The third rat was large enough to require Black to use both hands to pick it up. Its thick fur was the color of slate, and Rocambole saw that the rat-catcher was careful to pick it up by the scruff of its neck and its haunches, holding its head firmly and keeping his hands well away from its mouth. The rat chittered but did not attack Black. “This one, I got it off the Surprise after it had to stop at Outer Qwhglm to pick up some shipwrecked sailors. And this bugger,” and he gently stroked the rat’s head, “had climbed onboard and made itself at home in the stores, and the men were too scared to go after it. They let it be until the ship reached London, and then called me in. I just sang to him, then picked him up like this. He’s not so bad as he seems, though. Keep him fed, say him a how-do-ye-do when you pass by his cage, and rub his head just so, and he’ll be like a lap dog for your girl.”
“So big…will he–can he breed with the others? I think Marie-France might want some babies.”
“Can and has, sir. He’s pupped three litters by ordinary whites and agoutis with no trouble. Quite potent, this one.”
“Now, this blighter,” Black said, turning to the last rat Rocambole had chosen, “this one needs some lookink after. He’s not…domesticated. Tamed, I saw to that, but not broken, if you take my meanink. Requires a careful hand.”
The rat was only ten inches long, excluding its tail, but its body was much thicker and more muscular than the other rats’. Its eyes were set more closely together than was usual with rats and its haunches were unusually large. Its fur was a reddish brown that looked the color of blood if the light hit it just right.
“He’s not from around here. Fact is, I’ve never seen his like before. Neither had that Spanish naturalist from the Royal Society who tried to buy him from me. Offered ten sovereigns for his body after he dies, if you can believe it.”
“Where’s he from?”
“East, sir. Far east. Sumatra, they tell me.”
“How did you get him? Did you travel–”
“Bless me, no, sir, I’ve never been east of Margate. No, I ha’ friends abroad who know of my interests and pass on unusual animals now and again. This little bugger I got from those friends. Fan-cy friends.”
The Frenchman, mystified, raised his eyebrows.
“Never you mind, sir. Just a little joke, nothink to think about.”
Rocambole had Black keep the rats for a day and spent the afternoon inspecting properties. For what the Frenchman had in mind, he would need a large space, but one far away from prying eyes and ears. He eventually settled on a warehouse on the south side of the Thames, one of the stretches of riverfront that had still not recovered from the great fires. The landlord, a squat, unwashed man who reeked of gin, was happy to take Rocambole’s money and even happier to be tipped extra to turn a blind eye. Black rented a wagon to fetch the rats, bought cages and food from Black and patiently waited through instructions on feeding and care, and then brought them to the warehouse and began the experiment.
Rocambole paired the rats up, the Albanian with the Sumatran and the Qwhglmian with the Priory. The females were in heat, so after each pair established which rat was dominant, they began mating. After that, matters became routine for the Frenchman. He merely had to make sure they were fed regularly–and the rats would happily eat Rocambole’s leftovers, although they needed more than that to prosper. He handled the rats enough for them to recognize him and understand that he was their master–no small feat, as the Sumatran and the Qwhglmian were reluctant to admit that they were not in charge–and wait for the babies to appear.
When they did, three weeks later, in litters of 12 and 14, Rocambole was finally able to begin the experiment proper. He put a series of cages on the floor of the warehouse, and in each cage he put four rats, two from each litter, mixing the bloodlines so that Albanian/Sumatran mixes would be together with the Qwhglmian/Priory mix. The Frenchman made sure that they had just enough food not to starve, but never enough to grow fat or happy or even content, and he touched the rats often enough to maintain their familiarity with him, but otherwise let them alone. As he expected, in two months’ time, each cage gave birth to another litter. Rocambole kept the litters in the same cramped cages, continuing to handle them, but keeping their food level low.
As expected, the rats grew savage and desperate for food, and learned that it did not profit them to attack him, but that the other rats in the enclosure could be attacked, killed and eaten. When each cage had killed enough of its excess members to establish an equilibrium, Rocambole began feeding them just enough to make them healthy, then let them breed. When they had given birth to more litters, he altered their food supply yet again, and encouraged their viciousness toward one another. The introduction of starving, feral dogs gave the rats a new target on which to vent their savagery, as well as slake their hunger and to associate dogs in their mind with food.
