The Dulwich Horror & Others

by David Hambling

  There was also the matter of the fraud at the boat builders, and the two-million-pound hole in the accounts he was hiding. He would have to continue juggling payments from week to week. But Michael had some ideas about that. His was a business where an extra million pounds here or there would not necessarily kill a sale; it was all a matter of picking the right client at the right time and applying the right pressure. He could take his time, would take his time and do it right.

  Effra Hall had been revitalised. The deal had been a success for them. Father and son had been reunited and the place was solvent once more. They would pay off some debts, finish repairing the roof and start restoring the rest of the house. But a million pounds does not go as far as it once did. Before long they would come to the obvious conclusion: with another million they could really get on top of things and secure the future. They would have to start looking for another client for their special services. As it happened, Michael was able to put them in touch with an American oilman whose son had just lost a foot to an IED while serving in Afghanistan. One thing led to another.

  If you get away with something once, you think you can keep doing it.

  The Beast had grown fractionally. It had also changed. For the first time in generations, it started to form hands and whole arms, crystallising solid bones that fitted together into functioning limbs. It flexed its hands, felt around, patted the walls and the floor. Sometimes the hands were human-sized, and sometimes bigger. It could extrude several at once and reached out to explore its surroundings in a new way. It learned how to pick things up and handle them with new dexterity, exploring the human world.

  Effra moved just slightly further away from Sir Harold’s control. Further operations to help more patients would see it getting slightly larger and slightly more capable each time. Slightly more independent. Roving further and more boldly.

  The River Effra lets out to the Thames near Vauxhall Bridge; the iron gratings are visible at low tide. This is the site of the oldest known structure in London. There are the remains of wooden piles driven into the riverbed, believed to have supported a ritual platform of some sort. It may have been used for sacrifices. As with other sites nearby, a number of detached human skulls have been found.

  However, it is not easy to get close to the site these days. The secret intelligence service, known to the public as MI6, built its towering new headquarters right over the outfall of the Effra. Their defences include a range of sensors and alarms in the Victorian sewers beneath their complex. There are thick iron bars to prevent anyone getting through the sewer, but nobody relies on them. As with other sensitive sites, there are underground patrols to prevent spies from planting devices beneath the building. The two-man patrols, mainly SAS and SBS veterans, wear wetsuits and use infra-red goggles. They are armed with modified 9mm Glock-17 pistols which can fire underwater. These men are trained in the application of deadly force. They are in no way prepared for what ranges further and further down the course of the Effra.

  The resulting destruction will be described as a terrorist attack. Of course no details will be released beyond the raw count of dead and seriously injured.

  Anne’s new fingers had been expensive; in the end, very expensive. That would not have made any difference to Michael. If you have to ask the price, you can’t afford it.

  THE THING IN THE VAULT

  Chicago, 1927

  Undoubtedly the [hard-boiled detective]

  stories had about them a fantastic element.

  —Raymond Chandler, “The Simple Art of Murder”

  We are all queer fish, queerer behind our faces and voices

  than we want anyone to know or than we know ourselves.

  —F. Scott Fitzgerald, “The Rich Boy”

  I

  You want to know what happened to Moran?

  He’s gone, brother, and he’s not coming back. That’s all.

  Moran was a gangster. They all go down sooner or later.

  You want more? I could spin you a line about client confidentiality, or I could just play dumb, but you already know something about it. That doesn’t mean you’re going to believe any of this, but I may as well set my story down for you. Nobody else will listen, and if it helps your ‘research’ then take it and welcome.

  Back then I operated out of a one-room office in the Home Insurance Building. It’s a pretty smart address; I did jobs for the insurance company a couple of days a week in place of rent. The arrangement suited everyone and I got a kick out of seeing Edward Jones: Investigations on a brass plate in the lobby.

