The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  I was late on my beat that night, though, on account of being dragooned into standing up with the Connaughts at the Army’s football challenge match at Aldershot in the afternoon17 – two sets of hooligans hacking each other in the mud – and it was near eight before I got on post in my rags, huddled in a doorway nipping at my pint flask of spirits with a quaking heart. But just on nine Moran came out, in opera hat and lined cloak, swinging his long cane jauntily. He strolled by within a yard of me; for a moment the gaslight fell on that fierce hawk profile and sprouting moustache, and I felt my innards turn to jelly, and then he was past. One odd thing I noticed; under one arm he carried a flat case. But I was too taken up with considering the loose, fit stride of the man, and the graceful way he carried himself – he looked as dangerous as they come – to worry about trifles.

  I thought he might be for the clubs again, but to my surprise he turned up Oxford Street, sauntering calmly along, and then made north. I couldn’t figure why he hadn’t taken a cab; as it was, I had to move sharper than I cared to keep him in view, and when we got off Oxford Street, and people were scarcer, I had to hang back for fear of being spotted, hurrying to catch up whenever he rounded a corner. This was new territory to me, but I remember we had crossed Wigmore Street, and then I stopped with my heart racing, as he paused beside the entrance to a darkened arch and looked back; he glanced up and down the street – there was hardly a soul about – and then he turned under the arch and disappeared.

  Meanwhile I was having minor fits. I couldn’t begin to guess what he was up to, but I knew it was now or never. I couldn’t hope for a better chance than this, in a network of streets which were as near to being deserted as central London ever is, with my quarry moving down a dark alley. I hurried forward as fast as I could, reached the archway with my lungs bursting, peered cautiously round the corner, and was in time to see him entering a doorway under a single guttering gas-flare at the other end. I waited a few seconds, and then stole forward, the butt of the Galand greasy with sweat in my hand.

  I reached the doorway on tiptoe and paused. It was open. I strained my ears, and heard his feet creaking on stairs – up, up, up, turn, and up again. I didn’t hesitate – I couldn’t; if I waited, there was no certainty he’d come out again this way, and if I was to follow him I must do it while his own footsteps would drown out the sound of mine. I took one last pull at my flask for luck, and went through the door; the light filtering in showed me the foot of the stairs, and then I was sneaking up, into the stuffy darkness, gun out, keeping close to the rickety banisters.

  It’s a strange thing, but however funky you may be – and I’ll take on all comers in that line – once you’re moving there’s a kind of controlled panic that guides your feet; I went up those stairs like an elderly ghost, holding my breath until I nearly burst, and crouched on the first landing. I heard his feet across the top landing, and then recede as though he’d gone into a room – then silence.

  That was the worst part. Up there, on the top floor, was not only as dangerous a man as I’d ever met, but a top-hole shikari, a night-bird, a trained and skilful hunter who could catch the sound of grass growing. I felt the bile come up in my throat with fear – but I was armed, wasn’t I, and he probably wasn’t, and I’d been a pretty useful night-skulker in my time, too. I’d make no more noise going up than down – and I thought of Selina, and went on up, slow step after slow step, until my head was on a level with the top landing. I peeped over the top step – and that was as far as Flashy was going, no error.

  Directly ahead of me was what seemed to be a closet, with the door ajar, and to its left was an open door. Through this I could see clear across a room to the window on the far side, and there, with the street-light beating in on his crouching figure, was Tiger Jack. He was down on one knee, peering through the glass, and keeping himself to the side, under cover. He had put off his hat, and his bald dome shone like a beacon.

  It was only now, with a queer shock of surprise, that I found myself wondering what the devil he was about – creeping into an empty house in the middle of the night and staring out of windows. By God, it was fishy, and then as I watched I saw him fumble with the case he’d been carrying, pick up his cane, and unscrew its top. There was a scraping sound, and then a soft snap; he reached out and eased up the sash of the window, and gently pushed something out through the gap – and my bowels did a cartwheel as I saw that what his cane had become was the barrel of a rifle!

