by Kim Newman
‘Such matters aren’t settled with a handshake, Elder Drebber. Here is a contract, suitably circumlocutionary as to the nature of the services Colonel Moran will be performing, but meticulously exact in detailing payments entailed and the strict schedule upon which monies are to be transferred. It’s legally binding, for what that’s worth, but a contract with us is enforceable under what you have referred to as a Higher Law...’
The Professor stood by a lectern, which bore an open, explicitly illustrated volume of the sort found in establishments like Mrs Halifax’s for occasions when inspiration flags. He unrolled the document over a coloured plate, then plucked a pen from an inkwell and presented it to Drebber.
The Elder made a pretence of reading the rubric and signed.
Professor Moriarty pressed a signet ring to the paper, impressing a stylised M below Drebber’s dripping scrawl.
The document was whisked away.
‘Good day, Elder Drebber.’
Moriarty dismissed the client, who backed out of the room.
‘What are you waiting for?’ I said to Stangerson, who stuck on the hat he had been fiddling with and scarpered.
One of the girls giggled at his departure, then remembered herself and pretended it was a hiccough. She paled under her rouge at the Professor’s sidelong glance.
‘Colonel Moran, have you given any thought to hunting a Lassiter?’
IV
A jungle is a jungle, even if it’s in Streatham and is made up of villas named after shrubs.
In my coat pocket I had my Webley.
If I were one of those cowboys, I’d have notched the barrel after killing Kali’s Kitten. Then again, even if I only counted white men and tigers, I didn’t own any guns with a barrels long enough to keep score. A gentleman doesn’t need to list his accomplishments or his debts, since there are always clerks to keep tally. I might not have turned out to be a pukka gent, but I was flogged and fagged at Eton beside future cabinet ministers and archbishops, and some skins you never shed.
It was bloody cold, as usual in London. Not raining, no fog – which is to say, no handy cover of darkness – but the ground chill rose through my boots and a nasty wind whipped my face like wet pampas grass.
The only people outside this afternoon were hurrying about their business with scarves around their ears, obviously part of the landscape. I had decided to toddle down and poke around, as a preliminary to the business in hand. Call it a recce.
Before setting out, I’d had the benefit of a lecture from the Professor. He had devoted a great deal of thought to murder. He could have written the Baedeker’s or Bradshaw’s of the subject. It would probably have to be published anonymously – A Complete Guide to Murder, by ‘A Distinguished Theorist’ – and then be liable to seizure or suppression by the philistines of Scotland Yard.
‘Of course, Moran, murder is the easiest of all crimes, if murder is all one has in mind. One simply presents one’s card at the door of the intended victim, is ushered into his sitting room and blows his or, in these enlightened times her, brains out with a revolver. If one has omitted to bring along a firearm, a poker or candlestick will serve. Physiologically, it is not difficult to kill another person, to perform outrages upon a human corpus which will render it a human corpse. Strictly speaking, this is a successful murder. Of course, then comes the second, far more challenging part of the equation: getting away with it.’
I’d been stationed across the road from The Laurels for a quarter of an hour, concealed behind bushes, before I noticed I was in Streatham Hill Rise not Streatham Hill Road. This was another Laurels, with another set of residents. This was a boarding house for genteel folk of a certain age. I was annoyed enough, with myself and the locality, to consider potting the landlady just for the practice.
If I held the deeds to this district and the Black Hole of Calcutta, I’d live in the Black Hole and rent out Streatham. Not only was it beastly cold, but stultifyingly dull. Row upon monotonous row of The Lupins, The Laburnums, The Leilandii and The Laurels. No wonder I was in the wrong spot.
‘It is a little-known fact that most murderers don’t get away with it. They are possessed by an emotion – at first, perhaps, a mild irritation about the trivial habit of a wife, mother, master or mistress. This develops over time, sprouting like a seed, to the point when only the death of another will bring peace. These murderers go happy to the gallows, free at last of their victim’s clacking false teeth or unconscious chuckle or penny-pinching. We shun such as amateurs. They undertake the most profound action one human being can perform upon another, and fail to profit from the enterprise.’
