The Firebird Mystery

by Darrell Pitt

  That’s right, Jack thought. I don’t die that easily.

  The man leapt to his feet, turned tail and exited through the end door. As Jack started down the aisle, another train drew parallel. Jack heard the faraway grinding of cogs as an exterior door was forced open.

  A terrible suspicion started to form in the back of his mind. He hoped he was wrong. Running the length of the carriage, Jack opened the door to the vestibule. He was right. There was no exit at this end. Jack pounced on the door to his right and tugged it open with all his strength.

  He looked across to the other train. Passengers always complained about the condition of the exit doors—the steam-powered mechanism often failed, leaving the doors to slide open without warning.

  And the door in the train running parallel to his carriage was wide open.

  Oh blimey, Jack thought. I was afraid of that.

  The thief had jumped across the gap. Jack had performed somersaults, double and triple, hundreds of times, but always with a net. Jumping between moving trains was like asking for a trip to the hospital—or more likely the morgue.

  He eased his head out and jerked it back in as an upright metal stanchion whizzed past him at great speed. When it was safe, he peered back out again. Both trains were about to enter different tunnels.

  It was now or never.

  The thief would escape if the trains separated. A wall blanketed in black soot flashed past. The two locomotives drew parallel again—but now the other train started to increase speed.

  No!

  Jack undid his belt and dragged it from his pants. Looking to his left, he drew back again, struggling to hold the door open with his free hand. Another metal stanchion flew past. This time he leaned out and swung the belt in a tight loop.

  Come on!

  Now!

  Jack cracked his belt like a whip and the end wrapped around the handrail of the open door. He pulled down hard on it, creating a tighter grip, and then he jumped.

  His whole attention remained on the handrail as he jerked on the length of leather. For an instant he saw his mother’s face, smiling from the high platform at the circus, encouraging him to swing to her. A second later Jack grasped the outside handrail of the other train. He swung through the doorway and slammed into the opposite wall.

  A cigarette fell out of the mouth of a man standing nearby. ‘Blimey,’ he said. ‘Are you people completely daft?’

  Jack picked himself up. ‘Where did the other fellow go?’

  The man pointed wordlessly into the carriage. Jack retrieved his belt and glanced down the corridor. The interior was almost empty, but the criminal’s hat poked above the top of the seat a couple of rows to his right. The man had his back to him.

  His gut churning, Jack opened the door and stepped in. As he climbed into the seat behind the thief, he glimpsed the piece of paper clasped between the man’s slim fingers.

  Jack sat down. He had made it this far. Now what? He had his doubts about winning a fist fight with an adult, especially since the fellow had already decked him with a single punch. With shallow breathing, he slumped further into the seat. A drizzle of sweat traced a path down his cheek. He was reminded of an act he had once seen at the circus. Two friends, Frankie and Helen Shore, did a clown act involving a series of chairs placed one behind the other. As Frankie went to sit, Helen whipped his chair from under him. Jack realised he did not have to attack the villain. He only had to retrieve the page.

  Jack slid onto the floor where the carriage seats were attached with metal braces. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the string Mr Doyle had given him. What was it the detective had told him?

  String has a thousand uses and I know you will find it invaluable.

  Jack reached under the seat and looped the string around the thief’s right shoe. Careful, he thought. He tied it to the nearest metal brace and climbed back onto his seat, sweat now streaming down his face.

  The train slowed as it pulled into a station.

  Time to go, Jack thought. He stood. The thief glanced out the window then returned his gaze to the sheet, angling it to the light. The train drew to a halt. Jack bent forward and in one smooth action pushed the man’s hat down low over his mask and snatched the paper from his hand. The man gave a high-pitched cry of rage. Jack stepped into the aisle and dragged open the door to the vestibule. He caught sight of his assailant falling face first onto the floor as he attempted to leap from his seat.

  People began streaming into the carriage.

  ‘Excuse me!’ Jack cried. ‘My aunt’s waiting for me! Excuse me!’

