Three heads bobbed up from desks. “Haw! Haw!” they chorused.
“Ha! Ha!” laughed Sergeant Adams. Kipper shot him a murderous look.
“I do believe,” Bigby’s eye crinkled in a wink and his finger tapped the side of his nose, “we may have identified your man.” He smirked and awaited a reaction from Kipper. The one he got was not the amazement and/or gratitude he had perhaps expected. Instead, the inspector appeared to be doing a rather good impression of a kettle trying not to boil.
“Oh, really?” Kipper managed to keep his voice relatively even. “Then who the bloody hell is it?”
Bigby beamed. He held out a hand. A sheet of paper arrived in it having been passed from great lad to great lad around the room. Kipper reached for it but Bigby snatched it back again. Childishly, in Kipper’s view. Bigby held the paper top and bottom like a town crier’s scroll. He cleared his throat and made an announcement.
“Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye!”
The great bunch of lads chortled.
“Let it be known that the set of prints discovered in every property on Harley Street belongs to petty thief and known ne-er-do-well, one Damien Deacus.”
Kipper looked stunned; Bigby was gratified by the effect of his revelation. He rolled up the paper and tapped the inspector’s shoulder with it.
“There you go, Johnny. As easy as that. Amazing what the application of modern science can do, what!”
“Give me that!” Kipper snatched the paper and unfurled it. “And there’s no mistake?”
“None whatsoever,” Bigby grinned. “He’s our man. He stole the surgical instruments, no doubt about it. And he’s very probably using them to murder dollymops. He’s very possibly Foggy Jack.”
The great bunch of lads cheered.
“No, mate,” said Kipper. He tore the paper in half and the halves in half again before letting the pieces fall to Bigby’s feet. “It ain’t Deacus. I’m telling you. I mean, he might have nicked the blades all right-”
“He did!”
“But he ain’t the killer. It ain’t possible.”
“Oh?” Bigby chewed on his pipe. “And you know this for a fact, do you?”
“Oh, yeah.” It was Kipper’s turn to smirk in triumph. “On account of that tea leaf and toe rag Damien Deacus being brown bread and buried. So there.”
Eleven
It can be a disconcerting turn of events to wake up with another man’s hand on your winkle. I tried to brush it away, only the hand I used wasn’t mine either. Startled, ain’t the word. I stared at the hands, holding them above my head. They were attached to arms, but they weren’t my arms. And those arms was - I threw back the sheet - attached to my shoulders! Brass fittings a bit like that toff’s nifty new kneecap joined the arms to my body.
I checked. I counted. My old arms was gone! Replaced by this new pair. I tried to pinch myself to make sure it wasn’t a dream but I couldn’t get the fingers to work properly. What the hell?
Doctor Hoo had knocked me out with his handkerchief and then swapped my arms! Why would he do such a thing? And without a ‘by your leave’? I wasn’t in the market for new arms and as soon as I set eyes on him, I’d tell him I wanted the old ones back, thank you very much.
I got off the operating table, which was no easy feat considering my new Chalk Farms was just hanging there, like meat in a butcher’s storeroom. I gave myself the onceover to see if anything else had been exchanged without my consent. It all seemed present and correct and how I remembered it. Oh, why would Hoo do this to me?
The new arms was thicker than mine, more muscular, so they had that in their favour. Made my chest look all the punier though. And my hands. Bigger, broader, stronger. I tried to pick up something and had to concentrate to get the unfamiliar fingers to budge. Now I knew how that toff had felt with his new peg. The effort was making me sweat but I was determined to master them so that, when I saw Hoo, I could demand me old ones back or bleedin’ strangle him with these.
As far as skin tone went, he’d picked a good match, I have to give him that. And the craftsmanship of them little brass gizmos was exquisite as the fanciest fob watch. I could just about hear the little gears at work as I experimented moving me new chalks this way and that. With a shirt and jacket on, you wouldn’t know they was there.
Hold on a minute. I wasn’t getting used to the idea already, was I? Sod that for a game of soldiers.