The end result was much to Rocambole’s satisfaction. By Christmas, he had a horde of rats who obeyed him and were willing to be picked up by him, and even placed in a coat pocket, but whose attitude toward anything else, especially dogs, was savage.
As the weeks had passed, Rocambole had been a regular attendee at the rat-baiting, and had carefully watched Black. Fewer and fewer men were willing to gamble with Black when he pitted his terrier against only a dozen rats, so he was forced to put increasing numbers of rats in the pit and wager that the terrier could kill them all within a limited amount of time. He always asked how Marie-France was enjoying her rats, and the Frenchman described the offspring, much to Black’s avid interest.
It was the Friday before New Year’s when Rocambole was finally able to begin the last part of his plan. He had learned early on that the gamblers loved to send the old year off with one great and final exclamation of a rat-baiting, with Golcondas of wealth being gambled, and the most renowned dogs, the Dragons and Vultures and Snarleyyows, being set to race the clock and then top the records.
On such occasions the usual locales would not do for the crowd, being both too small and, as they thought, beneath their dignity as men of fortune. Instead, Black and Shaw rented for one night a large warehouse in Limehouse and opened it to anyone willing to spend money. Such a gathering would usually attract the attentions of informants, if not Peelers, as large crowds of gamblers, pleasurable ladies and floating money had meant riots since the days of Miss Voyant, Abraham the Gentle and the Theater Troubles.
Rocambole had asked one of the regulars about this. He was a portly, pleasantly cynical Irishman named Coyle in whom the Frenchman a kindred spirit, and so kept a close eye on. Coyle said, “You’d think Limehouse would be trouble, and the Dear knows you’d be right usually, but this spot, this louse-crawling, mouse-infested, dank ill-smelling ill-omened moldy pit of the Devil–and no offense to you, sir–is property of the Red Shadows, yellow-faced spawns of Lucifer that they are–and may your line prosper, sir–and they see to it that the Peelers have their eyes diverted by the gleam of silver.”
Rocambole made sure to enter the warehouse later in the evening when the hens would have been plucked by Black and Shaw and only the hardened roosters left to be dealt with. Toward midnight, the higher money matches took place, and while the crowds were fewer, they were more intent on the pit and less on what bystanders, such as Rocambole, might be doing.
The sights and sounds and smells of the rat-baiting were much as usual, greed and desperation and vicariously-satisfied bloodlust so palpable as to be tasted by a mere tongue-lick of the air, but among the satisfied or disappointed cries was a note of tension shading into hysteria which the Frenchman didn’t like at all. It didn’t portend immediate violence, but it had an edge to it which made him keep in mind the nearest exit at all times.
Rocambole waited until the middle of one match, while all eyes were on the dog, a big, filthy-looking mutt, to stroll to the cage in which the rats were kept before they were emptied into the pit. If Black followed his practice, the next match was Billy’s, 24 rats in 90 second
s, or something similar, something to top Billy’s previous record–no one being willing to take bets on his 15-in-a-minute.
Rocambole carefully removed 16 rats from the deep pockets of his overcoat and slipped them into the cage. They immediately tried to escape while the other rats in the cage, not liking the arrivals’ smell, tried to squirm as far away from them as they could. The 16 were Rocambole’s best, combining the size of the Qwhglmian, the viciousness of the Sumatran, the intelligence of the Albanian and the malice of the Priory–and all were hungry but not starving.
That done, he casually positioned himself near to Black and waited for the right moment. When the rat-catcher was done with his offering–24 rats killed in 90 seconds–and the crowd was contemplating whether or not to take his bet, Rocambole said, “A handsome proposition, Mr. Black.”
“Thank you, sir.” It’s no proposition but a certainty was unsaid, but clear on his face.
“But…24 in 90? That’s coming it a bit high, don’t you think?”
Rocambole noted with approval that Black kept his surprise and affront off his face, contenting himself with an amiable smile and a professional, “Not at all, sir. I believe it’s a fair wager. Care to take a flutter?”
