Lazarus spotted a Colt Peacemaker, a Smith and Wesson Model 3 Russian (Katarina’s gun of choice...), a British Bulldog pocket revolver, a Webley Mk I and his own preferred Enfield Mark II. He picked up the Peacemaker first, being the forerunner to the state of the art Starblazer. He loaded cartridges into the cylinder, leaving one chamber empty, and fired them off in quick succession at his target.
The cracks of the rounds echoed along the length of the range. Splinters of wood and shredded paper that had been plastered to the target drifted in the wake of the shots. The smell of gun smoke brought back memories of bloody warfare in the African grasslands, and the stink of intrigue and clandestine killings from his work with the bureau.
“Top marks, Longman,” said Morton, taking his fingers out of his ears. “All five on the target. Try the Webley. We drew up the contract for ten thousand of them last year. The loading mechanism is a vast improvement on the Enfield’s.”
“I’d like to see Mr. Clumps have a try,” said Lazarus.
The big man brought his cigar up to his silver lips and inhaled deeply, blowing the smoke out through his mask’s nostrils. He selected the Webley Mk I and broke it open to slide in the cartridges. Lazarus watched him intently while reloading the Peacemaker. As Mr. Clumps raised the revolver and pointed it at the target, Lazarus aimed his Peacemaker at the big man’s head.
“Drop it!” he shouted. “All of you get back!” he commanded Morton and the scientists.
Mr. Clump’s metallic face slowly revolved on its neck to fix its hollow eyes on Lazarus. His gun arm lowered but still gripped the Webley.
“Longman, have you lost your bloody mind?” Morton bellowed.
“Stay back!” Lazarus shouted. “I don’t know what’s going on or how it happened, but this thing is a mechanical! Somehow a bloody mechanical posing as a human has snuck into your top secret basement, Morton!”
“You may put down your revolver, Mr. Clumps,” Morton said, “lest our agent actually damage you.”
Mr. Clumps set the Webley down on the table and turned to face Lazarus.
“Bravo, Longman,” Morton said. “Bravo. I was confident that if anybody could call him out on it, then it was you. Ingenious workmanship, eh? You can set your gun down too, you know. He’s not a danger.”
“Morton, what the hell is going on?” said Lazarus, still pointing his gun at those blank, lifeless eyes.
“I’m sorry for the trick, old boy, but we needed to see just how passable our creation here is. It seems that only a man with extensive experience with these mechanicals can see through its disguise. Still, that’s good enough for us.”
“You mean your crackpots actually built one of these things? How?”
“With some help from our American friends. We called in some specialists from the C.S.A. for advice, but he’s all British workmanship. Put down your gun and I’ll show you.”
Lazarus slowly set the pistol down on the table, not taking his eyes off the mechanical.
“Mr. Clumps,” said Morton. “Remove your mask.”
The giant reached up and fiddled with some screws that were disguised in the molded sideburns of the mask. With those steady, massive hands, he removed the metal visage to reveal what had once been a man’s head. It was sickly, pale and bald. Its jaw was missing and a blackened pipe protruded from the esophagus.
“The organic pilot’s vocal chords are still intact, which was essential for authentic speech,” Morton explained. “Steam from its internal boiler is released from this pipe too, disguised as cigar smoke which necessitates the permanent ‘smoking’ action. It’s a fake cigar, of course, with a small light that simulates burning and a scent valve that disguises the steam as tobacco smoke. A mild blend from Spitalfields, in fact.”
“What of its fuel source?” Lazarus asked. “Not mechanite, surely.”
“Actually, yes,” Morton replied with a smile.
“How on earth did you get mechanite into England?”
“It was part of a new deal with the C.S.A. They lent us some scientists and a small supply of the stuff in order for us to try out this experimental model. Think, Longman! Think if we could disguise mechanicals as people!”
“To what end? They’re not clever enough to be spies. And too clumsy to be assassins.”
“Ah, yes, well, their applications are not yet fully understood, but it’s through experimentation that we shall find out the potential possibilities.”
