I shouted at Holmes, "Now what?"
He crossed to study the piping for perhaps eleven, maybe twelve seconds. Then his nimble fingers, that could coax a concerto from a violin, fiddled there briefly.
The misfiring engine instantly corrected itself.
Whompa!-whompa!-whompa!
Whompa!-whompa!-whompa!
Holmes whipped open the side hatch door. He unceremoniously heaved the dead pilot from the cockpit. With the grace of a gymnast, he flung himself into the cockpit with its wide windscreen that curved around the front of the futuristic contraption. He glanced out at me.
"Coming, Watson?"
Chapter 27
Our gyro craft bolted forward the instant I stepped aboard.
I braced myself against its frame with one hand. With the other, I grasped the mounted weapon from which a long muzzle protruded. It was a relief to be on this side of the weapon! I remembered too well dodging its bluish-white death ray.
We zoomed out of the hangar. The ground and everything below seemed to rapidly diminish in size as Holmes piloted us into a steep climb before leveling off with remarkable smoothness.
I saw the hand-to-hand combat being waged below. I realized how little time had passed. I saw Nappy relieving a mercenary of his rifle, and then using the rifle butt to brain the man. Nappy looked like he was having a great time.
The first gyro craft soared in, seemingly unaware of us. Due to the sounds of our steam-powered gunship, I could hear little but I saw the jagged bolt of lightning that lanced out from the muzzle of the weapon aboard that other machine.
On the ground, a cloud of smoke and nothing else remained where Nappy had stood!
Rage fired my soul. The clanking and hissing of the mighty steam engine powering us made conversation practically impossible, but I must have let out of cry of anguish loud enough for Holmes, in the cockpit, to hear.
He shouted over his shoulder, "I’m going in! Do what damage you can!"
We picked up speed so fast, I was nearly tossed from our machine!
I steadied myself with both hands gripping the mounted weapon, planting my feet firmly. I forced my mind to block out the fantastic nature of this. I was no stranger to military combat but ... in the air?! In flying machines armed with death rays? Fantastic, yet I sensed that this was but a glimpse of warfare in the not too distant future.
The pilot of the other aircraft became aware of our presence. That machine banked away.
Below, a number of mercenaries had sought cover behind their wagons. They started sniping at the attackers. I saw one or two of ours go down, then another. Moriarty’s men were well shielded by the wagons.
I saw another sight that tightened my throat. Timmy had sustained a shoulder wound. The boy was not mortally wounded but was unable to do anything but hunker down and try to keep from being shot. Wiggins shielded Timmy with his body, and fought valiantly. Then I lost sight of them in the melee.
My fists grasped the controls of the weapon, which were clearly marked. I sighted. I squeezed the trigger. A sustained rattling and crackling sound. A jagged bolt of lightning zapped out from the weapon’s muzzle.
The riflemen and the wagons evaporated in puffs of smoke.
Holmes jerked the steering mechanism sharply, again almost tossing me out through the open hatch with the suddenness of our turn.
Another bolt of the deadly bluish-white lighting from the other craft barely missed us. Holmes steadied our craft. The other started to draw away. I sighted along the muzzle of the mounted weapon. I unleashed another silvery flash.
An explosion, a cloud of smoke and the gyro craft no longer existed!
Holmes piloted our aircraft into a stationary hover over the battleground.
Evaporation of the riflemen and the wagon had demoralized the surviving mercenaries. They were fleeing, wanting only to escape.
Wiggins led the survivors of the assault force, chasing Moriarty’s men. The boy was urging on the others like a warrior prince born to lead in battle. I saw Timmy, who was being cared for by some of the other Irregulars. They stopped the bleeding and were bandaging his arm. Timmy looked angry and disappointed more than anything else.
The mercenaries made for the main gates leading from the complex. They’d almost reached the gates when those gates were thrust inward by a company of Her Majesty’s troopers. Uniforms and bayoneted rifles swarmed in to halt the fleeing in their tracks. I made out a white horse with a portly man astride it, directing the operation like a field marshal on the battle field.
