14
Although Holmes had claimed to be in a hurry to get to the Diogenes Club, where we would dine with Mycroft, he enjoined me to walk with him to the Thames first.
“I would like to see the condition of the river. I would like to know if the… creatures are still apparent in this part of the Thames. We are not far from the place where the Belle Crown was attacked, as well as the warehouse where we saw them first released by Fitzgerald, after all.”
Sure enough, as soon as we reached the waterfront, we saw things were amiss. Vast bubbles broke the surface of the water, indicating the presence of something massive below. Occasionally, the tip of a tendril flipped into the air before slipping underwater again. I thought I saw bulbous objects—heads, I presumed—here and there, but always, when I peered more closely, the objects disappeared. A cloud of translucent, pearly bubbles drifted above the surface, coalescing into shapes and breaking apart from one another. I was reminded of the sensations I’d had in Professor Henry Fitzgerald’s London home. After a tram went up in flames—killing numerous victims in front of me—and after a pole struck my head, rendering me unconscious, I’d recuperated in Fitzgerald’s home, where the paintings had felt almost lifelike to me, swirling with odd colors I didn’t recognize, with bubbles drifting and arranging themselves before my eyes.
“Hurry, Watson.” Holmes interrupted my thoughts. “I’m unnerved by the view.”
“Do you see the bubbles?” I asked, surprised.
“How could I not? They are everywhere.”
“I’m much relieved, my dear fellow. I thought perhaps I was going mad.”
“No madder than I,” he responded with a grim expression.
I felt intoxicated.
But with what?
“This place makes me feel dizzy. Is it affecting you?” I asked.
He blinked at me, then his eyes sharpened.
“No,” he said simply. “It’s best we make haste, Watson. I want to talk to Mycroft before dinner. Let us get away from this place and find a cab. It is a pity, Watson, that the local populace is not heeding the police warning to stay away from the river.”
I had been so caught up in my own problems, I had not noticed until he pointed them out, but there were more people than usual by the river. This particular spot was well known for its opium dens, and some of the onlookers appeared as though they had staggered out of them. A few were sprawled in stupors on the riverside. Others stared in a daze at the wafting bubbles. We were not the only ones inspecting the river, trying to catch a glimpse of the creatures. But these people pointed and gurgled strange words that I seemed to recognize from my dreams, as if they had lost their wits. Others seemed terrified: grown men fell to their knees, their hands clasped, their eyes staring at the heavens, their lips muttering prayers; children clutched at their mothers’ skirts.
Holmes steered me along a side street and then to another, where he hailed a cab. He gently nudged me onto the seat, then leapt up beside me. His cane knocked the top of the carriage, the driver lashed the horses, and with a lurch, off we went.
Nauseous, I closed my eyes.
“Be steady, man. We’ll be at Pall Mall soon enough,” Holmes said.
I sank back in relief at the thought of it. The Diogenes Club was the most anti-social place imaginable. Mycroft was one of its founders. Certainly, I would get plenty of rest there.
“Holmes, what was wrong with those people?” I asked.
“I cannot be sure.” Holmes clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. The noise was as loud as a hammer, driving home once again that my mind was dislodged and out of sync with reality.
Most frightening. For all I knew, Holmes hadn’t made any sound at all.
Sweat broke out on my face and body.
What was wrong with me?
“Holmes, I’m not well.”
“I realize that. I’m hoping your vigor returns in good measure. Your condition grew worse when we were by the river.”
“But why?” I whispered.
“I do not yet know,” he finally answered. “I don’t yet have sufficient facts about much of this, Watson: the creatures, the dens, the obvious neural maladies of those we saw by the river, including yourself. Perhaps Mycroft will help. His brain is a vast repository of information, rivaled only by my own.”
Even in my state, I had to suppress a chuckle. Holmes often compared his mind to his older brother’s, sometimes saying such things as: “Mycroft could be a consulting detective as renowned as myself, but he lacks physical strength and ambition. He is, in a word, lazy.”
