by Simon Hawke
Turner heard the shrill blasts of a police whistle somewhere close by, in the fog.
"Come. Janus. Enough."
The werewolf turned hack to Turner, snarling, eager to finish him off.
"I said enough, Janos! Come!"
Turner was amazed to hear the creature whimper like a dog.
"Come, Janos!"
It shambled off away from him and through the mist. Turner could barely make out the figure of a very large man dressed in a long dark cloak, a high silk hat, and carrying a walking stick. he turned and walked away quickly through the fog, with the creature hunched over, shambling along behind him. Stanley Turner was still holding the knife out in from of him with trembling hands when the police arrived.
"Lord, what a bloody awful mess." said Grayson, looking around the courtyard.
"Bloody's the word, all right." said Constable Wilkes. shaking his head. "I've never seen anything like this in all my life.”
It was still late and the fog was thick, but with the aid of their lanterns, they could see the bodies scattered all around the small courtyard. Blood was everywhere. They could hear the wailing of the women upstairs in their rooms, where members of the Metropolitan police force were trying to take statements from them. Grayson had instructed his men to keep the courtyard clear, not to allow anyone to come down until all the bodies had been removed and to keep everyone away from their windows. He also had a couple of men block off the entrance to the cul-de-sac. Wilkes had been the first to arrive on the scene, within moments after it had happened, and his whistle had summoned several other men on patrol, whom he had immediately directed to keep the neighbors inside.
"You've done well here, Wilkes.” said Grayson, nodding. "You've got the situation well under control. The last thing we needed was to have everyone tramping around down here, acting hysterical."
"Thank you. sir." said Wilkes. "But just the same, I'm glad you're here, sir. I was about at my wit's end. Near as I could make out, one man did all of this. One man! Makes Jack the Ripper look like a bleeding amateur."
"That's enough of that!" said Grayson. "I want no talk about the Ripper, understood? That happened years ago. It's over. Over and done with."
"Right, said Wilkes, indicating the bodies. "Tell them." "Get a hold of yourself, man." said Grayson. "Snap to. There's work to be done.”
"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir."
"Right. Now where's the bloke who survived?"
"Right over there, sir," Wilkes said, pointing. "Wouldn't let us move him, thinks his back is broken. He's in shock, I think. Keeps saying that a—"
"Who's that with him?" Grayson said suddenly.
A man was crouching down on one knee beside Turner, talking to him.
"Here, you!" shouted Wilkes, rushing forward. He grabbed the man and yanked him to his feet, spinning him around."Who are you?" he said. "How'd you get in here?"
"Dick Larson, The Police Gazette.”
"Oh, bloody hell!" said Grayson. "Who let him through?I'll have his guts for garters! That's all we need, reporters!”
"Come on, you, out!" said Wilkes, grabbing Larson by his coat.
"Just a moment," Grayson said. "How did you get here so fast?"
"I've been investigating the other killing, Inspector." Larson said, "asking questions of people in the pubs hereabouts. I heard all the commotion and I ran to see what was going on."
"Well, we don't need any reporters getting in our way.•• said Grayson. "Those damn stories you people have been writing are going to have the entire city in hysterics. I've got a responsibility—"
"In that case, I suggest you listen to me, Inspector," Larson said. "That is, unless you want it to get about that there's somesort of werewolf on the loose."
Grayson grabbed him by the shirtfront. "What did you say?"
"Steady, Inspector," Larson said, gently prying his fingers loose. "I don't want to frighten people needlessly any more than you do. This man's still in shock, but he's starting to come out of it. I managed to get a few words out of him about what happened here tonight. I don't think I'll print what he told me he saw. In fact, I've been trying to convince him that he saw something else, not only for the public good, but for his own good, as well. The poor sod's been through enough without being thrown into a madhouse."
"I think you and I had better have a little talk, Mr. Larson,” Grayson said. "Stick around until I get this mess cleaned up. Wilkes, make sure he doesn't go off
anywhere."
"Right, sir," said Wilkes. Grayson went to supervise the removal of the bodies and interview sonic of the neighbors. "You had to go and blunder in here, didn't you?" Wilkes said to Larson. "And here I'd just been complimented on how well I had things under control."
Larson held out a cigarette case to Wilkes. "Cigarette?" he said.
Wilkes looked around. "Thanks," he said, taking one.
"You're welcome, Constable—?"
"Wilkes. Brian Wilkes."
"Take it easy. Brian." Larson said. "I'm not going to cause you any trouble. Believe me something like this is bigger than just getting a good story. The maniac who did this must be stopped and it won't help you stopping him if we all start writing lurid stories about ghastly creatures lurking in the shadows of Whitechapel. Any idiot can write that sort of nonsense. I'd much rather write a story about how the police brought a deranged killer to justice than print stories criticizing you chaps and making your job that much more difficult “
Wilkes raised his eyebrows. "You having me on, mate?"
