by Simon Hawke
The small, slightly built man with the prematurely grey hair and beard stood in the entrance to the offices of the Pall Mall Gazette, holding a folded copy of the paper in his hand and glancing around nervously.
"Excuse me," he said, stopping a young man walking past him "are you on the staff here at the newspaper?"
"Well, after a fashion. I suppose,– said the young man. "How may I help you, sir?"
"My name is Moreau. Dr. Phillipe Moreau. The gentleman who wrote this story, about the killing in Whitechapel_•• "The murder of the prostitute, you mean?"
"Yes. I was wondering if I could speak with him."
"Well. I am afraid he is not in the office at the moment. Dr. Moreau, and I have no idea when he will return. I was just leaving myself. I am not actually on staff here: I write occasional articles, but perhaps I can assist you?"
"Oh, I see. Well, I don't know. Mr.—"
"Wells."
"Thank you, Mr. Wells, but I don't think that will be necessary” said Moreau. "Perhaps I should not even have come. I just thought, perhaps—"
"Why don't we sit down?" said Wells. "There is obviously something troubling you. If there is anything that I can do to help, I will certainly try."
"Yes, all right," said Moreau, taking the seat Wells indicated. They sat down at a desk.
"Now then." said Wells, "what about this murder?"
"Well, I have a daughter, you see," Moreau said hesitantly. "That is, I had a daughter. I have not seen her for quite some time. She came to London and, well. I have been searching for her—"
"And you thought perhaps this dead girl could be your daughter?" said Wells. "You wanted to satisfy yourself as to her identity?"
"Yes, precisely." said Moreau. "The newspaper gave her name as Gordon. I know, but it is possible that she had taken another name...."
"I understand," said Wells. "However, if that had been the case, we would really have no way of knowing, you understand. You realize that the odds of this poor murdered girl being your missing daughter are really quite small." -
"Yes, yes, highly unlikely, I know," said Moreau, "but something told me—I just simply had to know, you see. Perhaps if I could speak to someone who had an opportunity to view the remains . ."
"I do not know if that would help you. Doctor," Wells said. "As I understand it, the body was . . . well, the poor girl's face was damaged beyond all recognition. Her neighbors identified her mainly by her clothing and a few personal possessions. The murder was quite savage. Considering the odds, why subject yourself needlessly to such an ordeal?"
"You don't understand," said Moreau, "I must know. The nature of the wounds, the manner in which—" He suddenly caught himself and stopped.
"What about the nature of the wounds, Doctor?" Wells said. watching him carefully. "Why should that happen to interest you?"
"Nothing, you misunderstood Inc." said Moreau. "I am merely distraught. I should not have come here. Forgive me for taking up your valuable time . . ."
"One moment, Doctor," Wells said, catching him by the arm.
"Please," said Moreau. –Let me go."
"Not just yet, Doctor," said Wells. "I do not think that I misunderstood you. And something tells me that you are not being entirely truthful with me. Why come to the newspaper? Why not go to the police?"
"Yes, undoubtedly that is what I should have done," Moreau said, “I merely thought that —"
"Why don't we go see the police together?" Wells said. "We can go right now."
"No, really, thank you, but there is no need for you to trouble yourself. It's really quite—"
"You really do not want to go to the police, do you?" said Wells. "Why is that? What are you afraid of"
Moreau looked at him with alarm. "I see what you are thinking," he said. "You think perhaps I may have had something to do with this crime."
"I am merely wondering why you seem reluctant to go to the police." Wells said. "Why are you so interested in this murder? What is it about the nature of the wounds? What do you mean? You are not really seeking a missing daughter. are you?"
“Yes, of course I am,— Moreau said. "Why else would I be so concerned?"
"That is what I would like to know. Dr. Moreau," Wells said. "You are obviously an educated man, and yet the newspaper reports clearly stated that the dead girl was a Cockney. strictly working class. Moreover, your accent is slight. but definitely French, I think, as is your name. I suppose it is possible that an educated French gentleman could have a daughter by a Cockney mother. but then if that were so, why would you be reluctant to go to the police? That would be the natural avenue of inquiry for a man seeking a missing daughter, would it not?"
A number of the people in the office had become interested in the conversation. "What is it?" one of them said. "Some sort of problem?"
"Please," said Moreau in a low voice. "I cannot discuss this here."
"I think we had best get to the bottom of this, Dr. Moreau," Wells said.
“No, let me go," Moreau said, pulling away, but Wells would not let go. Moreau's sleeve was pulled back, exposing a strange-looking bracelet. It caught Wells' attention. It was made from an unusual black material, with small, numbered studs arranged upon it in a pattern.
"What's this?" said Wells, looking down at it.
