The Last Dickens

by Matthew Pearl

  Wakefield disappeared up the stairway

  Herman stood grinning toothlessly and raised his walking stick. He swung it at Osgood's satchel, scattering the floor with the pages of the final six installments of Edwin Drood.

  Chapter 38

  PLEASE, HORMAZD, WE CAN WORK OUT A BARGAIN,” SAID OS-good pleadingly to Herman.

  “This isn't a Jews’ marketplace,” replied Herman, momentarily pausing at his given name. “No bargains.” He seemed to contemplate the beastly animal head on his walking stick for a moment. Then he glowered at his prisoners. “The only thing I'd regret, Osgood, is that Mr. Wakefield insisted on trying to persuade her to come with us. Waiting makes me angry. I may even finish you off with my bare hands.”

  “Why have you despised me?” Osgood demanded.

  “Because, Os good, you think you can be friends with everybody by flashing your smile. You think everybody can be like you.” Herman's answer flew out of his mouth like a confession, showing his real mind more than he intended.

  “It's Mr. Wakefield who has made you who you are, Herman!” Rebecca said persuasively. “He made you into a pirate.”

  “I was born one, lassie.”

  A torrent of footsteps on the stairs. When Herman turned to look over his shoulder for Wakefield, his smug smile dropped away. Osgood recognized a look of confusion in the face of his captor. In a flash, Osgood lunged at him, throwing himself onto Herman's back and putting his arm around his eyes to blind him. Herman growled out and pried Osgood's fingers with his iron grip. Osgood landed on his feet and put up his fists in a boxing pose. Just then, a club slammed against the back of Herman's turbaned head.

  Behind Herman, gripping the hook and bill club, stood the man Osgood once knew as Dick Datchery: Jack Rogers.

  There was a sickening sound as the club resounded against Herman's skull. But Herman didn't budge, blinking meditatively.

  “Ironhead Herman,” Osgood whispered.

  “Ironhead?” Rogers repeated in a worried tone.

  Herman revolved around slowly to face Rogers, readying his walking stick. Realizing the man was still unhurt, Rogers thrust the spike at the tip of the club into Herman's sternum. This stunned Herman. He dropped his cane and fell to the floor on his knees. With a shout, Rogers swung the club again as hard as he could against Herman's head. It smashed into splinters and sent the hook and spike flying across the room in bits. Herman dropped onto all fours and, drained of strength, blinded by his own blood, he collapsed flat on top of his walking stick.

  “Rogers!” Osgood cried, looking from Herman to the former Harper's policeman. “How did you know…?”

  “I told you I would repay my debt to you, good Ripley,” said Rogers, breathing heavily. “I'm a man of my word.”

  Osgood threw himself on the floor and began to gather the scattered pages of Drood.

  “No time, Ripley! There's no time for any of that!” Rogers called out. “Where's Wakefield?”

  “He's already gone-probably back to his ship,” Osgood said.

  “Come along!”

  Securing his treasure in his satchel, Osgood hesitated to take the hand Rogers held out to him.

  Rogers seemed prepared for this. “Because it was my duty, I deceived you in England when my conscience told me otherwise. Now my duty is to follow my conscience above all else. You must trust me- your lives depend on it.”

  Osgood nodded and stepped over the motionless Herman on the way to the door. Rebecca paused for a moment, tears in her eyes. She looked down at the man on the floor and she brought her heel down onto his back again and again.

  “Rebecca!” Osgood took her in his arms. “Come along!”

  Osgood's embrace returned her to the present situation and its dangers. She felt more grounded at once with his touch.

  Rogers spoke rapidly as they made their way up the stairs. “Ripley, there is great danger about Wakefield-he makes frequent trips between Boston, New York, and England, but I believe the only tea he trades is in his own cup.”

  “What did you find out?” Osgood asked.

  “By following his men I have located a mountain of evidence, which we must take to the police, of a string of attacks and murders perpetrated by his agents to protect his enterprise.”

  “Dickens's words were the only thing that he thought could bring him down,” Osgood said.