"Not in the least,” said Larson, puffing on his cigarette. "Look at it this way, Brian, I could hand you all sorts of rubbish about social responsibility and the like, and it wouldn't be entirely rubbish, mind you, but the simple fact of the matter is that I intend to make something of a name for myself as a police reporter, covering crime in the city, and I've a few ideas as to how to go about that."
"You don't say," said Wilkes. "How's that?"
"Well, there are places a reporter can go where a policeman would be too highly visible and there are people who would speak to a reporter, but would never be seen talking to police. A clever man could develop his own sources of information, information that the police might not otherwise have access to. Such a situation could benefit both that reporter and the police, if they were to work together."
"Yes, I suppose I can see that," said Wilkes. "What you're proposing is a sort of cooperation. Each scratching the other's back a bit, as it were. You let us in on a tidbit now and then and don't write anything we wouldn't like you to and in
exchange, we let you in on things other reporters wouldn't have, is that it?"
"I see you grasp the concept," Larson said, smiling. "And if it would help your situation, Icould sort of mislead other reporters and then I'd have all the proper details when the whole thing was wrapped up. I'd have the best story then, you see."
Wilkes grinned. "I shouldn't think that would make you very popular with your fellow members of the press."
"I'm not out to win any popularity contests, Brian. We're all competitors, after all. Except for myself and Tom Davis of The Daily Telegraph. We've made sort of an arrangement to get the lion's share for ourselves, a silent partnership, as it were. I'm going to speak to Grayson about it. What sort of chap is he. by the way?"
"Chief Inspector Grayson? Blade straight and steel true that one. I wouldn't try putting anything over on him if I were you. I'd present it to him straight up, like you've just done with me. If you deal straight with him, he'll deal straight with you, but Lord Help you if you cross him. He's like a ratting terrier. Once he's got his teeth into you, he never lets go until you're done."
"I'll keep that in mind," said Larson.
"You do that, mate," said Wilkes. He clapped him on the shoulder. "Thanks for the smoke."
"Don't mention it," said Larson. He smiled. It was a good beginning. Now to see if he could win Inspector William Grayson's trust.
• • •
"They did wha
t?'' said Steiger.
They clocked out." said Linda Craven. "Right there in the teashop. One minute they were sitting at the table, drinking tea and then the next, they simply disappeared. There were several couples in the shop, but nobody noticed than clock out except me. I came in after them, as if I was waiting to meet someone and I was pretending to read a magazine, but I was watching them out of the corner of my eye. I saw the man Wells was with look around quickly, to see if anyone was watching, and then suddenly they were gone. I'm sorry, sir, the man didn't match Drakov's description and it just never occurred to me that he might have a warp disc."
"Christ," said Steiger. "What did this man look like? Describe him, carefully."
Craven bit her lower lip. "A small man, about live foot five or six, thin, grey hair and beard, very animated. Maybe late forties to mid-fifties, hard to tell his age exactly. His face was thin. sharp-featured. sort of delicate—"
"Moreau!" said Steiger.
Her eyes grew wide. "The head of S.O.G.'s Project Infiltrator?" she said.
"That's the one," said Steiger. "The description matches." "Oh, God," she said. "I should have put it together, but I just didn't think —"
"Never mind," said Steiger. "Nothing we can do about it now. Get back to Wells' house. If he shows up again, contact me immediately."
"Yes, sir."
"And Craven'? One more thing If you spot Moreau again even if it's in broad daylight with a dozen witnesses around waste him. Understand?"
She swallowed hard. "Yes, sir."
Wells stood motionless in the small apartment above the apothecary shop, his face pale, his breath caught in his throat. A moment ago, he had been sitting in a teashop in Fleet Street and now, suddenly inexplicably, he was . . . somewhere else. He blinked several times, looking around. Moreau stood before him, watching him anxiously.
"Where are we?" Wells said.
"In my rented room in Limehouse," said Moreau.
Wells shook his head "Limehouse? No, that isn't possible." "Look for yourself." said Moreau, moving to the window and opening the drapes.
Wells looked out the window. He could see soot-begrimed buildings, factories and warehouses and the river just beyond them. "Limehouse," he said
softly. "This cannot be. I must be dreaming."
"I assure you, Mr. Wells." Moreau said, "You are not dreaming. If further proof is required, I can supply it."
"No, no, wait," said Wells. "I must take this in. This is incredible. I have to think."
"May I offer you a drink?" Moreau said.
“Yes, I think I'd better have a drink," said Wells. "A strong one, if you please."