"Don't touch it!•• Moreau said, jerking his arm back violently.
"I think perhaps we had better speak with the police," said Wells.
Moreau looked around frantically, seeing himself being hemmed in. "Please," he said, "I beg you no police. They would not understand. I swear to you. I am no criminal."
"Who is this chap, Bertie?" one of the other reporters said. "What's he on about?"
"Have we got some kind of trouble here?" another said. "Please," Moreau said softly. And then his eyes grew wide. "Bertie?" he said. "Herbert Wells?"
"Yes ,•• said Wells, looking at him strangely.
"Herbert George Wells?"
"How is it that you happen to know my full name, Doctor'?" Wells said. "I did not give it to you and I do not use it professionally… I am certain we have never met."
"Please, Mr. Wells," Moreau said, "I promise to answer all your questions, but we must speak somewhere in private. I assure you that I have no personal involvement in this killing but I believe I know who was responsible."
"Very well." said Wells, "but I promise you that if you do not adequately explain yourself. I will summon the police."
Moreau nodded. "Very well, I shall accept that. But please let us speak in private."
"There is a small teashop just down the street," said Wells. "Come, we can talk there. Give me your ann."
You think I will try to run away?" Moreau said.
"I think you are a desperate man. Dr. Moreau." said Wells. "There is an edge of hysteria in your voice and panic in your eyes. Very well, we shall simply walk together, but if you run off, rest assured that I am quite capable of giving the police a completely accurate and detailed description of you."
Moreau nodded. They left the building together and started walking down the street towards one of the teashops operated by the Aerated Bread Company.
"What is that curious bracelet on your wrist?" said Wells. "If I told you the truth" Moreau said "you would not believe me. You would think me mad."
"I never leap to uninformed conclusions, Doctor," Wells said.
"No. you wouldn't," said Moreau, smiling. "Not you.—
Wells frowned. "I find your remarks most puzzling. You behave as if you knew me."
"In a manner of speaking, I do." Moreau said. "Shall I tell you what I know? You are at the moment living with a woman whom you introduce to your neighbors as your wife, although she is not your wife. At least not yet. Her name is Amy Catherine Robbins and you call her Jane. She was a student of yours. You left your wife, Isabel for her. You were not always a journalist. You used to teach once under Professor Huxley at the Normal School of Science in South Kensington. You have two brother
s. Frank and Freddy; you have been astigmatic from an early age and your health was always poor. You almost died of appendicitis in your youth and you broke your leg when you were seven years old—"
"Good God!" said Wells. "How is possible that you know so much about me?"
"I will tell you the complete truth, Mr. Wells." Moreau said "because I am in desperate need of help and I believe that you can give it to me, but I must tell it to you slowly, otherwise you will surely think me mad. I must convince you that I am not. More than you could possibly realize depends upon it."
"What manner of doctor are you?" Wells said. "Are you a physician or one of these mystics who claims the ability to read minds and such?"
"I would have an easier time convincing you that I am capable of reading
your thoughts than of who and what I really am." Moreau said. "I am a professor and
I am also a scientist. specializing in the biological sciences."
"Biological experimentation?" Wells said suddenly.
"Yes," Moreau said, glancing at him sharply. "What made you ask that?"
"Scientists engage in experimentation, do they not?"
"Yes. I suppose they do." Moreau said. "Still, it was curious that you should say that."
"Let us return, for the moment, to the topic at hand," said Wells. "This murder. You claim you know who was responsible? A patient of yours, perhaps?"
"No." said Moreau. "I do not see patients. But the man I am seeking, the one who I believe may be responsible for this, is without question insane. He was once a sort of colleague of mine. His name is Drakov."
"Nikolai Drakov?" Wells said.
Moreau stopped, frozen in his tracks, staring at him wildly. "How did you know that?"
Wells took his arm. "It appears that we both have some surprises for each other." he said. "I will answer your questions just as soon as you have answered mine."
They reached the ABC teashop and went inside. There were several couples in the shop, mostly young, lingering over tea and biscuits. The advent of the teashops was a blessing to young couples in a time where a "proper" young woman couldn't think of going alone to a young man's apartment. To young people without a lot of money, a teashop was the perfect place to meet. Nothing could be considered improper about taking a walk together then spending some time enjoying a "cuppa" and a biscuit or two. It was a date that any young man could afford.
They took their seats at a small table and ordered a pot of tea. Wells saw that Moreau had been staggered by his knowing Drakov's name. Strange, he thought, he had never been much good with names, but he had remembered that one because of the peculiar circumstances under which he had heard it. He wondered what connection there might be between those three Americans who had come to call on him and this curiously intense Frenchman.