  “He was right,” Rogers corrected him. “Now we shall do it. Thank heavens I found you in time, Ripley. Stand here with Miss Rebecca.”

  As they reached the top of the stairs, Rogers motioned for Osgood and Rebecca to wait. He looked outside for any sign of Wakefield. Determining the way was clear, he waved them to advance. His hired carriage idled across the street in case anyone from Wakefield's gangs of hirelings had watch on the building. The way appearing clear, Rogers signaled for the rescued pair to get into the carriage. As Rogers and Osgood helped lift Rebecca into the carriage, there was a grunting sound from behind them and a shiny object gliding through the air. It was a furiously reappearing Herman, standing at the door to the building, his arm completing the arc of a throwing motion.

  Rogers looked up just as the bowie knife pierced his neck. His body plummeted from the steps of the carriage onto the pavement. Rebecca tripped on the bottom of her dress and nearly tumbled down to the street.

  “Rogers!” Osgood cried. He kneeled by his rescuer's side, but the man had bled to death in an instant. “No! Rogers!”

  The driver cursed and took up his reins and threw back his whip.

  Rebecca's ankle had twisted but she still hung on to the handle of the coach. Osgood pushed her back onto the steps and she pulled herself into the carriage just as the horses started into a trot, spinning Osgood away.

  “No-Mr. Osgood!” Rebecca cried out, reaching out her hand.

  Osgood shouted to the driver to go as fast as he could as the dust and gravel swirled around him in its wake. Herman would only be able to pursue one of them, and it was Osgood who had the satchel with the manuscript. At least Rebecca would be safe.

  Osgood ran up Washington Street, grabbing his bandaged ribs as he went, while trying to ease his painful breathing. The Parsee was going to kill him and nothing would stop him; he would demolish anything in his path to do it. Osgood broke into a run with Herman on his heels.

  Ahead was the Sears Building, which Osgood knew well as it was the location of his bank. Outside the front door, there was a janitor with a ring of keys locking the front door of the building. Osgood hoped he could make Herman lose his trail inside and escape. He pushed past the janitor and into the building.

  Osgood had reached the other side of the main corridor where he could see another door to the street. Pray the janitor hadn't yet locked it! As Osgood moved closer, the door shook and slowly opened-to reveal the silhouette of a roguish figure with an uncombed beard and a cocked hat. Another opium pusher from the Samaria sent for by Wakefield? Osgood halted in midstep.

  Echoes of Herman's running footsteps seemed everywhere, above, below, on every side. Osgood turned one way, then the other, not knowing which corridor to choose. Instead, he rushed to the center of the hall and pulled open the door to the elevator. Then Osgood realized: no elevator operator, not at this hour! The boys didn't sleep in these little rooms, however cushioned and decorated they were. He had been inside many times in the course of everyday business to be carried up to his bank on the seventh floor. Would he remember how he had seen the lads do it?

  HIS HEAD TILTED to the side at the sound. The mounting whir of steam pumping; the loud clank clank of chains and metal. Herman slid to a stop in the hall. He surveyed his surroundings: stairs on either side of the building. He ran toward the far end, following the whistling sound of the steam rising up above him.

  ***

  OSGOOD QUICKLY FORMED his plan. He would stop the elevator on a floor midway up the building, hurry out of the elevator and down the stairs, exiting the building while Herman was still searching inside.

  Th
e Sears elevator was what they called a moving parlor. The car had a domed ceiling with skylights and a chandelier elegantly suspended from it. The gas apparatus connected to the chandelier was concealed by a lightweight tube. The rest of the car could have been the corner of a Beacon Hill parlor. Underfoot was thick carpeting, and sofas lined each of the three sides of the car. Atop the French walnut paneling, gilded on its perimeter, were large polished mirrors.

  The levers didn't look easy to operate and in actuality they were even more difficult than they appeared-Osgood manipulated them into a jerking, halting movement that immediately made him regret his plan. Stopping it was even harder, but Osgood managed to make the machine halt close enough to the fourth floor.

