But he could shoot both.
One man was much nearer, having failed to gain the speed of his comrade. Luka took aim with his revolver and shot the man in the leg. The man screamed in pain and fell into the muck of the street.
Luka looked in the other direction as he drew his second revolver with his free hand. The other man had fled further. There would be no taking him alive. At that distance, using a pistol rather than a rifle, Luka could hope at best for a clean body shot. Anything else would risk hitting a bystander.
He took a breath, exhaled, and shot three times. The fleeing man jerked violently and pitched face-forward into a puddle.
Ignoring the frightened stares of the people around him, Luka walked nonchalantly to the man who still lived. The fellow, to his credit, had tried to stand, only to fall again as his injured leg gave out. Looking back at Luka, eyes wide with fear, he began to crawl as fast as he could toward a nearby alleyway.
“Where are you going?” Luka asked as he approached. “You have not yet enjoyed my hospitality.”
He struck the man on the head with one of his revolvers, knocking the fellow senseless. Holstering his weapons, Luka grabbed the unconscious man by the collar and dragged him back to the Old Jago. Inside, he let the body fall onto the ground and took stock of the situation.
Bates was there, doing his best to keep order, but it was Cat who had taken charge.
“Who’s been shot?” she demanded. “Has anyone been shot? All of ye jus’ calm yerselves an’ tell me who’s been shot!”
“Bates!” Luka called.
“Yessir, Mister Luka,” Bates said, hurrying to his side.
“Get your boys together,” Luka said. “I want everybody on patrol now in case this is the start of something.”
Bates gasped. “You don’t think—”
“No I do not,” Luka said, “but I enjoy precautions. Also, there is a dead body in the street. Have your boys take anything useful from it, then dispose of it. The police pay little attention to this neighborhood, but we can never be too careful.”
“Right y’ are, Mister Luka,” Bates said.
“Cat!” Luka shouted to get the girl’s attention.
“Aye?”
“Any injuries?”
Cat looked pale as she replied, “Two folks been shot! No’ bad, but no’ good either.”
“Go to the clinic and bring back the box of surgical tools on the desk,” Luka said, holding up the clinic key. “Be quick about it.”
He might not be a surgeon, but he could remove a bullet. He had done so to himself many times before.
“Aye, Mister Luka,” Cat said, grabbing the key from him on her way to the door.
Luka took a breath and shouted to the people still in the room:
“All of you listen to me! If you have been shot, sit down and do not worry! If you are well, clear out!”
And with that, he grabbed his prisoner by the collar again and dragged him in the direction of the basement. They were going to have a little chat, one that would not be at all pleasant for his unwanted guest.
* * * *
The prisoner had regained consciousness when Luka returned to the basement. Of course, precautions had been taken—the man was tied hand and foot to a chair—and Luka hoped that the creeping dread of uncertainty had already begun to work on him.
The prisoner put on a brave face and snarled at Luka as he entered the room. But he was afraid. It was only right to be afraid. He expected to die. And that would be the crux of the problem. A gang man was well acquainted with danger and violence. Fear of death would only exercise so much of a hold over him, for he could expect the same from his gang if he divulged anything. But there were far worse things than death for him to fear, and it fell to Luka to remind him of that.
Without speaking, Luka walked to a table in the corner and set down the box of surgical tools from the clinic, letting it rest with an audible “thunk”. He turned up the nearby oil lamp so that the prisoner could see as he lifted each tool in turn, examining them one-by-one and setting them down again. He did not look at the prisoner to check for a reaction. He knew that it was there.
When he had finished, Luka took another chair and set it down across from the prisoner. He sat, removed an apple and a knife from his pockets, and began cutting off slices to eat.
“Are you hungry?” he asked the prisoner.
“Go ta Hell,” the prisoner snarled back.
