Sherlock Holmes in Orbit

by Mike Resnick (ed)

  “Oh, we know much more,” said he. “It must be kept as dry as possible—no easy task in London. Thus it is probably in a warehouse much like Babbage’s. We know it is here in London because Moriarty must have quick access to the financial markets and news centers to properly and timely direct his infernal machine. We can gather that he had need of advanced machining in order to correct the original deficiencies of its gears. Lastly, because it is potentially the most valuable—and dangerous—machine in the world, it is well guarded, perhaps so much so that that in itself will draw our attention to it.”

  Though I had my practice to attend to, I offered to aid Holmes in his efforts. He assigned me a reconnoiter of the machining and tooling shops, cautioning me to be careful. We departed, agreeing to meet in two days. I doubted whether Sherlock Holmes would sleep.

  Henry Babbage was already present in Holmes’s sitting room when I arrived two days hence, at precisely seven p.m. Holmes directed me to fix myself a whisky and soda. He appeared to be quite pleased with himself; so I assumed he had made good progress, which I had not, and which I reported to him after taking a long, hard swallow of my drink.

  “No matter, Watson,” he said, waving with his hand as if my considerable efforts had been of no consequence. “I followed a different track to the same station. It’s not like Moriarty to use legitimate tradesmen in the first place. I checked in with our friends at the Yard and found out which forgers had been released from Newgate or Dartmoor prison in the last year. One in particular, Willie Stokes, had been released, found employment at a tooling shop, and later disappeared with several hundred pounds worth of equipment. It took no great effort to find him.”

  “He led you to my machine, then?” asked Babbage.

  “No …” replied Holmes. “But he got me in the right area. I checked with some of the leasing agencies, but could not come up with any likely locations. Then I realized that with an undertaking of this import, and considering his considerable ill-gotten wealth, Moriarty would buy his own building, the better to control access. A quick check of records located several possibilities which, at least in a very cursory manner, I inspected from inside a hansom.”

  Holmes retrieved his cherrywood from the rack on the sidetable and carefully went through his routine of lighting up, while we waited in suspense.

  “I have found it,” he said, without further delay. “It is located north of the Broad Street and Liverpool Street Stations, near Tillrey. It is a small, secluded warehouse abutting a rail line with only one street dead-ending into it. A telegraph line runs into the upper level, and guards—rather I should say, thugs—patrol diligently outside.”

  “And the plan, Holmes?” I asked, anxious to start the chase.

  “Tomorrow at midday, Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard will gather his forces at the Broad Street Station.” Turning to Babbage, he added, “By this time tomorrow, sir, you should see the return of your property.” Turning back to me, he added with a smile, “And Moriarty will be behind bars.”

  “Splendid!” exclaimed Babbage, rising from his chair and going for his coat. “You will contact me when it is over, then?”

  “Most assuredly,” replied Holmes. Holmes and I completed our plans over a simple meal, and soon after, I excused myself.

  As I put on my hat to leave, Holmes admonished me, “Your service revolver, Watson. Don’t forget to bring your revolver.”

  The forces were assembled. Lestrade seemed as anxious as Holmes to capture Moriarty, for he, too, knew of the web of crime that centered about this evil genius. Lestrade deployed a group of officers along the rail line to approach the warehouse from the rear, while we joined the main force in the attack from the front. I doubted anyone could get through the net, so tightly was it woven with uniformed policemen.

  As we raced up the street in Lestrade’s police wagon, I heard Holmes utter a curse, and following his gaze, I saw that the warehouse appeared abandoned. Holmes leaped from the wagon and dashed into the building, heedless of being at the forefront, determined to find Moriarty. I raced after him, my pistol at the ready.

  I found Holmes on the upper level, standing next to a rectangular-shaped, oily outline where once the Future Engine sat. Rough, fresh scratches trailed across the room to where a hoist swung slowly in the breeze from an open loft.

  “Once again, I misjudged my adversary,” said he, solemnly. “You may return with Lestrade. I’m going to look for clues. But do come tonight, Watson. We must make plans.”

  I expected a dejected Sherlock Holmes when I arrived that evening. Instead, I found him buoyant and energetic. I questioned his lighthearted mood.

