by Steve Hayes
‘D-Don’t … Please, don’t. I …’
He stopped as someone entered the pub and Jesse saw recognition cross his face as he identified the newcomer.
Thinking it might be Jack’s brother, Jesse whirled, ready to shoot – but instead saw a small, rat-faced man whose nose was running. Recognizing Jesse, Alfie Adams quickly started to leave.
Jesse snapped off a shot, the bullet punching into the heavy wooden door close to Alfie’s head. Yelping with fear, Alfie turned and fled from the pub.
Jesse grabbed Jack, dragged him to his feet and jammed the barrel of his six-gun against his temple. ‘Talk straight, damn you, or I’ll blow a hole through you.’
Watson started to protest but Holmes silenced him with a brusque gesture.
Jack hesitated, eyes popping with fear. Jesse thumbed back the hammer and at last Jack broke. ‘All right, all right,’ he whined. ‘I’ll tell you.’
‘You’ll do better than that,’ snarled Jesse. ‘You’ll take us to him yourself. And remember this, Jack: if that little weasel’s gone to warn Cage and he fixes to bushwhack us, you’ll be right there to take the first bullet.’
CHAPTER 20
A Death in the Family
Alfie ran all the way to the barge. There, exhausted, he staggered aboard and joined Cage Liggett under the tattered awning, where he gasped out what he’d seen at the Poacher’s Pocket. ‘It was ’im, guv’! I swear on me mum’s grave. Same Yank wiv the guns who stopped us from robbin’ the countess’s coach. Only this time, there was two toffs wiv ’im.’
Liggett chewed anxiously on his lip. ‘What’d they look like?’
‘One was tall an’ thin an’ the other, ’e carried a stick.’
Liggett frowned, not recognizing the descriptions. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘The Yank, ’e shot your brother, Cage! I ’eard the bang just as I was enterin’ the pub, but didn’t realize what it was ’til I saw ’im standin’ there with a ruddy great pistol in ’is ’and!’
Liggett swallowed hard. ‘He killed Jack?’
‘Nah, nah, just wounded ’im, looked like. I turned tail and scarpered just before ’e took a shot at me, too!’
‘Did they follow you?’
‘Nah. ’Least, I don’t think so. But you never know. Could be I just didn’t see ’em in all this fog.’ He sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve, adding: ‘They come in a coach.’
‘How do you know?’
‘’Cause I saw it waitin’ ’cross the road. Same coach me’n my mates tried to rob the night you took over from Blackrat. I recognized the crest on the door.’
Liggett looked out into the swirling fog. So Jesse had tracked him down after all, he thought grimly. Well, so be it. At least he had the jump on him. On top of that there was the fog. With any luck, he could use it to set a trap for Jesse … shoot him from behind before the outlaw even had a chance to draw.
‘Wait here for me,’ he told Alfie.
‘Wot, an’ get shot? Not bleedin’ likely.’
Liggett grabbed him and lifted him up till only his toes touched the deck. ‘Would you sooner I filled your pockets with rocks an’ dumped you in the goddamn river?’
‘Awright, awright,’ Alfie said, squirming. ‘I’ll wait. ’Onest.’
‘And keep your eyes peeled. Let me know if you hear or see that coach coming.’ Liggett ducked down the steps into the cabin before Alfie could protest.
When he returned a few minutes later he had a Navy Colt tucked in his waistband and carried two unlit oil lamps.
‘Here’s what we’re gonna do,’ he said, thrusting one of the lamps at Alfie.
‘’Mean you’re gonna make a fight of it?’
‘What choice do I have?’ Liggett asked. ‘I’ve already come six thousand miles an’ Jesse found me. No,’ he added grimly, ‘we’re gonna settle this now, once an’ for all. C’mon.’
He led the frightened little man ashore. Once on the dock, each took up his position, Alfie in a recessed warehouse doorway on the other side of the narrow lane, Liggett behind a stack of empty barrels awaiting collection by the local drayman. All that was left to them then was the hardest job of all – the waiting game.
The minutes dragged by. Nerves stretched taut, Liggett jumped at every stray sound that drifted to him on the damp musty-smelling air.
Suddenly he stiffened. Through the fog he could hear the sound of approaching horses, the rattle of wheels on slick cobbles. He suddenly remembered the lamp in his hand and what it was for. He dug out a match and struck it on a barrel. The match spluttered and died. He fumbled out another. This time the match flared to life. He quickly lit the lamp.