Luka shrugged and ate another piece of the apple, slowly and with little care. He watched the prisoner become uneasy. It was one thing to steel oneself in the presence of pain and violence. But during the long silence of peace, that certainty waned. There was agony in waiting for a blow that did not come.
Finishing his apple, Luka dropped the core onto the ground and slowly wiped his knife dry on hits trouser leg. The prisoner’s eyes followed each movement of the blade, perhaps waiting for Luka to strike him. Luka did not. Instead, he stood and returned to the table where he selected a rag and cleaned his hands.
“You and your friend tried to kill me,” he said. “And in the process you shot some innocent people.”
The prisoner said nothing.
“I want you to give me some information,” Luka said, dropping the rag. “I want to know who sent you, what gang you run with, and where they can be found.”
“That so?” the prisoner scoffed.
“That and more,” Luka said. “I want to know what their numbers are. I want to know how they are armed. Whether they post guards at their hideout. If they have any more plans for me.”
“I’m not sayin’ nothin’,” the prisoner said.
Luka examined one of the surgical knifes for a moment and returned to his chair, where he inspected the blade for a little while, turning it over in his hands. He removed a whetstone from his pocket and began sharpening it.
“You will, in fact,” Luka said.
The prisoner snorted and looked away. Luka watched the pulse in his throat. It was quickening.
“Are you familiar with the concept of torture?” Luka asked. The question was rhetorical. “The willful infliction of harm for the purpose of causing pain. Pain without the inevitable release of death.” He held the knife up to the light so that he could inspect the edge. “I have been told I’m quite good at it.”
“I’m not scared of you,” the prisoner said. “I’m sayin’ nothin’.”
“That is a lie,” Luka said. “You might believe it, but it is not true. You will break eventually. Everybody does. As the hours draw on to days, possibly weeks even—”
The prisoner’s eyes widened, and Luka heard him whisper “Weeks?” in disbelief.
“—your strength will fail,” Luka continued, “and you will succumb. And when you do, you will tell me everything and anything you can think of. You will promise me things that you cannot even give me, if only I will stop. If only I will let you rest for an hour…half an hour…ten minutes…five minutes…just a moment.… Or if I will just allow you to die.”
Luka returned to whetting the knife.
“But there is a problem, you see. Torture is unreliable. Once I have broken your resolve, you will begin to tell me everything you think I want to hear, whether it is true or not. You will lie, you will exaggerate, and in the end, all the truths you have told me will be buried in a mountain of falsehood. And so I will have to continue torturing you until you are dead, in the vain hope that enough of what you tell me is the truth to be of value to me.”
The prisoner swallowed hard. He was quivering, though he still tried to keep his brave face.
“But there is another option,” Luka said, standing and returning to the table.
“There…is?” the prisoner asked.
“Yes,” Luka said. He set the knife down again and turned to face the prisoner. Taking out his pipe, he began to pack it with tobacco as he continued, “You will tell me what I want to know now, freely, with neither omission nor falsehood. You will tell me not only what I a
sk for, but anything that you think I would want to know. You will not tell a single lie. And you will do all of this before I begin working upon you—for once I begin, I will be unable to trust a single thing that you say. And if you do this, I will allow you to leave. I will have my men take you to the docks and put you on a boat out of London, so you need not fear retribution from your comrades.”
Luka struck a match against his boot heel and lit his pipe.
“If you refuse, I will begin by showing you a few things I learned in the dungeons of the Turkish sultan. It is your choice.”
“But…” the prisoner began.
“Think it over,” Luka said, walking to the stairs. “You have until I finish my pipe to decide. I suggest you think very seriously about what you say to me when I return.”
* * * *
“Did ’e talk?” Bates asked Luka, as they sat eating lunch some time later.
“He was very forthcoming,” Luka replied, sipping his wine. “He was a generous soul at heart; he simply required a little motivating.”
Bates ate a mouthful of stew and then asked, “What did ’e say?”
“It was Jones that sent him,” Luka replied, “which surprises me not at all.”
