by David Fable
26
T he streetlights along the entire length of this block of Butchers Road had been intentionally smashed. This served two purposes. First, the faces of those respectable members of society could not be so easily discerned when they came to visit Wiggins’s establishment. Secondly, predators who roamed this stretch of the East Side could more stealthily prey upon the victims who haplessly wandered into their territory.
I coasted to a stop in front of Wiggins’s building and cut the engine. Immediately, three dangerous-looking characters emerged from behind a clutter of large, wooden packing crates and squinted into the glare of my headlight. “That’s a noice motah bike, you 'ave there, lad,” said one as he walked a circle around me with the other two watching and licking their chops. The one who spoke I supposed to be the leader. He bore the earmarks of a life spent on the streets. He had a deep scar extending from above his left eyebrow to the corner of his mouth. He had a cauliflower ear and flat nose suggesting he’d seen some time in the boxing ring. Several of the joints of his fingers were permanently bent and swollen, also giving evidence of time in the ring. “That’s a noice jacket you got as well,” he added after making a full revolution around me and my bike. His two cohorts took a few shuffling steps toward me. It was time to consider my options. It would be folly to try and hold them off with the switchblade. Retreat was an option, but it would require starting the engine and getting up to speed before they caught me, pulled me off and beat me to a pulp. I could negotiate. I had twelve pounds in my pocket and their leader seemed to covet my jacket. I was loath to give it up, but it was replaceable. Under no circumstances would I give up the motorbike without a death struggle. I could shout for help or make a dash to Wiggins’s door and pound on it, but if no one responded within seconds I would surely be dragged into the shadows and beaten senseless. “This is a bad place for a young man loik you to be gettin’ lost with a fine motahbike and jacket loik that,” said the leader as he leaned into my face tauntingly.
Just then, the door of Wiggins’s building burst open as if it might come off the hinges. Wiggins’s enormous, suspendered, gun-toting doorman glowered down from the top of the stairs. “What’s this?” he boomed. My tormentors froze in place. “I 'ope I’m not seein’ wha’ I think I’m seein’, Fogel,” the huge doorman snarled in an uncharacteristic cockney accent. “You’re not botherin’ Master Hudson, are you?”
“No, no! We were not botherin’ Master Hudson,” answered the street tough with great anxiety. “We was merely discussing ''is motahbike. That’s all it was, Sir Patrick.” The hoodlum grinned obsequiously.
“I 'ope I don’t 'ear different. If it was Wiggins what saw you botherin’ ''is friends out 'ere he’d be feedin’ you each others’ testicles.” Something about his inflection made me believe this was not a figure of speech.
“No need to bothah Wiggins,” said Fogel with an urgency that bordered on panic. “We was tryin’ to be 'elpful to the young man.”
“Come over 'ere, Fogel,” demanded the massive doorman as he pointed to the step in front of him.
Fogel stood cringing like a frightened child not wanting to take his whipping. The doorman glared down at him.
“I’m sure Mr. Fogel is sorry for any misunderstanding,” I interjected. “No harm done.”
The doorman sniffed and seemed just as happy to forego the physical retribution. I believe he knew his point was made. “Entrée, Monsieur Hudson,” he said with a sweep of his hand and a perfect French accent.
“Thank you, Sir Patrick,” I said gratefully. “Let me lock up my motorbike first.”
“That won’t be necessary,” he said. “Mr. Fogel will watch out for it, and I assure you it will be here when you return.”
“You can be certain o’ that, sir,” said Fogel, as if he were now my best friend. “Safe as the crown jewels it is with me.”
I handed over the motorbike and followed Sir Patrick into the building. “Get yer 'ands off of that motahbike else I’ll cut 'em off,” I heard Fogel say to one of cohorts as the massive door closed behind us.
A great deal of furniture had been moved in to this first floor of the building since my last visit, and it was taking on the feel of an exclusive gentlemen’s club. These new furnishings undoubtedly accounted for the discarded packing crates out front. There were rugs, velvet armchairs, leather couches and a magazine rack with the latest periodicals and newspapers. There was a temporary bar consisting of a table with various brand-name liquors. A very elaborate mirrored and hand-carved bar was under construction. No doubt this was to be Wiggins’s premier brothel. The lighting was still discreet and the other thing that remained was the poker game way off on the other side of the first floor in a smoke-filled haze of light. “We weren’t expecting you, Mr. Hudson,” cooed Sir Patrick. “We’ll be meeting Wiggins on the second floor.”
“Thank you. May I ask why they call you Sir Patrick?”
“Because that is my name,” said the massive doorman as if there could be no other logical answer. He led me up the sweeping staircase. Despite Sir Patrick’s graceful comportment, the runners creaked loudly beneath his substantial weight, giving fair warning to anybody above. We reached the business floor of the building, and Daisy, seated behind her little reception desk, lit up when she saw me. She shot up from her chair and gave me a motherly hug. “Christopher, how good to see you again. Come to visit Wiggins?”
