Josh and the Magic Vial (18 page)

“Skogs? I don't believe you. You're lying because you're afraid of Sirus Blackstone.”

“Believe what you want, but I can't change the truth. It was Mr. Skogs who gave us our instructions.”

“But Skogs was acting for Blackstone?” Puddifant said, puzzled.

“He never said so, sir. He never said anything about that,” Jeremy answered, avoiding Puddifant's stare.

“Are you saying you never met Blackstone, then?” Puddifant demanded.

“Just the once, sir, and once was enough. Skogs introduced me to him.”

“And what did Blackstone say to you?”

“It wasn't so much what was said, sir, as how you felt around him.”

“And how was that?”

“Well, those who know me wouldn't ever call me a coward to my face. But I don't mind saying that man Blackstone gave me the shivers. He's the devil himself, Inspector. He scares the living daylights out of me.”

“So Skogs told you what to do. Did he ask you to do anything to the boy, aside from rough him up?”

Jeremy hesitated.

“Did he?” Puddifant growled.

“He wanted us to bring back certain things, sir — proof that we'd done the job, I guess you could say.”

“What sort of things?”

The boy squirmed. “A bit of blood, some hair, and some nail clippings. That's all.”

30

S
kogs awoke next morning, surprised to find Elvira already gone. “Without so much as a goodbye,” he grumbled. It was Saturday, her day off. No doubt she had run off to Blackstone's. He hated the two of them.

He stopped in at a café not far from their flat. Elvira would have been furious with him for squandering money on coffee and a scone, but “what she don't know, won't hurt her” he told himself. After his breakfast, he used the telephone to leave a message for Puddifant. “Tell him a friend has called,” he instructed the duty officer at the police station. “I don't care if it's his day off, get the message to him. Tell him I will meet him this evening, and that it's urgent.”

Then he rang off.

“There,” Skogs said, stepping out into the brittle November light. “I've done it.”

In the end, it had been easy. Blackstone was not invincible, he decided. The scoundrel couldn't read minds or see around corners, after all. Once you knew
that
, you could begin to work against him, perhaps even hope to throw him down someday, and Elvira with him. “Oh you deserve whatever's coming, the two of you,” he muttered, setting his course for Blackstone's Magic and Occult Emporium.

Along the way he got rid of Puddifant's card, tearing it to shreds, which fluttered into the gutter like confetti. He'd been a bit careless there, and scolded himself for it. “If you're going to play the spy, you'd best mind your step,” he chided. “You don't want to stumble into an open grave.”

He had to force himself on, down Ship Alley and across Wellclose Square. If you've ever tried pushing the negative poles of two strong magnets together, you'll know how hard Skogs had to work to overcome his terror. The closer he got to the magician's lair, the more instinct repelled him. “Get away! Run!” That's what intuition told Skogs.

He overcame this gnawing fear and felt proud having done so. He was taking an awful risk agreeing to work with Puddifant, but Skogs did not regret his decision any longer. For the first time he could remember, he felt wholly alive — alert to the possibility of doing good.

“Ah, Skogs!” Blackstone greeted him from behind the counter with unaccustomed cheerfulness. “Just in time.”

“In time?” Skogs asked.

“Yes,” the magician rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. “I have a new assignment for you, now that you've finished with Puddifant.”

Skogs feigned cheerfulness. “Calm yourself,” he thought. “If you show the slightest fear, Blackstone will pick up the scent like the wolf he is.”

“What is it you want me to do, sir?” he asked, with a show of enthusiasm.

Just then, Elvira entered from the stockroom. “Good morning, dearest,” she said sweetly. “I trust you slept soundly.”

“Your husband needs cheering up, Elvira,” Blackstone teased. “He seems a bit down in the mouth, though he's trying not to show it, brave soul.”

It occurred to Skogs that the two of them must be up to something truly devilish to have put them in such good spirits. “I must warn Puddifant,” he thought, fearing the worst.

“I don't see why he should be in a bad mood,” Elvira was saying. “He's had a little lie in, no doubt he's spent a few shillings on breakfast . . . ”

They laughed heartily, until Skogs interrupted by asking about the “new assignment” Blackstone had mentioned.