The stout, commanding figure could only be Mycroft.
I shouted to Holmes, "Your brother did not let us down! Shall we give chase after the Blackhawk?"
I was feeling cocky.
"No need," came Holmes’ response. "The Blackhawk is doubling back to hunt us!"
If one may sound calm while shouting, Holmes conveyed that impression over the whompa!-whompa!-whompa! that powered our flying machine. Again we banked sharply, providing me with a new view. What I saw gripped me with awe and terror.
It was as if the world vanished—the dawn, the silhouetted skyline of London, everything—blotted out by the invisible, silent, enormous black mass that was the Blackhawk, bearing down silently on us.
I caught the briefest glimpse of men in the lighted control room, but could discern only the features of Standish, not of the men with him. I saw the zombies, packed into the anteroom amidship. Wild beasts, pounding at the windows to get out, even as they were airborne. Mindless of anything but the craving to destroy.
Gunfire opened up on us from the Blackhawk.
Holmes called to me, "Hang on!"
Our craft lurched, dipping into an evasive maneuver but not fast enough. Our flying machine vibrated wildly. Then ... abrupt silence replaced the deafening racket of our engine.
Holmes said, in a conversational voice as if noting a mosquito bite, "We’ve sustained an engine hit."
He shoved down on a lever below the control panel. In the sudden silence, the blades overhead had flattened. Their autorotation softened our descending glide, though the ground still came veering up at us.
In those fleeting, jumbled seconds before I lost sight of the Blackhawk, I returned fire with my weapon. The bluish-white lightning bolt sought out a target that was almost impossible to see ... and equally impossible to miss at this range!
The gondola beneath the airship’s massive black shape disappeared with a puff of smoke and a loud Bang! that sounded peculiarly flat in the open expanse of sky. Then a much louder series of secondary explosions when the engines and gasses of the zeppelin ignited. Fire engulfed the dirigible in a matter of seconds, an angry, vivid fireball of gigantic proportions that plunged earthward.
Holmes was ripping back on the control lever as we continued our gliding descent at gut-wrenching speed until our craft rose upward sharply, almost standing on its tail, arresting the rate of our dive no more than fifty feet from the ground as if a tug wire had been yanked.
We landed with a grinding, skidding screech. The impact knocked me onto my backside. The craft skidded to a stop. I leapt to the ground, joined by Holmes.
The remains of our flying machine were nothing more than a smoking pile of rubble, inconsequential compared to the wreckage of what had once been the proud, majestic airship Blackhawk. Roiling flames lifted from the framework of the mighty airship’s tail section, a towering torch that seared the sky with garish flame. The frame of the dirigible collapsed upon itself with a great whoosh!
Beyond its ruins, near the main gate, Mycroft sat astride his white horse, as commanding a figure as ever, and oversaw the rounding up of the remnants of Moriarty’s henchmen. The Baker Street Irregulars and the others could be seen assisting the troopers. I saw Wiggins helping Timmy into the back of an ambulance. Timmy’s wound was not serious. He was in good hands and would be fine.
I turned to Holmes.
"How on earth did you know how to fly that infernal death machine?"
"I didn’t. I made a few quick calculations, correlating the control panel with the craft’s construction and my modest grasp of aerodynamics, and that seemed sufficient to the task."
"I daresay." I was still having a degree of difficulty grasping the reality that I had survived such a hair-raising ordeal. "Incredible, Holmes! Miraculous!"
He turned his back to me, to the wind, to light his Meerschaum pipe.
He said, around his first puff, "Elementary, my dear Watson."
Epilogue
"A request, Watson, if you please. I would like you to shoot me."
Holmes wore an embroidered silk smoking jacket. He stood before the fireplace opposite me, a bemused expression animating his features.
It was late afternoon of that same day. I had dropped in for a brief goodbye to my friend before departing London to join Mary and her mother at the seashore. Mycroft had expedited our being processed through bureaucratic channels in the aftermath of the airfield battle.
A pistol lay on the small table next to where I stood.