“In part,” I said with a warm smile.
No sooner was Wiggins’s name uttered than he came clomping down the stairs to greet me. He was wearing cowboy boots and a holster with an antique-looking gun. His straw-blond hair was tied back in a braid and his clothes consisted of dirty dungarees and a long-sleeved undershirt with three buttons below the collar. He held out his hand and smiled with narcotized eyes. “’Udson, 'udson, 'udson…welcome, welcome.”
“Good evening, Wiggins. I’m in the mood to take you up on your offer of one on the house,” I said enthusiastically.
“That’s the spirit!” Wiggins slapped a hand on my shoulder jubilantly. “That’s what I love about the younger generation. It’s all about what’s between the legs. Daisy, line up some company for Mr. Hudson.”
“Right away, sir.” Her floor-length skirt and petticoat rustled as she quickly moved off down the hall and disappeared into one of the rooms.
“Did I say on the 'ouse?” Wiggins gave me a doubtful stare. “Of course it’s on the 'ouse!” He roared with laughter and slapped me on the back this time.
If I claimed not to be frightened by this addled character, I would be lying. Watson told me that Wiggins was not to be trifled with. He had grown up on the streets and was afraid of nothing. He had survived by sometimes being the rat and other times being the ratcatcher. I had to be very cautious in my probing of Wiggins and how I presented the topic of this afternoon’s attack, but that was the subject I came to explore and there was no doubt that Wiggins had the most to offer. I would have to get around to it subtly though.
“So take a look at this, Christopher,” Wiggins blurted as he pulled the gun from his holster and twirled it on his finger. “This was Jesse James’s gun. Had it on 'im when 'e was killed. One of ''is best friends shot 'im in the back. Do you know who Jesse James was?”
“He was an American outlaw. Shot in the back of the head by one of his associates named Robert Ford, who was hoping to collect a five-thousand-dollar reward.” I had read a good deal about American outlaws in my youth.
“If you can’t trust your partners…eh?” he bemoaned. Then that lament quickly passed and he proudly brandished the weapon. “I bought it at Christie’s, this gun. It’s been authenticated. Forty-five-caliber Colt. How much do you think I paid?”
“I can’t even hazard a guess,” I answered.
Sir Patrick stood against the wall observing impassively. For such a large man, he had an uncanny ability to make himself inconspicuous.
“Thirty-six 'undred pounds. The underbidder was Lord Walpole.” He laughed
heartily and his thick East End accent got even thicker. “Imagine me outbiddin’ a lord 'ose title goes back ten generations. And me not even knowin’ my real father.” He spun the cylinder, and I could see the gun was fully loaded. “A piece of 'istory this is.”
“Very impressive,” I said, trying not to sound too patronizing.
Wiggins mused about the irony of outbidding a lord as he admired the gun in his hand. “Let’s get down to business then!” he said suddenly, holstering the weapon. “Have you 'ad a look at the menu?”
“I can’t say as I have.”
He grabbed a sheet of paper off Daisy’s desk and handed it to me. It was indeed a menu of services offered at this establishment and described with very little ambiguity all manner of sexual activities in ascending order of price. “See this one…” said Wiggins pointing to a particularly pricey item on the menu which included a whip and goose quill. “Personally, I think that’s overpriced at six pounds, but it’s simple supply and demand around 'ere. Whatever the market will bear.” He said this as if he were merely an innocent bystander to the activities of the brothel. He shook his head as he took out a pouch of chewing tobacco and put a plug of it in his check. “When Englishmen get older, they get quite perverted.” He said this with an edge that implied the menu might only scratch the surface, and then chuckled to himself as if reviewing in his head some of the more deviant activities of his clientele. This seemed like a good opportunity to get to my real purpose.
“I thought you should know,” I said matter-of-factly, “that someone tried to kill Watson and me this afternoon.”
“What you talkin’ about!” he exclaimed. His reaction seemed positively spontaneous and sincere. “Who was it?”
“I did not recognize him. We were asked to have a meeting in a building on Weymouth Street, and this man rushed out of the apartment and started shooting at us. He chased us down to the lobby where we hid in the elevator shaft. He seemed to have us cornered but instead, someone shot and killed him, then disappeared.”
“This afternoon! On Weymouth Street!” He seemed quite flabber-gasted by the account.
“Yes,” I said flatly. I didn’t want to reveal to Wiggins the fact that I’d recognized the attacker as having been in his company at the funeral. That would have been too accusatory. I wanted to see what information he attempted to elicit, for that might give me a clearer picture of his involvement.
“And the police, did they identify the man who tried to kill you?” he asked calming himself.