No, I had not thought to purchase one of those penny-maps. Besides, anyone on the street with a map is obviously a stranger. Thus the sort who, after the fact, lodges in the mind of witnesses. ‘Did you see anyone suspicious in the vicinity, Madam Busybody?’ ‘Why yes, Sergeant Flat-Foot, a lost-looking fellow, very red in the face, peering at street signs. Come to think of it, he looked like a murderer. And he was the very spit and image of that handsome devil whose picture was in the Illustrated Press after single-handedly seeing off the Afghan hordes that time.’
‘Our business is murder for profit, killing for cash,’ Moriarty had put it. ‘We do not care about our clients’ motives, providing they meet the price. They may wish murder to gain an inheritance, inflict revenge, make a political point or from sheer spite. In this case, all four conditions are in play. The Danite Band, represented by Elder Drebber, seek to secure the gold mine, avenge the deaths of their fellow conspirators, indicate to others who might defy them that they are dangerous to cross, and see dead a foeman they are not skilled enough to best by themselves.’
What was the use of a fanatical secret society if it couldn’t send a horde of expendable minions to overwhelm the family? These Danite Desperadoes weren’t up there with the Thuggee or the Dacoits when it came to playing that game. If the cabal really sought to usurp the governance of their church, which the Professor confided they had in mind, a greater quantity of sand would be required.
‘For centuries, the art of murder has stagnated. Edged weapons, blunt instruments and bare hands that would have served our ancient ancestors are still in use. Even poisons were perfected in classical times. Only in the last hundred and fifty years have fire arms come to dominate the murder market place. For the cruder assassin, the explosive device – whether planted or flung – has made a deal of noise, though at the expense of accuracy. Presently, guns and bombs are more suited to the indiscriminate slaughter of warfare or massacre than the precision of wilful murder. That, Moran, we must change. If guns can be silenced, if skills you have developed against big game can be employed in the science of man-slaying, then the field will be revolutionised.’
I beetled glumly up and down Streatham Hill.
‘Imagine, if you will, a Minister of State or a Colossus of Finance or a Royal Courtesan, protected at all hours by professionals, beyond the reach of any would-be murderer, vulnerable only to the indiscriminate anarchist with his oh-so-inaccurate bomb and willingness to be a martyr to his cause. Then think of a man with a rifle, stationed at a window or on a balcony some distance from the target, with a telescopic device attached to his weapon, calmly drawing a bead and taking accurate, deadly shots. A sniper, Moran, as used in war, brought to bear in a civilian circumstance, a private enterprise. While guards panic around their fallen employer, in a tizzy because they don’t even know where the shot has come from, our assassin packs up and strolls away untroubled, unseen and untraced. That will be the murder of the future, Moran. The scientific murder.’
Then the Professor rattled on about airguns, which lost me. Only little boys and poofs would deign to touch a contraption which needs to be pumped before use and goes off with a sad phut rather than a healthy bang. Kali’s Kitten would have swallowed an airgun whole and taken an arm along with it. The whiff of cordite, that’s the stuff – better than cocaine any day of the month. And the big bass drum th
under of a gun going off.
Finally, I located the right Laurels.
Evening was coming on. Gaslight flared behind net curtains. More shadows to slip in. I felt comfy, as if I had thick foliage around me. My ears pricked for the pad of a big cat. I found a nice big tree and leaned against it.
I took out an instrument Moriarty had issued from his personal collection, a spyglass tricked up to look like a hip flask. Off came the stopper and there was an eye piece. Up to the old ocular as if too squiffy to crook the elbow with precision, and the bottom of the bottle was another lens. Brought a scene up close, in perfect, sharp focus.
Lovely bit of kit.
I saw into the front parlour of The Laurels. A fire was going and the whole household was at home. A ripening girl, who wore puffs and ribbons more suited to the nursery, flounced around tiresomely. I saw her mouth flap, but – of course – couldn’t hear what she was saying. A woman sat by the fire, nodding and doing needlework, occasionally flashing a tight smile. I focused on the chit, Fay-called-Rachel, then on the mother, Helen Laurence-alias-Jane Withersteen. I recalled the daughter was adopted, and wondered what that was all about. The woman was no startler, with grey in her dark hair as if someone had cracked an egg over her head and let it run. The girl might do in a pinch. Looking again at her animated face, it hit me that she was feeble-witted.