While our horses clattered along the cobblestones toward Mycroft, I would learn later that Thrawl Street had turned into a battleground. More death, more destruction.
If we valued our lives, then without knowing it, Holmes and I were traveling in the right direction.
15
PROFESSOR MORIARTY
Thrawl Street
The police were imbeciles. It wouldn’t take much for me to divert their attention and break into Willie Jacobs’s tram machine building, steal the gold, and quickly get away. Like the police, Sherlock Holmes wasn’t as smart as he thought he was. It was interesting, wasn’t it, how those who considered themselves to be astounding intellects typically lacked true greatness? Most of their supposed competence came only through misplaced perceptions. In Sherlock Holmes’s case, he called himself a consulting detective and had built his reputation on the backs of imbeciles who believed his arrogant buffoonery.
Yet those of us who quietly went about our business possessed true power. People never knew when we’d strike, what we were up to, where we were hiding.
I could watch Holmes’s movements—because they were so public—but he couldn’t watch mine. He did not know who or what he was truly up against. His idiotic companion, Dr. John Watson, was even more in the dark than the man he idolized. Watson knew next to nothing about me.
What I had in mind now would not be an overwhelming objective. Rather, it would be a straightforward matter.
Holmes had left the tram machine running, though not with sufficient power to cause problems.
But the key point was: Holmes had left the machine running.
Before Holmes had tampered with the mechanisms, Willie Jacobs had dumped phosphorus and lead into a pit by the machine, resulting in the production of gold.
I wanted that gold.
I could feel it in my pocket. I could envision it glittering in mounds before me.
The thought of the tram machine gold excited me more than anything else.
I wanted to make that machine pump out so much gold that I would never have to think about money again. I would make it happen, and then I would live anywhere I wanted, do anything I wanted, be anyone I wanted. There were no limits.
Already, I controlled all of the dens and encampments on Thrawl Street, where the tram machine building was located. Extricating the gold would hardly be a challenge, now would it?
I peered from a filthy window across the street from the building, where a hastily erected iron fence topped with spikes surrounded the perimeter. Approximately a dozen policemen stood guard inside the fence, hands in coat pockets, ready to pull their guns on intruders.
The fence didn’t look particularly strong to me. It was nothing that a decent torch or hacksaw couldn’t handle.
Of course, I wouldn’t be directly involved in the effort. I would send others to do the work for me. Staying in the shadows, I’d station dozens of men where the police now stood, erect a stronger barrier with my men guarding the outside as well as the inside, then sit back and accumulate gold.
The building would be my personal gold mine.
I’d squash the Dagon gang that had stolen my men and used the machine’s gold for their own purposes. This, I would do for revenge, and it excited me almost as much as the gold.
Racing down the stairs to the first floor, I slipped out and onto the street. With my collar turned up against the cold and my
hat pulled low, I shuffled like any other person toward the pleasure of the dens. From the corners of my eyes, I saw that none of the guards was paying attention to me.
I knew where little Timmy spent time, working for me, thinking himself such a big man. I wanted Timmy’s father.
Loping toward Osborn Street, I passed other men—broken creatures who didn’t seem to notice me. I ignored them, as well. Eshocked tramps eagerly sucking down Old Ones Serum—provided by me, of course—were in their own worlds. The real world no longer mattered to them. The only thing these men thought about was when and where to get their next Eshock and dose of Old Ones.
I warmed my hands over a fire barrel by the roadside. Soot-black faces encircled the barrel. Their eyes were shut. Smiles quivered on their lips.
They didn’t know it, but I owned them. I could make them do anything, just for an Eshock or a swig of Old Ones. If I wanted, I could kill them.
But I was a good man. I didn’t kill men just for the sake of killing them. I needed a reason. If a man opposed me, spoke against me, took any action contrary to my best interests, then he’d better watch his back because I’d be coming for him. I’d hit him when he least expected it. And, of course, it wouldn’t actually be me, not in person. It would be a random man on the street, a shopkeeper, or one of his adversary’s friends or family members.