To Lazarus this sounded a lot like ‘because we can’. “And this is supposed to be my colleague on the mission? A mechanical? Well you can forget it. I’m out if this thing has anything to do with it.”
“Come now, Longman, don’t be prejudiced.”
“Prejudiced? Several of these things tried to kill me in Egypt. And I’ve seen the unfortunate prototypes this kind of research turns out. Men assimilated against their will, mutilated, corrupted. I don’t stand for this and I’m surprised you do, Morton.”
“The world is changing, Lazarus. We have enemies gathering around us like a storm cloud that threatens to engulf Europe, or even the world. We need to keep current with progress lest our rivals surpass us.”
“It’s not just my moral stance on the matter that’s the problem. This mission is an undercover job. How long do you think I’ll last in the East End with this great lug following me around? A seven foot mechanical powered by an illegal energy source? Very bloody inconspicuous!”
“Doesn’t he pass for human? An extraordinary human to be sure, but you yourself did not know him for what he was at first.”
“I had my suspicions.”
“How did you know, in fact?”
“It was when he aimed his pistol. Mechanicals have a certain way of holding a gun. They don’t take aim like us, slow and coordinated with a relaxed elbow and a firm grip. Mechanicals thrust the gun out like a brand, their arm stiff as a plank.”
Morton frowned. “I see. You boys listening to this?”
The scientists nodded.
“But as I said, you have come into contact with these things before. You know how they work and how to spot them. Nobody in the East End will. And this is why I wanted you in particular for this case. We need somebody to keep an eye on Mr. Clumps here when he’s out and about on his first mission. A test drive, as it were.”
“So I’m a nanny for a mechanical.”
“Think of yourselves more as a duo. He is there to protect you, and you are there to make the best use you can of him. There’s more riding on this mission than just finding out what the socialists are up to.”
“I still don’t like it.”
“You’ll complement each other very well, I feel. As I’ve said before, you are one of our best agents. And Mr. Clumps is damn near invulnerable, not to mention incredibly strong. You’ll be safe as houses. Now, would you like us to arrange accommodation for you both? It won’t be Langham Hotel standards, naturally, but you’ll need a base of operations and somewhere to get your head down at night.”
“Best if I arrange accommodation,” Lazarus said. “I know the East End and I don’t want you boys putting me up in some doss house.”
That afternoon Lazarus took the opportunity to pay a visit to his mysterious cobbler in Stepney. Who knew when he would have a chance to pursue his personal interests while he was ferreting around the gutters on Morton’s orders?
Fifty-seven Copley Street may well have been a cobblers at one point. There was a sign above the door indicating that at least, but the windows were grimy and weeds grew between the cracks in the steps that led up to its battered and flaking front door. He peered through one of the windows and saw nothing but gloom and cobwebs. He knocked on the door.
After waiting for an amount of time that told him he was not going to receive an answer, he wandered around the back and scrambled over a wooden fence. It was all very strange. Why leave a calling card for a business that no longer existed? Either somebody was trying to throw him off the scent or wanted him here for some ot
her reason. He found himself in a shabby yard filled with bricks and broken furniture. The back door was bolted but the window to the side was slightly open, which was handy.
Too handy.
He scrambled in and drew his Enfield revolver. This whole business was fishy enough to call for caution. The ground floor of the house was empty. He found only peeling wallpaper and a marked workbench littered with tools rusted beyond use. He climbed the stairs slowly, trying not to make them creak too much. The bedrooms were as deserted as the rooms below, but as he entered the last one a boot lashed out from behind the door and caught his wrist, sending the revolver skittering across the floorboards.
He whirled to face his attacker and found an oriental sort bearing down on him, with a flurry of kicks and punches that Lazarus desperately blocked, recognizing the martial art at once. It was Muay, the fighting style of Siam, and not a style that he himself was wholly unfamiliar with.