  “This afternoon was only a setback, not a defeat,” he remarked. “Once in a while I need that to keep me sharp. It seemed so easy to locate the warehouse that I didn’t complete the logical process of defining all the possibilities.”

  “What did you omit, old chap, that you had not already considered?”

  “Why, the most elemental thing, Watson. The Future Engine! Moriarty knew in advance that I would locate the warehouse. He knew to the day, if not the hour, when I would put the puzzle together, and he planned accordingly. That was why the hoist was in position; he knows me too well. No doubt he expends much of the Future Engine’s calculating capabilities for the sole purpose of defeating me— his greatest threat.”

  I threw up my hands in frustration. “We’re helpless. If he can predict our every move, how can we hope—”

  “By doing the unexpected,” interjected Holmes. “By moving fast and instinctively, instead of slow and deliberately.”

  From below came the sound of high voices, laughter, shouts, the clatter of dozens of footsteps on the stairs. Above it all we could hear the cries of Mrs. Hudson.

  “Hark!” yelled Holmes, a smile on his face. “The sound of random variables.”

  Tumbling into the room came the most bedraggled, motley, filthy, boisterous, uncouth collection of street urchins either side of the Thames—the Baker Street Irregulars!

  They lined themselves up in some primordial pecking order through a series of shoves, curses and grunts. They all doffed their caps and stood at what one might call “attention,” other than the fact that one lad scratched his rump, another his privates, and they all craned their necks, rotating ‘round the room to see what to their eyes must seem a wizard’s den.

  The tallest lad stepped forward. “ ‘Ere we be, Mr. ‘Olmes; ‘Ow may we be of service?”

  “Gather around boys. I have a job for you,” said Holmes, motioning them to the small table where a large tray of crumpets and biscuits lay invitingly.

  I may have blinked twice. The food disappeared.

  Holmes proceeded to describe the Future Engine, going into great detail about its size, weight, and structure.

  “I’m not going to tell you where to look; that’s entirely up to you,” said he. “I am going to caution you though, it will be guarded by dangerous men. So be careful. And come immediately back to me once you find something. Immediately!”

  Holmes looked at the leader. “Line your boys ... er, men up.”

  “Atten-shun!” His yell was followed by another shoving match, though it appeared to align the boys in the same order as before.

  Going down the row, Holmes placed a half-guinea in each hand. To the last, a ragamuffin no older than seven, he placed an extra shilling, whispering, “Buy yourself a warm coat, boy. Will you do that?” A nod and a smile.

  “A fiver for the one who finds it. Now scat!”

  Quickly, but oh so noisily, the Baker Street Irregulars ran out of the room and disappeared into the streets of London.

  I stayed but a short while longer. Holmes outlined his new plan and assigned me a few tasks, but he seemed to have his most faith in the boys, explaining that Moriarty was at his most vulnerable now, what with his hurried escape last night.

  The next few days were quite busy, not only with my practice, but also in the service of Sherlock Holmes as we continued o
ur search for the Future Engine. Our nights had gotten progressively later, and I had taken up temporary quarters in my old room.

  On the fifth evening following our unsuccessful raid on the warehouse, Tom, the young leader of the Baker Street Irregulars, came bursting through the door of the apartment. “Bobby’s dead!” he cried.

  “Hold on, lad,” said Holmes, leading him to a chair and giving him a cup of hot tea. “Now, tell us what happened.” “ ‘Is throat was cut through like a slaughtered ‘og, ‘e was; like a bloody ‘og. Then tossed in the Thames.”

  Poor Tom looked more like the boy he was than the leader of a gang. His eyes were red, and he struggled to show no tears.

  “I’m sorry, Tom,” said Holmes, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll catch them and see them hanged. Young Bobby must have stumbled onto the Future Engine. Had he reported anything?”

  “ ‘E was assigned the warehouses and buildings south of the river, and at our last meeting ‘e said ‘e ‘ad worked ‘is way from the Wapping Wharf to almost Waterloo Bridge.” “Then it’s off to Dockland and Waterloo Bridge,” said Holmes, rising from his chair. “It must be near.”

