The Secret Abyss

by Darrell Pitt

  This was it. The moment of his death. Jack saw his mother and father as if they were standing before him. Jack was unsure if there was an afterlife—he hoped there was—but he knew he was about to see his parents if it existed.

  He was ready to die, but then a blue blast of light from Olinka Slate’s weapon intersected with the arc of electricity from the airship. Like a snake dragging another snake by the head, the blue fire pulled the red flame away from Jack. The two streams of electrical fire struggled with each other, entwined in a battle to the death.

  It seemed the inventor would lose the fight; the Excalibur had the stronger firepower. But Slate continued to adjust the controls of his own weapon with brutal efficiency. Ashgrove’s airship was enormous, but no-one knew the Whip of Fire better than its inventor.

  Mr Slate inched towards the airship, his weapon shaking like an epileptic wand as the beam struggled with the Excalibur’s twisting Whip of Fire. But then Slate’s power beam suddenly divided in two, the second part bursting forth like a new branch on a tree. It weaved about, directionless, before landing close to the airship’s antenna.

  The protective shield around the vessel flickered. At first it seemed that Mr Slate’s fiery whip had been blocked as, for what felt like an eternity, it searched for a gap in the ship’s defences. Then a small white hole appeared in the shield over the antenna as the blue beam broke through.

  Olinka Slate recalibrated his weapon. Purple bolts of electricity crinkled the sky. A hole formed in the clouds and expanded into a wind tunnel as vast as any tornado. Incredibly, for a brief second, Jack saw darkness at the end of that tunnel.

  Stars.

  It’s the end of the world, he thought.

  A huge blast of white fire erupted where Mr Slate’s blue fire met the Excalibur’s antenna. A blast of power so bright it was painful to look at. Jack turned away, but not before glimpsing it spread in both directions—up onto the gondola of the airship and back towards Olinka Slate.

  Slate turned towards Jack and the others. He waved goodbye before again facing the blast. White energy raced in two directions at once, enveloping both the inventor and the airship. Slate, the Whips of Fire and the airship were reduced to pure alabaster energy before disappearing.

  ‘No!’ Jack screamed.

  There was no blast. No explosion. One second the air was drowning with electricity, the next came a faint pop, an equalising of pressure, as air rushed in to fill the vacuum. The fearful hole in the clouds irised together, and a clap of distant thunder rolled across the landscape. Night was gone from day. The purple lightning faded, the black clouds dissipated and the sky went back to blue.

  As if nothing had happened.

  Final strands of electricity crackled in the air. Jack stared over at Scarlet and Mr Doyle. Scarlet’s hair sat flat upon her shoulders. The detective shook his head sadly. Olinka Slate had saved the city, but it had cost him his life.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Mr Doyle drove the steamcar through the deserted streets of Washington. An hour had passed since Olinka Slate’s death and they had hardly spoken.

  ‘He knew it would end this way,’ Mr Doyle finally said, breaking the silence.

  Scarlet disagreed. ‘I believe he thought it was dangerous, but he didn’t know it would kill him.’

  ‘He knew,’ the detective said firmly. ‘He invented the Whip of Fire. He knew there was no chance of surviving an encounter with the Excalibur. We must be thankful he was prepared to sacrifice his life to stop Ashgrove. There’s no telling what damage could have been done if the weapon had survived.’

  ‘Mr Slate wanted to help people,’ Jack said. ‘He wanted free energy for everyone.’

  ‘Can you imagine how that would have changed everything?’ Scarlet asked. ‘His genius would have lit up the whole world.’

  ‘And he was a good person,’ Jack said.

  ‘Terrible things happen to good people,’ Mr Doyle sighed.

  None of them needed to be reminded of that.

  ‘This is so crazy,’ Jack said. ‘A little while ago, we were in Bee Street. Frankie was dying on the floor, trying to tell us about a chameleon and a Whip of Fire and two doors.’

  ‘Then we met Mr Slate and saved him,’ Scarlet said. ‘And now he’s gone. Forever.’

  Jack heard an intake of air from Ignatius Doyle. The detective’s hands tightened on the wheel. They shook so badly he had to pull over to the side of the road.

  ‘What did you say, Jack?’ Mr Doyle asked.