“I believe I will. Tell me, what’s the usual? A few shillings?”
“Yes, sir, although some go as high as–”
Loudly, Rocambole said, “What about 30 pounds?”
Silence, then. Thirty pounds was a year’s rent in a good section of London, with enough left over to pay a maid for the year. Thirty pounds was more than most in the warehouse would see in a year.
Black simply stared for a moment. Rocambole was pleased that neither the rat-catcher’s color nor expression changed; the Frenchman appreciated players in the Game who carried it off well. Black just stared, eyed Billy, who was wagging his tail expectantly, then smiled. “Very well, sir, 30 quids it is.”
After Rocambole handed over the money–and it was silver and gold, not the distrusted and still too-easily-forged bank notes–he caught the eye of the fiercest man in range and said, “What about you, sir? Who do you believe more capable, Black’s dog or the rats?”
A gleam of yellowed teeth and a contemptuous grin. “The dog. I’m no strawberry.”
“I’ve got six shillings says the rats.”
“Done.”
Those close saw that Rocambole was intent on proving the crowd wrong and closed in to get what money they could out of the mob, who obviously didn’t know what Billy was capable of. The smarter among them checked out Billy first, but he had been in plain sight the entire night, so there was no chance of Rocambole having drugged or tampered with him.
When all the money was collected, Black was holding over a 150 pounds–much less than Rocambole had earned in the past, but more than enough to live well in London.
Black wasted no time. He marched to the rat cage, reached in and pulled out the first 24 he could grab and then tossed them into the pit with Billy and cried “Go!” As Rocambole had expected, several of the rats he had bred were among those in the pit. Black was sure enough of his own ability not to get bit that he did not look closely at the rats he was grabbing in the cage.
Billy happily leapt at the first rat within reach, expecting the usual–a grab, a head shake, and then tossing them aside and moving on to the next rat, accompanied by the pleased shouts of his master.
Instead, while 17 of the rats fled from him, five, hungry and angry, charged him, going for his belly and throat. He managed to pin one down with his paw and bite a second, but the three others were under him, and as they had done dozens of times before, laid his belly and throat open and began feeding.
Billy’s agonizing howls were the only sound audible in the warehouse. Rocambole, enjoying the visible shock on Black’s face–so satisfying when your opponent knew he had been mastered, and by whom, and could do nothing about it, and had to bear your gaze without responding–chose that moment to say, “I believe that’s 150 pounds, four shillings that you owe me.”
Rocambole got to enjoy Black’s speechless fury for only a moment. Then, behind him, shouts, a door being kicked open, and police whistles. A phalanx of uniformed men entered the room, starting a stampede of fleeing gamblers. Leading the police were Inspector Bucket, a portly middle-aged gentleman, and Sergeant Cuff, a lean, weathered, grizzled older man. The Inspector shouted, “Hunt, Creegan, you take that door. Fitz, Tennison, you take the rear entrance.”
Rocambole had been expecting this ever since he entered the warehouse, since he had tipped them off in advance, and so was ready to move. Quickly and smoothly, the Frenchman drew a pistol from his jacket pocket and smashed it into Black’s temple.
Rocambole then took three long steps and kicked over the cage containing the rats, which fled in every direction, occasionally up the pants leg of a gambler or policeman. The Frenchman drew his other pistol from his trousers pocket and then fired them both at the oncoming police. He had made sure to mix fireworks’ powder into the gunpowder of his bullets, so that his guns made an extraordinarily loud bang and produced a voluminous amount of smoke.
The police were startled by the noise and smoke and were momentarily unsure what they were dealing with, and so stopped, just as Rocambole had planned. He then stepped to the rat-catcher’s prone body, found the bag of coins, pocketed it and ran for the nearest exit, cuffing aside gamblers in his way. The last words he heard from inside the warehouse were, “Take the bite victims to Doc Blake, he’s got experience with this.” The Frenchman grinned. No one had experience with these bites, he had made sure of that.