Perhaps my old head was still woozy from whatever Hoo drugged me with on his handkerchief.
I sat down and held my head in my hands - and that felt strange and all, and I ended up staring at my new brass bands all over again. They’re supposed to be the most familiar things in the world, ain’t they? The backs of your hands. But these was foreign objects. Every hair, every mole, line and wrinkle. It was like poring over a map of a city you’ve never heard of, let alone been to.
Mind reeling, I went back to the operating table. I climbed on it and lay back, curling up into a little ball with my new arms hugging me like a stranger’s embrace. I needed to give the drugs time to wear off. That’s all this was. I’d be able to think more clearly then.
While my new arms was clinging to me, in my head I was clinging to the hope that all this was some weird hallucination brought about by Hoo and his bleedin’ hanky.
***
Oh, yeah, I was going to tell you about the night of the Lord Mayor’s dinner. He holds it every year apparently, for the luminaries of the medical profession. Doctors to you and me. Turns out he’s throwing dinners all year round for somebody or other. Doctors one week, the Admiralty the next. The Royal Society of Chimney Bleedin’ Sweeps. Perhaps His Worship has an aversion to home cooking, I don’t know.
Anyway, one year on the night of the party, I was under special instruction from Doctor Hoo and, well, when he says jump, you don’t ask how high is a Chinaman? He gave me a list, sort of like a shopping list, except I weren’t going to pay for nothing off it. And as well as words there was pictures of the items I was sent to find - which proved very handy, I must say. I mean, could you have recognised a left-handed trephine or a spring-loaded ecraseur or even a crank-handled scarificator if you only read the name? No. I didn’t think so. Doctor Hoo was replenishing his cabinet of medical instruments - the cabinet he’d had me hump across town like it weren’t nothing.
And so, armed with this list and a bunch of homemade-looking keys, I was despatched to his old Harley Street office, where nobody hadn’t been for ages. I felt highly honoured - I didn’t even know he had one. But the shine wore off when I saw the state of the place! I hope he weren’t expecting me to run round with a feather duster.
The keys was all for the cellars - apart from a couple that I’ll come to in a bit - on account of the cellars all being interconnected for some reason. Something to do with servants, I reckon, or tradesmen’s deliveries; I don’t know. Doctor Hoo had made them keys himself and it was my job to go from building to building and get my mitts on everything what was on the list. Only I wasn’t to take no more than one thing from each place, so that their absence wouldn’t be noticed right away, or something; I don’t know. I don’t understand what goes on in Hoo’s mind no more than a goat understands the workings of Big Bleedin’ Ben. But I did what I was told. I enjoyed it. It was quite exciting, sneaking into them offices after dark. They was all out, you see, the doctors, at the dinner. All I had to watch out for was the servants, only most of them had taken the night orf. There was one place though, the last one in the row, where something happened that made me nearly fill my round the houses. I got into the place all right, with me bag of swag clinking over my shoulder, and I found the cabinet all right - them doctors displayed a great lack of imagination when it came to interior design - only I couldn’t get the bleedin’ thing open. The key didn’t fit. I tried the lot and then, sweating, I dropped the keyring and it lands o
n the carpet so there’s no sound. Phew, I thinks, and I bends down to pick it up, only to bump my head on the cabinet when I straightens up again. I just about managed to stifle the swear what was trying to burst forth by clamping my hand over my north and south. I froze. I didn’t even dare rub my head. I listened. If there was anybody in the house, they could have heard the bump if not the swear.
Nothing.
But I gave it a few more minutes just in case, holding my breath. And I thought I’d better get a wiggle on in case the doctor come home from the party.
Still nothing.
And I was about to give the cabinet another go and I’m sorting through the keys and I’m aware of time running out, when I hears a thud coming from the corridor. Seconds later, the door is opening and somebody’s coming in. But they ain’t got no lamp, no candle, nothing. My first thought - well, my second after I’d done a little mental swear - was that it was another burglar. I nips across the room, sharpish, and hid myself behind a gigantic potted plant. I watched as the somebody came in and it’s a woman and she’s stumbling and bumbling around, muttering to herself. She’s holding a bottle by the neck and she takes a swig of it every other step.
