“I shall honor the terms of the bet, because Hercule Poirot’s word is his bond. However, may I solicit a favor? At the request of a high-ranking civil servant, Mr. Jesmond, I must to go to Kings Lacey tomorrow. Would it be permissible to do so unblemished?”
“I will guarantee that my friend will honor the bet before I leave for Argentina,” said Hastings, smiling.
Magnificent in defeat, Hercule Poirot asked Aunt Dahlia to accompany him to the kitchen to present his humblest apologies to Chef Anatole. Captain Hastings offered his arm to Florence and went back to the dining room with Uncle Tom.
Once alone, I said to Jeeves:
“Rem acu tetigisti?”
“I believe that I have indeed pricked him with a pin.”
“I was blind, Jeeves. But I believe we shan’t see or hear from Monsieur Poirot for a little while.”
“Indeed, the coming year may not offer Monsieur Poirot many opportunities to ply his trade.”
“At least not until his mustache has grown back.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Yes, Jeeves, Noblesse oblige.”
“Of course, sir.”
[English adaptation by Jess Nevins.]
Jess Nevins is the author of the World Fantasy Award-nominated Encyclopedia of Fantastic Victoriana, a delightful compilation of notable and not-so-notable characters from that wonderful age of popular fiction. Among these is the colorful and wily rogue-turned-hero Rocambole, one of the most important characters of French pulp fiction of the late 19th century. Jess’ tale takes place early in Rocambole’s career, when the still villainous anti-hero had found refuge in London between two French adventures. It is therefore in the proud capital of the British Empire that we find Ponson du Terrail’s dashing scoundrel looking for yet another opportunity to feather his nest...
Jess Nevins: Red in Tooth and Claw
London, 1849
Rocambole sat at an outdoor table at the Café Royal, sipping an Amarone and contemplating a relief from boredom. He had been in London for only a week, and already the idea of a day full of nothing but indolence had palled from attractive to tedious.
He knew he ought to be content. He was young, handsome and rich, for he had left France with enough money to make even a de Guéran or d’Ardèche envious. Better still, he was unknown to the English constabularies. He should be happy to live the life of a flâneur, spending his days idly shopping for the latest in Savile Row fashions–for if he must be forced to live among the English, he would at least be the best dressed of them–and his nights sampling the pleasures of English women, who were equally charmed by his fine features and his full wallet.
What had he to bother him, really? The cross-Channel voyage on the Doge of Venice had been quick and pleasant. His lodgings were comfortable. It was a sunny day, the breeze felt good on his cheeks, his hair was ruffling in a fetching manner, judging from the admiring glances of his toothsome Irish server, and his ascension from child of the streets to member of the idle rich was complete.
And yet he was bored. Infinitely so. His own imp of the perverse, which occasionally had led him to commit rash acts in France, was again whispering in his ear, suggesting he have some light-hearted fun with the so-stuffy, so-proper English. (Rocambole sometimes fancied he could see his imp; he thought it might look like a small black monkey, crouched on his shoulder, its eyes alight with gleeful malice. The notions the monkey murmured to him, though amusing, were hardly shocking to him and rarely remunerative, and so he usually ignored the imp and his suggestions.) But what, then? Something profitable, naturally. While his usual outlets for money-making mischief–theft, murder and arson–were possible, he had grown tired of them in France and felt no compulsion to begin again in London.
Such things as manipulation of the stock exchange were always possible, and easily enough carried off; Rocambole had once spoken with an amusing Hohenzollern rogue who had convinced him that buying the stock of arms manufacturers, and then altering the headlines of local newspapers to make it appear that war had been declared–thus spurring a run on arms and driving up the price of the stock–would be simplicity itself.
But that would require long-term planning, and Rocambole lacked the patience for that. He was more interested in something that would only require a few months’ work and would have a guaranteed and preferably substantial payday at its end.
Rocambole’s musings were interrupted by a rhythmical clanging sound, audible even above the noise of the late afternoon traffic on Gordon Street. Sauntering down the sidewalk on the Café’s side, nodding to all those around him with a smiling, genial condescension, was a man unusual enough for even the prematurely jaded Rocambole to stare at. The man wore white leather breeches, a green coat and a scarlet waistcoat with a gold band around his hat and a red belt across his shoulder. The clanging sound came from a set of cast-iron rats suspended from a belt worn crosswise on his body; the rats struck each other as he walked.
