The Mechanical Messiah and Other Marvels of the Modern Age

by Robert Rankin

  Colonel Katterfelto folded the money notes into the inner pocket of his dress uniform. Repinned his medals onto his breast, reholstered his ray gun. Saluted the man behind the iron cage. ‘You are a gentleman, sir,’ said he.

  ‘Indeed, indeed,’ said Mr Cohen. ‘Now don’t let me keep you any longer. You get off about your business. And good luck with the gambling system.’

  ‘I’m sure it will pay off,’ said the colonel. And with that left the pawnshop.

  But Colonel Katterfelto did not go immediately to The Spaceman’s Club. Rather did he take himself a little way off from the pawnbroker’s shop, to an alleyway, where he merged into shadows and took once more to the smoking of his pipe.

  He was not far gone with this endeavour when there came to his ears a terrible crying and caterwauling, as of someone in great pain and distress.

  And these dreadful sounds suddenly increased in scale as the door to Mr Cohen’s establishment burst open and the proprietor staggered out into the street, vainly attempting to beat off the violent assault that was being visited upon him. By Darwin the monkey.

  The beleaguered businessman called for help from passers-by. But given the fury of the beastly attack no gentleman of sterling bravery stepped forwards to aid Mr Cohen.

  Darwin bit Mr Cohen’s right ear, then leapt from his shoulders and bounded over the road.

  Mr Cohen clutched at his bleeding ear, sank down onto his bottom, fainted and fell backwards through the doorway of his pawnshop.

  The passers-by went passing by and there was peace once more.

  ‘Nice work,’ said Colonel Katterfelto, patting his accomplice upon his hairy head. ‘And that is a rather nice waistcoat you are sporting. A gift from Mr Cohen?’

  ‘So I might look smart for the packed houses, during the European leg of our world tour.’

  ‘Splendid,’ said the colonel. ‘And now I don’t feel quite so bad about our bit of duplicity.’

  Darwin the monkey stuck out his hand.

  The colonel took and shook it.

  ‘No,’ said Darwin, baring his teeth. ‘My share of the booty, please. Fifty pounds, if you will.’

  12

  nusual, to say the very least.’ These words belonged to Sir Frederick Treves, surgeon general to the London Hospital and private physician to Her Majesty Queen Victoria. He spoke these words to Cameron Bell as they stood in the hospital’s morgue.

  ‘I have seen some queer things in my time,’ Sir Frederick continued. ‘In fact, they do not come much queerer than that chap over there.’ Sir Frederick took up a severed human arm from the dissecting table and pointed with its fingers.

  The object of this pointing turned away. His name was Joseph Carey Merrick, better known to Londoners as the Terrible Elephant Man. ‘Up yours,’ he was made out to mutter.

  The surgeon general winked at Cameron Bell. ‘Joseph and I are not presently seeing eye to eye,’ he said. ‘He wanted me to take him to the Electric Alhambra last night, but I had an appointment at a society event. He is sorely miffed that he missed the spectacle of Mr Harry “Hurty-Finger” Hamilton being reduced to ashes on the stage.’

  ‘It was not an edifying experience,’ said Cameron Bell.

  ‘I suspect it to be on this occasion a Roman plebeian sort of thing,’ the great physician went on. ‘The Roman plebs taking great delight as the Christians were cast to the lions. The joy being that at least someone was worse off than they were.

  ‘It wasn’t that at all,’ mumbled Mr Merrick. ‘I wanted to see the acrobatic kiwis.’

  ‘I will be going to see them myself, tonight,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Perhaps you might care to accompany me.

  ‘Oh yes.’ Joseph Merrick turned, offering the full force of his hideousness to the private detective. ‘You are so very kind, my friend. Would you care for a cup of tea?’

  ‘Indeed I would,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘But please do not put any laudanum in it, as you did last time. I nearly fell under a hansom cab and I could not tie my shoelaces for days.’

  ‘His sense of humour, like laudanum, can be something of an acquired taste,’ Sir Frederick Treves said to Cameron Bell as Joseph Merrick turned and hobbled away.

  ‘But as to the hurty-finger?’ asked the most private of detectives. ‘Might I ask what conclusions you have reached?’

  ‘You might ask, my dear chap, but I have little to offer you in return.’

  ‘My interests lie in chemical residues,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘As of some accelerant, perhaps, that might have set off the combustion.’