  Petrified, I could only watch – and then I saw that he was surveying a window on the other side of the street; a lighted window, with a man’s silhouette clear on the blind. Moran gazed at it steadily – he was watching for movement, of course, and then he brought his made-up rifle up to his shoulder, with his right arm stretched out to the side as he flexed the fingers of his trigger-hand.

  Suddenly I realised that this was the moment – the moment that would never occur again. I didn’t know what the hell he was up to, or who his mysterious victim might be – any devilment was nuts to Moran, and it didn’t matter a dam. What did, was that he was within twenty feet of me, with his back turned, and every nerve concentrated on his deadly task. Your bird, old Flash, thinks I, and I brought up the Galand, cocked it with the trigger back to make no sound, rested my gun-wrist on the top step, and drew a dead bead on the back of that great bald head.

  It isn’t often that I’ve had cause to bless my trembling nerves – or my unsteady boozer’s hand. But by God they saved my neck then. For even as Moran brought his right hand to the stock of his rifle, and settled into his aim, my faltering trigger-finger got a fit of the shakes; my aim wavered, and I paused, sweating – and in that moment I learned that, old as I was, I was a better shikari than Moran would ever be. For in that second’s pause I realised something that he hadn’t noticed; I can’t explain it – call it sixth sense, or a coward’s instinct shaped and refined over a lifetime – but in that second I realised that we were not alone. There was someone else in the room with him – to the left, in the space hidden from me, watching him, and waiting.

  I lay still as death, my hair rising on my scalp – and then as Moran hung on his aim there was a plop like a cork exploding from a champagne bottle and a distant crash of glass. I nearly had a seizure as a hidden voice bawled: “Now!” and as Moran swung from the window there was a scramble of feet and two dark shapes hurled themselves on him, fists swinging like billy-ho, and the three of them went down in a swearing, yelling tangle. There was a cry from the street, and a piercing whistle from the room where Moran was locked in combat with those two fine chaps, and then more whistles shrilled from below, there was the crash of a door being hurled back, feet racing on the stairs – and General Sir Harry Flashman, V.C., K.B., K.C.I.E., was into that closet like an electrified stoat, hauling the door to behind him and silently gulping another precious mouthful from his flask to prevent apoplexy.

  It sounded like the Household Brigade coming up the stairs, pounding past my hiding-place into the room where the others were still wrestling and cursing away; that’s it, Tiger, thinks I, kick the bastards’ shins and good luck to you. Then the sounds faded, and I heard a murmur of voices, too indistinct to be made out. I didn’t mind, crouched in my cupboard with my heart clattering against my ribs, but then curiosity got the better of me as usual, and I pushed my door open a crack to listen. A high-pitched, nasal voice was talking, and sounding well pleased with itself:

  “… who else did you suppose it was, inspector? Well, well – permit me to introduce Colonel John Sebastian Moran, formerly of the Indian Army, and the deadliest game shot in either hemisphere. Tiger Jack, as I believe he was once known – but now himself bagged at last.”

  Then Moran broke in, and he was cursing like a steamboat pilot with his toes in the mangle, until an official voice told him to hold his tongue, and after some more confused cussing and conversation which I didn’t catch, the high-pitched chap was heard again:

  “I believe a comparison of the bullet
fired tonight, with that which was found in the body of Ronald Adair, who was murdered last month, will prove instructive, inspector. It will be for you to decide, but it seems to me that a charge of murder must certainly lie …”

  I went giddy at the words, and the rest of them were lost in the gurgling of my flask as I clapped it to my lips. Murder! I could have danced and sung in my closet! They’d got the old swine – I didn’t understand it, of course, or why he should have murdered the chap Adair whose death had been all through the papers, but what did it matter? Tiger Jack was for the Newgate polka, by the sound of it – and Selly was saved, for even if he tried to blacken young Stanger now, out of spite, who’d mind the yelping of a convicted felon? And I was out from under, too – I broke into a cold sweat at the thought of how close I’d been to squeezing my trigger; it could have been me that they were hauling downstairs now with the darbies on, full steam for the condemned cell.18

  I almost cried from relief in that stuffy closet as I heard them clattering down and out to the Black Maria; the street door slammed, I listened, but there wasn’t a sound. Very cautiously I peeped out; all was still as sleep, so I tiptoed carefully down to the first landing, and leaned on the banisters to still my racing heart and get my breath back. Selly was safe, Moran was scuppered, and –

  The creak of a door overhead gave me such a start I nearly pitched headlong into the stairwell – dear God, there was someone still up there!