  ‘I was talking about the Whip of Fire and the Chameleon.’

  ‘And two doors.’

  ‘Are you all right, Mr Doyle?’ Scarlet asked. ‘You look unwell.’

  The detective stared through the windscreen, his mouth open.

  Jack gripped his sleeve. ‘Mr Doyle?’

  ‘It can’t be,’ the detective said. ‘It’s not possible.’

  ‘What isn’t possible?’ Jack asked.

  ‘But it fits! It all fits!’

  ‘What fits, Mr Doyle? What are you talking about?’ Scarlet asked, looking to Jack for guidance. ‘Possibly you should eat some cheese. You may feel better…’

  The detective slammed his foot onto the accelerator and the car skidded back onto the road. Scarlet screamed. They sped up so quickly that they were in danger of crashing.

  ‘Mr Doyle!’ Jack yelled. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘It’s so obvious! How could I have been so stupid?’

  ‘What’s obvious?’

  ‘Perhaps a cup of tea…’ Scarlet began.

  ‘The American economy has been in crisis for years. That’s why Charles Ashgrove made his move now. This period of instability might cause enough destabilisation for him to declare the sovereignty of the Southern states. To create his own nation.’

  ‘But we know that,’ Scarlet said. ‘That’s why the Chameleon tried to assassinate the president at the theatre.’

  ‘And failed. But what was this attack on Washington about? It made no sense. He wanted to get the American people on side. An attack on Washington would not do that. Many thousands of people would be killed and it could unite the American people against him.’ Mr Doyle paused to allow the words to set in. ‘That was the last thing he would want. But a public demonstration of the Excalibur would show how powerful he was, assuring him of victory. No-one would dare stand against him.’

  ‘But the Excalibur…’ Jack began.

  ‘The Excalibur was a decoy to take our focus away from the real goal.’

  ‘A decoy.’ Jack shook his head in disbelief. ‘But Mr Slate was killed.’

  ‘Forgive me, Jack,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘There is no doubt that Charles Ashgrove was prepared to use the weapon. If it had not been today, it would have been another. Olinka Slate did not die in vain.’

  Their steamcar zoomed through a plush suburb filled with tree-lined streets. It veered wildly around a corner and onto another road that cut through a park.

  Scarlet spoke up. ‘So what is Ashgrove’s real goal?’

  ‘The goal is what it has always been,’ Mr Doyle replied. ‘The assassination of the president.’

  ‘But how do you know?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Because Frankie Shore told us,’ Mr Doyle said.

  ‘He mentioned the Chameleon and the Whip of Fire.’

  ‘And the two doors,’ Scarlet said.

  ‘No. Not two doors,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘Tudor.’

  ‘Tudor?’

  ‘Tudor Place. That’s where the president’s party is being held. It all makes sense. Of course, it was a struggle for Frankie to speak, so when we heard him say Tudor, we thought he was saying—’

  ‘Two doors,’ Jack said.

  ‘My goodness,’ Scarlet cried.

  They drove past a high wall and Mr Doyle slowed on approach to the gate. Armed security men regarded them warily. One came to the window. Mr Doyle introduced himself. ‘An assassination attempt is about to be made on the president. He must be taken to a safe lo
cation immediately.’

  ‘The president is not here,’ the man said.

  ‘We both know that’s not true. I believe Edmund Wilson from the Secret Service is here. You must fetch him at once.’

  ‘I can’t—’

  Edmund Wilson appeared behind the security guard. ‘Ignatius! What is going on?’

  The detective explained. Wilson listened patiently before turning to the guards. ‘Put the entire grounds on high alert. Code Orange.’ He opened the back door of the vehicle and climbed in. ‘Take us up to the house, Ignatius. On the double!’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  They sped down a long drive towards a salmon-coloured building with a dome, white marble pillars and colourful gardens around it. Security men were everywhere. Steamcars filled the car park.

  ‘An airship could attempt to attack this building,’ Mr Wilson said. ‘But it would never break through. The surrounding skies are patrolled by a dozen naval vessels.’

  ‘A tunnel was used to break the Chameleon out of jail,’ Jack pointed out.

