“I do not think it right that a man with a gun use it against a man without one,” Luka replied, “except in the most dire of circumstances.”
The inspector thought about this for a little while and nodded.
“A very decent opinion,” he said. “Well, that is all, Mister Lucas. Stay out of trouble.”
“I will,” Luka told him. He turned away, then turned back and said, “Inspector, a question.”
“Yes?”
“My revolvers,” Luka said. “Will they be returned to me? Whitechapel seems to be a very dangerous place, and I would like to have them as long as I am here.”
“Do you have a license to carry them outside of your property?” the inspector asked.
“I…” Luka began. “I fear I have misplaced it. It may have fallen from my pocket in the street, perhaps when I was attacked.”
“Of course,” the inspector said, his tone revealing that he did not much believe the excuse. “Then I suggest that you purchase another one, and then you may have them back.”
Luka smiled. He would not be getting them back. No matter, he had more than enough in his armory to replace them.
“I’ll be certain to do that,” he said. “Good day, Inspector. And I wish you the best of luck in your investigation.”
* * * *
Luka retrieved his coat and hat from the police and went out into the street. He made immediately for the Old Jago, eager as he was to check in on Bates and the rest of his little army. And on the street, he learned the horrible truth of what had transpired to allow his release: not one murder but two, the second following close upon the heels of the first. Again, the victims were prostitutes, and again, they had been brutalized.
The very thought of it made Luka sick. Whitechapel was in need of some proper management and not only because of this mad killer. The whole place was sick with crime and corruption, and the police seemed incapable of managing it. Whitechapel needed the sword as much as Osborne Court or the Old Nichol. And perhaps, some time in the coming months, Luka would return and sort it out.
Of course, that would make the Doctor rather cross.…
* * * *
Luka returned to his territory to find the people in a state of great agitation, no doubt from word of the fresh set of murders filtering up from Whitechapel. And yet, that did not seem to be all of it. People on the street looked at him twice as he passed, mouths agape in amazement. A few ran in fear. Others seemed excited. Once, as he passed a public house on the way to the Old Jago, the men outside cheered wildly at the sight of him.
He had only been gone for two days. What nonsense was this?
Patrols had been doubled in his absence, he noted. There were at least a dozen men out and about, and all of them carried revolvers as well as cudgels. Luka frowned. He had not yet given the order for that. Only some of the men were ready. The rest were just as likely to blow their own hands off as shoot the enemy.
Men had been posted on guard outside the Old Jago Pub. They started in surprise as Luka pushed past them, and they quickly doffed their caps. Inside, he saw Bates and the other senior gang members sitting around one of the tables with pistols shoved into their waistbands and pints of ale in their hands. They were all talking with great animation.
Bates slammed his fist down in the midst of shouting something almost incoherent. He glanced up and caught sight of Luka and nearly spilled his drink. He bounded across the taproom, eyes wide in shock, and grabbed Luka by the shoulders.
“Good God, Mister Luka!” Bates cried. “Is it really you? We feared you were dead!”
Luka disengaged himself from Bates and said, “I’m alive.”
“Where were you?” Bates asked. “You were just gone, all ’a sudden!”
“I happened upon Cat’s ‘wagon of death,’” Luka replied.
Bates’s eyes bulged in astonishment.
“You mean it’s real?” he exclaimed.
“It is,” Luka said. “I found it, and I followed it to its place of origin. Unfortunately, on my way back I was accosted by some men who thought that I was both a Jew and the Whitechapel Killer.” He paused and frowned. “And that for some reason the one was related to the other, which no one has bothered to explain to me.”
“Well, common knowledge, in’t,” Bates said. “That the killer’s a Jew. Everyone knows.”
Luka gave Bates a disapproving look for a few moments before replying, “Don’t be stupid, Bates.”
“No, Mister Luka,” Bates answered, frowning at the rebuke. He clearly did not understand the reason for it.
“What have I said about ‘common knowledge’, Bates?” Luka asked.
