by Simon Hawke
At that moment, Steiger clocked in with Forrester and Wells quickly recocked the weapon and aimed it at them, but Steiger shoved Forrester aside and yelled, "It's me, don't shoot!"
Wells almost shot him, but the revolver was suddenly plucked out of his hand as if by an unseen force and Wells gaped at the ghostly figure that suddenly materialized before him.
"Jesus Christr Delaney said as he clocked in. "What happened?"
Amy Robbins, who had been watching thunderstruck from the doorway to the study, fell to the floor in a faint. Wells rushed to her side.
Christine sat up slowly, her hand pressed to the wound in her throat. "Oh, damn," she said, wincing with pain. "I've had itnow. He got me."
"Ransome?" said Delaney.
"Rizzo," Steiger said.
"What?" said Delaney.
"Look." said Steiger. Neilson and Delaney joined him where he stood over the body of the werewolf. Before their eyes. it was slowly changing. reverting in death to human form. "It's Rizzo."
"Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on here?” Forrester
said.
"We've been hit," said Steiger. "He's turned our own people against us."
"Christine, no!" shouted Neilson.
She had picked up her disruptor pistol and before any of them could move, she stuck the barrel in her mouth and squeezed the trigger. For a brief moment, she was enveloped in the blue aura of Cherenkov radiation and then she was gone.
10 _______
The House of Blue Lights was located in an unassuming, soot-blackened building off the Limehouse Causeway, near the River Thames and not far from the East India Docks, It was not among the more elegant of London's bordellos, but it was still a far cry from the tawdry whorehouses of Whitechapel. Madame Tchu's young ladies were of considerably higher quality than the Cockney streetwalkers who plied their trade in Whitechapel's cribs and alleyways. There were gentlemen among the clientele, as well as sailors, dock workers and merchants, but despite the rough character of many of her patrons. Madame Tchu maintained the house in a refined and genteel style. Few people knew that the House of Blue Lights was, in fact, operated by the Green Dragon tong and was one of the secret organization's major sources of revenue.
Jasmine did not know Madame Tchu. Their paths had never crossed before and there was no one in the House of Blue Lights who would know her, unless she were to identify herself as Lin Tao's granddaughter. Part of her wanted to walk boldly up to the front door, announce herself, demand to be taken to her grandfather, confront him with what she knew and insist on being allowed to help, while part of her was afraid of what her grandfather would do when he discovered that she had followed them and had been eavesdropping on their private conversations. She hesitated, thinking perhaps it would be best if she were to remain outside and watch, but watch for what and for how long? There was no telling when they might come out again. And meanwhile, even though the idea of going inside the house of prostitution frightened her, she was fascinated by the prospect. She wondered what it would be like inside, what sort of women they were, how they dressed and spoke and acted.
She was still debating what to do when she saw her grandfather come out with three young Chinese males. The small group stood in front of the entrance for several moments and she could see her grandfather talking to the three young men and making gestures, but she could not hear what he was saying. Finally, Lin Tao finished talking and two of the young men bowed to him and left. The third one remained with him and they walked off quickly in the opposite direction, Lin Tao moving
with a sprightly energy that belied his age. That meant Dr. Morro was still in there,
alone. Or was he, in fact, alone? What if the man she was secretly in love with had decided to sample the pleasures of the house? That decided her. Taking a deep breath, Jasmine started across the street.
Once she reached the door, however, her resolve faltered once again. She was walking back and forth in front of the entrance to the building when she noticed an open window on the third floor, on the side facing the alleyway. And some fifteen or twenty feet away from it, running down the side of the building, was an iron drain pipe.
She looked up and down the alleyway and then, bracing herself against the brick wall with her soft-soled shoes, she started to climb hand over hand up the drain pipe. The pipe was fastened solidly and she did not weigh much, but years of martial arts discipline had given her wiry body suppleness and strength. She made the climb quickly, like a monkey, and within moments she had reached the cornice at the top of the building.
She reached out with her right hand and grabbed the ledge of the cornice just above her, then let go of the pipe with her other hand and quickly clamped her lingers over the ledge, allowing her legs to swing out and away from the wall. Both hands clamped over the cornice ledge, she slowly started to inch across towards the open window, her forearm muscles feeling the strain as her lingers pressed down hard against the stone. Dangling high above the ground, she moved slowly, so as not to start her body swinging. When she reached the open window, there was a distance of about two and half feet separating her from the building wall and the window ledge. She licked her lips and pulled herself up slowly, allowing herself to swing outward a little. Then she swung her legs up and dropped at the same time, shooting her arms straight out in front of her, like a gymnast on the uneven parallel bars making the transfer from the top bar to the lower one. She grabbed on to the window ledge and winced as her body struck the side of the building, then she grunted and pulled herself up. She looked inside the room quickly and was relieved to see that it was empty. A second later, she was inside.