Rocambole walked several blocks until he found a cab willing to stop for him, and then enjoyed a slow ride to the West End. London was too hot for him now, but that was acceptable. London in December was wretched anyhow. America would hardly be any better, but he’d heard Lola Montez had relocated to some place with the atrocious name of “New Jersey.” They had had good times together in the past; perhaps it was time to renew their acquaintance…
One of the highlights of Tales of the Shadowmen 2 was undoubtedly Kim Newman’s “Angels of Music,” in which the author of the unparalleled Anno Dracula series cleverly combined the myths of The Phantom of the Opera and Charlie’s Angels to create a flamboyant trio of 19th century female crimefighters secretly working for Gaston Leroux’s shadowy Erik. Kim returns to this wonderful concept with an even more impressive sequel, in which a new team of Angels face an even greater threat. Your mission, should you decide to accept it, is to read…
Kim Newman: The Mark of Kane
(Angels of Music II)
Royale-les-Bains, c. 1900
A ticket had been delivered by pneumatique. The “Special Performance” would commence, unusually, at 10:30 a.m.
He entered his box via the trap-door. Plush upholstery matched the velvet curtains, soft and rich in the electric lamplight. A phonograph apparatus stood on a trolley. A program lay on his chair. It was an unfamiliar design–not from the Paris Opéra, but a theater in Chicago.
The half-hour chimed. He cranked the phonograph and raised the needle-arm to the revolving cylinder. After a few seconds’ hiss, an anonymous voice issued from the bell.
“Good morning, Monsieur Erik...”
He opened the program as indicated by a tasseled bookmark. A full-page rotogravure portrait showed a plump, smiling, expensively dressed patron.
“The man you are looking at is Charles Foster Kane, the American millionaire and press magnate. Kane believes his financial and political interests, and those of the United States of America, would be served by a war among the Great Powers of Europe. Presently, he is summering at Royale-les-Eaux, a spa town north of Dieppe where he has substantial holdings, ostensibly to acquire works of art for his private collection. In truth, Kane has convened a gathering of powerful, like-minded or simply malign individuals and plans to found a cartel dedicated to bringing about a catastrophic conflict...”
Kane had small, piggy eyes–a
ridiculous nose, perhaps artificial–fat, complacent cheeks–and an impertinent double-flick of a moustache.
“Your commission, should you be inclined to accept it, is to ensure this offensive organization does not come into being and that Charles Kane is dissuaded from further meddling in the affairs of sovereign nations other than his own. As usual, should you or any of your ‘angelic associates’ be apprehended or eliminated, the Minister will profess never to have heard of such fantastical individuals. Long live France. This cylinder will perish within a matter of moments…”
A bar of magnesium fizzed blindingly inside the works of the phonograph. Box No.5 smelled like a burning wax museum. The cylinder resolved into molten residue.
The “Special Performance” was at an end.
The young widow Lachaille, following the Persian’s instructions, carefully made her way through the labyrinth beneath the Opéra. She avoided the rat-traps, and negotiated several ingenious devices set to inconvenience mammals somewhat larger than the average sewer rat. From respect for poor Gaston, she wore an ensemble from the dressmaker who made such a success of Hanna Glawari’s mourning weeds. She left off the veil because it was dark enough under the streets of Paris. Gilberte did not care to vanish entirely into the shadows–though, it occurred to her, disappearance might be the whole purpose of the invitation from Monsieur Erik.
In the absence of the fortune her late husband’s lawyers were withholding, she must find means of making a way in the world. Her hard-earned respectable name counted for little, though it was scarcely her fault–no matter what the Sûreté might imply–that her bridegroom proved incapable of surviving his own honeymoon. Without consulting her, the foolish soul had elected to fortify himself with a philter to put “lead in his pencil.” He had misjudged the dosage, to everyone’s inconvenience–not least his own. For a reputed man of the world, Gaston turned out to be something of a stiff, in all senses of the term. Aunt Alicia said dead husbands were generally best of the breed, but also conceded that society was liable to be leery of Gilberte for now. In Grandmama’s day, you had to bury at least two husbands in mysterious circumstances before being categorized as a “black widow.” In this impatient, young, electrified century, a single hasty funeral sufficed.
Tales of the Shadowmen 4: Lords of Terror Page 19