“Oh!” Bates said. “That it’s got no knowledge in it.”
“Exactly, Bates,” Luka said, patting the man on the back. “So pay it no mind. We won’t know who this man is until the police catch him. He could be Irish for all we know.”
Bates’s eyes lit up at Luka’s words, and his face clenched into a scowl.
“Pro’ly is Irish,” he said. “Or a Scot!”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Bates,” Luka told him, sighing.
“Yes, Mister Luka.”
Bates led him to the table where the other men were standing. They all stared at Luka in amazement, much as Bates had done. Clearly they had all assumed him dead—or worse, fled, leaving them abandoned.
“Tell me, what are we planning?” Luka asked. “And tell me also, why have the pistols been distributed? Not all of the men are ready for that responsibility.”
Bates and the other men exchanged nervous looks. No one seemed to wish to speak. Finally, Bates cleared his throat and said, hesitantly:
“There were an attack last night. Jones’s men. Here on Perrott Street. I think they were lookin’ for you.”
“What?” Luka demanded.
“But we fought ’em off, we did,” Bates said proudly. “Broke out the pistols an’ drove ’em away.”
Jones had attacked while he was gone? Luka felt a sense of unease at the thought.
“How did we fare?” he asked.
Bates and the other men exchanged looks again, their expressions grim and unhappy.
“Two dead,” Bates said. “Three more badly ’urt. Rest of us got away with some bruises an’ scrapes.”
Luka closed his eyes and exhaled. It was far better than it could have been, but it was still worse than he wanted. He knew that his men would have to fight and die sometime, but he had wanted them to be ready, to be proper soldiers before it came to that. But perhaps that had been too much to expect. The struggle with Jones had finally been ignited. The gang war was on, and it would not stop until one of them had killed the other.
Suddenly, a thought occurred to him. Someone was missing, whom he had expected to find waiting for him.
“An’ there’s somethin’ else, Mister Luka,” Bates said.
“What?” Luka asked, suspecting what Bates had to tell him.
“It’s Miss Cat, sir,” Bates said.
“Is she dead?”
Bates looked surprised. “What…? No, sir. Least, not so far as I know. Not yet.”
“Why isn’t she here?” Luka asked.
“She…” Bates said. “Jones’s men took ’er in the fight. I did my best, Mister Luka, ’onest I did! But she got all ’ot-’eaded, sir. Ran off into the fray. Tried to take Jones ’erself. We couldn’t reach ’er when they fled.”
Luka put a hand on Bates’s shoulder and said, “Calm Bates, calm. I don’t hold you responsible. But something must be done. I will not allow those men to hold any of my people prisoner.”
“Aye, Mister Luka,” Bates said. “We was in the middle of plannin’ an attack of our own, to rescue Miss Cat an’ show Jones’s boys they can’t come ’round the Old Jago without fetchin’ a beatin’!”
The other men gave a chorus of assent, and three of them banged their fists against the table.
“Is she alive?” Luka asked, ignoring their outburst of enthusiasm.
Luka nodded. He hoped so as well, but the likelihood of it was slim. Even if they chose not to kill her outright, Jones’s men would no doubt treat her brutally and indulge themselves in a most hideous manner.
“Mister Luka,” Bates said. “Y’all right there?”
Luka looked down and saw that his hands had been clenched into fists. He slowly relaxed.
“I am fine, Bates,” he said. He inhaled and exhaled deeply. “Tell me, did you take any prisoners?”
“That we did, Mister Luka,” Bates said. “We got ourselves two of ’em, though one didn’t last the night. The boys weren’t too easy when they took ’im.”
Luka growled a little in the back of his throat, irritated that Bates’s men had killed one of the prisoners. It was foolish and sloppy, and it defeated the very purpose of taking the man alive in the first place.
“The man you have left, has he told you anything?” he asked.
Bates shook his head and said, “No, not much, Mister Luka. I fear we ’aven’t your touch with askin’ questions. Though since you’re ’ere, maybe you can get ’im to give up somethin’ useful.”
