There had not been many times in my short career as a journalist when I had been given such an enticing clue. And what a chance to help out my pal Archie. What else could I do but follow it? Within moments I was in a cab and on my way to the hotel in Piccadilly.
10. Hugging a corpse
I made sure the driver halted at the back of the hotel, by the tradesmen’s entrance. The note said the sender’s life, and my life, were both in danger. So I wasn’t going to burst in through the main entrance. After everything that had happened since I had left Challock’s office, it’s fair to say I was feeling rather suspicious.
A plan came to mind. I wasn‘t too keen to be spotted by respectable eyes. I’d copied it from a particularly bad story about a jewel thief I’d read in Boys’ Own magazine. I just hoped it would work in real life.
After a brief wait, I spotted what I was after: a grimy delivery boy padding along the road with a bushel box of apples. A quick word in his ear, a small payment and I was the owner of a box of apples and a flat cap. This was just what I needed. While no-one was looking I quickly put on the hat, stripped to my shirt sleeves, removed my collar and tied my blue-and-white polka-dot hanky around my neck. I rolled up my jacket and placed it on my shoulder before covering it with the apple crate. Just before heading inside I dirtied my face with a little mud from the gutter. And there we go: I was transformed into a grocery boy with a delivery for the hotel. Here was my excuse to sneak inside quietly.
With ease, I slipped through the tradesman’s entrance and into the bustling hotel kitchen; everyone was too busy to notice the usual delivery boy had shot up a few inches. I deposited my apples before passing into the serving quarters. I quickly found a cloakroom and wiped my face clean with my hanky before slipping on a spare butlers’ jacket and white gloves I found hanging from a peg in the corner of the room. Time for the next part of my plan, to find the room mentioned in the letter.
I made my way through the serving quarters until I reached an entrance to the lobby of the hotel. Peering through a round glass portal fixed in the door I waited until the desk staff were busy. A large, very well-spoken lady, dressed from head-to-toe in salmon pink, was in the process of checking in, with dozens of bags of luggage. I took my chance, and made my way unseen to the desk. After a quick look round I managed to find a rack of spare keys. Yes, there it was, an extra key for the room I was after. I helped myself to the key and scurried back inside the servants’ quarters. I calmly climbed three flights of stairs and made my way onto a landing. It was dark and quiet. To my right I could hear the snores of a large man, apart from that I seemed to be alone. I could see the room I was after and tip-toed towards it. I paused for a second before knocking on the door. What if this turned out to be a trap? What if I was about to be scrobbled by crooks? Luckily I was still wearing the butler’s jacket and gloves. If it was a trick I would try to pass myself off as an employee of the hotel, who had been called to the wrong room.
I readied myself and knocked on the door. Silence. There was no reply. I waited a few moments and tried again. Still no answer. The sender of the note had said they would be waiting for me, so why were they not answering? There was nothing for it, but to use the spare key I had pilfered from the hotel lobby. I gave a quick glance over my shoulder, to check I was not being watched, before fishing the key from my pocket and slipping it into the lock. It fitted perfectly, and with a satisfying click the door was open. I backed into the room quickly, checking the corridor was still clear. As soon as I was inside I shut the door behind me and pocketed the key. I breathed a sigh of relief. But my good fortune was short lived, for as I turned round I was met by a horrible sight. A dead body.
It was a man, a rather round man sprawled across the floor. He was plump with blonde hair in a quiff, a short-clipped blonde beard and large red rubber-like lips. These were pulled back over his teeth which, combined with his scowling face and arched eyebrows, gave him a disgusting grimace. The fellow was lying on his back, with one hand clenched in a tight fist and held at his chest. The other arm was slumped back on the floor, above his head. His upper torso was twisted slightly, and his legs were splayed as if he was in a full sprint. Bizarrely the man was dressed in his pyjamas. Looking at the corpse a little closer I suddenly realised something that made my blood freeze. The man in front of me was the cigar-smoking fellow who had been watching me the night before.