She’s Jumbo’s trunk! Well, you don’t have to be no doctor to diagnose that. She heads straight - straight as she can manage - for the cabinet and while I’m thinking ‘Hoi! I was here first!’ she gives it a bash on the side. Blow me if a drawer don’t slide out of its own accord! She pulls something from her apron pocket and it’s a bit of a struggle because it gets caught but she pulls it out and holds it up and sneers at it. It’s one of the doctor’s tools, it looks like, I can see the shape of it - it’s like a bleedin’ corkscrew! And I don’t want to imagine what a doctor might do to you with such a thing!
She lies it in the drawer like she’s putting a tiny child to bed and turns around, muttering to herself. I catch a few words. “I’ll show him” and “wine cellar” ... and she totters out on her way. I ain’t never been so pleased to see the back of somebody.
And the thing is, she’s left the drawer open! Good girl!
When all was quiet, I nipped over to the cabinet and I see that the thing she put in is a corkscrew all right. Well, it’s none of my business if she’s sneaking around helping herself to bottles of the doctor’s plonk while he’s out the house. But she’s done me a favour so I’m of a mind to do the same for her. I found the thing I wanted - a nickel-plated dilator thing what was only a little less twisty than the corkscrew - and then I pushed the drawer shut, to save the housekeeper or whoever it was from an embarrassing interview with her employer.
I was just closing the cellar door behind me when I heard a carriage pulling up outside.
Phew ain’t the half of it!
***
I got back to Hoo’s place and laughed like a drain. I had only bleedin’ gone and done it. I was worried I might have lost the knack on account of not being out house-breakin’ since my days in the tender care of Brutus, when Squeaker would stay outside the gaff I was robbin’ and give out a squeak if somebody was coming. I learned to creep around without making a sound, keeping my ears attuned for Squeaker’s squeak.
Poor Squeaker.
But this was a time for celebrating. Hoo was going to be tickled pink with me, he was. Like I say, I don’t know what his game was when he could have just bought the bleedin’ things in one fell swoop but another thing I’ve learned is that Hoo don’t like it if I asks too many questions. He’s not one for explaining himself.
I tried to keep my spirits up and hang on to the feeling of elation and relief but it’s like trying to keep a cup of tea warm. Eventually it goes cold. Where the bleedin’ hell was Hoo? Why wasn’t he there to congratulate me - and perhaps tip me a bit of a bonus? I got bored with waiting. And there was nothing to do in that empty place, apart from the faded magazines and it was too dark to have a squint at them; I was under strict instruction not to light a candle in case it was seen from the street.
And then I remembered them keys. Do you remember them keys? I said there was a couple of keys that I hadn’t used in my burglaries. Well, I thought, I could do with another challenge. Time to find out where these keys fit and what secrets they was guarding.
It didn’t take long to search the ground floor. There weren’t nothing there with a keyhole only the doors I had already used, so a few minutes later I was up the stairs and in front of the door, the locked door, that separated Hoo’s public practice rooms from the rest of the house.
Two keys, one lock. Got it first guess. I was on fire that night! Everything was going my way.
I pushed the door open. It didn’t even creak but I held me breath all the same. I prepared myself for my shins to locate any and all furniture in my path as I groped around in the dark. There was a squeak! And my heart flipped on account of me thinking it was Squeaker, sounding the alarm, but me head knew it wasn’t on account of people not coming back from the grave (well, apart from me, of course) and I thought it was a mouse. Good luck, mouse, finding something to nibble on in this empty house. But it weren’t no mouse; it was the floorboards beneath my boots. I felt a right silly sausage.
By this time, my minces was a bit used to the dark and I could see deeper shadows in the corners, with straight edges indicating they was cupboards or cabinets or what-have-you. And cupboards or cabinets or what-have-you might have locks and one of them locks might fit the last remaining key in my sweaty brass band.
