The Tick-Tock Man

by Kersten Hamilton

  “A frrriiienddd,” he agreed.

  Even the famous author seemed taken aback.

  “On my honor as a Kennewickett, sir,” Wally said, “my companions harbor no ill intent.”

  “At the moment,” Jack interjected ominously. “The past is the past, and the future ain’t here yet, if you get my meaning.”

  “A philosopher as well as a villain!” Sir Arthur observed. “Well, well.”

  “I have more where that came from.” Jack had forgotten to gruff his voice, and Sir Arthur gave him a very keen look.

  “Your acquaintances astonish me, Walter,” he said. “Do step inside, all of you.”

  The doorman glared at me, but he nodded and smiled and groveled as Sir Arthur stepped past.

  He rang for tea and biscuits when we reached his comfortable study. Dobbin, who had carried his sister pickaback up the stairs, settled her on the settee. I hopped up beside her, and Wally sat beside me.

  A few moments later I was pleased to learn that biscuits in England were not biscuits at all, but cookies of all sorts.

  “Don’t you think you should take off your gloves?” Rhodope asked as Dobbin reached grimy fingers for a jam-filled confection.

  “I don’t take off my gloves for nobody,” Dobbin said, slipping a second cookie into his pocket.

  Briney selected a sugar wafer and offered me half. It would have been impolite not to accept.

  “Now, Walter,” Rhodope said, “begin at the beginning, and tell all.”

  Sir Arthur’s brow furrowed as Wally related our adventure.

  “One moment, Walter,” he said when Wally revealed that both Briney and Cy had clockwork parts. “I am a doctor as well as a writer of fiction, you know. May I examine the patients?” Cy nodded at Briney.

  “All right,” she said. “But don’t poke us with nothing like needles.”

  Sir Arthur assured her that he would not. His face grew grim as he examined Cy’s ribs, and grimmer still when he felt Briney’s wrist with his fingertips. He took a tablet from his desk and made a couple of quick notations. Walter watched with keen interest, but Miss Rhodope was staring at Jack.

  “Go on,” the great man said at last, resuming his seat. “If I am going to help, I must know everything.” He merely gasped when Wally reached the bit about the missing keys and tapped the tablet with his pen.

  “So Walter and Noodles were the last ones to have seen Tick Tock.”

  “I believe so, sir,” Wally agreed. As he talked, I watched Rhodope edge nearer to Jack, who edged away. This curious game of cat and mouse ended with the criminal backed into a corner.

  “And he was attempting to kidnap you at the time?” He spun toward Dobbin. “What was the motive, Mr. Winckles? Money? Was he going to demand a ransom?”

  “’E didn’t say,” Dobbin admitted. “Tick Tock keeps ’is own counsel, ’e does.”

  At that moment Rhodope snatched the scarf from Jack’s face.

  “Leander Smyth-Hops! I knew it was you! He is no criminal,” Rhodope accused. “He’s a journalist!”

  “You’re the one who called my last story a crime, Rho. Said I lacked research!” He turned toward Sir Arthur, his hand to his heart. “I was inspired by your words in ‘A Case of Identity,’ sir:

  “‘Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things that are really mere commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, working through generations, and leading to the most outré results, it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable.’”

  He continued, “Leander Smyth-Hops can’t fly over rooftops or peep into houses, but Spring-Heeled Jack most certainly can!”

  “Good Gad,” Sir Arthur said. “You’ve memorized it line for line.”

  “That and more, sir, much more. You are my idol! And”—he seemed to suddenly realize that Dobbin, Cy, and Briney were listening—“you’ve completely blown my cover, Rho!”

  “We already knew,” Briney said.

  I was distressed to note that while I had been distracted by this discourse, every single cookie had disappeared from the tray. Not only did Dobbin’s pocket look lumpy, but Cy’s did as well.

  “You knew?” Mr. Smyth-Hops asked, paling perceptibly. “Are you telling me Tick Tock knew?”

  Cy nodded, brushing crumbs from his sleeve.