Moreau poured him a whiskey and added just a dash of soda from the gasogene on the sideboard. Wells tossed it down.
"How is this possible?" said Wells. "How did we get here?"
"This bracelet you were so curious about." Moreau said, pulling up his sleeve and showing it to him, "It is called a warp disc. Simply put, it is a sort of time machine.”
"A time machine!" said Wells.
"It is capable of broadcasting a sort of field," said Moreau, "by tapping into—well, it would be far too complicated to explain to a man of your time. However, as you can sec, it does work."
"I think I had better sit down," said Wells. He slowly eased himself into an armchair and let out a long breath. "Dear God," he said. "Are you telling me that we have actually traveled through time?"
"Only in a manner of speaking." said Moreau. "No more than a moment or two have passed since we left the teashop. However, I could just as easily have programmed—that is, instructed the disc to take us back several centuries if I had wished to. Or ahead. The method of travel is called temporal transition. A sort of teleportation, if you will. We can go from one place to another within the same time period, or from one time period to another with equal ease."
Wells shook his head. "And all this is accomplished by a device so small that it can be contained within that bracelet? Amazing! It is beyond belief!"
"And yet you have experienced it, Mr. Wells," Moreau said.
"How can you not believe it?"
"Indeed," said Wells, "unless you have somehow mesmerized me and brought me here without my knowing it . . ."
"Would a more conclusive demonstration satisfy you?" said Moreau.
"I . . . I do not know," said Wells. "That is, I—" Suddenly. Moreau was gone.
He had simply vanished, right before his eyes. Wells blinked, then shook his head, then slowly took a deep breath and let it out.
"Steady on, Bertie," he told himself. "You're not going mad. You're only dreaming. This cannot possibly be happening. There is a rational explanation for all this, there has to be—"
Moreau suddenly reappeared before him and Wells jumped about a foot. Moreau was sweating heavily and his shirt clung to him, as if he had been in intense heat for some time. He was holding his coat in his hands. Something was wrapped inside it. And it was moving.
"I have brought you something." said Moreau. "A present.”
He placed his coat in Wells' lap. There was something wriggling around inside it. Wells sat perfectly still, afraid to move.
"What is it?" he said. "Not a snake? Moreau, you wouldn't—'•
"Open it and see."
Wells slowly untied the coat sleeves and unwrapped what was inside the coat. He stared, bug-eyed, at the small, ungainly, reptilian-looking creature cradled inside Moreau's coat on his lap. it was a baby dinosaur.
"You have studied the biological sciences. Mr. Wells," said Moreau. "Perhaps you will recognize the creature as a baby sauropod. A Camarasaurus of the Upper Jurassic, to be exact. Have no fear, it cannot harm you. It is an herbivore. Its teeth and claws cannot injure you. I regret to say that you will not be able to watch it grow to its full size of 19.8 meters in length, with a weight that could reach as high as twenty-five tons. It will not live very long in this climate. It is far too cold for its constitution.''
Wells stared with disbelief at the shivering little great lizard in his lap. He touched it hesitantly. It looked somehow pathetic. "Take it back." he said. "Please."
"As you wish," Moreau said. He picked up the coat, wrapped it around the little dinosaur, and disappeared again, to reappear a moment later, even wetter with perspiration than before. "Convinced?" he said.
Wells leaned forward and put his head in his hands. "I think I would like another whiskey, please," he said.
Moreau poured him another glass and then changed into a fresh shin. Wells held the drink in a trembling hand. He sipped it slowly this time, trying to calm himself.
"So it's true, then." he said finally. "My God, One can travel through time!"
"Indeed, one can," Moreau said. "I have come from hundreds of years in the future. Mr. Wells. A future you shall write about one day."
"So that is what it was all about then," Wells said. "Those other three who came to see me—"
"What other three?" Moreau said sharply.
"The ones who told me about Nikolai Drakov," Wells said. "They said something about my story, 'The Chronic Argonauts' . . . they wanted to know if I had met him, if I had discussed the subject of future scientific developments such as biological experimentation—"
"What were their names?" said Moreau.
Wells sighed. "I have never been very good with names," he said. "It is surprising that I recalled this Professor Drakov's name. They were Americans. One of the three was a young woman. blond, quite fit and very striking looking, and the other two were men—"
"Was the woman's name Andre Cross, by any chance?" Moreau said.
"Yes, I do believe that was her name," said Wells.
"And the two men with her, Steiger and Delaney? One blond, hook-nosed, one with dark red hair, large, very muscular?"
"Yes, they are the ones!" said Wells. "They said they were scholars of some sort. Are they friends of yours?"
"Hardly friends," Moreau said. "They would not hesitate to kill me the moment they set
eyes on me, in spite of which, I am enormously relieved to know that they are here."