“Oh! A pleasant task, I should think, Skogs, compared to the tedious, not to mention treacherous task of tailing Inspector Puddifant. I think you will find a trip to the country quite enjoyable.”

“A trip to the country, sir?”

“Yes, I have a crate that needs delivering, Skogs. A rather important shipment that I can't trust to anyone but you.”

Skogs couldn't help noticing the quick, amused glance between Blackstone and Elvira. They were having a good joke at his expense, he thought. Rather like two people at a surprise party, waiting for the guest of honour to open his gift.

“Where is this crate, sir?” he asked.

“In the cellar, Skogs. I haven't made up the order yet, and shall require your assistance.”

Skogs feared the cellar. Blackstone kept all manner of roots and herbs down there. He'd set up what amounted to a laboratory for manufacturing potions and compounds for his clients. The room was unnaturally cold and dark, its corners seeming to swallow up the light.

He had no choice but to go, or show his fear. Blackstone ushered him into the stockroom, then through the cellar door. In single file the two men clattered down the narrow stairwell, the sterile room opening out before them. In the centre of the tiled floor sat a large crate, much bigger than what Skogs had been expecting.

“My goodness, sir!” he cried, taken aback. “What are you going to fill that with?”

“Well, my dear fellow, you are going to fill it, I should say,” Blackstone answered over his shoulder. Gone was the amusement in the warlock's voice. He now spoke with dreadful sarcasm.

Recognizing the rough coffin for what it was, Skogs twisted toward his executioner. “Wha . . . ” he cried, but before he could scream, Blackstone had him by the throat, his hand locked round Skogs's neck with a superhuman grip. Skogs would have struggled, but could not, for Blackstone's strength was supplemented by a powerful spell that numbed like spider's venom.

Skogs did keep his eye fixed on the enemy and upon Elvira who had appeared beyond Blackstone's shoulder. Despite his predicament he managed to look at them with contempt and utter hatred.

“You have been a fool,” Blackstone hissed, “and now you shall pay a fools' price.”

“Kill him!” Elvira urged. “Kill him and be done!”

“In good time, my pet — in good time. First I want your beloved to answer me a question.” He turned back to Skogs, grinning. “Your wife found Inspector Puddifant's card in your coat pocket — very careless of you to have left it there. Tell me Skogs, when and where are you supposed to meet this troublesome detective friend of yours again? I shall loosen my grip a little, and you shall answer. Who knows, if your answer pleases me, I may let you off with your miserable life.”

Skogs gasped as the claw relinquished its grip.

“Now answer me Skogs and be quick about it, if you value your life.”

Recovering his senses somewhat, Skogs stared defiantly into the black, impenetrable eyes of his tormentor. Rather than speak, he gathered his courage and spat square in Blackstone's face, spat with all the vehemence he could muster.

The last sounds Skogs heard in this world were Blackstone's outraged howl and his wife's horrid shriek; the last sensation, a sudden burst of ecstasy, after the indescribable pain of Blackstone's claw crushing his throat.

31

S
omething's wrong?”

Puddifant drummed his fingers on the table nervously. Why hadn't Skogs come? It was late — very late. Maybe his informant had found himself in circumstances where he could not get away. Perhaps he'd got drunk. Or he might have got cold feet. However, none of these excuses rang true.

Unable to wait any longer, Puddifant put in a call to New Scotland Yard. “I need transportation immediately,” he barked. Pulling on his greatcoat he hurried out of the pub into the swirling mist outside. Ten minutes later the car pulled up. “Where to sir?” the driver said.

“Wapping,” Puddifant answered. “Wellclose Square.”

“Not the best of neighbourhoods,” the constable noted, as they trundled off.

“It's the best some can afford,” Puddifant answered coolly.

“Aye, sir. That's the truth. And a sight better than some deserve, eh?”

