“For Bobby,” said Cuthbert. “There might be some papers, some clues to what happened to him. We might get some idea of who’s to blame.”
My valet was looking at me so adorably the world’s cutest puppy by comparison would have been as appealing as a bucket of rat vomit.
“I’ll do it!” I said, clasping his hands in mine.
“You better,” said Poppy, “now I’ve gone to all that trouble.”
While a suitable costume was selected for me from a trunk of old shmutter, Poppy admonished me to take care of his handiwork. “You can’t stand the heat so you must keep out of the kitchen. That gum won’t hold forever. And try not to speak; you’ll never manage the accent and your chin piece might fall off.”
I nodded. The whole enterprise was becoming more and more off-putting by the minute. Cuthbert, perhaps sensing my trepidation, gave my hand a squeeze.
At last, I was ready - externally, at least.
“Too tall,” Poppy remonstrated. “You must remember to stoop at all times. And keep your shoulders hunched around your ears like this,” he demonstrated. I aped the stance. Cuthbert applauded.
“You’ll be great, sir! And remember, it’s just a quick in-and-out.”
Poppy raised a painted eyebrow.
“There’s a carriage waiting to take you to Harlem. God speed, gentlemen. I remember Bobby; he was a sweet boy.” He dabbed delicately at his tear ducts with the corner of a handkerchief. Cuthbert pecked him on the cheek.
“Thanks for everything, P.”
Poppy stroked Cuthbert’s face. “Anything for you, dear heart.”
But it was my arm Cuthbert linked. “Come on, gran’ma,” he chuckled. “Nice and easy.”
I played along until we were in the alley and the door was closed. I straightened my aching spine. “I’ve seen Helen move,” I reminded him. “She was by no means an arthritic crab.”
A cab with a single horse was indeed waiting for us in the street. The driver stared ahead with a blank expression as we climbed on board. As soon as our posteriors touched the cracked upholstery of the seats, he cracked his whip and we were off, maintaining a steady pace towards the unfashionable and insalubrious boroughs. I refrained from peering out from behind the oilcloth blind and essayed instead to engage my valet in conversation.
“Well...” I began. “Poppy seems nice.”
“He is,” said Cuthbert.
“And you two know each other... in what capacity?”
Cuthbert’s face clouded. “Remember when you was told not to talk? You’ll have your chin off.”
I sat back. Cuthbert was unwilling to be probed at this juncture but I vowed I would winkle it out of him before long.
We had not travelled far before we came to an unexpected halt. Cuthbert enquired of the driver who explained that we had reached the boundary that marked how far he was prepared to go, adding it was no use proffering emoluments, however generous. We had two choices: remain in the carriage and be returned to our point of origin, or alight and proceed the rest of the way on foot. Rather, I had no choice at all; I had resolved to help Cuthbert and besides, I was all dressed up - it would be a pity to let Poppy’s artistry go to waste.
Cuthbert paid the man and then took my hand to help me down, as befits a lady - even old One-Eyed Helen. The driver cracked his whip as soon as my boots touched terra firma and had that carriage away from the scene like a shot.
And what a scene! Ahead, the quality of the buildings deteriorated immediately - as though someone had spliced together the ends of two very different streets. The bricks that paved the road were mostly hidden by mud and filth or submerged in vast puddles from the recent downpour.
“Come on,” said Cuthbert, linking my arm. “Keep your head down and we’ll be fine.”
I told him I was planning on doing exactly that lest I put my foot in something unspeakable.
We stepped through an invisible barrier and at once our noses were assaulted by the rank odour of human detritus. The noise of the place was equally an affront. Every building we passed was host to some - or even several - energetic dramas. Voices raised in anger, loud bangs and crashes. The cries of children and the screams of women. Dogs barked. I was almost bowled over by a pig, trotting along as if it owned the district. I clung to Cuthbert.
“Dickens,” he said and I begged his pardon. “Y’know: Charlie Dickens. This is like something he wrote about London.”