  ‘The grounds are regularly tested for seismic activity. Nothing has been detected. And the entire area was swept for bombs before the president arrived.’

  ‘Bombs are not the Chameleon’s way,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘He is an assassin. My guess is that he has taken the place of a guest or is masquerading as a guard.’

  ‘The staff have all worked here for years, and the guards are all loyal members of the Secret Service.’

  ‘What about the guests?’ Mr Doyle asked.

  ‘All checked. Their credentials are completely in order.’ The steamcar drew to a halt and they climbed out. ‘But I ignored you once before and it almost led to the death of the president. I don’t intend to allow that to happen again.’

  Mr Doyle gave Wilson an abridged account of the incredible lightshow they had seen over the city—and Mr Slate’s tragic death. When they were each searched for weapons, Mr Doyle was forced to relinquish Clarabelle.

  ‘Where is the president?’ Mr Doyle asked as they entered the reception area.

  ‘In the study. He will join the party later.’

  Mr Doyle peered at the assembled crowd. ‘How many people are here?’

  ‘No more than a hundred,’ Mr Wilson said. ‘Many guests did not come and several more left when they saw the fireworks over the city.’

  ‘Yet the party continues.’

  ‘The president did not want to cause a panic.’

  ‘Mr Doyle!’ A voice came from behind them. ‘What a pleasant surprise!’

  Gabrielle’s uncle, Barnabas Smith, greeted them delightedly. He examined Jack through his thick-lens glasses and ruffled his hair. ‘Are you enjoying Washington, young man?’ He beamed at him. ‘It’s a wonderful city, don’t you think?’

  Jack groaned. ‘Wonderful’ was the last word he would have used. He smiled and tried to look interested as the elderly gentleman started to waffle about his visits to various museums around the city.

  ‘…Egyptian statues of unparalleled quality… Augustus Caesar and…’

  Scarlet had already begun a sweep of the room. Mr Doyle was surreptitiously doing the same. If Edmund Wilson was correct about the guards and the staff being above suspicion, this left only the guests. Jack studied each of the men. There were dozens of them. Then Jack remembered that the Chameleon was a master of disguise: he could be dressed as a woman.

  Jack had masqueraded as one with, he had to admit, rather too much success. The Chameleon could be doing the same. Jack began studying the women. They were stylishly dressed in the most up-to-date fashions: red-and-black gowns with bronze-coloured trim were hugely popular. Hairclips were in vogue among the younger women.

  A woman stood by herself in a corner. She was well dressed, but rather plain-looking, with a severe expression. Her bright auburn hair was in a bun. A pearl necklace hung around her neck. The more Jack stared at her, the more he thought he could see the Chameleon’s features in her face. She had the same angular cheeks and close-set eyes.

  ‘Let’s speak to that lady,’ Jack interrupted Professor Smith. ‘She looks lonely.’

  Jack practically dragged Barnabas Smith over to the woman. She regarded them coldly.

  ‘A lovely party,’ Jack said.

  ‘Is it?’ the woman said. ‘I find it rather boring.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I didn’t vote for this man. In my opinion, he’s a menace and should be impeached.’

  ‘So why did you come?’

  The woman said something, but Jack did not hear her words. He focused on her hairline. That’s not real hair, he thought. Bazookas. She’s wearing a wig!

  But how could he prove it?

  ‘My goodness!’ Jack said. ‘Is that a spider?’

  Before the astonished woman could answer, he reached out and yanked her hair. She screamed. Someone dropped a wine glass. The professor’s glasses went flying. In the ensuing struggle, the woman’s necklace broke and pearls scattered all over the floor. Security guards raced over, and Mr Doyle and Scarlet appeared at Jack’s elbow.

  ‘What’s going on, Jack?’ Mr Doyle asked.

  ‘Uh, I thought I saw a spider.’

  ‘You and your spiders! Now help tidy up this mess!’

  Professor Smith was already picking up tiny pearls from the floor. Jack scooped up the professor’s glasses, pocketing them so they wouldn’t be stepped on. Scarlet lent a hand, helping to collect the last beads.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Jack apologised to the auburn-haired woman. ‘I thought I saw…’

  She grabbed the pearls and marched off into the crowd. Jack stood feeling hot and embarrassed as Professor Smith now started prattling to Scarlet about an ancient Grecian myth involving spiders.

