Professor Einstein jerked up his head at that. "But of course," he cried in delight. "Come along, lad. We're leaving."
Hauling away the confused Lord Carstairs, the professor stepped outside on the crowded platform and headed for the front of the long train. All of the windows in every carriage were filled with grim people shouting at each other. Lord Carstairs started to ask a question, but his words were drowned out by the volcanic hissing of the steam engine mixing with the loud talking from the passengers, and the summoning call of the conductor.
"Don't worry, lad, I'll get us on," the professor stated confidently, as the deafening rush of steam faded away. "Let's go and talk with the engineer."
"But what good will that do?" Lord Carstairs asked, puzzled. "The engineer has no control over passenger allocation."
Radiating mystery, Einstein gave a contemptuous smirk. "Just wait and see."
Inside the open control booth of the massive steam locomotive, the engineer and his assistant busily checked over the hissing gauges and ticking meters, while the muscular stoker steadily shoveled coal from the black mountain of anthracite in the rear carriage and transferred the fuel into the open door of the blazing firebox under the huffing engine.
After waiting a polite interval for their attention, Professor Einstein gave a diplomatic cough, and then loudly rapped the silver lion head of his cane on the iron plate floor.
"Yeah? An' what the Hell do you want?" the grizzled engineer snapped, mopping sweat from his brow with a dirty bandanna.
The assistant engineer glowered at Einstein and Carstairs in open hostility, while the stoker ignored them completely as he concentrated on his endless task.
"Hello. I just wanted to inform you, sir," the professor said in an astonishingly friendly manner, "that my friend and I have a most important boat to catch at South Hampton and needed to take this train."
Further down the platform, an oiler proceeded along the length of the train, touching up the wheels with his long-necked can of lubricant. Right behind came the conductor, who closed the carriage doors as a final preparation to leaving.
"And what's that to me, ya toff?" the engineer growled rudely, pulling a lever to balance the mounting pressure in the pistons. White steam hissed from jointed pipes on the iron chamber, the leakage filling the cabin with hellishly hot clouds.
"Well," Professor Einstein said, rubbing his hands together in an odd manner as if they were numb. "I was just wondering…" His right hand held his left elbow while the professor dusted off his lapels. "If there was anything…" - he smoothed his hair and fixed an invisible string tie - "…you might be able to do for us, as we are lost travelers from a distant land."
Halfway through this rigmarole, the engineer and his assistant began smiling. By the end, they were practically beaming with pleasure.
"Why, of course! No problem!" the engineer cried in delight. "You can either ride in the caboose with the staff, or stay up here with us. The wind'll be a bit nippy, but I've got a bottle we can share to stave off the cold."
"That would be fine, thank you," the professor said with a grin. Stepping in close to block Carstairs' view, Einstein shook hands with the fellow for some thirty seconds.
"Grab our bags, lad," Professor Einstein instructed, hoisting a foot upon the metal step that lead to the cabin. "It is not first class, but I think you will find the company infinitely more entertaining."
"So what are you all, Freemasons?" Lord Carstairs whispered, passing up a brown leather Gladstone. He vaguely remembered reading an article in the Gazette that seemed to imply that most engineers, architects, and scientists belonged to the secret society.
Accepting the toiletry bag, Einstein appeared to be shocked. "Lord Carstairs, surely you are aware that The Society of Freemasons has been declared illegal by the British government, and that membership in the illicit order is punishable by jail?"
The engineer and his assistant vigorously nodded in agreement.
"Why, so it has, Professor," Carstairs replied, struggling to maintain a neutral expression. "My mistake. Sorry."
Then, on the sly, Professor Einstein gave the man a knowing wink. Hiding a smile, Lord Carstairs began relaying their numerous bags and portmanteaus onto the cabin, barely finishing in time to hear the conductor yell his ancient summoning.
"Next stop, South Hampton!" the victorious professor cried.