I agreed that it was and searched my memory; I was sure the great chronicler of poverty and social ills had visited Manhattan at some point.
All that aside, I was growing increasingly apprehensive with every step we took along those desperate streets. Groups of men were hanging around, catcalling at each other. It sounded like the preamble to an outbreak of violence, an affray up in which I would rather not be caught, thank you very much. My instinct as an Englishman and a gentleman was to walk tall with my head held high - but that would have ruined my disguise and singled me out as a target for robbery or worse.
On one side of the street, the men sported the braces and flat caps of Poppy’s story, and their battle cries were in the distinctive brogue of the Emerald Isle. On the other, the men wore red neckerchiefs and hats fashioned from fur. One of their number brandished a stick, impaled on the top of which was a dead rabbit.
Charming.
Cuthbert’s grip on my arm tightened. “Just keep going,” he muttered. “Nice and steady.”
We had reached the point where we would have to pass directly between the two gangs. If they had not noticed our approach, they most assuredly would see us now.
Which they did.
The baiting and the taunts ceased at once as though someone had turned off a tap. I felt my skin prickle beneath the rubber augmentations as every eye crawled over me.
A McNally broke ranks and came forward. “The good Lor’ bless yer,” he doffed his cap. “Will ye no permit me to escort you through this den of reprobates and hooligans?”
He offered his arm. I stared at it with my uncovered eye. Not to be outdone, one of the dead rabbit subscribers jumped in front of us, his elbow cocked for me to take.
“Sure now,” he smiled, flashing black teeth. His accent was also thickly Irish. “Ye’ll be better off with me. I’m much better looking, don’t you think?”
I did not answer - my voice would give the game away. I was not who they took me to be. Old One-Eyed Helen must be quite the local celebrity. The men from both sides of the thoroughfare clamoured for my attention. They pushed and shoved each other - it looked likely that the fracas they had been brewing was about to boil over at last.
And it would have, I am sure, were it not for my Cuthbert. He put finger and thumb to his mouth and emitted a piercing whistle that silenced the mob and focused their attention. He addressed the gangs in their own accent.
“Sure an’ me gran’ma and I were just’ after takin’ a stroll for some peace and quiet and will ye jus’ look at yourselves, a-pesterin’ and mitherin’ her.”
The roughs looked suitably abashed.
“Powerful sorry, Miss Helen,” several murmured, wringing their flat caps and fur hats in their dirty hands.
Cuthbert nodded and the crowd parted like the waters of the Red Sea to let us through. He led me at a stately, unhurried pace through the men, who bowed their heads in deference as though I was a funeral hearse. I felt like I should be doing something - perhaps waving regally or pressing my fingertips to my lips but a tug on my arm from Cuthbert communicated no.
Just keep going...
So we did.
Soon our escort was comprised of more than the Irish gangs. Women and children of all colours streamed out of the tenements to swell the throng. To a casual observer we must have appeared a ragtag parade or rally with me as the figurehead. One-Eyed Helen obviou
sly commanded a great deal of respect in the slum districts of New York City. I could only imagine a larger turnout at her funeral - which could not be far in these people’s future. If there was anything left of her to inter, that is.
We turned a corner and reached a place where three roads meet. A large, broad edifice loomed ahead, an oasis of cleanliness and fresh paint among the drabness and decay everywhere else. A hoarding that stretched above the ground floor windows declared the place to be HELEN’S and I got an inkling of why these people held the old woman in such high regard.
She fed them.
It was as simple as that. Her building, converted from a disused brewery, was a haven of peace in this district where brawls and civil unrest are as everyday as breathing. People of every creed and stripe gathered here like animals at a watering hole. Predators, prey (and even the pickpockets) put their enmities aside. All were welcome and no one was turned away without something hot inside them.
Men were perched on ladders, washing the windows and watering flowers in hanging baskets. They were volunteers, Cuthbert later informed me. It was a matter of communal pride to ensure the upkeep of the establishment.