I said, without irony, "Believe me, Holmes, over the course of our association I have had ample motive, and sufficient opportunity, to shoot you for some of the scrapes you’ve gotten us into and for those times you’ve made me look like a complete, gullible fool."
He smiled. "That’s it! Work up a head of steam. You’ve got every right to at least wing me for some unforgivable slight I’ve subjected you to under the guise of friendship when all I really needed was a lackey to serve as a sounding board."
His words, spoken in a jocular manner, stung nonetheless.
"Really, Holmes! You’re exhausted. You need to rest. It’s been a trying case, this latest affair."
"Albert ... is he on his way?"
"I’ve just seen him off in a cab with Wiggins, who has promised to see young Mr. Einstein aboard a train to begin his journey home. That is, unless that rascal Wiggins convinces him to stay on and join the Baker Street Irregulars."
"The future of Albert Einstein," said Holmes, "does not include running with London street ruffians. I took the opportunity to engage the lad in an extended dialogue. I admit to jotting down notes."
"So what is this nonsense about me shooting you?"
"Someone has to. It’s an experiment. You’re the obvious choice."
"There are live rounds in the gun?"
"Of course. What would be the point shooting someone with blanks?"
"Well, I’m certainly not going to shoot you."
"I beseech you, Watson. Trust me. Everything will be okay, as our American cousins are fond of saying."
"Holmes, I’ll make you a deal. Tell me what happened to Wells and we’ll take it from there."
Holmes sighed with little patience.
"If you insist. Mr. H.G. Wells initiated contact with me. He sent a telegram that was waiting for me when I got home this morning."
"His time machine?"
"A pathetic hoax, intended as a rumor he would circulate to draw attention to his upcoming book with the intention of boosting sales. He’s come out of hiding. Claims he was holed up in a rented room working on revisions of an article he’s working on and had no idea what was going on. And I believe him. Writers, bah! He’s returned to his wife, poor woman. Perhaps this unpleasant affair will inspire the fellow to restore his marriage and be a good father. I’m suspect this will elude future biographers and enthusiasts of his life and work, and that of Albert Einstein for that matter. So there! Are you satisfied? I implore you again, Watson. Pick up the pistol next to you and shoot me. More than once would be preferable."
"Moriarty," I said, stalling for time. "He went down with the Blackhawk?"
"He did if he was aboard. We saw Commander Standish in the control room so we know he went down with his ship. But I cannot believe Moriarty is dead until I see physical proof of it."
"At least we thwarted his scheme to sell off the serum, not to mention his scheme to turn zombies loose over London. Those poor souls, zombies we call them, they were victims of Moriarty as much as anyone. But how did Moriarty learn about Wells and Albert in the first place?"
"Moriarty was a member of the same scientific correspondence society they belonged to, under an assumed name of course. I have a contact in the organization who double-checked the enrollment list. His response came in this morning’s post. I’m becoming irritated at your reluctance to accommodate me by granting me one simple request. Now kindly pick up that pistol and shoot me! What are you waiting for?"
"For you to come to your senses!"
"All right then. We’ll try another approach. I mean, you are winded, aren’t you, old man? And do not consider 'old man' a term of endearment, by the way. You are an old man, Watson. You’re not in prime physical condition, the way I am. It’s why you chose to marry a dowdy woman."
That caught my attention.
"I say, that’s my wife you’re talking about. I’ll ask you to leave Mary out of this."
"Why? Are you going to shoot me if I don’t?"
I tried to ignore the fact that my blood was starting to run hot.
"Don’t be preposterous."
"Why, what do you mean?," said he. "What could be wrong with an old friend and confidant speaking the truth? You’re married to a middle-aged woman because you could never satisfy a younger, prettier one. Mary is like you. Set in her ways. Generally uninteresting—"
I snapped. The stress of the preceding seventy-two hours had worn my nerves raw. I snarled.
"Shut up, damn your eyes."
I picked up the gun ... and threw it at him with all my strength.
The room became filled with the sound of shattering glass.