Behind him Rocambole heard, “Speed, is that Jack Black?”
“What, haven’t you met him?”
“No, how could I? I’ve only been back from Simla for a week. I haven’t been to any of the likely spots or seen any of the quick crowd.”
“Ah, right. Well, you’re in for a treat. Black not only kills rats for H.M., but he’s also got a nice line in rat pits.”
Rocambole, who had been taught by life and circumstance to always pay attention to his surroundings, and had learned that lesson well, realized that the two men sitting behind him had begun saying something potentially interesting. Their earlier conversation had led him to dismiss them as coarse, roaring blusterers, of the sort who had made the Jockey Club such a displeasure to frequent, but now he paid closer attention to their words.
“…They say he’s never been bitten.”
“What, never? But…I thought he was a rat-catcher?”
“He is. Likes to stick his hand into a jar of freshly caught rats, to make the ladies scream. Never gets bitten, though.”
“And he’s the man who runs the pit fights?”
“Oh yes–who better? Everyone trusts him, too. You know your money’s safe with him, and that he’ll deal you fair. No doping the rats or anything like that.”
Rocambole’s interest was piqued. Gambling? On rat fights? This was a wrinkle Rocambole was unfamiliar with. On an impulse, he turned in his chair and looked at the pair. As he had expected, they were members of the flash set: heavy whiskers, silk waistcoats, tall hats and jewel-tipped canes. Fake gems, too, Rocambole’s practiced eye informed him. They noticed his movement and glanced at him. He said, “I say, sorry to interrupt, chaps, but–did one of you just mention wagering on rats?”
He knew what they saw when they looked at him: a handsome young man with twinkling eyes and a twisted smile, the kind which appeals to the rogue in men and the whore in women. He was dressed in Treadgold silks. Large black diamond on one ring. Smooth skin, but faded scars on his knuckles. In all, one of the swell mob, on the high end of the economic scale, and, from his accent, French. From his words, interested in gambling.
To these two, he would appear to be either a chum in the making or a particularly downy pigeon waiting to be plucked. Rocambole smiled, the smile that had opened the legs of Lola Montez, and stuck his hand out at the one called Speed, and said, “I’m Louis Froget.”
It went as Rocambole expected. The pair–the second introduced himself as John Sinnat–demonstrated a familiarity with the better families of Paris. He idly mentioned his acquaintance with the Countess of Clare. They compared their experiences of the Riviera, Rome and Lisbon. Rocambole had never visited any of those places, but knew that a confident demeanor, an amusing delivery and encouraging sounds at the right time will convince most audiences of even the most ludicrous of stories.
Speed and Sinnat invited Rocambole to White’s Club for supper, and the Frenchman repaid them with tittle-tattle and gossip he’d heard in Paris–the origin of the wealth of the Duke of Gerolst
ein, the true parentage of Emile Benoit and the reason for the messy end of Sten de la Gardie.
By nine, they were strolling down Archipelago Street, well lubricated and old pals, and Speed and Sinnat were insistent that Rocambole join them on their way down Gray’s Inn Road to the East End, to what Speed called “the money pit.”
“It’s where most of us go, don’t you know. You can find the like across the City most nights, but it’s only once every two weeks that Black and Shaw run theirs.”
Rocambole only exhibited moderate interest. (Fishermen: never yank on the line when you’ve hooked your prey. Ease them on to the boat.) “But Speed, mon vieux, what is it?”
Speed smiled, an expression which emphasized the rodent cast to his face. “You’ll see.”
Rocambole did, almost immediately. The building looked like just another public house, and the sign over the doorway read J. Shaw, Proprietor, but once into the building’s basement, the Frenchman instantly knew what the money pit was. It was blood sport.
