it’s . . . please don’t cry! Can’t you see? My God, I’m bungling this. Henrietta, I’m . . . I’m in love with you,” he said softly. “I thought you knew.”
Henrietta checked her tears, not quite sure she had heard correctly. “You are?”
“Desperately,” he whispered, looking down into her eyes. “It’s madness, I know.” He couldn’t help himself any longer and bent forward and softly brushed his lips against hers.
A current of electricity pulsed through her as he tenderly kissed her, but she made herself pull back. “Yes, it is madness,” she said, a bit dazed, peering up at him. More than anything she yearned to feel the touch of his lips again, and yet she knew it was impossible. “Yes, we . . . we must think of Katie.”