I could blend in anywhere. I faded into crowds. Nobody knew my face, not even that clown, Dr. Reginald Sinclair, and—it made me laugh—certainly not that clown of all clowns, Dr. John Watson.
As I laughed, a woman glanced at me, but quickly fell back into her stupor.
Clutching a hip as if injured, I limped from the fire barrel toward the den. A girl slept by the door, her ripped garments serving as a poor barrier against the cold, hard porch. Her skirt was wadded beneath her hips. Dried blood, bruises, and blisters from the cold riddled her legs.
Without knowing her name, I did know that my men sold this girl to any who wanted her, with the price of her body half the price of a minor Eshock. I’d heard from my sources that the girl sold herself on the side for the price of a full Eshock. She procured sufficient Eshocking to keep her in a state of oblivion, the condition she was in now, as I stepped over her small body and swung open the door to my den.
Quickly, I shut the door behind me, lest the soot-faces at the barrel try to follow me inside. I wanted them only if they had money for Eshocking, and the soot-faces clearly didn’t have money. Otherwise, they’d be strapped to my Eshocker chairs, their brains dripping with hallucinations and melodies and oblivious joy. It took muscle to open the door, and besides, once inside the main room…
“What do you want?” the door thug demanded. He was strong, this one, with arm muscles as thick as boa constrictors, a neck the size of a gorilla’s, and a face that betrayed very little in the way of intelligence.
“I’m ’ere for Timmy,” I said.
“You ’ave money?”
“I do.”
“Show me.”
Scowling, I made myself appear annoyed. The door thug was doing what my underlings had hired him to do, keep out everyone without the funds for Eshocking.
“I tell you, I ’ave the money,” I insisted, pulling my fist from a pocket and showing my hired thug a few coins.
“Enough for ten minutes,” the thug decided. He swept his arm in a grand flourish toward the main room.
Along the walls, Dr. Sinclair’s Eshockers vibrated and clanked. Customers swelled with ecstasy, strapped into the chairs. Bleeding ankles and wrists stopped nobody. They screamed for “More! MORE!”
Excitement gripped me. I loved watching the Eshockers at work. With every “More!” and “MORE!”, I made more and more money.
Speaking of which…
Annoyance replaced my excitement.
Dr. Sinclair and his monkeys weren’t producing Eshockers quickly enough for my satisfaction. The den was polluted with other devices: a torpedo sizzling stunner against the back wall, I saw, and a violet ray electrotreat stimulator along the side. My customers wouldn’t pay as much for these quack devices as for the Eshockers, which were much more sophisticated, providing steady and reliable do-it-yourself pleasure… especially if a person Eshocked along with a dose of Old Ones.
If Sinclair didn’t do my bidding and supply the machines I wanted, I’d be forced to take action against him, action he wouldn’t find pleasurable.
Actions that would hurt more than an Eshock at full blast and of long duration.
Yes, I would make Sinclair’s head hurt, and badly.
“Don’t get too excited yet.” The thug interrupted my thoughts, and I eyed him evenly. Had I displayed the slightest quiver? If so, he’d interpreted it incorrectly as excitement about what he thought was my forthcoming Eshock. He shot me a nasty grin and said, “You best wait till you get Eshocked. You’ll be wantin’ serum, too?”
I shook my head, still keeping my eyes trained directly on his, until finally, he lowered his gaze.
“I’m lookin’ for Timmy,” I said.
The thug’s eyes narrowed and met mine again.
“What do you want with Timmy?”
“’E runs the dens, don’t ’e? I pay ’im.”
“You can pay me.”
“Timmy. Only Timmy,” I said firmly.
The thug growled, but rumbled off to a back room, and shortly thereafter, returned with my man—or rather, my boy, Timmy Dorsey, Jr.
Timmy recognized me and waved the thug back to his position by the door. Few knew me in person, as I allowed only a loyal inner circle direct access to me. I chose Timmy because he was smarter than any lad I’d ever encountered on the streets, and he knew those streets well. And I was a strong believer in building trust while my associates were still young. It gave me more time to turn them into what I wanted.