  The people parted. A stairway led up from his left. He flew up the steps to the dome-shaped passenger terminal. A mural commemorating the war decorated the ceiling. Brass clocks circled the outside. The departure gates had uniformed inspectors checking tickets. He darted through the crowd, looking for a quick escape. People were everywhere. But he could not exit via the main gates. He had to board another train to put some distance between himself and the thief.

  Jack glanced back.

  Bazookas!

  The thief was shoving people aside only a few feet behind him!

  Jack felt dizzy with terror. He pushed desperately through the masses. A man holding a wallet was on his right. Grabbing the wallet, Jack reefed out all the notes and held them high in the air.

  ‘Hey!’ the man exclaimed. ‘What the devil?’

  ‘Money!’ Jack cried. ‘Free money! Free money for all!’

  He hurled the bundle of notes high into the air. Even before they had begun to fall, he was fighting his way towards a set of stairs, packed with travellers.

  ‘That man’s giving money away!’ Jack pointed over his shoulder. ‘He’s giving away a thousand pounds!’

  Mayhem erupted. People fell over one another, trying to snatch money off the ground. Like a football scrum, men and women of all ages threw themselves into the human pile, while the owner of the cash unsuccessfully tried to retrieve his notes.

  Jack raced down the stairs leading to another platform. A train, an old Spaulding 66, had just started to depart.

  Not again, he groaned.

  Reaching the edge of the platform, Jack’s eyes darted left and right. An open door lay about twenty feet ahead. He could do it. One last time. He darted between two old ladies and broke into a sprint. Clutching the paper in one hand, he reached out with the other, grabbed the handrail and leapt aboard.

  Yes!

  Jack felt like his lungs were about to explode. He glimpsed the criminal at the far end of the platform. It was impossible to see his face because of the porcelain mask, but Jack was certain the man was livid with anger.

  Leaning out the door, Jack waved. ‘Don’t forget to write!’

  The man did not wave back.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘Let’s see what we have here,’ Mr Doyle said.

  Jack had been back in Scarlet’s home only a few minutes. Both she and Mr Doyle had just about jumped through the ceiling with excitement on his return. Mr Doyle had even given him a hug. But after that he had delivered a stern warning about risking his life.

  ‘You are never to take such a terrible chance again,’ he said.

  And this even after Jack had glossed over some of the finer details of his chase.

  ‘The man was wearing a mask,’ Jack said. ‘A porcelain mask.’

  ‘So I noticed,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘I wonder why he wears such a thing. He may already be known to the police.’

  ‘Maybe there’s something wrong with his face.’

  ‘A possibility.’ Mr Doyle reached into his pockets. ‘Let me give you some more string.’

  He pulled out a lump of cheese, a cricket ball and the lyrics to a song called ‘The Storming Party’ before producing a length of string.

  Scarlet touched Jack’s arm. ‘You were most brave chasing that scoundrel.’

  Jack covered his burning cheeks, pretending to cough. ‘All in a day’s work,’ he said.

 
They turned their attention to the piece of paper. The rain had stopped outside and now early afternoon sunlight streamed into the study of the apartment. This time, Mr Doyle locked and barred the front door so they could work in peace.

  Laying the sheet on the desk, he clasped a pencil and rubbed it over the page. After a few seconds, the indentations formed words. He peered at them through his goggles.

  ‘This is a location,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘Dock Sixteen West on the river.’

  ‘Is that it?’ Jack asked.

  ‘It is indeed.’ He turned to Scarlet. ‘Do you recognise this address?’

  ‘Not at all,’ she replied. ‘My father’s office is in the East End.’

  ‘What does it mean?’ Jack asked.

  Mr Doyle tapped his chin. ‘It means we’re going fishing.’

  Within minutes they were back aboard the Lion’s Mane and arcing across the sky. They joined a small line of airships that traced a route across to the Thames. A fine rain was coating the city in mist.

  ‘It’s a good thing the airships stick to flight paths across London,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘Otherwise there would be chaos.’

  ‘You’re a skilful pilot, Mr Doyle.’ Scarlet laid a hand on his arm.

  Jack noticed. ‘My eye is rather sore,’ he intervened.

