Holmes had not vouchsafed what his next move would be, telling me only that I should be ready for anything. When I had asked why he was unable to divulge that portion of the plan, his answer was that my surprised reaction must be as authentic as possible, in keeping with the roles we had adopted. I had already learned how Holmes relished theatrics. This looked as if it would be another of those occasions where his knowledge of what was afoot, and the ignorance of others on that score, gave him a small thrill.
If I had only known in advance what he had in mind, I almost certainly would have refused to go along with it.
“I say!” Holmes yelled all of a sudden. “Hullo! Li. Zhang. Whatever your names are. Come here. I want a word with you.”
Zhang appeared instantly at his bedside, forefinger pressed to lips, mutely indicating that Holmes should keep his voice down.
“No, you devil, I will not be quiet,” my companion declared haughtily, louder than before. “Look here. This opium you’ve sold us – at great expense, I might add – is a very shoddy specimen. I believe you’ve thinned it with something, probably tree resin. I’m a connoisseur of the poppy. I know my stuff. This diluted muck barely passes muster. Do you understand what I am saying?”
Whether he did or not, Zhang insisted Holmes calm down, making a flattening motion with both hands. Li was now beside him, looking every bit as agitated and as desirous of Holmes’s quiescence.
“How dare you waft your hands at me like that,” Holmes thundered, working himself up into a thoroughgoing lather of indignation. “Haven’t you even learned the Queen’s English? You come to our country and don’t have the decency to pick up the lingo. Damn you, you impertinent Oriental rascal.”
He was laying it on a bit thick, I thought, but his tirade was undoubtedly having an effect. Not only did it discomfit Li and Zhang, it disturbed the papaverous slumbers of the addicts. They were stirring, some sitting up, others calling out, wanting to know what the fuss was about. It started as a few grumbled complaints but rapidly became a din of protest as Holmes continued to berate the Chinamen about the poor quality of the product they had sold us and their non-existent grasp of our language.
It culminated in his striking Zhang on the arm with the end of his pipe. That was a step too far for the Chinamen, and together they hauled Holmes roughly off the bed.
“You ruffians, take your filthy paws off me!” Holmes objected, trying to wrestle free of their clutches. “Do you know who I am? You’d let me go in a flash if you had any idea how important a personage it is you’re manhandling. I could have you hanged for this. I could!”
Evidently Li and Zhang had been subjected to verbal threats before. Even if unable to comprehend the actual words, they were familiar with the tone of expression, and it bothered them not at all. With a grim set of the lips they began frogmarching Holmes towards the exit.
Over his shoulder he addressed me: “Are you just going to lie there and let them get away with this, old chap? It’s rank effrontery, that’s what it is. They ought to know better, and we’re the ones who should be teaching them the lesson.”
The room was in full uproar by now, opium addicts on all fours on their beds or standing on their feet, bleary but angry, shaking their fists, incensed to have had their blissful reveries so rudely interrupted.
I stumbled after Holmes, wondering what “teaching them the lesson” might actually entail. I found out the next moment as he gave an almighty wrench and managed to pull free of both his captors.
What ensued was one of the most balletic fights I had ever witnessed. It made the previous night’s clash between Holmes and the Lascars look like a clumsy, cack-handed brawl. That confrontation had been hopelessly one-sided. This was altogether a better matched and less asymmetrical battle, and the more elegant and spectacular for that.
Holmes aimed a sharp, savage punch at Li, and seemed not at all startled when his opponent blocked the attack with a swiftly raised forearm. The Chinaman responded with a pivoting sidelong kick under which Holmes ducked by bending backwards from the knees. His retaliation came in the form of a stiff-fingered thrust to the solar plexus which connected solidly and left Li winded.
While Li was doubled up, choking, Zhang came at Holmes, hands aloft like a pair of broad-bladed knives. There followed an exchange of blow and counterblow that was almost too fast for the eye to follow. Fist wove around fist, kick succeeded kick, elbows and shins were deployed as offensive weapons. Conducted by anything but Marquess of Queensberry rules, it was hypnotic in its ferocity and speed, like watching two cobras vying over territory. Both Holmes’s face and Zhang’s were fixed in masks of absolute concentration. Each man’s gaze never left the other’s. They were fighting, it appeared, as much on the mental plane as the physical, a contest of intellects as well as bodies.
I roused myself from my fascinated absorption only when I saw Li rise up behind Holmes, clasping a short dagger. Without further thought I launched myself across the room at him. Even as I ran I was tugging the revolver out of my pocket. Li had produced a weapon, and so I quite justifiably felt that I should too.
Li saw me coming and spun towards me, at the same time flipping the dagger up to catch it by its point. He drew back his arm for a throw. I at last managed to extricate my Webley. I knew I had only a second in which to act, otherwise that dagger would be hurtling my way. I raised the gun, cocking the hammer with my thumb, and fired.
It was a wild shot. There had been no time to aim. The bullet missed, embedding itself in the wall behind Li, but he recoiled anyway, shrinking out of its path. That gave me the opportunity I needed. Still at a run, I covered the last few paces between us, and used the revolver to club the dagger out of his hand.