Luka frowned, mulling over an idea. No doubt Jones had taken Cat for a reason. He was a clever man. He had to have known that Cat was important to Luka—otherwise, why not simply kill her in the street and save the trouble of taking a prisoner? Luka could only hope that Jones had thought that far ahead.
“Bring your prisoner to me,” Luka said.
He sat at his usual table and put his feet up. It was good to be back, English food and all.
“Oh, and bring me some wine and two fresh revolvers,” he added. “Mine have gone missing.”
* * * *
The prisoner was brought up a few minutes later and presented to Luka. The man had been beaten soundly, which was no surprise. Bates and the other men had clearly taken their frustrations out on their two prisoners, which had probably been the death of the other man. Luka could hardly blame them.
“Sit down,” Luka said to the prisoner.
The man hesitated a little, but Bates pushed him down into a chair.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
The prisoner hesitated. He looked around in fright. He was scarcely a boy, Luka thought. Certainly not out of his teens. And yet here he was, the enemy.
“Jack,” the prisoner finally answered.
“Jack,” Luka said. “Do you know who I am?”
Jack hesitated and then replied, “Yeah. You’re that man Luka. The Butcher.”
“’The Butcher’?” Luka asked. “I rather like that.”
He poured a second glass of wine and set it in front of Jack.
“Now then,” he continued, “have a drink. I’m not going to kill you.”
“Y’ ain’t?” Jack asked.
“No,” Luka said. He waited for Jack to take a few hesitant sips of wine before continuing, “In fact, I am going to let you go.”
“Y’ are?” Jack did not sound as if he believed it.
Luka smiled and said, “Yes, I am. I am going to let you walk out that door and return to your gang.” He leaned forward and looked into the prisoner’s eyes. “But in exchange, you are going to do something for me.”
Jack shivered a little and drew back a bit. He drained the glass of wine he had been given.
“Whassat?” he asked.
“You will return to Mister Jones,” Luka said, “and you will deliver a message for me. Do you understand?”
“A message?”
“A message.” Luka smiled again. “You will tell Jones that I know he has the girl called Cat. I expect that he is clever enough to have kept her alive and unharmed. I want to meet him and make an exchange: me for her. Do you understand?”
“You for her,” Jack said slowly.
“There is an alleyway off Meakin Row,” Luka said. “It bends in the middle and forms a small court. We will meet there at eight o’clock tonight. Jones will come from his side, with some men if he wishes. And he will bring the girl. I will come from the other side, and we will meet in the middle.”
“Meet in the court off Meakin Row at eight o’clock,” Jack recited.
“I will be armed,” Luka said. “If the girl is not there or if someone tries to ambush me, I will kill everyone. Make certain he understands that.”
Jack swallowed uneasily and repeated, “Kill e’ryone.”
“But if Jones comes and brings the girl and if she is largely unharmed and he releases her, then I will throw down my weapons and surrender to him. And he may do with me as he likes.”
“Do with ya as ’e likes,” Jack said, frowning as he tried to remember it all.
Luka removed a letter he had just written from his pocket and placed it in Jack’s hand.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “I have written it all down for you. Give that to Jones, tell him what I’ve said, and also tell him that if he doesn’t come, he will never have a chance at me again. Make sure he knows that.”
Jack nodded quickly.
“A’right,” he said.
Luka snapped his fingers and waved the prisoner away.
“Off you go, out of my sight.”
Jack quickly scrambled out of the chair and backed away. Bates’s men followed him to the door, but they let him go once he had fled into the street.
“Well, that’s that,” Bates said. He sounded angry. “Just lettin’ ’im go?”
“Yes,” Luka said.
“Think it’ll work?” Bates asked. “That’s our only prisoner gone, you know.”
“I know it will work,” Luka replied. “The boy will report to Jones in the hope of a reward and a pardon for being captured. And Jones will come because he wants to kill me. It’s too good a chance to pass up.”
“I’ll get the boys together,” Bates said.