He lunged forward and gripped his attacker in a neck hold, flinging his legs back alternately to dodge the savage knee blows to his abdomen. Using all the strength in his body, he hurled the man to the ground but had overestimated his opponent’s weight and found himself toppling over to land by his side. Then, it was a frantic scramble to be the first man to his feet. The more agile oriental was up first and swung his leg around at head height, connecting with Lazarus’s temple with a dizzying crack that sent him sprawling once more.
Lazarus had kept himself in shape and occasionally practiced the moves he had learned in childhood, but he knew he was no match for this mysterious attacker who no doubt trained several hours a day. He sprung to his feet as fast as he could, ready to block the next kick which he just about managed. He ducked low and punched with his left but was blocked, then brought up his right knee, also blocked. An elbow came crashing down on his forehead which sent sparks flashing before his eyes. He reeled backwards, protecting his head with his bunched fists. He tasted blood.
Damn me! he thought. There was no way he could beat this fellow or even escape, for that matter. He had to use his head—metaphorically speaking, of course. Why was this mad foreigner attacking him? To kill him? Or to merely knock him unconscious? Either way, the only method of surviving a potentially fatal beating was to cede to the man’s demands. But it has to look real.
He dodged and weaved, waiting for the right moment. As the attacker brought his knee up in a violent head attack, Lazarus rolled with it, letting it connect with his cheekbone as softly as possible.
It was not nearly as soft as he would have liked. His skull felt like it had been split apart like a watermelon under a sledgehammer. It didn’t take much acting to fall back and collapse on the floor. The real act of deception came when the pain, searing and hot, throbbed through his face and brain as he lay still, feigning unconsciousness.
The oriental remained light on his feet, but peered over Lazarus’s prostrate form. Lazarus had closed his eyes so he did not see what sort of expression—pride, curiosity or stone cold professionalism—was passing over his victor’s face. Apparently satisfied, the man backed out of the room and shut the door behind him. A key turned in the lock.
Lazarus opened his eyes a crack and found that his left one was fast swelling shut. He could hear the sound of the man’s footsteps descending the stairs. This was a rum business. Why knock him unconscious only to lock him in an upstairs room? He could hear movement below as the foreigner clattered about. He waited until all was still before rising.
The room spun. His brain screamed and his tender prodding to check if his cheekbone was still in once piece brought tears to his eyes. It was not shattered, so that was something. He breathed deeply and tried to dispel the feeling of grogginess. There was a strange scent, like something burning. An effect of the trauma his head had received? He sniffed the air. Something was indeed burning, and he had a good idea that it was the house he was in.
So that was the plan! Lure him here to this deserted shithole, knock him unconscious and then burn the house down with him in it. A tragic accident, or so the police report would read. But why? Who had he so grievously offended that they should want him dead? The purchaser of the journal? He chided himself for speculating when he was in imminent danger, for the crackle of the blaze was audible now.
The door was locked. That left the window. He slid it open and peered out into the street below. The drop wouldn’t kill him. But it might break a leg, possibly two, and that was to be avoided if at all possible. He looked around the room. It was empty. No useful bed sheets that might be knotted together, no mattress to hurl out to cushion his landing. Smoke was creeping in under the door. If he could only get through it, he could make it to the rooms at the rear and see if there wasn’t something there that might be of aid to him. But how?
Had he his gun he might have shot out the lock, but of course the cursed man had taken it with him. He booted the door. It was an old door and the wooden panel he had struck gave a little. He booted it again, as hard as he could. The paint cracked, hinting at a flexibility in the old wood. He kicked again and again, imagining it was the oriental’s face and this was payback for the beating he had just taken.
The wood cracked. Another blow allowed his foot out into the corridor, through a splintered hole that scraped his shin. He retrieved his leg gingerly and began working at the wood around the hole he had made. It came away in splinters and soon he was able to scramble out into the smoke-filled corridor.
He coughed and hacked. An orange glow illuminated the stairwell. Shielding his face, he crossed the landing, entered one of the other bedrooms and shoved open the window. He thrust his head out and gulped down fresh air. Within his reach was a drainpipe painted black. He clambered out of the window and grabbed hold of it, finding a foothold for one leg, then the other.