The sights and sounds and smells hit the Frenchman simultaneously. The fetid, humid air in the crowded room. The flickering light; the lanterns only lit the pit and left most of the men in the room partially in shadow. The coppery, harsh smell of blood, but not human blood–dog blood and something else, but blood nonetheless, and lots of it. The cacophony of sounds: the avid and even manic shouts of the men, the barks of triumph and groans of financial ruin, and over them all the snarl of a small dog on the attack and the high, piping squeaks of dying rats. Most of all, the expressions on the faces of the men looking into the pit. They showed all the emotions Rocambole knew best: raw greed, the delight of the voyeur, the sickly exhilaration of a devotee of blood sport on watching an evisceration, hatred from the losers towards the winners, contempt from the winners towards the losers, desperation, guilty satiety, drunkenness and arousal. Damp, moldy stone, slicked with blood. Sweaty, puffy faces. Doughy hands, waving guineas or sovereigns.
Rocambole felt at home and a wave of bonhomie rolled over him. He waited until it passed, and only then looked into the pit. It was large, over ten feet in diameter and five feet deep, with a rough cobblestone floor. Standing in it to one side was Black, still in his costume, and another, younger man, dressed nearly as well as Black and sharing his placid expression. On the other side was a small black terrier, panting and happily wagging its tail as it looked at Black. Its muzzle and paws were soaked with blood. Around it were the torn corpses of 15 rats.
Rocambole was about to ask Speed about the dog when Black raised his right hand. The crowd instantly quieted.
“Time, gentlemen. Those of you what bet hagainst my little Billy finishink these 15 off in a minute, well, I’m hafraid you’ve lost your money to me, and if you had a private flutter, you owe your neighbor his winninks. Pay up proper and prompt, like.”
The crowd groaned, some good-naturedly, many more not so. Rocambole smelled more than sensed the potential for violence. He had always had an exceptional sense of smell and had always associated violence with the smell of roses and wine, since his childhood and the riots following the cholera epidemic. But Black seemed oblivious to the threat. He smiled mildly, kept his left hand tucked into a vest pocket, and nodded at his assistant, who began collecting markers and paying winners their sums. The Frenchman quickly saw that Black’s blithe assurance of his own personal immunity, or pretense of same, was somehow rubbing off on the crowd; many of them were furious and clearly contemplating assault on their neighbors, but it obviously didn’t occur to them to make Black a target for their ire.
Nor, equally obviously, did it occur to the crowd to not pay what they owed to Black. The sight of the greasy silver and gold passing from one hand to another caught and held Rocambole’s attention. So much of it, more than the Frenchman would have dreamed possible from betting on a rat fight.
No one saw the way the light, reflecting from the silver and gold, lit up the grey flecks in Rocambole’s eyes, or the grin which spread across his face, or the thoughts and calculations that flew like quicksilver through his mind as he contemplated Black and his terrier, and the rat corpses in the pit, and the faces of the gamblers.
The next day Rocambole got directions to Black’s home from some urchins outside his boarding house. The Frenchman took a cab over the Thames to Battersea. Initially, Rocambole had some difficulty in seeing which of the cottages was Black’s, but then noticed a bird cage suspended above the doorway of one and, next to it, a square of zinc. On the square were painted the words, J. Black, Rat Destroyer to Her Majesty, surmounted by the initials V.R. and the painting of a white rat.
Black answered the knock on the door. He was dressed more soberly than he had been the previous day, in a clean but worn black suit, and his expression was friendly enough. As Rocambole mouthed the expected, empty words–”Good day, Mr. Black, may I speak with you for a moment?” and so on–he examined Black. Rough, uncombed black hair, black eyebrows and black whiskers, but a sprinkle of grey across it all, so that it looked as if Black had been dusted with powder. Large, dark eyes, and in them, amused geniality, concealed strength and not a hint of deference or intimidation, despite the obvious difference in social status between the Frenchman, who looked the very embodiment of one of the flash mob, and Black, a mere rat-catcher. Must be careful with this one, Rocambole thought. He’s fat now, but he came from the streets and they never left him.
Black led Rocambole through two rooms in the cottage, filled with the remains of rats and birds and fish, all in glazed boxes and all labeled, and into a large back room filled with bird cages which were inhabited by rats, sometimes two dozen or more, and in more colors and shades and patterns than Rocambole would have dreamed possible, from white to jet black to striped in shades from grey-blue to rust. The smell in the room, rat urine and musk and a peculiar dusty odor, was strong, but Black did not seem to notice it.