  “What of Lestrade and the police,” I interjected.

  “No time, Watson. Remember, we must act quickly now.” Walking briskly to his desk, he scribbled a note and handed it to Tom. “Tom, you deliver this to Scotland Yard and then gather the Irregulars and meet us at Waterloo Bridge. I expect to have another errand for you.”

  As the lad rushed off, Holmes turned to me and said vehemently, “A deed most foul, Watson. A cowardly crime that shall not go unpunished. I now make a vow: I shall not rest until that blight on the earth, that child killer, Moriarty, has been removed from the realm of the living and dispatched to the everlasting torments of hell!”

  Angrily, his hands shaking, he inspected the chambers of his pistol which he then placed in his coat.

  “Let us see if I can honor my vow this very night, Watson!”

  He

  Holmes had the hansom drop us across the river several streets from the bridge, and under cover of darkness and a developing shroud of fog, we began our search. It seemed an impossible task as we entered an area of darkened warehouses, slop shops, and boarding houses. The only lights—there were no gaslights—came from the numerous taverns and pubs.

  Holmes, too, must have realized how difficult our chore, for he said, “I think we shall have to flush our prey, Watson.”

  We reached a broad street lined with warehouses just off the south bank, which during daylight was probably packed with carts and drays, but now loomed ominous and foreboding. On the comer we stopped outside a bawdyhouse and tavern from which curses, shouts, laughter and song spilled forth like an opera house gone mad.

  “Make a noisy entry, Watson, and offer a sovereign to anyone having information on the death of the young lad. I’ll back you up just outside. If someone leaves, stay long enough not to arouse suspicion. If he lies in ambush, I’ll crack his head and we’ll squeeze the information from him.”

  Holmes took off his scarf and, taking his knife from his coat, he cut it in strips. “If the rogue bolts for help or to report, I’ll follow and leave you a trail.”

  I hesitated, but Holmes urged me on. I feared not so much entering the tavern—I put a hand in my coat and felt the reassuring metal of my pistol—as I did leaving Holmes alone to trail a possible confederate to the lair of Professor Moriarty.

  Entering the tavern, my heart pounding, I wasted no time. “Barkeep! A pint for my dry throat,” I yelled out to a room suddenly gone quiet. Looking slowly around the room, I added, “And a sovereign to the man brave enough to tell me of the child murdered on the dock last night.”

  The only response was a curse here and there and a noticeable movement away from me as I strode to the scarred, wooden bar and tossed coins down for my ale. I drank from my glass and turned to face the scowls and enmity of a roomful of the lowest sort: pickpockets, cracksmen, counterfeiters, lifters and palmers, and, no doubt, murderers. I had no success in an attempt to engage the innkeeper in conversation, nor with any of the ruffians who stood alongside me at the bar.

  At least ten or fifteen minutes passed while I took small sips—wanting to keep a clear head—and watched for anyone to exit, but I noticed nothing. Finally, I barked another offer loud enough to be heard above the din, with the same results. Holmes had not told me how much time to allot, so I took it upon my own that enough time had passed and that it would be best to try another tavern. With a backward glance as I departed, I walked out to the street expecting to find Holmes.

  He was gone!

  I was frantic with worry, thinking the worst thoughts, when I came upon a strip of scarf, and then a short distance farther, another ribbon showing me the direction to travel.

  How long had he been gone? I had no way of knowing, not having seen a soul depart. I had to assume it could have been a full fifteen minutes, and I cursed myself for staying so long. I started running down the street in the direction Holmes had indicated, desperately looking for another strip of cloth ... and a fragment of hope!

  Whether it was luck or Holmes’s skillful placement of the markings, I was somehow able to follow the trail. Every time I began to doubt my route and consider backtracking, I’d espy a glimmer of cloth and continue my course. The trail led downriver, drawing ever closer to the wharfs, until at last I reached a building whose very foundation descended to the banks, with a pier extending out over the water. Circling to one side of the age-darkened, stone foundation, I found a flight of stairs descending to a door set ajar ... and the last marker: To the body of a bound and gagged seaman was a dainty bow tied securely in his matted, bloody hair.