***
The large stone room was cold, lit only by the harsh light of a single oil lantern suspended from a greasy ceiling beam. Kneeling on the ground, a swaying crowd of robed figures maintained a low chant as they watched the thin man at the head of the room. Their leader was dressed in an ornate red robe. He wore an elaborate crown, which he constantly shifted about while he studied a very modern map of central Europe.
"Yes," the High Priest hissed between clenched teeth as a bony finger traced a crooked path along the brilliantly colored surface of the paper. "This is lovely. Lovely! I couldn't have asked for a better place to stage a death trap."
At those words, the crowd stopped chanting.
"Speak, and we shall heed thy words, oh beloved priest," a hooded woman voiced, and the rest of the throng chorused a willing assent.
"Then listen well, my brethren," the priest instructed. "Listen, and obey in the name of the Squid God."
Ceasing their pendulous swaying, the crowd paid close attention to their master.
"Using a portal, the first team will wait for the Orient Express to stop at Milan, and will board the Italian Central train in disguise with the rest of the passengers traveling to Rome," the priest intoned sternly. "They are to do nothing until just after the train passes the town of Codogo. Then they are to attack, killing everybody on board."
"Everybody?" a man asked puzzled. "Even the women and children?"
"Our enemies might be traveling in disguise," the priest said judiciously. "Leaving no survivors assures our success."
Mutterings vows of obedience, the people bobbed their heads in unison. Ah, wise was the High Priest of the Squid God.
"Meanwhile," the priest continued, adjusting his crown, "a second group will be waiting to explode a dynamite bomb at the Apennines Bridge." His finger stabbed at the map. "The blast will destroy the support columns while the Central Express is passing by overhead, tumbling the train, and any surviving passengers, 400 yards into the icy waters of the Po River."
"But, Holy One," interrupted a fellow with a great swatch of bandage across his nose. "Shouldn't we attack immediately and, if they fail, send in another group, and then another after that?"
"We will drown the defilers in our blood!" an undulating zealot shouted.
Patiently, the High Priest smiled at his minions. Ah, they are such children - unversed in the wicked ways of the world. "An admirable plan," he said. "But, no. If we should fail, our quarry might leave the train and travel by some unknown route, seriously hindering our efforts to kill them. No. Our greatest strength at that moment lies in their illusion of safety. Besides, a long wait will lull them into a false sense of security and thus, when we attack, they will be taken completely by surprise!"
Approving murmurs rose from the Squid God worshipers at this clever strategy.
"There is no way that they can escape," the High Priest smirked, raking a skeletal hand across the map of Italy. ">From the moment they board the Italian Central, Professor Einstein and Lord Carstairs are dead men!"
Chapter Five
The train ride down to Southampton was uneventful for Professor Einstein and Lord Carstairs, aside from a minor disturbance involving a prostitute, a rabbi, a Texan, and a Chinaman with a blind parrot. In the subsequent pandemonium, Einstein and Carstairs managed to make their ferry with only seconds to spare.
However, the channel proved to be unusually choppy. The French schooner they rode constantly bucked and pitched with each crashing wave. Many of the passengers clinging to a rail or hanging their faces over a bucket voiced loud complaints on this subject. Alternately,
they blamed it on arctic winds, sub-sea currents, the Parisian captain of the ship, and/or the British Parliament.
The sailors operating the sailing ship felt that the rough sailing conditions had something to do with the revolving of the moon. The lunar orb was said to cause the tides, so if it was behaving strangely, why shouldn't the sea behave strangely as well? Other passengers chimed in with growing reports of freakish atmospheric phenomena across the globe. Throughout the varied conversations and diatribes, Einstein and Carstairs kept steadfastly mum.
When the steamer docked at Le Havre, Professor Einstein's first name basis with the local officials of the seaport hastened their passage through Customs. But it was the imposing appearance of Lord Carstairs that earned them a cab at the height of rush hour in the bustling city. Le Havre was a madhouse, with traffic everywhere: traffic almost as bad as South Hampton during rush hour.