The man, Jonathan Laurence-né-Jim Lassiter, had his back to the window. He seemed to be nodding stiffly, then I realised he was in a rocking chair. I twisted a screw and the magnification increased. I saw the back of his neck, tanned, and the sharp cut of his hair, slick with pomade. I even made out the ends of his moustache, wide enough to prick out either side of the silhouette of his head.
So this was the swiftest pistolero west of the Pecos?
I admit I snorted.
This American idiocy about drawing and firing, taking aim in a split-second, is stuff and nonsense. Anyone who wastes their time learning how to do conjuring tricks getting their gun out is likely to find great red holes in their shirt-front (or, in most cases, back) before they’ve executed their fanciest twirl. That’s if they don’t shoot their own nose off by mistake. Bill Hickok, Jesse James and Billy the Kid were all shot dead while unarmed or asleep by folk far less famous and skilled.
Dash it all, I was going to chance it. All I had to do was take out the Webley, cross the road, creep into the front garden, stand outside the window, and blast Mr and Mrs Laurence where they sat.
The fun part would be snatching the girl.
Carpe diem, they said at Eton. Take your shot, I learned in the jungle. Nothing ruddy ventured, nothing bloody gained.
I stoppered the spyglass and slipped it into my breast pocket. Using it had an odd side effect. My mouth was dry and I really could have done with a swallow of something. But I had surrendered my proper hip flask in exchange for the trick telescope. I wouldn’t make that mistake again. Perhaps Moriarty could whip me up a flask disguised as a pocket watch. And, if timekeeping was important, a pocket watch disguised as something I’d never need, like a prayer book or a tin of fruit pastilles.
The girl was demonstrating some dance now. Really, I would do the couple a favour by getting them out of this performance.
I reached into my coat pocket and gripped my Webley. I took it out slowly and carefully – no nose-ectomy shot for Basher Moran – and cocked it with my thumb. The sound was tinier than a click you’d make with your tongue against your teeth.
Suddenly, Lassiter wasn’t in view. He was out of his chair and beyond sight of the window.
I was dumbfounded.
Then the lights went out. Not only the gas, but the fire – doused by a bucket, I’d guess. The womenfolk weren’t in evidence, either.
One tiny click!
A finger stuck out from a curtain and tapped the windowpane.
No, not a finger. A tube. If I’d had the glass out, I could confirm what I intuited. The bump at the end of the tube was a sight. Lassiter, the fast gun, had drawn his iron.
I had fire in my belly. I smelled the dying breath of Kali’s Kitten.
I changed my estimate of the American. What had seemed a disappointing, drab day outing was now a worthwhile safari, a game worth the chase.
He wouldn’t come out of the front door, of course.
He needn’t come out at all. First, he’d secure the mate and cub – a stronghold in the cellar, perhaps. Then he’d get a wall behind his back and wait. To be bearded in his lair. If only I had a bottle of paraffin, or even a box of matches. Then I could fire The Laurels: they’d have to come out and Lassiter would be distracted by females in panic. No, even then, there was a back garden. I’d have needed beaters, perhaps a second and third gun.
Moriarty had said he could put reliable men at my disposal for the job, but I’d pooh-poohed the suggestion. Natives panic and run, lesser guns get in the way. I was best off on my tod.
I had to rethink. Lassiter was on his guard now. He could cut and run, spirit his baggages off with him. Go to ground so we’d never find him again.
My face burned. Suddenly I was afraid, not of the gunslinger but of the Prof. I would have to tell him of my blunder.
One bloody click, that was all it was! Damn and drat.
I knew, even on brief acquaintance, Moriarty did not merely dismiss people from the Firm. He was no mere theoretician of murder.
Moran’s head, stuffed, on Moriarty’s wall. That would be the end of it.