  ‘I found no immediate evidence of such. But it is the finger itself that presents us with an enigma.’

  Cameron Bell asked, ‘How so might this be?’

  ‘Well.’ Sir Frederick Treves drummed the fingers of the severed arm onto the dissecting table. ‘You are certain that it is actually a finger?’

  ‘The famous hurty-finger, yes.

  ‘As you are probably aware,’ said Sir Frederick, ‘it was myself who performed the first post-mortem examination of a dead Martian. The first Alien Autopsy, as the papers put it. What I learned of the Martian anatomy I wrote up in a lecture that I presented to the Royal Society. Martian and Mankind have few similarities. The beings upon this planet that are the closest to Martian would be certain sea creatures. The shark, certain cephalopods.’

  Cameron Bell nodded thoughtfully. ‘Where is this leading to?’ he so enquired.

  ‘The finger is not Martian,’ said Sir Frederick Treves.

  Cameron Bell made laughter. ‘I never thought that it was.

  ‘But neither is it human,’ said Sir Frederick.

  ‘Ah now then,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Ah now well indeed.’

  ‘Examining the cell structure of this “finger”, it would appear to exhibit more in common with the vegetable kingdom than the animal. It is almost like a branch, or sapling. The nail resembles a fingernail, but beneath the microscope appears more to be bud-like. This is not some prank that Merrick has put you up to, by any chance?’

  ‘I swear to you, no,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘And please don’t do that with the severed arm.’

  ‘My apologies,’ said the surgeon. ‘I have been working late and have not seen my wife for several days.’

  ‘Might I ask you a question, then?’

  ‘Regarding my wife?’

  ‘Regarding the finger. Do you suppose it could possibly be that of a Venusian?’

  ‘Interesting question.’ Sir Frederick laid the severed arm aside. ‘I would love to examine the carcass of one of those strange fellows. Certain parts of their anatomy would be of surpassing interest.’

  ‘But do you believe it possible?’

  ‘I, like yourself, am a man who deals in facts. I rarely speculate. I test each hypothesis through intense study and strenuous experimentation. Present me with a dead Venusian and I will present my findings. But let me say this to you. I have seen Harry Hamilton perform upon the stage. To all intents and purposes he certainly looked human. We know of four distinct species in our Solar System: our own, the Martian, the Jovian and the Venusian. I have examined specimens of the first three and we can rule them out. If the finger is not of a Venusian, then I am at a loss to suggest just what it might be. But do not quote me on this.’

  ‘Quite so.

  ‘And I might ask that you leave the finger with me for the present — I would like to conduct further tests. I have it preserved in formaldehyde; it will be safe for now.

  ‘As you wish,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘I have no other lines of investigation to follow. Mr Hamilton becomes more mysterious by the moment. This will prove to be a challenging case.

  Mr Merrick returned with a nice cup of tea held in his good hand. Cameron Bell noted that he had something of a smirk upon the mouth parts of his face.

  ‘Your tea,’ said the Elephant Man.

  ‘I regret that I am in something of a hurry,’ said Cameron Bell, ‘but I will return in a cab at seven—thirty and take you to the Music Hall
.’

  Joseph Merrick bowed his bulbous head. Then placed the cup of steaming tea in the hand of Sir Frederick Treves.

  The surgeon general gave the tea a sniff.

  ‘Cascara,’ he said. ‘A powerful laxative. Why do you do these things, Joseph? The nice gentleman is taking you to the Music Hall.’

  Having mildly admonished the Elephant Man, and thanked Sir Frederick Treves for his assistance, the nice gentleman left the London Hospital and hailed a hansom cab.

  ‘Carlton Road,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Number ninety-five. ‘The cabbie climbed down from his perch, aided Mr Bell into the cab proper, closed the waist-high door upon him and returned to his perch. ‘How would you like it, guv’nor?’ he called down to his fare through the little hatch just above Cameron’s head.

  ‘How would I like what, exactly?’ replied Mr Bell.

  ‘The journey, guv’nor. Would you care for it all nice and sedate? Or should I whip the ‘orse into a frenzy and go orf like a batsman out of ‘ell?’

  ‘The former,’ replied Cameron Bell. ‘It is but a five— minute journey at best.’

  ‘I can make it more like ‘alf an ‘our.’

  ‘I’ll only pay a shilling either way.

  ‘Right, as you like then, guy’ nor.’ The cabbie stirred his horse into a gentle trot, then sought to engage his fare in conversation.