  Osgood climbed out of the elevator and dashed to the stairway, where he began to descend before hearing footsteps rising up toward him. It was him! Osgood turned and tried to exit back to the fourth floor but he had lost ground, and Herman was close to grabbing his ankle. The publisher created enough distance to exit on the sixth floor instead. Heaving for breath, Osgood scrambled to the elevator door and pulled the platform lever to call for it from four. Blast that slow steam pump! Please, faster… The elevator arrived and Osgood threw himself bodily inside, smashing his torso hard against the floor.

  As the door swung closed, Herman was bearing down on him. Extending his walking stick-the door slammed on it. Osgood, for a long second, found himself eye to eye with the golden face of the Kylin, the lusty horn bursting from its head and its empty onyx eyes. It had been so demonic and chilling. Closer up it lost its power. It seemed a silly gold trinket. Osgood yanked the cane with all his strength by the Kylin's prickly neck. He fell back in the car with it in his hands and the door shut. Osgood kicked at the lever with the toe of his shoe and started the car down.

  Osgood hoped he would be far enough ahead (thirty seconds?) of the mercenary that he could get out of the building. But as he listened to the whirring steam below, he thought of the brave Jack Rogers, of foolish Sylvanus Bendall; he thought of poor Daniel on the coroner's cold table; he thought of Yahee's haunting terror; he thought of Wake -field's coldness as he had danced the waltz, of the threats to silence William Trood and Tom; and he thought, too, of Rebecca. Then he knew, without the slightest doubt, that he could not simply run from the building and leave Herman free to find them again. For a moment, Osgood was astonished by his own determination. Herman had to be stopped. He had to be stopped once and for all here.

  Osgood passed the first floor. His skills with the lever having improved every moment, he softly brought the car to a stop in the basement. He stepped away from the car to the adjoining engine room where it was controlled and kicked hard without result at the steam pipe that powered the elevator. Then he took the walking stick and pounded it again and again until the valve dented and then broke-the walking stick cracked, decapitating the monstrous golden visage. Osgood returned to the elevator and crouched, waiting, his eyes on the stairwell, his breathing labored and shooting around his fractured ribs, where the dressings underneath his shirt had loosened and ripped and made him feel as though his body would crack in half at any moment. As Herman appeared at the basement door and hurled himself forward, Osgood pulled the door shut and adroitly shot the elevator up at the most reckless speed.

  As the car launched into the air, a geyser of steam shot out of the broken engine and sprayed into the charging figure of Herman. Blinded, dazed, the mercenary shrieked and fumbled around in a circle, stumbling into the shaft.

  Up above, Osgood panicked. The elevator car was swaying and groaning, its steam power compromised. He abruptly stopped it at the fifth floor, not quite even with the platform, but he tumbled out anyway, grunting in pain as he made contact with the wood floor. Just then, the chains unraveled and the empty car rushed down as though in a dead faint. Herman, curled up in a stupor in the shaft and trying to crawl away from the burning steam, looked above him just long enough to see the car before it smashed onto him. The force was so great that the hulking form of the mercenary's body broke through the floor of the elevator car, as the chandelier and the skylights shook free and rained a thousand shards into him.

  BOTH DIZZY AND profoundly awake, Osgood rose to his feet, looking down the elevator's shaft. An explosion left a layer of flames at the bottom. He was tucking away his satchel, when he was grabbed by the shoulders.

  “No!” Osgood screamed.

  “Halloa! Are you well, man?”

  It was the scraggly, messy-bearded man Osgood had seen at the bottom of the building, the beard now apparent as a rusted red color.

  “You looked to be under some distress at the door,” the man continued, his hands groping at Osgood's shoulders, arms, and around the satchel as though to check for wounds.

  “I must send for the police,” Osgood said. “There's a man injured down there-”

  “Already done!” the man with the overgrown beard cried. “Already sent for, my dear man. Though not much of that fellow down there is left, by the looks of it. Elevators! Why, I won't get in one myself, not with those demonstrations at the fairs killing one or two passengers at a time, and on a good day. They should be abolished, says I. Now, how can I help you? I have a wagon out front. Where can I take you?”