  Mr Doyle drew Jack to one side. ‘I’ve had no success,’ he said. ‘I have surveyed every guest here, and none of them would seem to be the Chameleon.’

  ‘That woman seemed strange.’

  ‘She’s not strange! She’s angry because you pulled her hair!’ He sighed, popping a piece of cheese into his mouth. ‘I can’t believe I am wrong about this. Frankie’s words must have alluded to Tudor Place.’

  ‘What will we do now?’

  ‘The president is allowing small groups to visit with him in the study. I’ve asked Edmund if we can meet with him.’

  Scarlet came over and gave Jack a sympathetic smile. ‘That’s bad luck about that woman’s hair,’ she said.

  ‘I was sure it was a wig. I thought the Chameleon may have dressed as a woman.’

  ‘Disguises come in many shapes and sizes. There was a Brinkie Buckeridge book where she disguised herself as a flower pot.’

  ‘As a…what?’

  ‘A pot.’ She stared at him. ‘Don’t look at me as if I’m mad. It was a very effective disguise. It allowed her to spy on a gang of jewel thieves.’

  ‘No, it sounds great. I might disguise myself as a chair one day. Or a table.’

  ‘Now you’re being silly.’

  ‘Or a cup. Or a saucer. Imagine what detective work you could do as a spoon. You’d know every single thing they drank.’

  Scarlet glared. ‘Her disguise was excellent. She was only found out when someone tried to water her and then…’

  Mr Doyle returned to them. ‘We can see the president now.’

  Scarlet cut short her Brinkie Buckeridge reminiscence and followed Jack and Mr Doyle. They were joined by Professor Smith and two ladies. One was an elderly woman with a walking stick by the name of Miss Granger. The other was the woman whose hair Jack had pulled. Her name was Mrs McKay.

  ‘I’m so sorry about your hair,’ Jack said again. ‘I saw a spider.’ Mrs McKay’s nostrils flared.

  Edmund Wilson led them into the president’s study. It was a well-lit chamber, with bookcases lining the walls. Windows faced out onto the garden. The president sat behind his desk nursing a glass of whisky, but he stood and greeted each of his guests cordially.

  ‘I have not had
a chance to thank you for your assistance at the Liberty Theatre,’ President Craig said to Jack, Scarlet and Mr Doyle. ‘You saved my life.’

  ‘I’m glad we could help,’ Mr Doyle said.

  ‘And Professor Smith!’ the President said, turning to the elderly scholar. ‘I have your excellent book on Egyptian artefacts. Would you be so kind as to sign it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The president produced his copy of the book. Barnabas Smith bent over the table, but started patting his pockets. Jack remembered he still had the Professor’s glasses and handed them over.

  ‘You have read it?’ the professor asked, signing the book.

  ‘A number of times.’ The president raised his glass to his lips. He paused, frowning in thought as he flipped the book open. ‘I think your chapter on the Middle Kingdom…’

  ‘No!’

  Mr Doyle threw himself across the table, knocking the glass from the president’s hand. The ladies screamed. Professor Smith fell back as Edmund Wilson blocked the president from Mr Doyle.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Mr Wilson shouted.

  The detective was sprawled across the desk. Papers had gone everywhere. He climbed off and straightened his clothing.

  ‘What am I doing?’ he asked. ‘I am saving the president—from him!’

  He raised his hand and pointed at Professor Smith.

  The elderly man staggered back in astonishment. ‘Ignatius! Have you lost your mind? What are you saying?’

  ‘You are the Chameleon,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘And I can prove it.’

  He made a grab for his beard, but Professor Smith sidestepped, grabbing Mr Doyle’s arm and spinning him about. Mr Doyle careened into Edmund Wilson. Professor Smith reached under his beard and produced a tiny revolver.

  ‘Clever of you, Doyle.’ His voice had changed. He sounded twenty years younger as his eyes creased into two cruel slits. He pulled off the beard and the hair with one hand, revealing the smooth features of the Chameleon. ‘I’m not sure how you saw through my disguise, but it will do you no good. I have never failed in an assassination and I will not fail now.’