I eased the cock of the Webley shut and pocketed the gun.
A cold circle pressed to the back of my neck.
‘Reach, pardner,’ said a deep, foreign, marrow-freezing voice. ‘And mighty slow like.’
V
My father always said I’d wind up with a noose around my neck. Even Sir Augustus did not predict said noose would be strung from a pretentious chandelier and attached firmly to a curtain rail.
I was stood on a none-too-sturdy occasional table, hands tied behind my back with taut, biting twine. Only the thickness of my boot heels kept me from throttling at once.
Here was a ‘how-d’you-do?’.
The parlour of The Laurels was still unlit, the curtains drawn. Unable to look down, I was aware of the people in the room but no more.
The man, Lassiter, had raised a bump on my noggin with his pistol butt.
I had an idea this was still better than an interview with a disappointed Professor Moriarty.
On the table, by my boot toes, were my Webley, broken and unloaded, the flask-glass, my folding knife, my (emptyish) notecase, three French postcards and a watch which had a sentiment from ‘Violet, to Algy’ engraved inside.
‘Okay, Algy,’ drawled Lassiter, ‘listen up...’
I didn’t feel inclined to correct his assumption.
‘We’re gonna have a little talk-like. I’m gonna ask questions, and you can give answers. Understand?’
I tried to stand very still.
Lassiter kicked the table, which wobbled. Rough hemp cut into my throat.
I nodded my understanding, bringing tears to my eyes.
‘Fine and dandy.’
He was behind me. The woman was in the room too, keeping quiet, probably holding the girl to keep her from fidgeting.
‘You ain’t no Mormon,’ Lassiter said.
It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t answer.
The table rocked again. Evidently, it had been a question.
‘I’m not a Mormon,’ I said, with difficulty. ‘No.’
‘But you’re with the Danite Band?’
I had to think about that.
A loud noise sounded and the table splintered. A slice of it sheared away. I had to hop to keep balance on what was left.
My ears rang. It was seconds before I could make out what was being said.
‘Noise-some, ain’t it? You’ll be hearin’ that fer days.’
It wasn’t the bang – I’ve heard enough bangs in my time – it was the smell, the discharged gun smell. It clear
ed my head.
The noose at my throat cut deep.
I had heard – in the prefects’ common room at Eton, not any of the bordellos or dives I’ve frequented since those horrible days – that being hanged, if only for a few seconds, elicits a peculiar physiological reaction in the human male. Connoisseurs reckon this a powerful erotic, on a par with the ministrations of the most expert houri. I was now, embarrassingly, in a position to confirm sixth-form legend.
A gasp from the woman suggested the near-excruciating bulge in my fly was externally evident.
‘Why, you low, disgustin’ snake,’ said Lassiter. ‘In the presence of a lady, to make such a...’
Words failed him. I was in no position to explain this unsought, involuntary response.
Arbuthnot, captain of the second eleven, now active in a movement for the suppression of licentious music hall performance, maintained this throttling business was more pleasurable if the self-strangulator dressed as a ballerina and sucked a boiled sweet dipped in absinthe.
I could not help but wish Arbuthnot were here now to test his theory, instead of me.
‘Jim, Jim, what are we to do?’ the woman said. ‘They know where we are. I told you they’d never give up. Not after Surprise Valley.’
Her voice, shrill and desperate, was sweet to me. I knew from the quality of Lassiter’s silence that his wife’s whining was no help to him.
I began to see the advantages of my situation.
I had been through the red rage and fear of peril and come to the cold calm clearing.
‘At present, Mr and Mrs Lassiter,’ I began in somewhat strangulated voice, giving them their true names, ‘you are pursued only by foreign cranks whose authority will never be recognised by British law. If your story were known, popular sympathy would be with you and the Danites further frustrated. Those I represent would make sure of that.’
‘Who do you represent, Algy?’
That was the question I’d never answer, not if he shot all the legs off the table and let me kick. Even if I died, Moriarty would use spiritualist mediums to lay hands on my ectoplasm and double my sufferings.