  It was wild times in the Windy City. Sure, the stories are exaggerated, but it is true that the gangs ran everything, including the police. If you wanted real help with a case, you needed a private detective. I got plenty of work. I saw gruesome sights in Chicago—as bad as anything on Vimy Ridge a few years earlier—but nothing to what I’m about to relate.

  The problem is, sometimes I wake up in the dark and I can’t move. It’s like being nailed into a metal coffin, and that hammering is the sound of my heart. I’m paralysed, shut away, and it’s the loneliest, most godforsaken place in the world. I want to scream, but I can’t. It goes on and on, as things do when you’re in a flat panic. Then, when I’m half-crazy, I snap the light on and look at the ceiling, breathing hard. I lie there and try not to think of anything until dawn.

  When I got an invitation to a certain address in Lincoln Park with fifty bucks enclosed and more berries promised, I didn’t think it was about a missing poodle. But money talks. I put on a new necktie, to show what a high-class operation I run, and stopped for a shoe shine on the way. Lincoln Park is a charming neighbourhood, if you have a million to spare. There are plenty of big trees. The only poor people are the ones raking leaves outside the mansions.

  A coloured flunky let me in with polished condescension. He held my hat and coat with the tips of his fingers and disposed of them rapidly. He might be hired help, but he was a part of this fine establishment. I was just a plumber, called in to sort out the mess. He led me past a lawn smoother than most pool tables I’ve played on, and into a big glass room that was tacked onto the side of the mansion. A conservatory, they would have called it. The furniture was bamboo, upholstered in yellow silk. You’ve never seen so many potted palms in one place. The place was warm and smelled of plants.

  I felt like something from a department store that had been ordered on approval, just so the customer could take a look before sending it back. “So that’s what a real live private detective looks like.” I figured I’d earned my fifty bucks.

  “Good morning, Mr. Jones,” said a man, rising from an arm chair. “I’m Spencer Wade.”

  Wade was the picture of tanned good health, looking like he’d just come off the polo field. He was living testimony to the benefits of a life of steak, hearty exercise, and plenty of relaxation. He was a little over six feet tall, with a powerful handshake and sincere blue eyes. He was a youthful thirty and made me feel like an ancient thirty-five.

  “Would you like some coffee?” he asked. Then, after a hesitation: “Or perhaps something stronger?”

  “Contrary to the popular notion, men in my line don’t usually hit the bourbon until after twelve, Mr. Wade,” I said, deadpan. “Coffee will be fine.”

  He waved the flunky away with an order for two coffees, and we sat down on either side of a glass-topped bamboo table.

  “Nice place.” It was like sitting in a jungle clearing. “Now what’s on your mind, Mr. Wade?”

  “I’m glad you like the house,” he said. “My grandfather built it. He was a smart man, made his money in railroads—he was the one who introduced Wade-Hooker Valve Gear, you know—and used the profits to diversify into other fields. Father carried on the business, but he took early retirement last year. He and Mother cruise the Caribbean now, for his health. So I’m left running the whole shebang.”

  Wade was working hard on his likeable guy routine. I nodded to show I appreciated the effort. />
  “But it’s different these days. Investment is a minefield. The stock market is jittery, nowhere is safe. A fellow doesn’t know where to put his money.”

  “Yes,” I said, “it’s tough times all over.”

  He nodded at my wisdom.

  “I’ve had to be quite nimble on my feet the past year, looking out for business opportunities everywhere. Cattle in South Africa, for example. Cobalt mining in Bulgaria—that’s another one I tried. Baltic Sea shipping…you get the picture.”

  I did get the picture. I saw those blue eyes facing the crooks, scam-artists, and shysters who infest every rat-hole of our fair city and come out in packs when they smell money. I wondered how much he’d lost and if he’d actually bought the Brooklyn Bridge yet.

  Our coffee arrived. I smelled it before I heard the footsteps, and the flunky might have been a trolley for all Wade noticed him. The coffee was black, with milk in two tiny white jugs, and a couple of pixie-sized cookies. Wade leaned closer to me. There was a heavy gold signet ring on his pinkie, with a wavy double-W symbol on it.