  ‘Lovely weather we’re ‘aving,’ he said.

  ‘Delightful,’ said Cameron Bell. His mind upon other matters.

  ‘We had a mild winter.’

  Cameron Bell just nodded his head.

  ‘But things’ll liven up when we’ve summer all year round.’

  ‘I suppose they will,’ mused Cameron Bell. Then, ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  The cabbie called down to him from on high. ‘The End of the World,’ quoth he.

  Cameron Bell said, ‘Perhaps, on second thoughts, you might drive just a bit faster.’

  ‘Don’t want to spoil our conversation,’ called the cabbie. “S’not often I get into a the—o-ma—logical discussion.’

  Cameron Bell said nothing.

  ‘It’s technology to blame,’ called the cabbie, ‘techno-flipping-nonology. All this elec-ti-ma-tricity buzzing about in the hatmosphere.’

  ‘Right,’ said Cameron Bell.

  ‘You know what they ‘ave now?’ asked the cabbie, but he did not wait for a reply. ‘A flyin’ platform, so they ‘ave. More of that Johnny Yugoslavian Tesla’s fiddling with the elements. They say it’s the size of Piccadilly Circus and can ‘ave upwards of an ‘undred toffs parading about on top of it as it sails through the sky like a flipping artichoke.’

  ‘Artichoke?’ asked Cameron Bell.

  ‘Airship,’ said the cabbie. ‘Don’t mind my pro-nunce-ific-cation. I’ve been up ‘alf the night drinkin’ gin. I can ‘ardly speak, let alone steer this flipping ‘andcuff.’

  ‘Hansom,’ said Cameron Bell.

  ‘Well, I do take care of meself,’ said the cabbie.

  There was a brief pause there, possibly for applause, before the cabbie continued, ‘Them’s messing with the natural laws,’ he continued. ‘Wireless trans-mis-if-ic-cation of electrickery through the sky. If man was meant to be fluttering around in the ‘eavens, the Good Lord would ‘ave given im wings on his back like the flipping angel that Zeus sent to care for Castor and Polly Parrot.’

  ‘Pollux,’ said Cameron. ‘Pollux.’

  ‘Language, please, guv’nor, this is a public thoroughfare.’

  ‘I think I’ll get out and walk from here,’ said Cameron Bell.

  And so he walked the rest of the way. Stopping only at a headwear emporium to purchase a straw boater. Having left his top hat at Lord Andrew Ditchfield’s and his bowler at Aleister Crowley’s. He had left them there for reasons of his own, but a gentlemen should never go hatless.

  Carlton Road wore fine and pink-bricked houses to its either side. They were capped by London slate, with chimneys tall that offered smoke no matter whatever the weather.

  Cameron Bell stopped before number ninety-five. A movement at a window caught his eye. A slim hand withdrew from sight a sign that read

  ‘The room of the late Harry Hamilton,’ said Cameron Bell, to no one but himself ‘Having gleaned his address from Lord Andrew Ditchfield last night, I sent a telegram first thing this morning to the proprietress of this establishment, to inform her that a gentleman in an official capacity would be arriving today to remove the late Mr Hamilton’s goods and chattels. And I am now here to present myself as this very gentleman.’

  Having concluded this discourse to an imaginary audience, Mr Cameron Bell stepped up to the front door and tap-tap-tapped with the knocker.

  Shortly thereafter the slim and delicate form of Lucy Gladfield opened up the door.

  ‘No hawkers and no circulars, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Neither hawker nor distributor of circulars, I, fair lady,’ said the gallant Mr Bell. ‘I sent a telegram earlier regarding the worldly goods of Mr Harry Hamilton.’

  Lucy Gladfield made a puzzled face. Cameron Bell found fascination in her curious hairdo.

  ‘Did you receive the telegram?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh yes I did.’ The helter-skelter bobbed about, and the lady looked more puzzled.

  ‘Well, I have come to pick up the goods,’ said Cameron Bell.

  ‘But you already have.’

  ‘Please pardon me, fair lady, but I do not understand the meaning of your words.’

  ‘Well, not you. But your representative. A tall, very striking gentleman. He said he was authorised to collect the effects of the late Mr Harry Hamilton.’

  Cameron Bell now made a puzzled face.

  ‘Why, there.’ The lady pointed with a pale slim hand. ‘Getting into the four-wheeled brougham over there. Mr Hamilton’s portmanteau is strapped upon the top, as you see.