The coach drew closer. Peering between the barrels, he saw it as a vague, dark block gradually growing larger through the mist.
Mouth dry, he waited for it to come closer, pumping himself up for what had to be done. This was kill or be killed. It was the chance to stop living with one eye forever on his shoulder, to get back at Jesse for shooting Jack.
The coach came out of the night, mist swirling around the trotting horses. As it drew level with him Liggett jumped up and hurled the lamp in through the open side window. There was a loud smash of glass, followed by a whoomf! as the oil ignited.
Almost simultaneously Alfie, hidden on the other side of the road, threw his lamp as well. It burst aflame inside the coach and suddenly the elegant brougham was an inferno on wheels.
The panicked horses broke into a mad gallop, each one showing the whites of its eyes as it looked back and then tried to outrun the conflagration that was chasing them.
Liggett broke cover. Sprinting alongside the coach, he emptied his Colt into the flaming brougham. The panicked horses screamed louder and ran faster. They tried to take the corner at the end of the street with the burning coach still rocking wildly behind them, sending shadows leaping high across the warehouse walls, but they were going too fast. The blazing coach leaned over on to two wheels and finally crashed on to its side, sparks showering skyward. There followed a loud splintering as the tongue was ripped away from the running gear, then the horses, free at last of their fiery burden, raced off into the fog.
Winded, Liggett excitedly ran up to the burning coach. He tried to look inside, hoping to see Jesse and his friends in flames, but the heat was too much and he had to keep his distance. Alfie hurried up beside him, shouting breathlessly: ‘Nice work, guv!’
They stood there, watching the fire, flames hot on their faces, Liggett gleefully enjoying the moment. He could hardly believe that, in the end, it had all been so easy. There was only one thing that bothered him.
‘Where’s the coachman?’ he asked.
‘Eh?’
‘I didn’t see any driver,’ Liggett said. ‘There was no one drivin’ this thing!’
‘Maybe ’e fell off,’ suggested Alfie. ‘Or jumped off when the fire started.’
‘Don’t worry about the coachman,’ a voice said behind them. ‘We told him to make himself scarce before we sent the coach on ahead of us.’
Liggett and Alfie spun round in time to see Jesse stride purposefully out of the fog, with Holmes and Watson alongside him. Watson was prodding Jack Liggett ahead of him with his service revolver.
‘Bugger be’old!’ Alfie said. ‘We’ve been ’ad, guv’.’
‘You have indeed, gentlemen,’ confirmed Holmes.
Liggett glared at Jesse. It was an odd moment. He felt he knew the outlaw so well, and yet this was the first time they’d ever come face to face. He cursed and brought his gun up to shoot Jesse – then remembered he’d emptied it into the coach.
He went cold, but to his credit he didn’t whine. ‘Go ahead,’ he said flatly. ‘Shoot me. Get it over with.’
‘Don’t tempt me,’ said Jesse.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Holmes, ‘you may consider yourselves seized and detained until the police arrive, at which time you will be taken before a justice of the peace, who shall proceed with all convenient dispatch to the hearing
and determining of the complaint against you – in your case, Mr Liggett, that will mean deportation back to the United States, where you will answer to the attempted murder of Zerelda Samuel in Missouri, and the actual murder of her son, Archie.’
‘The hell you say!’
Liggett threw his empty gun at Jesse.
The man from Missouri dodged the weapon, but it had already served its purpose – to distract him and give Liggett the split second he needed to make his move. He hurled himself at Jesse, his weight and momentum sending them both sprawling.
At the same time Jack elbowed Watson in the belly and then, heedless of the pain in his wounded hand, jumped him. Both slammed to the ground, grappling for Watson’s revolver.
Alfie, seeing his chance, whipped out a rusty cargo-hook and flung himself at Holmes.
He had no way of knowing that Holmes was a master of baritsu, the Japanese art of wrestling, until Holmes blocked the blow, crowded him, spun around, grabbed Alfie’s belt and then leaned forward, throwing him neatly from the hip.
Alfie landed hard and the cargo-hook slid away from him. As he started after it, Holmes leapt forward and blocked his path. Alfie hesitated, then again attacked him. This time Holmes used his forearm to block the blow, and struck out with a blindingly fast ridge-hand blow that hit the main artery in Alfie’s neck. Rendered helpless and almost insensible, Alfie felt Holmes slam against his left shoulder. He staggered back, giving Holmes time to hook one leg behind Alfie’s feet and sweep the little criminal’s legs out from under him.