  Was the rust-colored bearded man another janitor? Then the publisher realized: This stranger matched the description of Molasses, he of the rainbow-colored beard who operated among the notorious Bookaneers and claimed the fame of having secured Thackery's The Adventures of Philip before the world.

  “Hand it here,” said Molasses, a change passing over his face as he caught the glint of Osgood's recognition. “Don't know what you have there exactly, but the Major would probably pay triple for whatever it is. And you're in no shape for a tussle, not tonight.”

  Little does he know what Harper would pay! thought Osgood. He knew there were no police coming, at least not by this man's doing.

  There was a moan from far below them. Another explosion came from the engine room, and the flames shot another floor higher. Osgood realized from the dampness of his flesh that the heat was closer. Soon the gas line that had lighted the elevator car would burst open and the whole place and everything inside it would be roasted.

  As Osgood backed away toward the elevator shaft, he noticed Molasses's face suddenly turn fearful. The literary pirate's hands raised slowly. Osgood whirled around and saw Wakefield coming from the stairwell. He was pulling Rebecca by her arm and had a pistol to her neck. Her arms and face were bruised, her dress torn in multiple places.

  “Rebecca!” Osgood exclaimed in shock.

  “I am afraid your dead hero's hired hackman went a little wild from all the commotion, Osgood,” Wakefield said. “The carriage tipped over, but don't fear-I was there to come to your damsel's aid, just as I have yours so many times now.”

  “Let her be, Wakefield!” Osgood cried, then quickly added, as calmly as possible: “You can still get down there. There is still time to save him.”

  Wakefield peered down at the flames lapping the darkness from six floors below, where the broken body of Herman struggled. “Doubtful he'd survive that, I'd say, Osgood. There are plenty of other fire worshippers that would serve me for a profit.”

  “He is your friend,” Osgood said.

  “He is a cog in my enterprise, as your search has been. Now, I shall tell you what I'd like. You drop that satchel down into those flames, and I'll allow your silly girl to live.”

  “Don't, James!” Rebecca cried. “Not after all that has happened!”

  Osgood mouthed to her that it was all right and smiled reassuringly. He held the satchel out over the shaft.

  “Very good move, my boy. You can take orders after all.” Wakefield smiled. “Don't worry, Mr. Osgood, the world will not be deprived of Dickens's ending.”

  Osgood looked at him with confusion. “What do you mean?”

  “After we have destroyed this, I plan to find Dickens's ending myself, of course! At least, how
I would like it-with Edwin Drood's body discovered to be quite dead and gone in a crypt in Rochester. Would it surprise you to learn I am acquainted with the greatest forgers and counterfeiters, Mr. Osgood? From samples of Dickens's handwriting I will have my men create six installments of the finest literary forgery ever attempted, a class beyond the amateur production of Mr. Grunwald. I am certain John Forster will be only too happy to have this, as it agrees with his own professions about the book's finale. There is only one problem. We must be rid of Dickens's real ending before I can forge my own. That is how you are about to help me.”

  “Lower your pistol from her first, Wakefield,” said Osgood. “Then I will do as you ask.”

  “You are not in command here!” Wakefield roared, shaking Rebecca's arm violently.

  But Osgood waited until the pistol strayed slightly away from her neck. Osgood nodded to his adversary for the gesture, then let the bag drop but kept hold of the top of the strap so that it dangled precariously over the flaming pit of the elevator shaft.

  “For me, this would have been my finest publication, Wakefield,” Osgood said meditatively, in the voice of a eulogy. “Only conceive of what a treasure it would have made! Not only to have rescued my firm from our rivals but to have done proper justice to Mr. Dickens's very last work and restore it to the reading public. But for you, the ending of Drood is even more. It's your life. Isn't it? These last six installments could destroy you, since all eyes around would have been on their every word.”

  “And that's why you'll drop it!” Wakefield yelled, losing the remnants of his composure. “Let it go!”

  Two more big explosions burst the air from below… the final moans from a roasting Herman… the flames exhaling up and licking at the ironworks of the shaft, turning it into a gigantic open chimney and reminding Osgood that all his choices were gone.

  “Drood?” Molasses, said, gasping at the realization. “That's Drood in there?”