The details of their travel plan were finalized by the two explorers on the three-hour journey to Paris, the City of Lights. Upon reaching the Parisian train station, Einstein and Carstairs openly purchased tickets on a train scheduled to leave for Morocco early the next morning. They then left the station, donned disguises of heavy beards, and returned to obtain tickets on the fabled Orient Express, destination Istanbul. Then they covertly sent most of their luggage on board under assumed names.
Next, as surreptitiously as possible, Einstein and Carstairs retired to the men's room of the train station. Several minutes later, a burly stevedore and a Dominican priest exited. Separating in the crowd of other passengers, they bought second-class tickets for the Simplon Express, which would leave in ten minutes for Milan. The two men maintained a discreet distance from each other until they boarded and took their assigned seats. Each carried but a single piece of baggage. Professor Einstein and Lord Carstairs casually sat across from each other and pretended to read an incredibly French newspaper until the train slowly pulled out and left the station behind.
As the hours and the miles rolled by, nothing worse than boredom afflicted the men on their trek through the lush vineyards of the French countryside and the soaring mountains of Switzerland. Yet it wasn't until they were deep into the Italian hills that the two explorers finally allowed themselves to relax, secure in the knowledge that they had completely foiled any attempt the Squid God worshipers might make at following them.
Switching trains at Milan, Einstein and Carstairs decided it was safe to drop their theatrical pretensions. They purchased proper first-class tickets on the Italian Central, an inland service that would take them directly to Rome - almost to the very doorstep of their ultimate destination.
Feeling more resolute, given that they wore their own clothes, Einstein and Carstairs reclined in the plush velvet seats of a private compartment and lit fresh cigars. Almost immediately, a porter came to take their lunch request. Literally starving after being forced to subsist on French cooking, the famished explorers ordered with true working class gusto from the extensive menu. The Italian Central was justly famous for both the speed of its powerful 408-cycle steam engines, and for the fact that the plump staff served six meals a day, plus late night snacks. After the porter left, the explorers locked the door and returned to their cigars.
"I dare to say that we should be safe from any further interference by those damn Squid chaps," Professor Einstein puffed contentedly. "Your idea of booking passage on several trains was splendid. Simply splendid."
Before answering, Lord Carstairs let streams of pale blue smoke trickle from his nose, savoring the long-denied treat. Ah, delicious!
"Old hunter's trick," the lord said humbly. "Learned it from my father, Sir Randolph Carstairs III, when I was just a lad. But those delightful costumes were what made the whole plan workable. Wherever did you get them?"
"Actually, the stage clothing was supplied by my niece, Mary," Einstein admitted sheepishly. "She thought we might need to travel in a clandestine manner, as it were. Clever lass."
"Really?"
"In point of fact, she is a member of the Actors Guild."
"No!"
"God's truth."
The British lord puffed away in silent contemplation. His future wife was an actor? The ladies on the London Social Register would be absolutely scandalized! Of course, that was a big point in its favor.
"The scamp," Carstairs admonished, secretly amused by the notion of the woman's boldness.
"Runs in the family, I dare say," the professor noted, with a fleeting suspicion that something important had just happened, but he wasn't exactly sure what it was.
Refusing a second cigar from Lord Carstairs' seemingly endless supply, Professor Einstein produced an oiled cloth from his valise. Twisting the silver lion head on his ebony cane, the professor withdrew a long steel blade and energetically began to polish it. When the Italian border guards had accidentally discovered the blade, the deadly weapon had caused a great disturbance, until the explorers discovered that the stout fellows collected pictures of the British Royal Family, at which point the sword was returned with gushing apologies.
A knock at the door made the British explorers freeze. But then the familiar voice of the porter requested admission with their meal. Already? Excellent! With a flourish, Einstein ceased his absolutions and deftly returned the silvered steel to its ebony sheath. Once the blade was out of sight, Lord Carstairs opened the door and stepped aside so that the porter could roll in a serving cart. The white linen top was dotted with a collection of silvered domes from which wafted the most delicious and tantalizing aromas.