  Scarlet sat next to him. ‘Poor Jack. Let me examine it.’ She studied his face. ‘You have lovely blue eyes, Jack.’

  ‘Thank you, Scarlet.’ Jack felt giddy. ‘I think my chin is a little sore too.’

  ‘Jack,’ Mr Doyle broke in. ‘Did I tell you about a case I handled in Scotland involving a man with a stuffed canary?’

  Scarlet broke away from him.

  ‘No, Mr Doyle,’ Jack said, a trifle annoyed. ‘You have not mentioned it.’

  ‘Oh,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘I’ll tell you about it sometime.’ The detective stifled a grin as he peered at the river below. ‘We are now drawing close. I will try to find a spot to land.’

  The vessel drifted through the gentle rain. Many buildings provided space on their roofs for airships to land, but this part of town was mostly derelict, so Mr Doyle searched for an empty street. He expertly guided the Lion’s Mane into a road at the back of Dock Sixteen West. It landed with a slight bump and the detective jumped out to leash the craft to an old horse pole. The others exited the vessel and huddled together in the mist for a moment. Rain cast a sheen across their features.

  ‘What an enormous warehouse,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘One of the largest I have seen on the waterfront.’ He turned to Jack. ‘My boy, have you ever handled a firearm?’

  Bazookas! Jack thought. A gun.

  He imagined himself mowing down countless attackers, while saving Scarlet’s life and being forced to take control of the Lion’s Mane. Later they would float over London and, taking Scarlet’s hand...

  ‘Jack?’ Mr Doyle interrupted his reverie.

  ‘No, sir.’ The dream faded. ‘But I’ll give it a go.’

  ‘I think we may wait until you’ve taken a few lessons.’ Mr Doyle turned to Scarlet. ‘I will not offer you a weapon, Miss Bell. A lady does not carry firearms.’

  ‘On the contrary, Mr Doyle.’ Scarlet reached into her purse and produced a small handgun. ‘I have taken to carrying a revolver I found in my father’s drawer.’

  ‘My dear,’ Mr Doyle blustered. ‘I’ve never known a lady to be armed.’

  ‘As I said before, Mr Doyle, I am a modern woman. You may even be shocked to learn I am in favour of women’s rights.’

  ‘A suffragette?’ Mr Doyle uttered the word with a gasp of horror.

  Jack was not sure what a suffragette was. He thought it might have been a type of religion—a cross between Roman Catholic and Church of England.

  ‘I believe women must have equal rights,’ Scarlet said. ‘One day we will have the vote.’

  Mr Doyle took the prudent action that all men of wisdom throughout the ages have followed—he changed the subject. ‘Follow me,’ he said. ‘We will find a point of possible egress.’

  The warehouse was indeed vast. Its walls were lined with tall windows. The group walked around the building until they reached a small door, set into a large pair of doors at the front. Mr Doyle went to the smaller entry and produced a lock pick from his pocket similar to the one he had given Jack. He started manipulating the latch.

  ‘Mr Doyle,’ Scarlet said. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m breaking and entering,’ Mr Doyle said.

  ‘So I have become a daring criminal,’ Scarlet enthused. ‘I shall have to give a dissertation at the next meeting of the Young Ladies Primrose Society.’

  Both Jack and Mr Doyle looked at her.

  She blushed. ‘Or I may record it in my memoirs for publication after my demise.’

  The lock clicked and the door swung open. Mr Doyle stuck his head through the gap and listened.

  ‘I don’t believe anyone is here,’ he said. ‘But we had best proceed with caution.’

  They closed the door behind them. Jack could hear the rain pattering on the metal roof high above. The interior smelled of mould and rotting wood. A loose covering of mulch and hay lay over the stone floor. Breathing out, Jack formed a cloud of fog; it was freezing in the warehouse. Huge timber shelves ran along both sides of the room, stacked high with wooden boxes. The shelving ended near the ceiling and a line of windows. Jack felt like an ant as they walked down the centre aisle.