So, I groped about like a blind man in a foreign country until I came to the first square shadow and I patted it all over like it was the family dog, and I quickly worked out it was a bookcase with books on it. What them books was, I couldn’t tell you. Perhaps if I’d been fed more carrots back in me misspent childhood, I might have been able to pick out a few titles but old Brutus didn’t go in for providing a balanced diet. There was the smell of old books about them, which is oddly comforting, although I could guess that what they contained would be the opposite of comforting, knowing the kind of thing Doctor Hoo went in for.
I moved onto the next piece and it was flat at the sides and across the top but smooth and curved at the front. It was a whatsit, weren’t it, a bureau? A writing-desk to you and me. And writing-desks have locks, don’t they? My fingers felt around for the little plaque with the keyhole in it. The excitement was building up inside me again, because this was just another burglary, wasn’t it? Burgling my boss! Oh, he’d murder me if he found out. Only it weren’t exactly burgling, was it? On account of I was only having a peep, just to satisfy my curiosity and give me something to do on account of him keeping me waiting around. So in a way it was his fault.
I could barely get the key in the hole on account of my fingers fumbling with excitement and I thought it weren’t going to fit but then I took a breath and calmed down a bit. In it went, like a pizzle up a dollymop. There was a faint little click and I knew I was in. I rolled up the curved front and my hands explored the little cave inside. Papers and shelves, pencils and inkwells. All this I found by touch alone. And there was a book, quite a hefty one and all, bulging with papers and bookmarks. I pulled it out and gave it a good feel. I moved to the window in the hope of some moonlight but all I could see was that there was writing on the pages - handwriting, I mean - but I couldn’t make head nor tail of it. It would have to wait until morning. Perhaps at dawn’s crack, I might have a better chance.
Speaking of dawn, it couldn’t be far off and still no sign of Doctor Hoo. A cold thought popped into my head and trickled down my spine. What if I’d got it wrong? What if he’d told me to meet him somewhere else and in my excitement I’d forgotten all about it? He wouldn’t be too happy with me, would he?
I wracked my brain trying to recall his words - and there weren’t many of them to recall: Here are keys, here is list, get things on list, wait...
I couldn’t recall anything after that. Perhaps he didn
’t say no more.
Wait...
So, I waited. I curled up in a corner with my coat wrapped around me and that book clutched to my chest like a shield. And I nodded off, all my energy drained away. I was tired to the bone, I was. Dead to the world.
But not so out of it I couldn’t wake up when them floorboards gave out the tiniest squeak.
And there he was, towering over me, like a yellow tree with a face like a pissed-off jack-o’-lantern, was dear old Doctor Hoo. He held out a gloved hand but not to help me up. He wanted the book.
“Morning!” I said trying to be cheerful and breezy like I ain’t done nothing wrong but the word caught in my throat. I coughed to clear it away.
The hand was still there, insistent. I got to my feet, my knees and back aching like I was a little old man. I got my first look at the book proper and I wanted to hang on to it and have a proper butcher’s inside but Hoo’s fingers closed around it and we had a bit of a tug-o’-war over it, until I let it go.
His eyes stared into me but I stared back for as long as I could stand it.
And then to my surprise - he is full of surprises is Doctor Hoo - he opens the book and shows it to me, turning the pages slowly. I peered at it but I couldn’t make no sense of it. It was handwriting but I couldn’t make out a word. Now, I’m not one to judge on account of my own handwriting being, well, nothing to write home about, but this lot was unreadable because it weren’t English. This was all dots and squiggles of a different kind. Like it was all foreign. Chinese, I shouldn’t wonder.
“Shorthand,” said Doctor Hoo and I thought he was being fresh so I thought about calling him big nose or something like that but I could tell he wasn’t in the mood.
He turned another page and there was clippings from newspapers stuck to it, and these I could read because they was in The Queen’s English. I peered closer. They was all about the Lord Mayor’s Dinner from years ago, judging by the date. UPROAR, said one! SCANDAL, said another!
Trapping Fog Page 7