  Stepping past the limp body, I entered and found a staircase leading to the floors above, coming across another similarly bound wharf-rat at the next level. Each level had one lit gaslight turned to its lowest intensity, casting long shadows but little light. On this floor, level with the dock, securely wrapped in oiled canvas and set on wooden skids was a large object. A knife had been run down one side of the canvas, dropping a flap that exposed a machine of great complexity ... the Future Engine!

  Suddenly, from above, came shouts and scuffling noises, followed by a gunshot, then another. I raced for the next flight of stairs and had just reached the top of the landing when a bullet tore through the planking next to my head. Another bullet plucked at my coat, and I retreated to the shadows of the stairs and readied my own pistol. Though my breath came in loud, jagged gasps, I could hear the sound of running footsteps above me and the crash of breaking glass, followed by silence. Peering around the stairwell, I dimly saw where the dockside window had been crashed through, and I started for it.

  I heard running from the stairs above and turned back in time to see a bloody apparition bound into the room and rush at me with deadly speed. I raised my gun to fire, and only a sudden flicker of the gaslight saved me from killing my dearest friend. It was Sherlock Holmes.

  “Out of my way!” he screamed. Rushing to the window, he emptied his revolver into the night. As I, too, reached the window, I saw the stern of a modem steam launch disappear into the low-flying fog of the river. Professor Moriarty had escaped.

  “The blood from my own body betrayed me, Watson. I had him, but my hands could not hold tight. He slipped from my grasp, and now he has slipped away.”

  I looked at Holmes. A flow of blood ran down his right arm which hung limply at his side. His face, though streaked and smeared, appeared not to be noticeably marked, apparently bloodied only from the copious fluid that imbrued his arm and hands.

  “See here, Holmes!” I said, alarmed. “We must stop the bleeding.”

  While Holmes submitted to my ministrations, he told me how he had disabled the guards, discovered the machine tarped and ready for shipping to the continent, and found Moriarty alone on the third floor, deep in concentration, the papers of the Future Engine spread out before him on his desk.

 
; “I could have shot him in the back, and it would have been over. The evil in the world will always have that advantage over us, Watson. I couldn’t do it. After disarming him, I led him toward the stairs, when he caught me by surprise with a shiv he had hidden in his boot, slicing my arm open and causing me to drop my gun. We struggled and I had the best of him, until he slipped out of my blood-slicked hands and reached my pistol, which had been kicked near the stairs. I only had time to reach the safety of his desk before he fired. I shot back with a pistol I had taken from one of his disabled guards. Then he ran, and you know the rest.”

  “Come,” I said. “Let us get you to my consulting room. I’ve stanched the bleeding, but you’ll be needing stitches.”

  “No. We still have important work to do, my friend,” he said, leading me up the stairs to the desk of Professor Moriarty. He gathered the papers, and we then descended two floors to the Future Engine. Holmes directed me to turn up the gaslight while he uncovered the machine and began to remove several large sections of the frame and commenced to extract gears, wires, sprockets, and various cams from the inside of the machine. Several times he would refer to the diagrams and sketches on the papers, returning to the machine and pulling out another odd assortment of gadgets.

  Reattaching the framework and filling a piece of canvas with the parts from the inner workings of the Future Engine, he turned to me and said, “One find task, Watson.”

  The gaslights on Waterloo Bridge made shimmering lampshades of the river fog, and though muted, they brought a welcome glow to our environs compared to the alleys and streets of the wharf. The Baker Street Irregulars were as true as the Queen’s most disciplined regiments, appearing suddenly around us as if formed by the fog.

  Holmes greeted the boys and complimented them on their grand work. “You young lads did something I could not,” he admitted.

  The entire ragtag group of urchins stood taller and prouder, puffing out their little chests. Opening the canvas sack, he motioned the boys closer. “Each of you take as many of these gears and assorted pieces of metal as you can hold and toss them into the Thames.” To each boy he handed a shilling as they filled their pockets. As they ran off, he yelled after them, “Mind you, scatter about and don’t throw the pieces all in the same area!”