I levelled the barrel of the gun at his head and told him to stay still. “Or I’ll blow your brains out,” I added. My intention would have been crystal clear to him, even if the specifics of my threat were not.
Not just the room but now the entire building was in upheaval. The gunshot had panicked everyone, and the addicts immediately around us were stampeding for the door while elsewhere, from other rooms, other floors, there came drumming footfalls and cries of alarm. Holmes and I had succeeded in creating pandemonium, just as we had meant to.
Holmes was still engaged in combat with Zhang. Out of the corner of my eye I observed the ebb and flow of their battle, the repeated exchanges of thrust and parry, strike and evasion. Perspiration glazed Holmes’s brow, while Zhang’s expression spoke of thinly veiled disbelief, as though he could not wholly countenance the idea that his opponent was giving as good as he got. The Chinaman was skilled in some form of Oriental martial art, but he was clearly surprised to find a westerner who was similarly adept. Holmes’s baritsu presented a different style of fighting from his own, but one that was no less effective and, in the hands of a master practitioner, every bit its equal. It seemed possible Zhang might even come away the loser, for Holmes stood a head taller and had a concomitantly greater reach. Zhang’s only response was to bring himself in close so that the height advantage was mitigated. This, however, served Holmes well, for baritsu – as I would later come to learn – incorporated elements of wrestling and judo, and could be employed in the clinch as devastatingly as in separation.
Thus Holmes, spying his chance, seized Zhang by the lapels and attempted to upend him. Zhang struggled to keep his balance as Holmes tried to swipe the legs from under him and send him crashing to the floor. Some fierce, precise punches to Holmes’s abdomen almost bought Zhang his freedom, but my companion clung resolutely on and persisted in his attempt to gain leverage over the Chinaman.
His grit and determination paid off in the end. Though Zhang’s blows were undoubtedly hurting him, he finally managed to manoeuvre himself into a stance whereby he could hook his leg around the backs of both the Chinaman’s knees. Zhang was toppled, and Holmes bore down, slamming him onto his back.
Ever so briefly the fight went out of Zhang. He lay dazed. Holmes, bent over him, ra
ised a fist to deliver the coup de grâce. It looked as though victory was his.
Alas, I had neglected Li. I had thought I was covering him with the revolver, but little by little my focus had strayed. The clash between Holmes and Zhang had become increasingly the centre of my attention. How could it not, when it was so desperate? Having become a rapt audience to it, I gave Li an opening which he did not hesitate to exploit.
All at once his grip was around my gun hand, my fingers were bent back, and the Webley was plucked from my grasp with almost insouciant ease. Then Li had the revolver pressed to my temple and an arm encircled round my neck. In the space of a heartbeat I went from subduer to hostage.
Li barked something in Chinese to draw Holmes’s attention. He, seeing my predicament, straightened up and backed away from Zhang. The blow that would have put Zhang firmly out of contention never landed. The downed Chinaman sprang to his feet with a triumphant grin, while Holmes dropped his arms and hunched his shoulders in a posture of submission.
“Fair enough,” he said. “You have won. Please do not harm my friend. We will leave peaceably.”
Li seemed to understand the terms of surrender Holmes had set, but nonetheless he ground the barrel of the Webley hard into my skull, the better to emphasise his superiority and my helplessness. He shoved me forward by the collar, and the four of us went in procession down the stairs to the reception area.
Here, the patrons of the Golden Lotus were milling about in an angry throng, remonstrating with the old woman. She in turn was attempting to allay their concerns. “Is nothing worry about. Please to be calm. No problem. Go back to rooms. All is under control.”
It did not help her cause that a burly Chinaman was stationed at the front door, barring anyone from leaving, and that another two were standing guard sternly in front of her, a human bulwark. The assembled addicts were unhappy at being corralled and had no qualms about voicing their discontent. Jolts of adrenalin had dissipated the palliative influence of their opium intake. Pleasant intoxication had been replaced by outrage and vituperation.
“What on earth’s going on?” one of them growled. “Shouting. Gunfire. A right royal ruckus. This is insupportable!”
“You cannot coop us up like cattle,” said another. “I demand that you give us our liberty.”
“Is it a police raid?” asked a third anxiously. “Only, I can’t afford to be caught here. If my wife were to find out, there’d be hell to pay.”
Others were less articulate in their reproach, directing obscenities and insults at the woman and her associates, including many a racial slur.
There were gasps as we appeared from the staircase. The sight of Li with a gun to my head provoked shock and deeper fury.
Zhang spoke to the old woman in rapid-fire Chinese, after which she announced to the mob: “Here are troublemakers. We make them go and not come back. See? All safe now. You not need worry. We look after.”
Li pushed me ahead of him, and the crowd parted to allow us through. At a command from the old woman, the burly Chinaman at the door made way.
As we were on the point of being ejected, Holmes spoke up.
“Gong-Fen Shou,” he said.
“What?” said the old woman. “What that you say?”
“Gong-Fen Shou. You know full well whom I’m talking about. The ‘respectable’ businessman whose dirty secret this place is. Tell him I’m on to him. Tell him he won’t be able to maintain the façade of respectability much longer. He’s not as untouchable as he thinks he is. I’m going to dethrone him. His life of luxury is about to come crashing down around his ears.”