  “There’s this one fellow I have an investment with. That’s why I called you. To make sure his operation is all on the level. See if his apparatus is for real, no tricks or anything, and get it back to me without any slip-ups. I mean,” he said quickly, “it’s not that I think there is likely to be any trouble. A fellow just likes to be reassured when there’s a lot of money at stake.”

  I sipped the coffee. It was top quality. So were the cookies. I was sorry to have to turn him down.

  “Mr. Wade, you don’t need a private detective,” I said. “You want an investment advisor and a courier.”

  “In this case, I do need a private detective. Dr. K. is not your typical inventor.”

  “What’s his line of business?”

  “Chemical refining,” said Wade. “He has a new technique which could be of great benefit to industrial chemistry.”

  “He’s turning lead into gold.”

  “Nothing like that,” said Wade, reddening a little. “Just, well, filters.”

  He was vague about exactly how he had met this Dr. K. All Wade really knew was that Dr. K. was German. I couldn’t tell whether they had talked about the science, which was over Wade’s head, or whether Wade was taking it all on trust. They did, however, talk about money. Wade explained that there was a lot of money in making dyes and paint dyeing and synthesising paints, fuels, and all sorts of things. He thought Dr. K. seemed to be on to something big.

  “Does he have a real name?”

  “He prefers to stay anonymous,” said Wade. “His apparatus is top secret. He has a patent pending, but these things take years and he didn’t want to wait. All he needed was a few thousand dollars to get it all working together. After that, you can just put the chemicals in and—it filters them.”

  “Sounds impressive. But science isn’t my strong suit.”

  “I’m not looking for science,” said Wade, tapping his temple with a forefinger. “I’m looking for smarts.”

  “Maybe I’m good enough to see if you’ve been had,” I said. “But why a cheap operator like me? Why not Pinkerton’s? Or how about Continental? I hear they’re pretty hot.”

  “I prefer someone with a more flexible approach.”

  I looked at him and he looked right back at me.

  “Now why would that be?” I asked.

  “You’re a man of the world, Mr. Jones, that’s why I’m hiring you. You know how things are these days. Dr. K. moves in an irregular world, with irregular people. That’s the best way to make big money these days: being unconventional.”

  “I get the picture.” It was a picture of crooked deals and dirty money, with Uncle Sam well out of the frame.

  “There’s nothing off-colour,” Wade said; “I’m not suggesting that at all. It’s just not quite…Main Street. I want you to go visit his laboratory and make sure he’s done what he says, no funny business. Then bring back the formula, or whatever it is that makes it work. He’s at a…place outside the town of Newfane, Vermont.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “A backwater,” he said, just a little too quickly. “Now I want you to get that formula back to me as soon as you can. Wire it back if possible—there’s a post office in Newfane—I don’t care how many words, how much technical jargon you need. Express delivery might be safer than carrying it.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  An awkward silence fell over the jungle.

  “I should probably mention that there are other parties with an interest in Dr. K.’s business,” he said. “Other investors…some of them may be aggressive.”

  “I see,” I said, nodding slowly. Now it all added up. “That would be from one of our city’s famous business outfits—or more than one?”

  Wade shrugged vaguely, as though the question were in poor taste, but it was all I needed. Dr. K. had sent an invitation for Wade and the others to come to Newfane. So the actual assignment was to go to Newfane, meet up with Dr. K. to check his progress, verify that the device worked, and then bring back the specs. If he didn’t have the goods, I was to attempt to get back any part of Wade’s investment, if possible. Preferably without any blood on it.

  We shook hands at the end of the meeting. He had forgiven my bad manners. Perhaps it was all he expected from a private detective.