She straightened up, massaging her forearms and flexing her lingers, and looked around with wonder at the room she had entered through the window. The floor was covered with soft, thick Oriental rugs and the walls were hung with tapestries, there to hide cracks and peeling paint as much as to provide decoration. Everything was red and purple and gold, from the upholstery on the chairs to the canopy above the bed, which dominated the small room. She walked around the bed, marveling at the size of it, and saw with surprise that there was a mirror fastened just below the canopy. She heard footsteps approaching outside and quickly looked around for a place to hide. Briefly, she
considered diving down underneath the bed, but then she realized that the bed
would be the first place they would come to and instead she chose to duck behind the curtains on the other side of the painted wooden screen standing in a corner.
The door opened and a couple entered. The man was middle-aged, dressed in a dark frock coat, an elegant waistcoat with a gold watch chain and a howler hat. The girl was young. Chinese, no older than Jasmine, wearing a form- fitting, bright red dress slashed deeply up the side with green and gold dragons embroidered on it. The man had a red face and a huge handlebar moustache and sidewhiskers and the girl had long black hair hanging straight down to her waist. Jasmine watched wide-eyed from her hiding place as the man closed the door behind them and then swept the girl up in his arms, crushing his lips to hers. The girl lifted her bare leg and rubbed it against the outside of the man's leg, hooking it around him.
It was nothing like what Jasmine had imagined from the novels she had read. Instead of whispered words of endearment and loving, affectionate caresses, it was an impatient, clumsy pawing and clutching, a hurried, awkward shrugging out of clothes and a playful, adolescent wrestling. Instead of emotion- laden sighs and languorous moans, there was panting and giggling and squealing. Instead of a transcendent, blissful floating in one another's arms, it was a grunting, bouncing, spring-creaking thrusting and groaning and when it was over, the man lay spent for several moments, then immediately got up and
started to dress while the girl came behind the screen and. while Jasmine held her breath behind the drapes, she quickly cleaned herself using the washstand that the screen concealed, slipped into her dress, straightened it, brushed the stray strands of hair away from h
er face with a completely indifferent air and then went out to escort the gentleman back downstairs. Jasmine was at the same time both fascinated and incredibly disillusioned. Was that all there was to it?
Somehow, she had imagined something much more spiritual and romantic. The sight of the man's unclothed body had repelled her. He had looked so much better in his clothes! Without them, his stomach had hung down like a buddha's and his chest had sagged. He had been covered with unattractive, thick, coarse, curling hair and his legs looked spindly, grotesquely out of proportion with the rest of him. Naked, he had looked ugly, comical, ungainly, and as for his manhood, it was all Jasmine could do to refrain from giggling at the sight of it. She could not believe that Dr. Morro would look so silly and pathetic with his clothes off, but at the same time, a telling blow had been delivered to her romantic fantasies. She was not embarrassed by what she had witnessed. She was merely surprised and disappointed.
She slipped out from behind the drapes and moved quickly to the door. She opened it a crack andpeeked out into the hallway. She could hear sounds coming from behind several of the closed doors, but for the moment, the hallway was clear.
However, she had no idea which way to go. She stepped out into the hall
uncertainly and, at that moment, a door opened right in front of her and an old woman carrying a pile of bedclothing stepped out. Startled, Jasmine gasped.
The old woman smiled toothlessly. "I haven't seen you before," she said, speaking in Chinese. "You must be new."
"Yes, I ... I am not sure which way to go," said Jasmine, forcing a smile.
The old woman looked at her questioningly. "Is there a gentleman wailing for you?"
"Yes, he has only just arrived,” said Jasmine. and she described Moreau.
"Ah, the important visitor who came with Master Tao," the old woman said, nodding. "Yes. he is to stay with us for a time. He is in the room at the far end of the corridor, but I was told he is not to be disturbed.•
"I was sent to see if there is anything he wants," Jasmine said. "I am to bring him whatever he asks for."
"Ah well that is different," the old woman said. "It is good that there will be someone else to look after his needs. I have more than enough to do. There is no end to work around here. You are one of the new servant girls, then?"
Jasmine nodded.
The old woman shook her head. "You will find it harder work than pleasing gentlemen," she said. "You will see. You may soon prefer working on your back to scrubbing on your knees. There is time enough for that. You should not waste your youth. I was young and pretty once, like you. Now I wash floors and empty chamberpots." The old woman cackled and waddled off down the corridor, carrying her pile of bedclothes.
Quickly, before she ran into anybody else, Jasmine made her way down to the door at the far end of the hall. She hesitated when she reached it. Now that the moment had arrived, she was suddenly afraid of declaring herself. What would he say? Would he be angry? What if he rejected her? There was no turning back now. She bit her lower lip and knocked on the door.
"Yes? Who is it'?" she heard him say.
She shut her eyes, took a deep breath, opened the door and stepped inside.
"Jasmine!" Moreau said, astonished. "Dear God! What on earth are you
doing here? How did you get here?"