“Unfortunately, I left the body with a police officer who later turned out to be an impostor. In all probability he was our savior. He and the body disappeared.”
Wiggins’s face became a mask. He stared through me as if trying to put the pieces together in his head. “Well, that’s a rather harrowin’ story,” he said after a few moments of silence.
Daisy returned with three young women who had “freshened up.” Their faces were powdered and they had rouged red cheeks and deep red on their lips. One was blond, one brunette and the last was redheaded. They lined up and smiled at me ingratiatingly.
Wiggins did not even seem to notice they were there. “Obviously, you need to be very careful, young 'udson,” he said with his voice lowered. “You are dealin’ with adults now.”
“Moriarty said the same thing to me,” I responded.
“He’s a wise man,” he said, shaking his finger as if to reinforce that assertion.
Creed, Wiggins’s main lieutenant since they were street youths, came down the dark stairs from Wiggins’s third-floor abode. Creed was blond, muscular and rarely spoke. I remember from my childhood that he had a rather severe speech impediment. I now realize it was probably due to a cleft palate. Back then, Creed whispered his information to Wiggins who would pass it along as he saw fit. He quickly moved to Wiggins’s side and whispered something in his ear. Wiggins’s reaction indicated this was business that needed to be attended to immediately.
“I must go now,” he said, then quite unexpectedly took my head in his hands and leaned forward until our brows were nearly touching. “You believe I’m your friend, don’t you?” he added earnestly.
“Absolutely,” I answered without hesitation.
He released me and the cheerful, carefree Wiggins returned. “Take any of 'em.” He meant the girls. “All three if you want.” He nodded to his trusty doorman. “Patrick, come with us.” He hurried back up the dark stairs with Sir Patrick and Creed in tow.
I turned to Daisy and the three young women, who fluttered their eyelashes at me demurely.
“Who would you like, Mr. Hudson?” said Daisy in a professional manner.
“I choose you, Daisy,” I responded with a gentle smile.
Her businesslike comportment dropped and the brothel hostess became quite flustered. “Wouldn’t you like a younger girl?” she said blushing.
“They don’t know as much you,” I said slyly.
The three working girls tittered. Daisy fiddled with the pleats of her gingham skirt. Her hand moved up to the collar of her frilly white blouse. “If that’s your pleasure, Christopher,” she said gathering her professionalism. “Julia, take the desk please.” Daisy took me by the arm and led me down the hallway to the great amusement of the other three girls.
We entered a room halfway down the hall. It was actually quite a bit nicer than I would have expected. There was a large bed with a feather comforter, a dressing table and bureau for the girls and a lavatory shared with the next room. I suspect that many of the employees lived as well as worked in these rooms. It seemed quite clean, and, if you raised the shade on the windows, the room could be tolerably bright during the day.
Daisy chatted nervously as she sat down on the bed and unbuttoned her blouse. “So how have you and your mother been getting along since you returned from university? She’s such a nice woman, your mum.”
While she anxiously babbled, I inspected the room for any potential peepholes or false panels where someone could spy on us. When I turned around, she was removing one of her stockings. “You don’t have to do that,” I told her. “I just want to talk to you.”
“Oh…” she said with great relief. “I never would have guessed you were one of those, Christopher. Would you like me to start or do you like to talk first?” She pulled her stocking back on.
“Actually, I’d like to ask you some questions,” I said.
“All right,” she said cheerfully, re-buttoning her blouse. “What would you like to know?”
“Who was the Latin-looking man sitting with you and Wiggins’s group during the funeral?”
Suddenly Daisy’s relief was gone and her expression turned serious and quite vulnerable. “If I answer questions like that, Wiggins will 'ave me killed.” There was no question that she believed this to be an actual possibility.
“Daisy, this afternoon that man tried to murder me and Watson and that man is now dead. I need to know who he was.”
“He’s dead,” she said, horrified, as if trying to visualize it. “Please don’t make me answer any questions, Christopher.”
“Daisy, do you know who killed Sherlock Holmes? Was it Wiggins?” I asked firmly.
“No!” she answered reflexively. “Wiggins loved Mr. Holmes. He would never have killed 'im.”
“Then you need to give me the identity of this man who shot at us. Daisy, either we’re going to find out who killed Holmes or somebody is going to have to kill us before we do. You have to pick a side.”
“I 'ave a side, Christopher. My own. If I sit 'ere and point fingers and give you information that I don’t even know is right and Wiggins finds out I’ve been talking about ''is business, 'e will go very 'ard on me. I don’t know who killed Mr. Holmes, and I don’t want to know, and that’s the truth.” In her distress, her East End accent had returned. It was the voice she used as a street child and that scared child was certainly in evidence.
“You want to see justice done, don’t you, Daisy?”