  “I’m sure you’ll do a good job, Mr. Jones,” he said, passing me an envelope. “All the details you need are in here. Keep one eye on Dr. K. and one eye on the other fellows, and don’t let any of them pull a fast one. This could be worth a lot of money…I’ll see you get your cut.”

  When I walked out, I didn’t know who was the bigger sucker. He had put money into a scheme that sounded about as straight as a fish with legs, but I had agreed to help him. Both of us should have known better.

  Back at the office, there was a woman waiting for me. She had taken it upon herself to sit in my chair, manicuring her nails with a tiny file. When she saw me she finished her thumbnail, inspected it, then put the file away inside a little case that went into her handbag. She was in no hurry. It gave me plenty of time to look at her, and I wasn’t in a hurry either.

  She was in her mid-twenties and could have stepped right out of the movies. Her complexion was flawless. If there was a blonde hair out of place I couldn’t see it, and I checked pretty thoroughly. Her eyes, when she looked up at me, were cool and blue. The sort of eyes that wanted you to compare them to sapphires or clear pools or something sappy like that if you looked into them too long.

  “I’m sorry, I’m in your seat,” she said.

  “Maybe we can share it,” I offered, leering at her.

  She pointed to the chair on the other side of the desk, the one without the swivel action and the padded leather upholstery.

  “You’ve taken the Wade case,” she stated in a business-like tone.

  “That would be between me and my client,” I said. “If I have a client. Maybe you could tell me who you are?”

  “My business card is on the desk.” I leaned over to pick it up. Transnational Development Services, Inc., with a Boston phone number. No name, no address, just a little corporate symbol like a wheel with four bent spokes.

  “Whatever Wade’s paying, we’ll double it,” she said. “Cash up front. We want you to throw a monkey wrench in the works. Make sure Dr. K.’s invention never gets finished.”

  “Maybe it’s already finished.”

  “Then you’ll sabotage it. Burn the place down, whatever it takes.” She was a cool one all right.

  “Firstly, Miss Transnational Development Services,” I said, tearing the business card in half, “I’m a detective, not a saboteur or an arsonist. Secondly, I’m already on a case and I don’t switch sides for money.” I tore the pieces in half. “And lastly, even without the first two, I don’t take on jobs for anonymous parties with no explanation, however appealing they look.”

  Another tear, and I tossed the shower
of pieces toward the corner bin.

  “I didn’t realise I was dealing with the last honest man in Chicago.” She said it with half a smile.

  “Too bad,” I said. “But that’s the way I do business. Shut the door on your way out.”

  “I can’t explain now, but when you get to Newfane you’ll see how things are, and they’re worse than you imagine. You might want to change your mind about which side you’re on.”

  I shook my head.

  “We could help you out of a jam.” She slid another business card over the desk with a manicured finger. “Take it in case you have to call.”

  “If it’s war between you and Wade, I don’t want your card on me. Besides, I’ve a good memory.” I recited the number back to her from memory; showing off to women is a vice of mine.

  She rewarded me with another half-smile. The whole smile would be quite something.

  “We’ll be in touch,” she said, rising from the chair and picking up her handbag in one sinuous move, then sashaying out. She did not close the door behind her.

  I thought about following her, decided against. It was too early in the case to start getting side-tracked. Besides, there was something heavy in that handbag, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s not to mess around with dames who carry a gun.

  I spent the rest of the day making inquiries about Wade and Newfane and a few other matters relating to the case. Newfane was not such a quiet little town: three unsolved deaths in the last couple of years, presumed homicides. All of them from out of town, all the investigations ended right where they started. It seemed the locals were not too talkative.

  Later on, when I was looking through my mailbox, I found an article cut out of a science magazine. It was headlined “Slime Mould: Roving Fungus on Patrol.” I skimmed the first few paragraphs. It described a kind of gummy mould that oozes around the forest floor, sweeping up junk. I’ve met some slimy characters in my time, but this did not connect to anything. If it was a coded warning or clue, the code was too cryptic for me.