  Mr Doyle chose a side alley through the stacks and took a smallish box from the shelf. He produced a knife and applied it to the end. He had it open within a minute. Leafing through the interior, he pulled straw out onto the ground.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  ‘You mean, nothing of importance?’ Scarlet asked.

  ‘No, I mean there is nothing in this box. Apart from straw.’

  They all stared into the empty box.

  ‘That doesn’t make any sense,’ Jack said.

  ‘I can think of a possibility,’ Scarlet said. ‘There was a Brinkie Buckeridge novel where it turned out the stencilled writing on the packing boxes was actually a secret code. It indicated the location of a gang of spies.’

  Jack peered at the label of a nearby box. ‘Made in China,’ he read. ‘I don’t see how that could be a code.’

  ‘I must agree,’ Mr Doyle said. He went to a larger box. ‘Jack, please help me to get this down.’

  They pulled the box onto the floor and thoroughly searched it. Again the container held nothing but straw. Wordlessly, Mr Doyle repacked both the boxes, reattached the lids and stacked them back on the shelves. He stood back, stroking his chin.

  ‘I’ll wager every box in this warehouse is empty.’

  ‘But why?’ Scarlet asked. ‘Why fill a warehouse with empty cartons?’

  ‘If you want to hide a book, place it on a bookshelf,’ Mr Doyle replied. ‘I believe there is something to be found here. Something very unusual.’

  ‘How will we find it?’ Jack asked.

  Mr Doyle didn’t answer. Instead he walked two circuits of the building before crossing to a shelf and running a finger along the edge of it.

  ‘Just as I thought,’ he said, examining the dust on his finger. ‘These boxes have been here for quite some time. And there are tracks here from a steamtruck, but they are old. Nothing has been moved in or out of here for many, many years.’

  ‘So is this a dead end?’ Scarlet said.

  ‘Not at all,’ Mr Doyle replied. ‘We will search until we make a relevant discovery.’

  He continued to stride up and down the warehouse. His eyes finally settled on a spot in the middle of the floor. He moved over to it with sudden excitement, made a wide circle with his foot, and fell to his knees. Scooping out his knife, he started to work at an indentation in the stonework.

  ‘Aha,’ he said. ‘I think we have it.’

  Jack and Scarlet crowded around him as he revealed a large ring set into the floor. Mr Doyle pulled on it and a trapdoor lifted, exposing a set of stai
rs leading into darkness. Jack retrieved a lantern hanging on a nearby nail. They lit it and started down into the murkiness.

  ‘I pray…’ Scarlet’s voice faltered.

  ‘Scarlet?’ Jack said.

  ‘I pray my father is not in this terrible place.’

  ‘He is not,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘This chamber has remained undisturbed for some time.’

  The lantern cast sepia light, revealing a large empty room with a damp floor and moss growing over the walls. Supporting beams held up the roof. They were below the river level, and Jack felt his heart beat a little faster as he contemplated the stone walls holding the water back just a few feet away. A bronze machine, shrouded in dust, sat on a small bench. It looked like a cross between an ancient sewing machine and a vacuum cleaner. Jack suspected it was neither.

  A rectangular object lay in the centre of the chamber, measuring about eight feet by three feet and standing about four feet high. A huge sheet lay draped over it. Mr Doyle looked at his companions before he walked over, grasped hold of the sheet, and pulled it back.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Jack had only ever seen two dead bodies—those of his parents, although his memory of them swam with confusion. It was like one of those flickering shows at the magic-lantern theatre. He could remember separate images from that terrible day, never the entire incident.

  He had stood on the high platform as his father swung from one trapeze to meet his mother on another. She hung upside down, her arms outstretched. Their hands met. Then the trapeze supporting his mother snapped.

  Jack had cried out. Never had this happened in over a thousand performances. But as they tumbled towards the net, Jack knew they would land safely in the mesh.

  He would never forget them hitting the net at the same instant, hand in hand, as if somehow they knew this signalled the end. Because—against all reason—the net snapped...

  Mr Doyle’s voice shattered the memory. ‘She is perfectly preserved,’ he said.