For what else did they have, these people of the mean streets? Criminality and violence, poverty and deprivation. I could not help noticing that the church on an opposite corner was considerably more drab and in worse repair in comparison, with holes in the stained glass where the saints’ faces used to be.
And I had left this woman, this living saint, to a gruesome and grisly death! A fact I had best keep under my wig.
“How’s Tommy?” someone asked.
“Where’s Tommy?” asked another.
“Give Tommy my regards!” exhorted quite a few.
Cuthbert expressed his gratitude and gave assurances that all was well with this Tommy fellow, whoever he was. He extended an arm across my shoulders and steered me around to a side entrance.
Alone with Cuthbert at the bottom of a stairwell, I let out a sigh of relief, stood up straight and asked who the deuce this Tommy might be.
“Beats me,” Cuthbert whispered.
“Does he? I mean, did he?”
“No; I mean, I haven’t a clue. I thought that big bloke’s name was Lummox. Any road, let’s get you up to Helen’s private quarters before that lot out there get wind of her demise.”
He bundled me up the first flight of stairs - all of which had been recently scrubbed, I observed - with manhandling that would have been inappropriate and unseemly had I genuinely been an elderly woman.
Cuthbert remained on the landing, keeping watch, while I penetrated One-Eyed Helen’s sanctum. Her apartment comprised of an anteroom with armchairs and a low table. It was oddly genteel, given the district that surrounded it. There were antimacassars, for heaven’s sake. I hadn’t seen an antimacassar since my last ride on the Orient Express - and look how that had turned out!
Beyond this parlour was an office of sorts. More of a repository for ledgers and invoices and mouldering newssheets. I could perceive no order apparent in the chaos. There was a desk; I unearthed it from beneath stacks of papers and I don’t know what. There was another room, at odds with the parlour in terms of its asceticism. Bare but clean floorboards, a simple cot and a single bookshelf. I could imagine more luxurious prison cells. One-Eyed Helen was not without funds; that much was clear, but the Spartan sparseness of her bedroom was a sobering sight. It drew me in. There was something about the bookshelf... I reached for the single, battered volume.
A diary!
I rifled through it. One-Eyed Helen had a neat hand; each page was covered in a tiny, meticulous scrawl - although that word doesn’t give the right impression. The words formed intricate but perfectly straight lines. I’d wager she must have won any number of prizes for penmanship while at school.
The name ‘Tommy’ sprang out at me a couple of times. A scrap of paper fell out, gliding to the floor like a dying leaf in autumn. I stooped to retrieve it and that was when I saw what was behind the door: a huge basket, lined with blankets and pillows. One-Eyed Helen had a dog, then, and a ruddy big one at that. It made sense. An old lady on her own would need protection, however favourable the natives.
The scrap of paper revealed a list of names and also of dates and times. I scanned it quickly. Eureka! There was a Robert Hawkins, but what the numbers beside his name might indicate, I could not tell. I pocketed the paper and, as an afterthought, trousered the diary as well. Well, it was not as though the old bird was going to be making any more entries, was it?
Someone, however, was making an entrance. Cuthbert raised his voice, undoubtedly for my benefit, greeting the arrival with enforced cheeriness. I scooted from the bedroom, closed the door and nipped onto one of the armchairs, where I adopted a straight-backed posture, like a businessman paying a call.
It was only then that I remembered I was dressed as an old woman. I sprang to my feet as the door handle turned. Whoever it was would be expecting to see One-Eyed Helen. I checked my eyepatch was in place and collapsed myself into a stoop as the door opened.
I found myself eye-to-eye with the owner-occupier herself.
One-Eyed Helen was alive!
There followed an awkward moment in which we glared at each other, like someone facing a funhouse mirror. Who was copying whom I could not say, but we matched each other gesture for gesture, movement for movement. We circled the armchair - which suited me because it meant I was closer to the exit.
“Tommy!” she barked and I found the egress blocked.
By a man with the head of a dog!