Bates nodded. “We should strike ’em back, strike ’em hard,” he said, grimacing angrily. He smacked his hand against the table to emphasize. There was a pause. “Did ’e say where they’re hidin’ out?”
Luka almost laughed. Bates had tremendous enthusiasm and very little patience. It had gotten him into trouble before, and it would again.
“Yes,” Luka replied. “Our guest says they’re holed up in an old warehouse a few streets away. Sadly, it seems unlikely that they will stay there. They managed to gain about a block of territory after they were evicted from the Old Jago, but now they’re hemmed in between three rival gangs with only an uneasy truce and a lot of firearms keeping someone else from finishing them off. Jones will have every incentive to return.”
“All the more reason to storm the place an’ kill ’em before they kill us,” Bates said.
“I would agree,” Luka said, “if we were not significantly outgunned. Our guest says that each man in the gang has a revolver, and most have some idea how to use them. If you and the boys go in there with clubs, you’ll die.”
“Sure,” Bates said, a little grudgingly, “but if you went in there—”
A flattering thought, but.…
“I cannot take them all at once, Bates,” Luka replied. “Not on my own.” He took a bite of his meal. “No, the solution is to arm you and the boys and to make damn sure you know how to use your pistols. I will set up a shooting range in the basement. There is nothing like practicing with live ammunition.”
Bates looked a little pale for a moment and took a drink of his ale.
“Mister Luka,” he said, “I’ve…uh…I’ve only fired a pistol once before. An’ I missed.”
“And so you will practice,” Luka said. “You will practice until you can draw and fire with full confidence that you will not shoot a bystander. And when that is done, we will finally be ready to confront Jones.”
“I can get my hands on a revolver or two,” Bates said, “but how’re we to get enough for all of us? An’ ammunition too? If we’re to practice, it’ll get expensive—”
“Bates,” Luka said, “be quiet and allow me to worry about that. You eat up. You have to be on patrol soon.”
Chapter Fourteen
Luka spent the afternoon strolling about his territory, allowing people to see him and reminding them that he was there. He hoped to serve as a symbol of the peace, something for the law-abiding to take comfort in and for criminals to fear. By now, his reputation preceded him, and a number of people hurried to get off the street before his passing. But, much to Luka’s surprise, almost an equal number hurried outside to see him. A few people waved, and once a man even cheered—though he was quite probably drunk. At the very least, it gave Luka hope that the attitude of the population was changing. Whether the people feared him or loved him, what mattered most was whether or not they were prepared to live in an absence of predation toward one another.
He exchanged nods with Bates’s men as he passed them. They were tolerable fellows, most of them hardworking and eager to please. Whatever his faults, Bates knew how to pick his companions. But their quality as fighters troubled Luka, especially in light of Jones’s gang. They could manage brawls and bar fights well enough, but a concerted street war might be beyond them. Luka would only know after they had had a proper taste of combat. And until then, they would need plenty of training.
While he walked, Luka studied the buildings on each street, noting where there existed the odd place of commerce, mostly along the outer rim of the neighborhood, near Shoreditch, on Honey Lane, or approaching Bethnal Green Road. He counted a few grocers, dry goods shops, and other storefront business, but they were few. In contrast, he counted several taverns and pawnbrokers. Even as one traveled away from Osborne Court, the situation did not much improve.
But Luka had already determined that, however sparse the businesses, most if not all of the homes and apartments were used themselves as places of work. And, with some inquiries and a little payment of money, Luka was able to work out just what sort of craft or trade went on in a number of the homes. Some made chairs, others toys. Some painted dolls or finished wood with noxious polish. None of it was healthy nor did any of it pay well. But it was the only work most people around Osborne Court could find.
Luka made a note to investigate the local economy more thoroughly once he had the matter of peace and order better in hand. If nothing changed in the lives of the people, then there was no hope of his peace staying once he had departed. Even in the best of circumstances that would be a difficult thing, but under current conditions it would be impossible.