I had only caught a quick glimpse of the chap, but it was certainly him. The same rotund figure, the same blonde hair, and, yes, there on a bedside table was an open wooden box of cigars. So he was surely the person who had slipped the mysterious letter under my front door.
Thinking nothing for the dead man, or for my own safety, my mind instantly flipped into investigating mode. I had to find some clue as to why he was dead, and why he wanted to speak to me. I began to look in the room for clues.
After a search of the bedroom on my hands and knees, I carefully looked underneath the furniture, and in the waste-paper baskets. I only found one thing which I thought could be of potential value, a solid marble ashtray full of cigar ends, all of the same brand. I then noticed a second ashtray by the wash stand containing two cigarette butts. If a man usually smoked nothing but cigars, and only one specific brand, why would he then switch to cigarettes moments before his death? The only assumption I could make was someone else had been in the room before he died. I smelled something foul, and it was not the corpse. This was increasingly looking like another murder. There was only one thing for it. I would need a closer look at the body.
A shiver ran down my spine as I took a peek at the dead man’s face. It was horribly contorted. He was obviously terrified when he died. I prepared myself and knelt down next to the corpse. I removed my stolen butler’s jacket and gloves and rolled up my shirt sleeves. A quick inspection of his body showed there were no obvious marks or bruises. The only marks I could see were on his right hand, a small scratch and what looked like a pin prick on the palm, but that could have been caused by anything. It was then I noticed there was something clenched in his closed hand, it was almost invisible, but there was definitely something there. I tried to prise open his dead fingers, but they were set rigid. I took a fountain pen from my pocket and used it to loosen his little finger enough to see he was grasping a piece of paper. I had a vague idea what was on it. I managed to rip free a corner and my suspicions were confirmed. A few tell-tale black lines that were no doubt part of an upturned triangle, set in a circle, set in a square. The very same symbol that had been left on the body of the dead foreigner at the Pickled Starfish. How the devil was this dead man connected with the Indian magician?
I was pondering this as I bent down to take a second look at the body. All of a sudden the window behind me shattered into a thousand pieces, almost instantly the wood-panelled wall in front of me exploded in a blur of splinters. Looking up I saw the unmistakable impact of a rifle round, the metal slug had slammed into the antique panelling just inches from my head. I threw myself to the floor in a blind panic. Slam. Another round hit the wood, sending even more splinters my way. Slam, slam, two more, just inches from my feet which were now feeling very exposed. I had to move and I had to move quickly. I edged my way towards the window, keeping as low as I could. This meant I had to get very close to the dead man. I suddenly had an idea, a rather awful and shameful idea, I’m afraid. Grasping the corpse under the arms I pulled it towards me and slowly began to shimmy the heavy, stiff body upwards towards the gaping window. This had to be one of the worst things I had ever done, but if the gunman hit the corpse perhaps he’d think I’d taken a blow and he’d let me be?
I poked the poor man’s head in line with the smashed glass and waited. Nothing. Had the gunman fled, or was he waiting to surprise me? I pushed the body up a bit further and gave it a shake, just to make it look more realistic. It was at that moment, as I was hugging a corpse, that the door to the room suddenly opened.
“Would you mind awfully stepping this way pleas
e, sir?”
In the doorway stood a most peculiar man. He was short and wiry with a particularly condescending face. His hawk-like nose would be perfect for looking down at people with his deep-set hooded eyes. I guessed from the tone of his voice this was something he liked doing very much. It was clipped and precise with more than a hint of disdain. He was dressed like a butler, in grey morning trousers, black coat tails, a crisp white shirt and a pristine white bow-tie. If his sudden arrival was not strange enough, then what he was wearing on his head certainly was. Wrapped around his face was a pair of goggles, a sturdy set of eye-wear made from leather, metal and glass. He held another pair in his hand.
“I do think it would be best if you came with me, sir, and if you wouldn’t mind putting these on,” he said, gesturing to the goggles. “I would be most obliged.”
What else could I do but follow him? It was either that or end up dead on the floor of the mystery corpse’s hotel room. Within seconds I was up, and the pair of us were tearing down the stairs to the lobby. The small man moved quickly for his age, he sped down the plush carpeted steps with ease, not checking once that I was still following him.