Chapter Six
Xolotl!
That was my first thought. But, my racing brain reminded me, One-Eyed Helen had called him Tommy.
Seen up close, I could tell he was no Aztec deity. There was the smell for one thing. Like wet dog too near a fireplace. He was tall - seven feet if he was an inch - and from the neck down, appeared to be a human man. He was dressed in an overcoat, trousers and boots such as you might find on just about anyone in this part of town, but there was something out of proportion about him that his ordinary clothes only served to accentuate. He was barrel chested and his torso was elongated. His legs were short and crooked. I wondered if the seat of those pants concealed a tail... From the neck up he was all fur. A long nose poked out; the skin at its tip was black and padded, much like the cracked upholstery of the carriage we had travelled in, and it was flanked by round, brown eyes. Pointed but floppy ears rose above his temples. A pink tongue like a slice of ham lolled from the side of his wide mouth - a mouth that was chockfull of deadly fangs. It was on these that I focussed my attention.
The creature was confused. His mistress had called him but now he was faced with two of her, he was at a loss. I forced myself to stand my ground. Any backing away might signal the fear I was trying desperately to suppress.
“Sic him, Tommy!” One-Eyed Helen urged from behind the armchair.
Tommy stepped towards me and sniffed. He let out a whine of confusion and I realised the diary had saved my life! He could smell it on my person.
“Good boy, Tommy,” I attempted to mimic his mistress’s voice. Tommy looked from one old woman to the other and back again.
“Kill him!” One-Eyed Helen seethed. “Rip his gizzard out!”
“Steady on!” I dropped out of character. It was an almost fatal mistake. With a growl, Tommy turned all his attention on me. Great globs of saliva flew from his chops and a low growl started to rumble deep within that chest.
I thought my time was up, that I was going to my doom dressed as an old bag. My obituary in the London Times flashed before my eyes. “...The question remains of what Mr Mortlake was doing in that establishment and clothed in that manner...” Oh, the ignominy! I’ve had some shocking reviews in my time - believe that if you can - but your obituary is the review of your w
hole life! One would like at least four stars.
A piercing whistle distracted my attacker.
“Here, boy!” cried Cuthbert from the doorway. He brandished a stick - well, the leg of a chair - and, having secured the creature’s interest, hurled it through the open door to One-Eyed Helen’s office. Tommy bounded obediently after it, while the old woman cursed up a storm.
“Quick, sir!” Cuthbert grabbed my hand. I had to hoik up my skirts to follow him out of there. Commotion filled the stairwell. The mob had got wind of a second Helen and were coming up to see what was what and who was whom.
The only way was up!
With Cuthbert almost yanking my arm from its socket, I followed him up a narrow flight - little more than a ladder, really - and out through a trapdoor onto the roof.
The cries of the mob were louder but they held back as Tommy sprang from the apartment.
“Dash it all!” I swore. “Did you never think, when you throw a dog a stick, the bally creature brings it back to you?”
Cuthbert laughed. “Oopsy-daisy!”
Never mind that! The dog-headed youth was climbing the ladder with the chair leg between his jaws.
“Terribly sorry, old boy!” I even meant it. I slammed the trapdoor shut. With a yowl of pain, for it must have caught him squarely on the snout, Tommy fell back onto the pursuing mob. The confusion and terror was audible even through the closed door. Tommy growled and snapped as the mass of people tried to back away and placate him.
Cuthbert was exhilarated. I was breathless too for other reasons but I suppose the escape from an untimely and messy death was worthy of celebration. I pointed out that we were not yet out of the woods.
“Oh, yeah,” Cuthbert was deflated. He cast around for some means of escape. “We could jump from roof to roof,” he suggested.
“In this outfit?”
“You could take it off.” He waggled his eyebrows lasciviously.
“Besides, I don’t think the rooftops of the other buildings could take the strain.” That was probably a true assessment but one I was not willing to put to the test.
Xolotl Strikes! Page 6