  “’E don’t care.” Dobbin was circumnavigating the room now, examining its contents. It appeared unsettlingly as if he were “casing the joint,” as criminals might say. “It’s rats and abaddons Tick Tock feeds to the sewer swine,” the boy went on. “Not newspapermen.”

  An “abaddon” is a criminal turned informer, a rascal who squeals on his fellow rogues.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Mr. Smyth-Hops said. “I am no fan of perishing by pig.”

  “Do you mean to say that sewer swine are real?” Rhodope asked.

  “Real as rats,” Leander assured her. “But much bigger and much, much hungrier.”

  “You must help me get a photograph!” she declared.

  “Not on your life,” the would-be criminal replied. “You’re staying out of the sewers, Rho.”

  She gave him an icy glare, but I had to agree. Photographing the feral herd might be beyond even Rhodope’s considerable skill. I doubted that the piggies could be coaxed into posing peacefully.

  “By the way, Walter”—Mr. Smyth-Hops turned to Wally—“you have quite converted me. I’ve become an admirer of your arts!”

  “Pyrotechnics,” Wally explained to his aunt. “My Coruscating Cannonades proved useful in scattering the subterranean herd.”

  The term “subterranean” refers to things beneath the surface of the earth—a fine place for such pigs. I hoped they stayed there.

  “Useful?” Mr. Smyth-Hops cried. “They were utterly fantastic. We must have them at our wedding, Rho!”

  “We could,” Rhodope agreed. “If we were having a wedding. Which of course we are not.”

  “Of course we are not yet,” Mr. Smyth-Hops declared, undaunted. “I have to be arrested, you see,” he confided to Sir Arthur. “In order to finish researching my exposé on criminals and the court system. I can’t possibly propose until I’ve made a name for myself. But I’m finding it harder than you might suppose to end up behind bars. Really, Dob, I’m not sure why you worry about Scotland Yard at all.”

  “Stop shamming,” Dobbin suggested. “They’ll lug you off to the lockup right quick enough.”

  “The recent purse snatchings were shams?” Wally asked.

  “Setups,” Mr. Smyth-Hops admitted. “Clever crimes committed under the very nose of the constables. And still I have not been nabbed. It’s disappointing.”

  “Disappointing indeed,” Sir Arthur said, and sighed. “But back to the problem at hand. I believe we need to notify the Yard.”

  “No!” Briney started up, almost toppling me to the floor.

  “Journalists is one thing, but peelers is another,” Dobbin said. “No peelers. They’d take Briney from me, that’s wot they’d do. It’s my job to take care of ’er.”

  Cy nodded in silent agreement.

  Mr. Smyth-Hops said, “If you ask what I think—”

  “No one did,” Rhodope pointed out.

  “I think Tick Tock will come through,” he went on. “I’ve met the man . . . no, not man. More a force of nature—if nature were evil, of course. The creature is ineffable.”

  “Ineffable” means too powerful or extreme to be explained in words.

  “You’re a journalist,” Sir Arthur said. “Attempt it.”

  Leander shuddered. “It . . . it’s as if he carries with him every crime he has ever committed. When he steps into a room, you feel the force of his will.
If Tick Tock is expected back, he will be. Everyone knows he never reneges.”

  To “renege” is to fail to keep one’s promise, or to break a contract. Dachshunds are far too noble to renege. I was surprised to learn that we could have anything in common with such a criminal.

  “If he is such a sought-after criminal, he has most likely been arrested,” Miss Rhodope said. “And will not be able to keep his word.”

  “I asked Constable Arbuckle if he knew of him,” Wally said. “He felt that Tick Tock had passed away.”

  Dobbin glanced at Briney. “’E ain’t dead. Just quiet lately. On account of me minding the shop for ’im, if you take my meaning.”

  “So if he ventured out, he could have been captured by the constables!” Rhodope insisted.

  Leander held up a finger. “‘It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data,’” he declared. “‘Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.’ Sherlock Holmes, ‘A Scandal in Bohemia.’”

  “You are exactly right,” Sir Arthur said. “I mean I was exactly right. Oh, confound it! Quit quoting me.”