“No, you will not,” Luka replied. “You are not going with me.”
Bates looked aghast.
“We ain’t?” he demanded. “Mister Luka, I—”
“I don’t want to frighten Jones away,” Luka said. “I can lure him out, but he’ll send men ahead of him. If things aren’t as he expects to find them, he’ll flee and likely kill Cat just to spite me.”
“What if he sends men to kill you and doesn’t show ’imself?” Bates asked.
“No, he will come,” Luka said, nodding slowly as he thought the matter over. “He will come. He will want to kill me himself, and he won’t risk losing the chance.”
“And you’re just gonna let ’im kill you?”
Luka looked at Bates in surprise. What an absurd question.
“Of course not,” he said. “Once Cat is safe, I’m going to kill the lot of them.”
* * * *
There were three great advantages to the court off Meakin Row. One, it was accessed by two narrow streets that met at a right angle, which helped control the approach on either side. Two, the structure of the buildings and the narrowness of the streets made it difficult for a man on the rooftops to shoot clearly, which made it unlikely Jones’s men would attack from that direction. And three—perhaps most important—unlike many of the other small side streets, it enjoyed the illumination of a street lamp.
Luka arrived shortly before eight and stopped just inside the entrance at his end. He stood there and waited. Presently, some of Jones’s men entered the court from the adjoining street and turned to regard him. Luka raised his hat in greeting. The men went away and, soon after, Jones himself arrived.
He was in the company of half a dozen men, all armed with pistols. Two more men brought up the rear, carrying Cat between them by the arms. She was unbound, but the men were strong enough to keep her from fleeing, despite her rather violent struggles. A rag had been tied over her mouth to keep her silent, and her face was badly bruised. They had beaten her. But not badly enough to break her, Luka noted. At least that was something.
Jones
walked to the center of the court, which was raised slightly above the connecting streets. In the light of the street lamp, he raised his arm and motioned Luka forward.
“Evenin’, Luka!” he shouted. “I’ve brought your dollymop along, as you can see.”
Luka slowly approached, hands resting on his revolvers.
“I see that,” he said. “Let her tell me herself that she’s unharmed.”
Jones nodded at the men holding Cat. One of them yanked the gag out of her mouth, and together the two of them shoved her forward into the light. Freed of the gag, Cat unleashed a long and loud chorus of curses and violent abuse upon all and sundry, calling them every insult she could lay her tongue to. It made Luka smile a little.
He approached a little more and called, “Cat! It is I, Luka! Are you well?”
Cat froze and looked at him, suddenly silent. A moment later, she began shouting again:
“And where’ve ye been, ye bleeding bastard? How d’ye think I am?”
Jones nodded and the men shoved the gag back into Cat’s mouth. She snarled and bit viciously, but they finally managed to silence her again.
“Proof enough?” Jones asked, laughing. “Your little whore is in serviceable condition, believe me.”
Luka nodded and advanced a little more. As he went, he carefully eyed the nooks and niches along the side of the street. He came to a stop a short distance from the court, alongside a short passage that led to the door of the adjoining building.
“Come on now, Luka,” Jones said. “Drop your irons an’ be quick about it.”
“You know the agreement, Mister Jones,” Luka replied, keeping his hands where they were. “Let the girl go. Send her to me. Then I will drop my weapons. Then she walks away unharmed, and finally, I surrender myself to you. That is the order of things.”
“What if you try to run when she gets to you?” Jones asked, laughing a little.
“Then you will shoot us both in the back,” Luka replied. “I’m no fool. Send her to me.”
Jones nodded to the men holding Cat. The two of them released her and shoved her forward. Cat stumbled a few paces, struggling to regain her balance. She spit out the gag and snarled at the men who had been holding her. In retaliation, one of them raised his hand as if to strike her, but in her anger Cat did not shy away and snarled all the more. Confused by the unexpected reaction, the man glanced at Jones—who shook his head—and then slowly lowered his hand.
A Cautionary Tale for Young Vampires Page 30