  “But of course, my dear fellow, you shall hear all about it – come along.” It was the high-pitched voice again, and at the sound of it I was scuttling frantically down the last flight, into the lane, and wheezing at high speed towards the arch when I came to a shuddering stop – plumb ahead, in the archway, was the unmistakeable silhouette of a police constable, feet planted, guarding my only escape. If I’d had the wind left I’d have squealed aloud – then I saw his back was to me, unsuspecting. But behind me, in the empty house, voices were descending the stairs; in two seconds they’d be in view, and I was trapped, helpless, in the alleyway between them and the Law!

  I suppose, if I’d had time for reflection, I could have told myself that I was doing no wrong, had committed no offence, and could have faced anyone with a clean conscience. Aye, but there was the pistol in my pocket, and the likelihood that those interfering bobbies would have wanted to know who I was, and what business I had there – God, what a to-do there would be if it was discovered that the celebrated Sir Harry Flashman was creeping about disguised as a scarecrow, with a shooting iron in his pocket, at the scene of an attempted murder! How could I hope to explain – avoid scandal … oh, anyway, when you go about feeling as permanently guilty as I do, you don’t waste time over niceties. At all costs I must avoid detection; there was only one thing for it – I was dressed like a soup-kitchen derelict, and in a twinkling I had poured the rest of my flask down my coat-front, sprawled down against a convenient grating, and was lying there wheezing like an intoxicated grampus, trying to look like a stupefied down-and-out who has crept in to doss for the night, when the footsteps turned out of the house and came towards me.

  If they’ve any sense they’ll just pass by, thinks I – well, don’t you, when you see some ragged bummaree sleeping it off in the gutter? But no, curse their nosiness, they didn’t. The footsteps stopped beside me, and I chanced a quick look at ’em through half-closed lids – a tall, slim cove in a long coat, bare-headed and balding, and a big, hulking chap with a bulldog moustache and hard hat. They looked like a poet and a bailiff.

  “What’s this?” says the bailiff, stooping over me.

  “A tramp,” says the poet. “One of the flotsam, escaping his misery in a few hours of drunken slumber.”

  “Think he’s all right?” says the bailiff, rot him, and blow me if he wasn’t fumbling for my pulse. “Going at full gallop,” says he, and blast his infernal impudence, he put a hand on my brow. “My goodness, but he’s feverish. D’ you think we should get help for him?”

  “You’ll get no thanks beyond a flood of curses if you do,” says the poet carelessly. “Really, doctor, even without close examination my nose can tell me more than your fingers. The fellow is hopelessly under the influence of drink – and rather inferior drink, at that, I fancy,” says he, stooping and sniffing at the fumes which were rising from my sodden breast. “Yes, American bourbon, unless I am mistaken. The odour is quite distinctive – you may have remarked that to the trained senses, each spirit has its own peculiar characteristics; I believe I have in the past drawn your attention to the marked difference between the rich, sugary aroma of rum, and the more delicate sweet smell of gin,” says this amazing lunatic. “But what now?”

  The bailiff, having taken his confounded liberties with my wrist and brow, was pausing in the act of trying to lift one of my eyelids, and his next words filled me with panic.