  “We need more information,” Wally admitted. “We haven’t got enough to form a hypothesis.” The brilliant boy took his notepad out of his pocket, and I wagged. Walter Kennewickett was on the case!

  “It has been mentioned multiple times that Tick Tock never reneges,” he said. “Have you made a deal with him, Dob?”

  “I don’t discuss Tick Tock’s dealings.” The boy looked up from the lamp he was examining. “Nor my own, neither.”

  “We can guess,” Sir Arthur said softly. “Your sister needed a heart.”

  “The doctor said I wouldn’t grow up,” Briney said sleepily. “Tick Tock said I would. He said his brother would make me a heart just like his, if Dob would—”

  Dobbin hushed her with a look. “That’s our own biz, Briney. They don’t need to know it.”

  He must have felt that every eye in the room was on him.

  Dobbin had made a deal with the dastardly Tick Tock, a man who did not blush at lying, stealing, and murdering. A creature who fed informants to the sewer swine. What horrible crimes had the boy committed as part of this deal?

  His face flushed, but he didn’t look down.

  “Dobbin is my friend.” Wally stepped over to stand beside him. “I only suggested coming here because we needed help. What matters at the moment is finding the Tick-Tock Man. Perhaps we could come up with a list of possible perpetrators, Dob?”

  “Quite right,” Sir Arthur agreed. “Who might want to take Mr. Tock?”

  “Well . . . there’s those that want ’im for crimes ’e’s committed,” Dobbin said doubtfully, “and those that want ’im to commit crimes ’e ’asn’t yet. Which set do you want first?”

  “A more pertinent question,” Mr. Smyth-Hops proposed, “would be why would he leave retirement to kidnap Walter?”

  “’E didn’t say,” Dobbin admited. “Someone usually pays ’im for a nabbing.”

  “Could it be related to the rally?” Miss Rhodope pondered aloud. “Camille Jenatzy was positively glaring as he passed us. Oliver and Calypso are ruining his chance to recover the title.”

  “We must split up,” Sir Arthur decided. “Gather as much information as we can about what happened to Tick Tock on the street last evening.”

  “We have two hypotheses to explore,” Wally said. “That the road rally is involved, or that Scotland Yard has taken Mr. Tock.”

  “Three hypotheses,” Leander corrected. “I believe he may have run into trouble with the criminal element.”

  Sir Arthur nodded. “Three, then. We must pursue them all, seeking out any hint, any clue, no matter how trivial, that might put us on the right track.”

  “I’ll take to the rooftops,” Leander said, resuming Jack’s swagger. “I’ve made the acquaintance of a few cat burglars and second-story men who might be of assistance.” A “second story man” is a burglar who creeps in through upper-story windows. Leander paused and put his hand to his breast. “‘In solving a problem of this sort, the grand thing is to be able to reason backward.’ A Study in Scarlet! I’m off to find a fact to reason backward from. Do you mind if I exit by way of the window, sir?”

  “I’d be delighted if you did,” Sir Arthur said drily. “In fact, if you quote Holmes again, I might help you to do so.”

  Mr. Smyth-Hops opened the window and leaned out. “Fog below,” he said as he stepped out onto the sill. “White as a shroud. But the rooftops and chimneys are clear. Come with me, Rho. I can see the moon and stars!”

  “No,” Rhodope replied. “I’m off to gather information on the participants in the road rally. I can’t do that from a rooftop.”

  “I doubt you’ll do much,” Leander said. “Not in this fog. You won’t be able to find your way across the street. No carriages will be traveling tonight either.”

  “Then I’ll feel my way,” Rhodope said simply. “Neither shrouding fog nor sewer swine will stop me. This mystery must be solved before morning.”

  In the silence that followed, I could clearly hear the soft ticking of Briney’s heart. I jumped down from the couch. Rhodope was right. We had no time to spare.

  “I can take you anywhere, Miss,” Dobbin said. “Even through a pea souper.” This apparently was a reference to the fog. “Can you mind Briney, Cy? I don’t think she’s up to walking.”

  The little girl nodded sleepily, hardly lifting her head from the arm of the settee as the giant sat down beside her.