There was a grating sound as the fixtures protested at his weight. He began to descend and had barely managed a foot before the drainpipe loosened itself and began to drift away from the wall. His fists seized it in a death grip as he fell seemingly in slow motion. He just had time to turn his head to see what he might be landing on, before the bush was flattened beneath him and his shoulder struck the wooden fence. It gave a little and he came to rest on solid ground, spitting earth and clawing at the tangles of foliage in his eyes.
He got to his feet and watched the flames through the grimy windows as they ate away at the walls and ceiling, rising up to consume the top floor of the house.
Chapter Four
In which Limehouse offers several clues
The bureau had found them jobs in a warehouse that let directly onto Shadwell Basin. It was a proper contract that meant they avoided the casual ‘call-on’ which had prospective laborers herded up like cattle at a market to be picked for a day’s work by a foreman, only to be cast aside when they were no longer needed.
As Lazarus and Mr. Clumps sat down in the office of the manager, Lazarus realized that they must look like the worst couple of rogues. His left eye was still badly swollen and his lip was cut, courtesy of his mysterious Siamese gentleman. His companion looked like, well, a gorilla wearing a theatrical mask.
The manager looked at them over his broad desk, a certain expression of distaste curling his features. “What’s with the metal mug?”
“Phossy jaw,” Lazarus explained.
“Can he speak for himself?”
“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Clumps in his soft tones. “Phossy jaw. From the navy factories.”
“You don’t want to see him with it off,” Lazarus advised.
The manager frowned. “You’ve both been recommended to me by a mutual friend,” he said. “I run a tight operation here. Goods come in, we unpack ’em, store ’em, re-pack ’em and ship ’em out. That’s more or less the gist of it. I want hard work from my employees and no slacking. You lads look like strong fellas but have you got ethics, that’s what I’m wondering.”
“Oh, yes,” Lazarus answered. “Ethics by the barrel load. You’ll have nothing from us b
ut good honest work.”
“Glad to hear it. Go with Tappy here, he’ll show you what’s what.”
Tappy was a skinny man in a flat cap that stood loitering by the doorway with a small dog-end hanging off his bottom lip. “Got a shipment lined up for you already,” he said and led them out onto the docks where a vessel from Ceylon was moored.
They were put to work with another couple of workers, shifting crates of tea from the ship’s derrick. The work was hard and fast and Lazarus soon felt the need to remove his cap and roll his shirtsleeves up. He was sticky with sweat and within two hours had developed a new sense of respect for the stamina of dockworkers. Mr. Clumps carried on, taking crate after crate on his own, without breaking his stride or even removing his coat, much to the admiration of their new colleagues. Lazarus decided he would have to have a word with him about appearances.
“Your mate’s a quiet one,” Tappy said during a quick tea break. They were sitting on some empty crates in the sun. Mr. Clumps had his back to them as he looked out over Shadwell Basin. “Strong, though. I can’t complain.”
“Shy, honest sort,” Lazarus replied, wiping the sweat from his brow with his cap. “Known him a couple of months and he hasn’t said much else to me but ‘good morning’. Still, I never could stand a chatterbox.”
He watched Mr. Clumps staring at the flat body of water, his massive cigar slowly glowing away while he puffed out clouds of scented steam. He still had on his coat. Lazarus gulped down the lukewarm tea. How they were going to get away with all this was beyond his comprehension.
The days trickled by. Lazarus grew immensely frustrated at the time it was taking to find anything out. His colleagues were likeable enough, if a little rough. Many were foreigners; Poles, Germans, Irish. They had a coarse humor and several of them were clearly heavy drinkers. One or two petty crooks. But none were the hardened revolutionists wanting to overthrow the social order that he was looking for. Most of them could barely read, and he imagined that they wouldn’t know Karl Marx from Lottie Collins.
Onyx City (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles Book 3) Page 3