As evening approached, Luka made his way to the clinic, as was his custom. It was all part of his patrol, and he felt a responsibility to make certain Doctor Constantine was properly settled in. But to Luka’s surprise, he found the clinic already open, though it was before Constantine’s usual time of arrival.
“What is going on here?” he asked the two men on guard at the entry to Osborne Court.
The men exchanged looks, confused and suddenly worried that they had done something wrong.
“The doctor’s in,” one of them said hesitantly.
“Which doctor?” Luka demanded.
“The…the tall one,” came the reply.
Luka swore loudly and walked to the door, one hand reaching for a revolver. The damn fools! They had just let some stranger in assuming that he was a doctor? Of all the addle-brained nonsense!
It was likely a trick by Jones’s men, aimed at killing him. Luka suspected he would face many more attempts on his life before he was finally able to deal with Jones.
He entered the clinic with a revolver out and ready to fire, but he needn’t have bothered. Instead of armed men waiting in ambush, he saw Friedrich seated at the Doctor’s desk, reading the clinic logbook. Sighing, Luka stepped inside and holstered his revolver. Friedrich glanced up at him and smiled in delight.
“Luka!” he exclaimed, closing the book with a heavy thump. “A pleasure, as always. What brings you my way? Injured? I have just the thing.”
Luka cleared his throat with an angry noise and asked, “What are you doing here?”
“Here?” Friedrich asked. He looked about. “I was familiarizing myself with the medical history of my patients. But…oh! Oh, do you mean what am I doing in here? In this place? I am serving the public as only a doctor of medicine can.”
“What?” Luka’s reply was curt and irritated.
“Did Constantine not tell you?” Friedrich asked. “He thought it was a shame the clinic could only operate during evening hours, so he asked me to manage it during the day.”
“Did he?” Luka asked.
That was all he needed: Doctor Varanus’s arrogant son flouncing about the place. Gra
nted, it would be good for the locals to have medical attention all hours of the day, but was the boy even qualified for such work?
“I think it’s a splendid idea,” Friedrich said. “Absolutely splendid.” He paused and took a drink from a metal flask inside his coat. “And may I offer you some brandy, by the way?”
Luka was about to reply—in a not very friendly tone of voice—when the door opened behind him. He turned quickly, resting his hand on his pistol. He almost regretted the action, but in the time and the place, it was such a natural reaction that he scarcely thought about it.
Again, he need not have worried. In the doorway he saw Constantine, impeccably dressed and looking rather jaunty. On his arm was a young woman—practically a girl, Luka thought, and scarcely older than Cat. She wore a pleasant day dress, which was clearly very new, and her face bore the fading remnants of old bruises.
“Constantine!” Friedrich exclaimed, hurrying over to shake his hand. “As you can see, it is all well in hand.”
“Ha ha!” Constantine laughed. “Never any doubt, Doctor von Fuchsburg. Never any doubt. And good evening, Mister Luka,” he added, nodding at Luka. “Gentlemen, may I introduce Miss Sally Conner?” He motioned to the girl. “She is a former patient, acquainted with Doctor Var…er…Sauvage, and she has very generously offered to work as a nurse here at the clinic.”
A nurse? Luka thought. A look at the girl told him that she was a woman of the street. She had the same exhausted look and hollow eyes as the others he had seen. And for all the simplicity of her new dress, it was evident that it was the most expensive thing she had ever worn. The name was familiar as well. The girl might be the prostitute that Varanus had saved from Jones’s men. The age of the bruises suggested as much.
Luka nodded and smiled in a manner that he hoped to be reassuring.
“Good evening, Miss Conner,” he said. “You are most welcome. I am called Luka. I attend to the protection of this district.”
Sally bobbed her head in reply and said, “Pleased to meet ya, Mister Luka. Pleased indeed.”
A Cautionary Tale for Young Vampires Page 19