Holmes vanished into thin air.
I stared at the shards of glass now scattered across the carpet.
Holmes appeared from the direction of his bedroom. He too regarded the scattered shards of glass.
"A mirrored reflector of my own design." He spoke in a calm, rational voice. "The observer can see through it, and yet it catches and reflects primary objects ... in this case, myself. A successful experiment, wouldn’t you say?"
I said, "Never again let me hear you speak like that about the woman I love. Mary is a—"
Holmes smiled indulgently. He patted me on the arm.
"I know, Watson. A divine specimen of her gender. Kind, devoted, generous, a loving soul who has enriched your life immeasurably by bestowing upon you the grace of her true love. My dear fellow, I had to get you irate enough so we could proceed with the experiment. And it turned out splendidly, wouldn’t you say? You were completely fooled! Throughout our entire exchange, you thought that I was standing in front of you, before the fireplace, when in reality I was standing in my room behind you, positioned so that the device caught and projected my reflection, making you think it was me. It would have been better if you’d fired the gun but hurtling it was enough. It works!"
"Holmes, you’re impossible."
He knelt and began gathering the scattered shards of the mirror.
"Now help me pick up this mess, will you, before Mrs. Hudson—"
Mrs. Hudson, already aroused by the sound of raised voices and shattering glass, stood in the doorway, not quite sure whether to react with concern or disapproval.
"Mr. Holmes, I heard a terrible row—"
I interrupted the dear lady, edgy after having been tricked.
I said, "Holmes, you are without a doubt the most conceited, most self-absorbed adult it has ever been my displeasure to be associated with."
Mrs. Hudson sighed, "Oh, dear me."
I went on. "I intend to have no further association with you. I belong at Mary’s side and that’s where I’m going to stay."
"Of course, dear fellow, of course." His smile was maddeningly solicitous. "But consider. We’ve also determined that though you may despise me, you don’t despise me enough to shoot me. That’s something, is it not?"
I gave up even trying to reason with the man.
&nb
sp; On my way out, I spoke to him over my shoulder as I passed dear Mrs. Hudson.
"Mark my words, Holmes. It ends here. I intend to start acting like a married man and get on with a respectable life. No more devices. No more adventures. Ever!"
His parting words followed me from the flat.
"We’ll see, Watson. We’ll see ..."
THE END
MORE BOOKS BY STEPHEN MERTZ
FROM ROUGH EDGES PRESS
SOME DIE HARD
Dead man flying! Ex-stuntman and private detective Rock Dugan faces the toughest challenge of his career. How was his wealthy client murdered while flying alone in a sailplane, in full view of all the suspects in the case? How will Rock survive when gangsters and crooked cops want him off the case? Which of the beautiful women involved in his client's murder can be trusted—and which may turn out to be deadly?
SOME DIE HARD is legendary mystery and thriller author Stephen Mertz's first novel, originally published in paperback more than thirty years ago and long out of print. Part hardboiled private eye yarn, part classic novel of detection (with a locked-room mystery unlike any other), SOME DIE HARD is pure entertainment, and Rough Edges Press is proud to make it available once again. This edition includes a new afterword by the author.
"One of my favorite writers ... a born storyteller ... Enjoy!"--Max Allan Collins
"Stephen Mertz writes a hard-edged, fast-paced thriller for those who like their tales straight and sharp."--Joe R. Lansdale
BLAZE!
J.D. and Kate Blaze are two of the deadliest gunfighters the Old West has ever seen. They also happen to be husband and wife, as passionate in their love for each other as they are in their quest for justice on the violent frontier!
BLAZE! is the first novel in a thrill-packed, all-new Adult Western series created by bestselling action/adventure author Stephen Mertz. J.D. and Kate find themselves facing a deadly ambush by Apaches, then they're hired to track down a gang of ruthless outlaws led by the beautiful, savage bandit queen Rosa Diablo. It's gun-swift excitement all the way in this gritty tale from Stephen Mertz.
Sherlock Holmes: Zombies Over London Page 12