Wells scrutinized him closely. Moreau was a small man. perhaps five foot five or six, slightly built, sharp featured. foxlike. He was younger than he seemed to be. Wells guessed he was in his early forties. but he looked older. It wasn't only the grey hair. There were crow's-feet around his eyes, which were red from lack of sleep. He was pale and there were worry lines around his mouth and above the bridge of his nose, between his eyebrows,. He was clearly a man under a great strain.
"Before we discuss this any further," said Moreau "you have to tell me how you know Drakov's name. You've seen him? You know where he is? You must tell one!"
"Calm yourself, Dr. Moreau." said Wells. "In point of fact, I do not have to tell you anything. What I should be doing is taking you to the police. If you have knowledge about a crime that has taken plate, it is your duty to give that information to the authorities. I agreed to speak with you in private because you promised you would explain yourself. Well then, explain."
Moreau stared at Wells for a moment, then briefly closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "What if I were to tell you that I have come here from the future?"
"From the future," Wells said, watching him uneasily. He chose his words with care. "If you were to tell me that, Dr. Moreau, if that is indeed your name. I would have a great deal of difficulty believing you. I doubt that anyone could substantiate such a fantastic claim."
"Nevertheless, it is true," Moreau said. "I am a time traveler. Mr. Wells. And what is more. I can prove it to you.–
4 ________
The frenzied screams woke Stanley Turner and he leaped out of bed and rushed to the window. He threw it open and looked down into the courtyard. The woman lying on the cobblestones below wasn't screaming anymore. She was lying on her back and a man was bending over her. In the fog and the dim light from the streetlamp at the entrance to the courtyard. Turner couldn't see much more than their shapes. He shouted, but there was no reaction from the killer. Across the courtyard. several of the neighbors had thrown open their windows as well. but the killer seemed oblivious to his audience.
"Wot is it?" Turner's wife said, sitting up in bed and clutching the covers to herself, frightened by the screams which had awakened them. "Stan. woes 'append?"
"Stay 'ere," Turner said, moving from the window. He rushed out of the small apartment, pausing only long enough to grab a large carving knife. and ran down the stairs. He encountered one of his neighbors in the hall, Joe Tully. a brawny man who worked in the slaughterhouse and picked up beer money as a bareknuckle boxer.
"There's a murder—," Tully started.
"I know, I saw!" said limier. "Quick, let's get the bloody bastard!"
They ran out into the courtyard, along with three other men who came out in various states of undress from the other buildings. Shouting to each other, they ran towards the murderer, still bent over the body in the narrow courtyard of the cul-de-sac. They were almost on him when he suddenly turned to face them. growling like a wild animal. The five men were brought up short, staring with shock at the face all covered with hair, blond dripping from the snarling mouth.
Before any of them could mow, the werewolf leaped and brought down one of the men. A vicious swipe with a clawed hand cut off his scream. The remaining four men were galvanized into action. One of them brought a club down hard upon the creature's back, but it had no effect. Turner leaped in with his knife. He felt a hairy hand grabbing his own with an iron grip and yanking hard and the next thing he knew, Stanley Turner was sailing through the air. He struck the building wall on the opposite side, hitting with his back and shoulders. He heard a crunching sound and he dropped down to the cobblestones, stunned. He heard another scream as the man with the club was lifted high overhead and flung down upon the wrought
iron fence so hard that his body was impaled by the iron spears at the top. They
entered his back and penetrated his chest. The massive Joe Tully was flung aside as if he didn't weigh a thing and then another vicious swipe of the claws blinded the other knife-wielding man. As he screamed, slashing about him blindly with his blade, the werewolf plunged a hand deep into his stomach and ripped out his intestines.
The courtyard became filled with screams as people from the rooms above watched the figures struggling in the fog. Joe Tully came at the creature with his fists up in a boxing stance, the corded muscles in his shoulders standing out, his barrel chest thrown out, his left arm held out in front and his right cocked before his chest. He took a swing with his left list and the creature caught it in its right hand. Tully swung his right and the creature caught it with its left. Holding Tully's clenched fists tightly in its hands, the werewolf began to squeeze. Tully struggled, kicking at the creature, then howled with pain as the bones in his fingers shattered. He was forced down to his knees and then the creature let go of his ruined hands and grabbed his hair, jerking his head back violently, exposing the throat. The claws descended with a whoosh and Tully's throat was slashed so deeply that his head was almost completely severed from his body. Then the creature came towards Turner.
"Turner sat with his back against the wall, holding the knife before him in both hands. His hands were shaking. He couldn't move. His ba
ck was broken. He saw the horrifying apparition approaching. heard the screams from above, felt the creature's fetid breath and then—
"Janos." a deep voice said from somewhere behind the creature.
The werewolf turned.