  “Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “I believe I know this chap – but no, it can’t be, surely! Only he’s uncommonly like that old general … oh, what’s-his-name? You know, made such a hash of the Khartoum business, with Gordon … yes, and years ago he won a great name in Russia, and the Mutiny – V.C. and knighthood – it’s on the tip of my tongue –”

  “My dear fellow,” says the high-pitched poet, “I can’t imagine who your general may be – it can hardly be Lord Roberts, I fancy – but it seems likely that he would choose to sleep in his home or his club, rather than in an alley. Besides,” he went on wearily, stooping a little closer – and damned unnerving it was, to feel those two faces peering at me through the gloom, while I tried to sham insensible –“besides, this is a nautical, not a military man; he is not English, but either American or German – probably the latter, since he has certainly studied at a second-rate German university, but undoubtedly he has been in America quite lately. He is known to the police, is currently working as a ship’s steward, or in some equally menial capacity at sea – for I observe that he has declined even from his modest beginnings – and will, unless I am greatly mistaken, be in Hamburg by the beginning of next week – provided he wakes up in time. More than that,” says the know-all ignoramus, “I cannot tell you from a superficial examination. Except, of course, for the obvious fact that he found his way here via Piccadilly Circus.”

  “Well,” says the other doubtfully, “I’m sure you’re right, but he looks extremely like old what’s-his-name. But how on earth can you tell so much about him from so brief a scrutiny?”

  “You have not forgotten my methods since we last met, surely?” says the conceited ass, who I began to suspect was some kind of maniac. “Very well, apply them. Observe,” he went on impatiently, “that the man wears a pea-jacket, with brass buttons, which is seldom seen except on sea-faring men. Add that to the patent fact that he is a German, or German-American –”

  “I don’t see,” began the bailiff, only to be swept aside.

  “The duelling scars, doctor! Observe them, quite plain, close to the ears on either side.” He’d sharp eyes, all right, to spot those; a gift to me from Otto Bismarck, years ago. “They are the unfailing trade-mark of the German student, and since they have been inexpertly inflicted – you will note that they are too high – it is not too much to assume that he received them not at Heidelberg or Gottingen, but at some less distinguished academy. This suggests a middle-class beginning from which, obviously, he has descended to at least the fringes of crime.”

  “How can you tell that?”

  “The fine silver flask in his hand was not honestly acquired by such a seedy drunkard as this, surely. It is safe to deduce that its acquisition was only one of many petty pilferings, some of which must inevitably have attracted the attention of the police.”

  “Of course! Well, I should have noticed that. But how can you say he is a ship’s steward, or that he has been in America, or that he’s going to Hamburg –”

  “His appearance, although dissipated, is not entirely unredeemed. Some care has been taken with the moustache and whiskers, no doubt to compensat
e for the ravages which drink and evil living have stamped on his countenance.” I could have struck the arrogant, prying bastard, but I grimly kept on playing possum. “Again, the hands are well kept, and the nails, so he is not a simple focsle hand. What, then, but a steward? The boots, although cracked, are of exceptionally good manufacture – doubtless a gratuity from some first-class passenger. As to his American sojourn, we have established that he drinks bourbon whisky, a taste for which is seldom developed outside the United States. Furthermore, since I noticed from the shipping lists this morning that the liner Brunnhilde has arrived in London from New York, and will leave on Saturday for Hamburg, I think we may reasonably conclude, bearing in mind the other points we have established, that here we have one of her crew, mis-spending his shore leave.”

  “Amazing!” cries the bailiff. “And, of course, quite simple when you explain it. My dear fellow, your uncanny powers have not deserted you in your absence!”

  “I trust they are still equal, at least, to drawing such obvious inferences as these. And now, doctor, I think we have spent long enough over this poor, besotted hulk, who, I fear, would have furnished more interesting material for the meeting of the Inebriation Society than for us. I think you will admit that this pathetic shell has little in common with your distinguished Indian general.”

  “Unhesitatingly!” cries the other oaf, standing up, and as they sauntered off, leaving me quaking with relief and indignation – drunken ship’s dogsbody from a second-rate German university, indeed! – I heard him ask:

  “But how did you know he got here by way of Piccadilly?”

  “He reeked of bourbon whisky, which is not easy to obtain outside the American Bar, and his condition suggested that he had filled his flask at least once since coming ashore …”