"Ah, real food at last," Professor Einstein sighed, uncovering a dish and breathing in a lungful of the fragrant steam. Double portions of Beef Wellington, with the golden crust browned to perfection. What obstacles could not be surmounted with a healthy serving of that staunch repast in a man's stomach? The asparagus in Hollandaise sauce, potatoes au gratin, and brandy pudding, while eminently edible, were deemed secondary at best in comparison.
Pulling some loose bills from his vest pocket, Lord Carstairs generously tipped the porter, who departed gushing his thanks and love for the British. After securely locking the door, Carstairs used a pocketknife to cut the red wax seal on a bottle of wine, popped the cork, and filled the glasses.
"What is it?" Professor Einstein asked, lifting the pear-shaped bottle. "Chianti? Never heard of the stuff."
"No?"
"I'm more of a coffee drinker."
"Ah. Well, this is a locally grown vintage: a dry red wine possessing a remarkably robust bouquet."
"Pours well," the professor admitted, twirling his glass to watch the crimson fluid cling to the sides.
Lord Carstairs beamed in pleasure. "Chianti is wonderful stuff. It would make quite a hit if a decent supply were to reach England."
Taking a judicious sip, the professor beamed at his companion, his face lighting with pleasure. Bloody Hell, that was good! "Any chance of smuggling some home?" he asked hopefully.
"Professor! I'm shocked," Lord Carstairs replied haughtily, and then smiled. "Ten cases are waiting for us back in Milan marked as 'industrial boot polish'."
"Good show, lad!"
Sitting down to the enormous meal, the starving men got busy and, for the next thirty minutes, the compartment was filled only with the sounds of silverware on china, along with the comforting, monotonous rhythm of the train's wheels audible from underneath the wooden floor. In short order, the main course was demolished and Einstein and Carstairs were making headway into the pudding, when a muffled scream of terror was heard from down the corridor. The cry was closely followed by the crackle of small caliber gunfire.
"Bandits?" Professor Einstein asked, laying down his spoon.
"We can't take that chance," Lord Carstairs stated grimly, dashing his napkin to the floor and pushing the table aside.
Stepping out of their compartment, the two men listened, so as to gauge the direction of the earlier cries. When another faint scream sounded, the men burst into action, sprin
ting down the narrow corridor towards the rear of the train.
The passenger car behind theirs proved filled with frightened people, but nothing else. Placing decorum aside for the moment, Einstein and Carstairs rudely shoved their way through the nervous crowd, ignoring the endless multilingual requests for information as to what was happening.
Easing open the exterior door, the two explorers were buffeted by the rushing wind as they carefully stepped over to the next carriage and threw open the door. Inside was a scene of horror. A group of hooded figures was still in the act of plunging knives into the screaming passengers. A score of bodies already sprawled lifeless on the bloody floorboards. Turning at the sound of the door, a hooded man balked, and then howled an unintelligible cry at the sight of the two British explorers.
"It's them!" another killer added in colloquial English. "Praise be to the Great One!"
The Squid God worshiper pushed aside a dead woman and raised a deadly LeMat pistol. Moving fast, Lord Carstairs grabbed a nearby fire bucket of sand from a niche in the wall and hurled it at the killer with all of his prodigious strength. The impromptu missile was still flying across the carriage when Professor Einstein whipped out his Adams pocket pistol and fired.
The impact of the bullet knocked the gunman aside, and the heavy bucket sailed by to smash into two of the robed murderers, sending both of them crashing through the rear door in a hail of splinters. The buffeting wind carried away their very brief screams as the Squid God worshipers tumbled to the tracks and had an unpleasant confrontation with the wheels below.
Merely grazed on the shoulder, the first robed man tried to stand. He then made a horrid gurgling noise and crumpled into a heap to the dirty floor, quite obviously dead.
Utterly bewildered, Carstairs could only stare at the professor as the few remaining passengers scurried past them towards the safety of the next carriage.
THAT DARN SQUID GOD Page 6