When we reached the entrance to the hotel I noticed a small crowd had gathered outside, no doubt they had heard the gunshots firing over their heads. But I was mistaken, it was not the noise of the gunshots that had caused the commotion, it was a different noise. It was a whirring and clunking noise, like some kind of mechanical beast poised and waiting to strike.
“Step away please, step away,” bellowed the odd little fellow. The crowd in front of us parted, now more interested in my new acquaintance. As they moved to one side, I saw why. He was the owner of the most splendid motor car you have ever seen.
11. The ride of your life
I had never seen a real motor car before, I had only read about them in the newspapers. From what I understood, they were large, square things, all wood and polished brass that crawled along at the speed of a tortoise. But this was different. The vehicle in front of me sat low on the ground and was shaped like a canoe. Two thin pairs of wheels sat at each end, sticking out just enough to rise above the height of the vehicle. At the front end a delicate splash of chrome covered the section where I could hear the powerful roar of the engine ticking over, while ten feet away at the back end there was a small opening, just big enough for two people to sit side by side, it revealed two red leather seats and a polished wooden steering wheel. The whole thing was sleek and beautiful.
In a couple of steps the butler vaulted the side of the motor car and was sitting behind the wheel.
“If you wouldn’t mind awfully jumping in, sir, we can make good our escape.”
Now the crowd turned to look at me. I stood there dumbfounded. But in a second I was brought back to reality. Behind me was the unmistakable crack of a gun shot, then the large pane of glass that fronted the hotel exploded into fragments. The crowd around me began to wail and scream. There were calls of ‘don’t panic, don’t panic’ from some of the gentlemen, while a lady in a peach-coloured floppy hat swooned and fell. I turned to see a figure in the distance, sprinting down the populated street, with what looked like a rifle in his hand. He was dressed all in black and was heading towards an impressive carriage, rigged with two strong-looking horses, both jet black.
Before I knew what I was doing I jumped into the cramped confines of the strange vehicle and thrust the leather goggles over my face. I turned to look at the little man sitting next to me. He nodded and smiled, almost as if he was enjoying himself.
“Hold on tight, sir,” he said, leaning out of the driver’s compartment and pulling a large metal lever to release the brakes. “You’re in for the ride of your life.”
With a clang and a shudder the motor vehicle sprang into life. We crawled forward slowly at first, but within seconds we were picking up speed, and soon we were whizzing along the narrow street. Luckily the gun shot had cleared the road of people, but there were still a few beggars and hawkers sitting by the kerb, who threw themselves out of the way as we passed. I had just enough time to see the astonished look on their faces, it was probably as bemused as my own. I had never experienced anything so exhilarating. The small man in the seat next to me was an expert driver, and had obviously had some practice behind the wheel of the vehicle. Every turn we came to he span our chariot round perfectly, taking care not to hit the terrified passers-by caught in our path. But my excitement was short lived.
“Sorry to bother you, sir,” said my mystery driver, shouting over the noise of the air rushing past us. “But I think we are being followed.”
He was right. Craning my neck round I could see a carriage and two horses, both jet black, thundering towards us. The motor car may have been fast, but it was only just faster than the horsepower bearing down upon us. Just then, I heard a violent crack and felt something warm whistle past my face. We were being shot at!
“I think you’ll find something of use under your seat, sir,” said the small man. “If you value your life, I think it best you use it. I’ll do my best to shake him off.”
With that he spun the car into a dark, narrow street, smashing through a pile of empty apple boxes, sending broken wood and splinters flying, but the carriage was still on our trail. There was another rifle crack, and I saw a cloud of brick dust fly off the wall of a building in front of us. I bent down and reached under the seat. Exploring with my fingers I laid my hands on a heavy cold metal object, with a handle and a barrel. It was a revolver, an army service revolver in fact, just like the one I had practised firing with Archie as a child. I took it in both my hands and brought it up, nearly losing my grip on the weapon as my driver threw us around another bend.