  ‘I do,’ said Cameron Bell. And he stared aghast as he watched the tall and indeed striking individual enter the brougham and rap his malacca cane against the roof to hasten up the driver. And call out, ‘As fast as you can,’ in a curious high-pitched voice.

  ‘Hold hard there!’ cried Cameron Bell, making his way through passing passers-by. The driver of the brougham cracked his whip above the horses, which reared and took off as fast as might be.

  ‘Damn!’ cried Mr Bell. Then viewing an approaching hansom hailed it down.

  Without further ado he climbed swiftly aboard and called up to the cabbie. ‘Follow that brougham!’ he cried.

  The cabbie grinned down at him through the little hatchway.

  ‘Well, ain’t it a small world,’ he said. ‘Do you want as I should follow on all nice and sedate? Or should I whip the ‘orse into a frenzy and go off like a batsman out of ‘ell?’

  13

  s requested, the cabbie took off like a batsman out of ‘ell.

  The brougham took a sudden left and knocked a passing cleric from his penny-farthing bicycle.

  ‘Damnable icon-o-mo-clast!’ cried the cabbie, stirring up his horse to even greater frenzy. Not that they were making any particular headway, or indeed speed, as the streets were plentifully crowded with hansoms and horse buses, pedestrian passers-by, new electric ‘wheelers’, bawling newsboys, beggars and those picking up the Pure.

  But as that was the way in which such chases were conducted, Cameron Bell leaned back in his seat and reached for his silver cigar case.

  ‘No smoking in the cab, sir,’ the cabbie called down to him.

  ‘What the dickens?’ cried Cameron Bell, rightfully appalled.

  ‘Only joking,’ returned the cabbie. ‘Just imagine that if you will, though. A gentleman not being allowed to smoke in a cab. A sad and sorry world that would be, to be sure.’

  ‘Were such an unlikely event ever to occur,’ said Cameron Bell, ‘I would expect all right-thinking Englishmen to load their pistols, march to the terrace and take the gentleman’s way out.’

  The cabbie made laughter. ‘Hel
lo,’ he called. ‘The brougham’s turning into the Strand. We’ll be able to catch him up by going down the bus lane.’

  ‘Bus lane?’ queried Cameron Bell. Leaning forwards to stare.

  ‘‘Orse bus lane, guv’nor. A new in-o-va-cation to ease London’s traffic. The next thing you know they’ll be charging folk to drive into the capital.’

  ‘Enough of this biting satire,’ called Cameron Bell. ‘Take to the bus lane or whatever, but do catch up with the brougham.’

  The private detective returned his cigar to its case and replaced this in his pocket. From another pocket he removed his handgun, checked it for ammunition and cradled it in his lap.

  ‘Blimey,’ called the cabbie, glancing down. ‘I ‘opes you’re not meaning to fire that thing in my cab.’

  ‘I have a special licence to use it,’ called Cameron Bell. ‘And,’ he added, ‘I believe the gentleman in the brougham to be a murderer.’

  ‘Even so,’ said the cabbie, who had his reservations.

  ‘And French,’ said Cameron Bell. Knowing full well how all right-thinking Englishmen harboured especial distaste for the unwholesome Johnny Frenchman.

  ‘Then fair enough!’ The cabbie now steered his hansom into the bus lane and cracked his whip at the horse. Cameron was thrown back in his seat as the cab gathered speed.

  The brougham swerved out from the crowded public lane and into that reserved for horse buses, hansoms and the like.

  ‘Must be a damned Frenchie!’ cried the cabbie. ‘No lawa-ma-biding son of this Sceptical Isle would behave like that!’

  ‘There’s a sovereign in it, should you bring him to a halt,’ bawled Cameron Bell. Clutching his pistol in one hand and holding on tight with the other.

  ‘‘E does ‘ave two ‘orses to my one,’ the cabbie replied. ‘But we’ll catch ‘im, don’t you fret.’ He cracked his whip above the horse’s head. ‘Giddy up, Shergar!’[6] he shouted.

  The chase was on, the horse’s hooves thundered, the hansom rattled fearfully and Cameron Bell held on tight. All was relatively safe and secure along the Strand and down into Pall Mall. Sporting toffs, who shopped in this fashionable area, raised their top hats and cheered as brougham and hansom rushed by. ‘Jolly good fun,’ they remarked.