Rocambole accepted the tea Black’s wife offered, and after enduring the usual exchange of polite, empty phrases, said, “I was at the… do you know, I’m not even sure what to call it. The spectacle, last night, where your terrier killed all those rats.”
Black smiled. “Oh, yes, sir. We call it rat-baitink. Don’t you have ’em in France?”
Rocambole’s smile did not change, but inside he moved Black from the “Be careful” category to “Handle with long tongs.” Before he had crossed the Channel, Rocambole had been careful to develop an innocuous and bland City accent for occasions like this one when he needed anonymity. For the rat-catcher to have heard the faint Parisian lilt in Rocambole’s voice was worrying.
“No, we’ve contented ourselves with hanging cats. But tell me–your terrier, does he always kill so many rats?”
“Gracious, no. That was a casual think for my Billy. He’s the rummest I’ve ever had–killed of a thousand in an hour, nearest a toucher, many times. I’ve been offered a sovereign a-pound for him, and won’t sell. Even his sons–he’s the father of the greatest portion of the small black tan dogs in London now–go for six or seven bob.”
“Heavens. That much?”
Black smiled proudly. “Yes. He’s a marvel, my Billy. My partner Jemmy–that’s Jemmy Shaw, what you saw at the ’baitink–swears that he’s my fortune, and without him I’ll be left to rack and ruin.”
“Where do you get the rats from?”
“I ketches ’em, sir. I’ve caught rats for Her Majesty, rats and moles, and ’sterminated...”
Black went on in that vein for quite some time, as Rocambole expected. He made encouraging noises and interjections, and let the rat-catcher ramble on about his past and his exploits as a rat-catcher, until Black came around to the special rats he had caught. Then–
“I beg your pardon, but–by special, do you mean the rats in the other room, the striped ones?”
Black smiled indulgently, the sort of smile an expert gives an interested amateur who has said something foolish. “What, the piebalds? Oh, no. I’ve a number of ’em, but I have mo
re…unusual ones as well. For connoisshewers, you understand.”
Rocambole made his smile sheepish. “This may be forward, but…do you sell any of them? I’ve a daughter, Marie-France, who loves unusual animals, and I think she’d love a rat.”
“Certainly, sir! I’ve many that I’ve sold to gentlemen for their little girls. Even sold a pair–gave, really–to Her Majesty.”
“Do people often buy a pair, rather than just one?”
“Yes. Don’t want the poor blighters to be lonely, after all. And if you want kits–that is, babies–you’d best buy a breedink pair.”
“Do the colors breed true?”
“Generally, generally. But you might surprised by how warious they get. Pieds breed whites, blacks breed pieds or cinnamons. You never can tell.”
“What about temperament? I wouldn’t want to buy Marie-France something dangerous.”
“Oh, some strains are more wicious than others, sir, but my rats are gentled, else I wouldn’t sell ‘em. No, you raise ’em kindly, they’ll be sweet as cream, I give you my word”
“Excellent. But…do you know, I think Marie-France might like something a bit more unusual. I believe you mentioned you had some special rats?”
Black led the Frenchman past the cages, pointing out the rarer, stranger breeds and the conditions under which each was caught. Rocambole drew the rat-catcher out about them, listening closely to what Black didn’t say. Rocambole finally settled on four. The first was a long, muscular brown rat that Black called an Albanian Brown. “Frightful talkative, sir. If you listen too closely to it, you a’most think it’s talkink to you. And clever, too. You’ll need to be watchink it, and for Heaven’s sake, don’t leave the cage door open, or it’ll be out and you’ll never see it again.” The second was a smaller black female whose fur shone as if it had been greased. The rat-catcher called it the Priory Rat and said that he’d caught it out in the country, in a remote valley in Gloucestershire, and that the rat was perfectly safe. Black repeated that, several times, insistently enough that Rocambole was hard-pressed to pretend not to notice.
Tales of the Shadowmen 4: Lords of Terror Page 18