“I took the liberty of loading her, sir,” he said. “Try and scare him off. I’ll keep us as steady as I can.”
I turned round in my seat, gripping the revolver tightly. The carriage was a hundred yards behind us and, from the look of things, the figure holding the rifle was attempting to reload his weapon, while astonishingly driving the horses at the same time. I took aim just above his head, pointing the barrel at the carriage roof, and squeezed the trigger. There was an almighty bang and I saw our pursuer stop reloading and duck violently out of the way.
“That’s the ticket, sir,” shouted my new companion. “If you can keep that up a bit longer, I think I may have a plan.”
I nodded in agreement and prepared to fire again. I shut one eye and held my breath, trying to steady the gun. Again I pulled the trigger, and seconds after I felt the terrific kick, I saw the driver duck sideways in his seat, a gaping hole opening up six inches to his left, in the wooden board behind him. I paused, waiting to weigh up my next shot, a smile on my face. Despite the fact someone was trying to kill me, I was rather enjoying myself.
I took a moment to check my surroundings. The car was still flying along, like nothing I had ever thought would be possible. I suddenly realised we were by the banks of the Thames, we had obviously travelled some way. Here the traffic was greater. Turning round and looking forward I saw a mass of omnibuses, carriages and pedestrians, all trying desperately to move out of our way. In the distance I could see Tower Bridge, a great mass of grey and blue metal and stone spanning the river, and a queue of carriages and pedestrians attempting to cross it. A huge ship was moving up the river towards us, and the bridge, a marvel of engineering that could open up to let such giant vessels pass underneath, was already closed to traffic, to prepare for its mechanical jaws to open. I suddenly had a horrible feeling what my new companion’s plan of escape might be.
Before I could give it any more thought, a rifle crack behind me turned my mind back to the job in hand. I levelled the gun again, but the motor car was lurching wildly as my companion tried to avoid a set of particularly deep tram tracks. All of a sudden I heard the blast of a policeman’s whistle and a flash of blue whizzed past. I just saw a constable waving his arms wildly, before he had to dive out of the way to avoid being hit by the carri
age pursuing us. Waiting until he was clear I let fly another shot. Our pursuer ducked again. I paused to flip open the chamber of the revolver. By the looks of things I only had a couple of rounds left. I would have to make them count. But before I could, the driver tugged my arm.
“I’d sit back in your seat if I were you, sir, things are likely to get a little hairy. Oh, and I’ll take the revolver if you don’t mind.”
With that he grabbed the gun from my hand. Looking round I had a horrible realisation my suspicions about his plan were coming true. We were on the approach to the bridge, with thick traffic in front of us, a big queue of people and vehicles waiting to cross. The bridge had already started to lift, and the only way of crossing now would be to jump the gap.
I heard the gun go off next to me and turned to see my companion fire a shot in the air. The combined effects of the gunshots and a speeding motor car had an amazing effect on the crowd. Within seconds it was parting to let us through, pedestrians throwing themselves into the gutter and terrified horses rising up, desperate to escape.
Ahead of us the bridge was now well and truly opening, a steep ramp appearing before us, and we were racing straight for it. Anticipating the jump my driver began to speed our vehicle. I gripped the sides of my seat in a desperate bid to cling on. Chancing a look behind me I could see our pursuer was still hot on our tail, but then my neck was snapped back round as we hit the rising bridge. I just had time to let out a panicked yell before suddenly we were in the air. There was silence as the wheels left the ground and for a split second we were flying. But the opposite side of the bridge was still rising, we were not going to make it. I shut my eyes tightly and waited for the impending splash, thinking we were about to plunge into the icy cold water below. Then, instead of a splash, I felt our wheels land on a solid surface, and the car spun round violently. Opening my eyes I could see my companion had landed us perfectly on the other side of the bridge, and had spun the car round to face our pursuer. But the man in black had not dared the jump with the heavy carriage and two horses, and was now stuck in the middle of a commotion on the other side of the river. We too were surrounded by pedestrians and traffic.
Peregrine Harker & the Black Death Page 4