"Do not be angry, Dr. Morro," she said. "I had to come! "It all came spilling out of her in a torrent of impassioned words, words that tumbled over one another in her rush to get them out, afraid that if she paused for breath, her fear would paralyze her or, worse yet, that he would stop her.
Moreau stood there in astonishment, unable to get a word in edgewise. She finally ran out of steam and stood before him, looking down at the floor, stripped hare in all but the literal sense, her face flushed, her lower lip trembling, her eyes ready to flood with tears.
Moreau started to say a dozen different things and realized that each one of them would have been wrong. What was he to tell her'? That he was old enough to be her father? It was a cliche and he was not her father and, in any case, the only time age made any real difference to a woman was if a man was too immature for her, a factor that was more often than not measured emotionally and not chronologically. And Jasmine was a woman, naive, perhaps, certainly inexperienced, but a woman none the less. And just as one did not treat a girl as if she were a woman, one did not treat a woman as if she were a girl. Was he to tell her that he did not love her? What purpose would that serve? Besides, she had not asked him if he loved her. She had opened up her heart to him, imposing no conditions, asking nothing, offering everything. A gift like that was not rejected out of hand. It was accepted in the same spirit in which it was offered. Whether or not it was reciprocated was another, much more complicated matter.
"Are you going to send me away?" she said, drawing herself up proudly, prepared to accept rejection with dignity.
"No," he said. "Please, sit down. It seems that we have much to talk about."
Andre was having a hard time keeping track of all the bodies. It was difficult enough, shadowing the indefatigable Conan Doyle, now she also had Bram Stoker to worry about and the man that they were following and the people who were following them.
She had picked up Conan Doyle as he left the crime lab at Scotland Yard,
almost missing him as he came hurrying out of the building, heading for a nearby
pub. She had followed him to the pub, where he met Bram Stoker. As the two men left the pub together, Andre became aware that they were being followed by someone other than herself. She kept her distance, so as not to give herself away, and watched as the other shadower hopped on a bicycle and followed the coach taken by Conan Doyle and Stoker. She quickly hailed a hansom and set off in pursuit as well, wondering who else besides herself would be following the two writers.
There should have been someone from their team assigned to cover Stoker, but this was someone she had never seen before. A young Chinese man, dressed all in black, keeping to the shadows as much as possible, effortlessly pedaling the bicycle, even over cobblestoned streets.
They drove to the Lyceum Theatre and went inside. Andre lost track of the Chinese bicyclist inside the theatre. She had caught quick glimpses of him darting through the streets, following the coach, but he seemed incredibly adept at disap- pearing into the fog and shadows. Now she had no idea where he was. Conan Doyle and Stoker were nowhere in sight. She moved stealthily through the darkened theatre as the play progressed, but she was not able to catch sight of them until she sneaked backstage and saw them standing in the wings. She found a place to hide among the backstage clutter and kept an eye on them. They, meanwhile, were apparently keeping an eye on someone else, out in the audience. They kept glancing up at the box seats, but from where she was hidden. Andre couldn't see whom they were looking at. And if the Chinese man was still around, she couldn't see him, either.
However, she spotted him in the crowd during the intermission. when Conan Doyle and Stoker went out through the lobby and upstairs, to the box seats. She was unable to follow them into the box, where they spoke with someone for a short time and she was unable to get close enough to hear what was being said, because the Chinese man had already beaten her to it. She spotted him skulking just outside the box, eavesdropping on their conversation. She pulled back quickly, before he could spot her.
In the crush that followed the conclusion of the play, she lost the Chinese man once again, but she was able to spot Conan Doyle and Stoker leaving in their coach. Without waiting to try and hail a hansom amidst the bustle of the audience dispersing and risk losing them. Andre took off after their coach on foot, jogging through the streets, cursing the Victorian clothing which made running difficult and interfered with her breathing.
Fortunately, thanks to her being in superb physical condition and the coach having to drive slowly in the reduced visibility due to the fog, she was able to keep up without too much difficulty. But after several blocks, it became obvious t
hat
Conan Doyle and Stoker were following another coach, albeit at a distance, and
there was another hansom following them, as well as the Chinese man on his bicycle.
"What the hell is going on here'?" she said to herself. as she paused on a street corner to catch her breath. "This is turning into a goddamned parade!"
The "parade" proceeded along the Strand, to Fleet Street, past the offices of The Daily Telegraph and St. Paul's Cathedral, winding along roughly parallel to the
course of the Thames. They passed London Bridge and proceeded on a rough diagonal away from the river, towards Whitechapel Road and the London Hospital before plunging into the maze of Whitechapel itself. Finally, the lead coach stopped and a tall man in a high silk hat and opera cape got out and started walking rapidly down a narrow street, disappearing into the mist. Conan Doyle and Stoker followed after paying off their driver and the last hansom disgorged a single man, dressed in a brown tweed coat and bowler hat, who hurried after Conan Doyle and Stoker. Once again, the young Chinese was nowhere to be seen, but Andre had no doubt that he was there as well, hidden somewhere in the mist.