Jesse, meanwhile, threw Liggett off him and scrambled to his feet. Liggett rose too, and both men circled, each looking for an opening. Liggett suddenly charged Jesse, swinging wildly. Jesse sidestepped, and clasping his hands together slammed Liggett to the ground. The ex-Pinkerton operative was up almost immediately, this time lunging for one of Jesse’s Colts. He managed to jerk one from its holster and, stepping back, brought the gun up to fire.
Then he heard someone coming up behind him. Fearing it was one of Jesse’s friends, Liggett whirled and fired.
Too late he saw it was his brother, who’d knocked Watson off his feet and was hurrying to help Liggett finish Jesse.
Jack stopped, doubling over as the .45 slug buried itself in his belly. Eyes wide, mouth slack, he stared at Cage as if he couldn’t believe what had happened.
His disbelief was mirrored in Liggett’s own look of horror. ‘Jack?’
Jack worked his frothing lips but no sound came out. He pitched forward and was dead before he hit the ground.
Distraught, Liggett started toward his brother; then, remembering Jesse, he whirled and went to shoot him. Before he could pull the trigger Holmes kicked the gun from his hand. When Jesse pulled his other Colt Liggett lost his nerve and ran off into the fog.
‘Damn you, Holmes!’ snapped Jesse, trying to get a clear bead on Liggett before the fog swallowed him up altogether. ‘Get the hell out of my way!’
But it was already too late. All that remained of Liggett now was the sound of his fading footsteps.
Holmes, meanwhile, was already joining Watson at Jack’s side. Watson looked up as he approached and shook his head, indicating that Jack was beyond medical aid.
Jesse joined them and glanced down at the body. ‘One down,’ he said grimly, ‘one to go.’
‘We’ll take him alive, if we can,’ Holmes reminded him.
‘Liggett’ll never let that happen,’ Jesse said. ‘And neither will I.’
Without another word he stormed off into the fog.
Watson fished out his cab whistle and said: ‘Go after him, Holmes. I’ll keep an eye on these two until the police get here. And Holmes?’
‘Yes, Watson?’
‘For God’s sake, be careful.’
As Holmes dashed off into the mist, Watson blew the whistle three times in quick succession to summon the police.
Jesse rounded the corner, the only sound now the echo of his own hurried footsteps and the fading crackle of the burning coach. He searched the fog for signs of Liggett but saw nothing. He broke cover, moving cat-quick into the middle of the road, breath held, blood pounding in his ears.
Suddenly there was a muffled drumming of hoofs, a sense of something large coming fast out of the fog. Jesse threw himself sideways as Liggett, astride one of the carriage horses, came charging toward him. Man and horse thundered past. The horse’s shoulder caught Jesse a glancing blow. He staggered back, firing off-balance into the billowing fog, then cursed, knowing he’d missed his target.
He heard the restless snicker of the other horse somewhere behind him and hurried toward the sound. After about twenty or thirty paces he glimpsed it in the mist ahead. It stood motionless, unable to run any further because of the trailing reins wrapped around its hind legs.
‘Easy, feller,’ Jesse said soothingly. ‘Easy … easy …’ He holstered his gun and slowly closed on the horse.
When he reached it he gently stroked its neck and used his clasp-knife to slice through the tangle of reins and buckles. He then grabbed a handful of the horse’s mane and leapt astride. Wheeling the horse around, he was just about to dig his spurs in when a figure appeared out of the fog before him, waving his arms above his head – Holmes.
‘Step aside!’ Jesse yelled. ‘Liggett’s gettin’ away!’
Holmes ran alongside the horse and extended his hand. ‘Help me up.’
‘You loco? We’ll never catch him, ridin’ double!’
‘We go together or you don’t go at all,’ Holmes said firmly.
Jesse swore, but knew they didn’t have time to argue. He grabbed Holmes’s hand and pulled him up behind him. He then spurred the horse into a gallop and they rode blindly into the silent, swirling fog.