The man prattled on as they clattered through the shrouds of fog. Puddifant only half listened. He needed to think. The diabolical outlines of Blackstone's design were beginning to take shape. Skogs played the role of middleman, a position of great danger. It had been Skogs who visited the funerals; Skogs who recruited the thugs who beat up victims like Charlie Underwood; Skogs who collected the grotesque ingredients Blackstone needed for his rituals. Eliminate Skogs, and you eliminated any possible proof that Blackstone was connected to the children's deaths. Skogs was dispensable.

Puddifant rapped at the door to Blackstone's Magic and Occult Emporium, then hammered when no one answered. At last a light went on upstairs, then a minute later in the shop. “Inspector Puddifant,” the magician said, opening the front door a crack and squinting out. “What do you want? Rather late for a visit, isn't it?”

“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” Puddifant responded, trying not to sound sorry at all. “But I do have a few questions of an urgent nature.”

“I do hope you're not trying to harass me, Inspector,”

Blackstone complained. “You
do
know what time it is, don't you?”

Puddifant looked at his watch, which had just ticked past eleven.

“I have a business to run, Inspector. I shall complain about your methods.”

“Why were you interested in the funeral of Charlie Underwood, sir?” Puddifant cut him off.

“Who is Charlie Underwood?”

“A young lad who died recently at the Great Ormsby Street Hospital. You sent Mr. Skogs to his funeral.”

“I don't know what you're talking about, Puddifant. If Skogs attended a funeral it must have been somebody
he
knew. I've never heard of this Charlie Underwood.”

“Where is Skogs?” Puddifant demanded.

“How should I know?” Blackstone sputtered. “Home in bed, I would assume, like most normal people.”

“You haven't seen him today, then?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact, I have. He stopped in here this morning, looking for work. I didn't have anything for him, so I sent him away.”

“And that's the last you saw him?”

“Yes! Why? Are you looking for him?”

“I am, now, Blackstone. I am now.”

“Well, I wish I could be of assistance, but I have no idea where Mr. Skogs might be found, if he's not at home with Mrs. Skogs, sir. Good night.”

With that Sirus Blackstone closed the door.

“An unsavoury type, sir,” the driver observed, watching the lights wink out in Blackstone's emporium.

“More unsavoury than either of us can imagine,” Puddifant agreed as they climbed back into the car. “Perhaps Mrs. Skogs will be of more help to us,” he said, giving his companion the directions.

Puddifant wasn't hopeful. Elvira Skogs would have been meticulously prepared by Blackstone, and from Enver's description, she was a hard case.

“Diabolical,” Puddifant muttered.

“How could this have happened?” Chief Inspector Wexly said, shaking his head. “To have an informant disappear! This is disturbing, Puddifant. Very disturbing.”

“I don't know, sir,” Puddifant answered glumly. “I'm still optimistic he'll turn up.”

“Hopefully not as a corpse, eh!”

“He's bolted, sir.”

“Why would he do that?”

Why indeed? “Perhaps he was afraid he'd been found out.”

“Which brings us to the same conclusion, eh?”

“Sir?”

“That this Blackstone character is extremely dangerous and will stop at nothing,” the chief concluded, leaning back in his chair thoughtfully.

“And the boy, Underwood? Tell me about him,” he continued.

“I only met him once,” Puddifant said, surprised at the catch in his voice.

The chief assessed this information clinically, the same way a psychiatrist might. Puddifant could imagine himself in the chief 's position, and knew
he
would be examining his subordinate in the exact same manner if their roles were reversed.

“It's a very unusual circumstance, Horace,” Wexly mused.

“What is?”

“Well, to have an officer actually meet the victim before he dies — especially considering the victim was a child. How often in your career have you come up against
that
, Puddifant?”

“It happens, I suppose.”

“And then to have an informant go missing — another person with whom you had a direct connection . . . ”

Puddifant opened his mouth to object, but the chief stopped him, holding up his hand and frowning sternly.

“I know you, Horace, and even if I didn't, I can see in your report that you empathized with this Enver Skogs. I know it's been a long time since I've been directly involved in an investigation, but I haven't entirely forgotten what it's like.”

“What are you saying, sir?” Puddifant demanded.