  “That leaves Scotland Yard to Walter and myself,” Sir Arthur said.

  Dobbin froze.

  “We must at least ascertain whether or not your monstrous mentor has been arrested, young man. I will not mention you or your sister,” the famous author assured him.

  “The constable I spoke with is quite a fan of Sherlock Holmes,” Wally said. “I believe he would make inquiries quietly if you requested it, sir.”

  “Good Gad,” Sir Arthur muttered. “Another fan. Well, if I must, I must.”

  We hurried down the stairs and stepped outside to discover that the world had indeed been swallowed by fog. An unnatural stillness had descended on the street. Although light spilled from the doorway, the distance of a few feet turned friends into strange, unrecognizable shapes. I stayed very close to Wally.

  A surprising number of citizens were out and about. I would have thought they’d all be bundled in their beds. A carriage moved cautiously through the street before us, and boots stomped by close to my nose.

  “Links!” a child’s voice cried, and a torch-bearing urchin appeared before us. “Links! Light your way for sixpence, sir?” He held the blazing brand aloft.

  “Dob!” he said when he spotted our companion. “I didn’t recognize it was you.”

  “I’m escortin’ this lady,” Dobbin replied.

  “I’ll take you for free, seeing as it’s you,” the boy offered.

  “Nonsense,” Rhodope said. “I’ll pay the sixpence. There’s only one torch escort, though. What about you, Sir Arthur?”

  “I know the area quite well,” the author assured her. “I believe I can manage to bump into a constable even in the dark.” He turned to Wally as we set off up the street. “Mind your pockets, Walter. Footpads like nothing better than a thick fog. Where did you last encounter your constable friend?”

  “Footpads” are thieves who prey upon pedestrians. I watched for such villains as Wally described the route we had walked with Constable Arbuckle. Phantom footpads formed of fog seemed to step around corners, then dissolve into the night. Smells were mixed by the mist to such an extent that I could not even discern the scent of pastries, though at this time of the early morning, the baker should have been hard at work. I had no idea which way we should go.

  “No worries, Noodles,” Sir Arthur said, noticing my distress. “I’ll lead the way.”

  When we reached the first corner, our fearless leader felt the base of the gas
light.

  “Each light pole has its own mark,” he explained. “They were designed to help people find their way home on just such nights as this. The same marks are also put on letters to allow a carrier to know where to deliver them. Very useful for fictional detectives attempting to trace correspondence in London.”

  We felt our way from lamppost to lamppost until we found Constable Arbuckle waving a torch in the middle of an intersection.

  He held up his burning brand as we approached.

  “Sir Arthur Conan Doyle!” the constable cried in disbelief. “Walter said his aunt knew you, but . . . what brings you out on such a night? You must know that it’s not safe, sir, not safe at all!”

  “We are here on a matter of some urgency,” Sir Arthur said. “But before we describe it—can I rely on your discretion?”

  To “rely on someone’s discretion” means to trust that that person will not reveal sensitive information.

  “That all depends.” Constable Arbuckle rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Onst whether or not it regards a crime in progress?”

  “Certainly not,” Sir Arthur said. “All we need is information.”

  The constable looked from Wally to Sir Arthur, and finally to me. I stood up on my hind legs and placed my paws on his belt in an attempt to express our earnestness.

  “All right,” he decided, giving my ears a scratch. “I’ll help you if I can.”

  I expected no less. Dachshunds have potent powers of persuasion.

  “We need to know if Scotland Yard apprehended an individual called Tick Tock as he attempted to kidnap Walter,” the author said.

  “Kidnap Walter?” Constable Arbuckle cried in evident alarm. Wally recounted the events of the night once more, leaving out any information about Dobbin, Briney, and Cy.

  Artemis Arbuckle whistled. “So Tick Tock’s still ticking, as it were, and somebody nabbed him. If you two could hold the torch here, I’ll swing over to Andrew’s beat. He’ll know if there was an altercation on his watch.”

  Sir Arthur and Wally hastily agreed, and took turns waving the burning torch. We were almost run down only once, by a carriage drawn by two horribly skittish horses. I would think animals of that size might have more sense.