My inner circle would do anything for me. They knew I offered prolonged service, and hence, income. My men were career men. Someday, Timmy would be a key member of my organization. He avoided drugs and drink, kept his head clear. He already possessed the authority of a much older man. He reminded me of his father.
I walked ahead of Timmy through the main room, past the twitching, gyrating, tongue-lolling Eshocked clientele to a door guarded not by one, but two of my thugs. They didn’t recognize me, but they did recognize Timmy, who ran this den for me with his father. One thug unlatched the door, the other swept it open, and I entered my lair, followed by Timmy.
As the door whisked shut, the sounds of the Eshocked—the groans, the ecstatic cries, and the whimpers—faded. This place might be a dump, but it did have thick walls.
Crates of Old Ones Serum wobbled precariously in stacks around the room. I lifted a bottle from a half-empty crate and took a quick swill. One sip wouldn’t kill me. My lips and tongue warmed, the roof of my mouth tingled. Warmth spread down my throat and into my belly, through my shoulders and down my arms.
“Good shipment, Timmy.”
He nodded eagerly.
“We Dorseys, we get the job done,” he said. “We’re makin’ you a big profit, Mr. M.”
“Professor M.,” I corrected him. “Privately for you, it’s Professor Moriarty.”
“Professor Moriarty,” Timmy repeated.
“But do keep it at Mr. M. for anyone curious enough to ask.” I paused. “Of course, curiosity in our business is typically a trait leading to premature demise.”
“Whate’er you say.”
The boy didn’t understand me but hid his feelings well. I liked that. I smiled… but only briefly.
“Premature demise,” I explained, “means that any idiot who tries to force you into supplying my name will be killed as soon as he satisfies his curiosity.”
The boy didn’t flinch. “I’ve seen plenty of men die.”
“Yes, I suppose you have. Come,” I said, “and sit with me. Let’s talk.” I waved him over to a dilapidated two-seat sofa wedged between two stacks of Old Ones crates.
I sat on the firm
cushion, and Timmy plopped onto the shredded one beside me. The springs wheezed beneath him. He sank down and laughed, then he bounced on the cushion to hear the springs again.
Still a boy. I had no children, didn’t want any, and in general, didn’t like them. They were noisy, needy, and demanding. Why people had children, I did not know. The only advantage I could see was continuation of the paternal line, the creation of a dynasty, perhaps.
Who cared about dynasties? I’d already be dead.
It was best not to be responsible for a wife, a mistress, a mother, a child of either gender. Freedom to do what I wanted: this was all that mattered.
Easing my tall frame against the back of the gray-plaid cloth, I casually crossed my legs, withdrew a cigarette, tapped it once on the armrest, and popped it between my lips. He whipped a box of matches from a jacket pocket, the black cloth greasy from wear and faded to the color of sludge, and proffered a light.
I puffed slowly, holding the smoke in my mouth before expelling it in languid circles.
“We need to buy you a new coat,” I said, passing the cigarette to Timmy.
He eyed me warily as he sucked smoke into his lungs. Then his mouth formed an O, and the smoke curled out. All the while, he kept his eyes on me.
His smoke circles were larger and more perfectly formed than mine.
“I’ll take you up on that, Professor,” he said. “I want me a coat better than yours, though.” He pointed the cigarette at my tramp’s garb, and I laughed.
“If you help me tonight as I know you will, and if we succeed, I promise you a coat that will show the world you’re a man to be reckoned with. A gentleman’s coat.”
The boy’s eyes narrowed. He flicked ashes to the floor.
“Tell me what you need,” he said.
“Timmy, when do the coppers change shifts at the tram machine building?” I asked.
“Midnight an’ noon,” came the answer in a cloud of smoke.
“Can you create a disturbance at 11 p.m. tonight?”
“What kind of disturbance?”
I took the cigarette, burned all the way down, from Timmy.
Sherlock Holmes vs. Cthulhu Page 9