CHAPTER 21
The Thames Tunnel
As they galloped through the night, in and out of patches of fog, Holmes tried to find his bearings. To his left the Thames lay oily and black, with yellow mist curling around all the ships at anchor. To his right tall warehouses reached up into the shrouding mist. Here was Pelican Wharf, then Gun Wharf, then Union Coal Wharf. And just as Holmes realized approximately where they were, there was a sudden break in the fog. Hearing the sound of hoof-beats coming towards them from the left, Jesse quickly reined up and dragged out his Peacemaker.
Moments later Liggett’s horse trotted up – without its rider – and snorted when it recognized its stablemate.
Jesse and Holmes exchanged puzzled looks.
‘Think he might’ve taken a fall?’ asked Jesse.
‘It’s possible.’
‘Then again, maybe he’s just gone to ground, waitin’ for a chance to hit us from cover.’
Holmes was listening to the night – to the silent night.
‘I knew it!’ Jesse hissed as his temper boiled over. ‘The sonofabitch’s given us the slip! Damn you, Holmes, I could’ve shot him if you hadn’t—’
‘Quiet!’ interrupted Holmes. ‘Listen …’
Jesse listened, but heard nothing save the distant sound of a train. ‘What…?’
Holmes turned and looked about him. At last, getting his bearings, he pointed ahead through the drifting, shroudlike haze: ‘There!’
‘Where?’ Jesse said, squinting. ‘All I see is some kind of buildin’. Looks like a church.’
It was an easy mistake to make. The structure was octagonal in shape, with a number of large doors and what appeared to be marble walls.
‘It is not exactly a building,’ Holmes corrected. ‘It’s actually the old pedestrian entrance to the Thames Tunnel.’
‘What the hell’s the Thames Tunnel?’
‘It runs beneath the river and connects Wapping – where we are now – with Rotherhithe, on the far side.’
‘An’ you think Liggett’s gone down there?’
‘He would not have given up his horse otherwise,’ said Holmes. ‘There’s nowhere else to go.’
‘OK,’ muttered Jesse. ‘So let’s go find us a sidewind
er.’
He nudged the horse toward the tunnel entrance. It was even larger and more impressive close up. Keeping the horse at a walk, he guided the hesitant animal through one of the tall doors, on into a shadowy rotunda some fifty feet in diameter. The riderless horse followed docilely behind. Their hoofs clattered against the blue-and-white marble mosaic floor, the noise echoing off the stuccoed walls until they came to a halt. The damp, mouldy stink of the Thames flooded their senses.
Ahead, a sort of watch-house stood on the side of the rotunda closest to the river, beside which stood a broken, rusted brass turnstile. Wordlessly, Holmes slid from the horse’s back and hopped nimbly over the gate. There was a door in the facing wall and he carefully pushed it open a crack.
Echoes drifted up to them – the sounds made by a man hurriedly descending a flight of stone steps.
Holmes and Jesse exchanged another look. Then Jesse leapt from the horse, vaulted the turnstile and the two men pushed through the door together.
Beyond lay a poorly lit circular shaft, with a now-dusty marble stairway that descended first to a gallery midway down, and then to a marble platform eighty feet below.
Racing headlong down the steps was Cage Liggett. He was almost at the bottom.
Jesse yelled: ‘Liggett!’
Liggett glanced up. In the gloom he looked pale as chalk, his eyes large and fearful. Pausing, he snapped off a shot at them.
The shot filled the shaft with echoes. Jesse pushed Holmes down even as the bullet dug into the wall behind them and plaster chips sprayed across their shoulders.
Jesse returned fire, but his bullet ricocheted off a baluster rail and whined harmlessly into the darkness.
Below, Liggett sprinted out of sight.
Jumping up, Jesse and Holmes gave chase. It was a dangerously steep descent but both men seemed oblivious to the prospect of a fall as they galloped downward in an effort to reach the platform below before Liggett eluded them entirely.
As they came off the bottom step they found themselves in a nearly exact copy of the rotunda above, equally poorly lit by infrequent, sputtering gas lamps. There were two once ornate arches in the back wall. Each led out into tunnels that were mirror-images of themselves. Each had a fourteen-foot wide road laid out with railway tracks and, beside it, an additional pedestrian walkway some three feet wide. Although the air was rank with drifting smoke, for there was little ventilation down here, Jesse felt as though he were in an underground cathedral. The tunnel was about twenty feet high, and close to forty feet wide. Each tunnel was supported by a series of ornate arches. The lighting was poor, the shadows deep, and Jesse sensed that unseen eyes were watching them – and not just those of Cage Liggett.