“You mistaken, mister,” said the old woman, blank-faced. “No Gong-Fen Shou here. Nobody have that name. You speaking foolish. You are crazy man. Now go! No return. We see you and your friend here again, you will not like it. We not be so nice to you next time.”
Li booted me unceremoniously through the doorway, with such force that I lost my footing and slithered down the front steps. I fetched up in a heap on the pavement, and cried out in pain, but it was my pride that was damaged more than my anatomy.
Zhang dished out the same treatment to Holmes, who made an altogether more dignified descent than mine, catching himself on the railing before he could fall.
Li waved my revolver at me with a mocking laugh. Then, in a move calculated to offend, he slipped the gun into his trouser pocket and patted it, as if to say, “Mine.”
I scrambled to my feet and started back up the steps, bent on retrieving it from him. Holmes stopped me.
“Don’t, old man. It’s not worth it. It’s just a gun. You can always buy another.”
I began to remonstrate, but then saw sense and yielded. He was right. I stood no chance against Li, whose martial arts prowess was, from what I had seen of it, the equivalent of Zhang’s. To try and wrest the Webley from him would be to invite a beating, and perhaps worse.
In order to salvage what was left of my dignity, I sneered and flapped a dismissive hand. I said I hoped Li would have fun with it. I wouldn’t miss it.
This was an arrant lie. The revolver was amongst my most treasured possessions. It had saved my life more than once, not least in the Arghandab Valley. To it I owed a debt as great as I owed any man.
With a sore heart to match the rest of my sore body, I resigned myself to never seeing it again.
* * *
Bruised, battered, bedraggled, Holmes and I put the Golden Lotus Hotel behind us. I was despondent. I had acquitted myself poorly, I felt. If not for my carelessness, Holmes would have won his bout with Zhang outright and we could have left the place with our heads held high rather than at gunpoint, in a condition of humiliation.
However, when after several minutes I aired these thoughts to Holmes, he pooh-poohed them.
“Don’t be downcast, my friend, and for heaven’s sake don’t apologise. We have had a refreshing and singular evening. I feel quite enlivened by it. And furthermore, it has not been in vain.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. We achieved exactly what we set out to. Gong-Fen will hear about us. We have disrupted the well-ordered running of a business that relies on discretion and anonymity to thrive. We have made a nuisance of ourselves, in a way that is hard to excuse or overlook. If one of his minions from the Golden Lotus is not following us right now, I should be very surprised. All in all, a job well done.”
“Following us…?”
“Don’t turn round,” Holmes hissed. “I don’t want to give away that we know.”
“But is it really true?” I said, lowering my voice. “There’s a Chinaman on our tail?”
“One or more. I cannot say so with any great degree of certainty, but it would be the sensible strategy on their part. They will want to know where we are going. If we head for a police station, they will make a move to intercept us, and likewise if we accost a passing constable, they will make sure he is either bribed off or otherwise neutralised before he can bring trouble to their door. Gong-Fen has not kept his opium dens in business for this long without being a shrewd operator. Even if he is not actively co-ordinating the day-to-day running of the places, he will have employed underlings who are as wily as he needs them to be. That old crone, for instance, is no fool. Don’t let her poor English lead you to underestimate her. She is as crafty as they come.”
“Yes, one could see it in her eyes.”
“Could one? Or are you simply being wise after the event?”
“Perhaps,” I allowed.
“You failed to notice her signal, then?”
“Signal?”
“She was on to us from the start. She sensed we were impostors, and alerted Li and Zhang accordingly.”
“How? She said only a handful of words to them.”
“But she also touched the chopstick in her hair. Tapped it briefly, three times.”
“To adjust it.”
“To send a coded message. Zhang arrived at my bedside the moment I started to kick up a hullabaloo.
He responded with such promptness because he and Li had been warned that they might expect trouble from us and were ready. That triple tap on the chopstick was far more than it seemed. I imagine she assumed we were plainclothes police officers conducting an undercover operation. Now, thanks to my bandying about the name Gong-Fen Shou, she will know we are something else and want to learn more about us.”
We walked on, and I had to resist the urge repeatedly to glance over my shoulder. Were there footfalls behind us? Could I hear them, muffled through the fog? Or was it simply the echo of our own footfalls rebounding off the buildings? It was an eerie sensation, knowing there was the possibility one was being stalked. The thick billows of fog made it all the more so. Our shadow might be a scant few paces behind us, and we should never see him. Even in the event that Holmes was wrong and no one had been despatched from the opium den to keep track of us, the idea of an unseen pursuer still set my nape hairs prickling. We traipsed from one nimbus of lamplight to the next, and the gaps between these oases of illumination seemed unfathomably long and unnaturally murky. Now and then a fellow pedestrian would loom before us – a grandee in top hat and opera cloak wending his way home from his club, a shuffling tramp looking for somewhere to bed down for the night, a midinette in search of one last customer for her wares – each a silhouette that would briefly assume three-dimensionality and detail before dissolving back into hazy nothingness.
The Cthulhu Casebooks Page 8
