The Steampunk Detective (21 page)

“We’re in a back lane behind the building,” Mr Doyle said. “We need to head up Bee Street as rapidly as possible.”

“We’re going to follow that man?” Jack asked.

“Indeed,” Mr Doyle replied. “With any luck he’ll lead us straight to the professor.”

They raced down the street, dodging around pedestrians and carriages. Jack moved quickly with Mr Doyle struggling to keep up. A large steamtruck drew across the road, blocking their way. With a cry of anguish, Mr Doyle led them around the van and down the street.

“Can you see him, Jack?” Mr Doyle asked.

Jack’s eyes searched the busy road.

Where are you?
He thought.
Where -?

It took him a moment, but fortunately the man was taller than the rest of the people in the street. Jack sighted him just as he turned the corner at the end.

They hurried down to the corner. Once again they spotted his head bobbing above the others in the crowd. Jack glanced to his left and saw a dirty ragamuffin face peering back at him in the glass.

It took him a moment to realise he was staring at himself!

“I look completely different,” he said in wonder.

“And you were so tidy when I first met you,” Mr Doyle said. “Here we are. He’s heading into a building.”

They moved down the street a little more slowly. The building was a derelict structure with the windows boarded up. A burnt out structure stood next to it.

“What’s he doing in there?” Jack asked as they approached the domicile.

“I have no idea,” Mr Doyle replied.

They mounted the front steps and gently pushed open the front door. A water damaged hallway lay ahead of them. Wallpaper sagged like molten wax.  Dust and grey-green mould tainted every surface. Rooms led left and right. Mr Doyle held his finger to his lips.

They slowly made their way down the hall.

Suddenly a door flew open to their left. The hulking form of Flint filled it. Jack felt complete terror as Flint’s eyes swept from him to Mr Doyle.

“Sorry guv’nor,” Mr Doyle said, adopting a low class accent. “We’re just looking for somewhere to stay.”

“Well this place is taken,” Flint snapped.

Jack glanced past him into the room. He caught sight of peeling paint, broken glass and scattered floorboards.

“What’re you looking at?” Flint asked Jack.

“Nuttin,” Jack replied, hoping the man would not recognise his voice.

“Then clear off! The pair of you!” Flint roared.

“Ay guv’nor,” Mr Doyle said, pretending to be afraid and dipping his cap.

They scampered out of the building onto the street. They did not look back as the front door was angrily slammed behind them. Mr Doyle wordlessly led them into the street and to a small park on the other side. They sat down, lounging as if they had nothing better to do with their time.

“What do we do now?” Jack asked breathlessly.

“Now we wait,” Mr Doyle replied.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The afternoon passed slowly.

Whoever thought detective work could be so boring, Jack thought.

He found himself squirming in the seat despite Mr Doyle’s calm urgings that he needed to exercise patience. During the afternoon Mr Doyle made a reconnaissance to the rear of the building to make certain that Flint had no other escape, but he came back reporting the back of the property to be enclosed by a large wall.

The afternoon slid into evening. At one stage Jack asked Mr Doyle exactly what he expected to happen.

“The best case scenario is that Professor M meets Mr Flint. Possibly Flint may even go to a meeting with M, in which case we will follow him.”

Another two hours passed. Airships eased across the sky, their brass gondolas reflecting the last light of day. The streets grew quieter. The few nearby shops closed and the owners pulled their curtains across and departed for the day. A block away the distant sounds of a pub echoed down the empty street. A woman sang out of tune and the crack of broken glass tinkled in the night.

Next time I’m bringing a book, Jack thought dismally. Maybe I -.

A gun shot rang out.

“What on Earth –.” Mr Doyle began.

They warily crossed the street. The area was so deserted that either no–one else had heard the shot or if they had they did not care. Mr Doyle drew his weapon.

“Stay behind me, Jack,” he said.

They made their way up the front steps of the building. Mr Doyle tried the door handle. It opened with a slight creak. They paused in the doorway before starting down the hall. The faint glow of lamplight emanated from under the door of the room that had contained Flint.

Mr Doyle carefully pushed the door open with his gun at the ready. Jack peered inside. A lamp sat on a table, casting a shivering glow across the room. There was no other furniture in the room. The chamber was as dilapidated as it had appeared from his brief glance earlier.

The big difference now was the deceased body of Flint laying face down in the middle of the floor. Mr Doyle quickly crossed to the man and turned him over.

“Dead,” Ignatius Doyle pronounced. “He’s been shot once in the heart.”

Jack glanced nervously behind them.

“Who could have killed him?” Jack asked. “No–one entered the building all afternoon.”

“That’s the mystery,” Mr Doyle said. “Either the assailant was already in the building or –.”

The detective stopped. A pile of timber on the floor lay a small distance away from Flint’s body. Mr Doyle crossed to it. He grabbed the nearest board and pulled on it.

To Jack’s surprise, the board was attached to the others and lifted in one smooth action. The seemingly loose pile of boards were actually attached and formed a trapdoor – set into the floor! A set of stairs led down into the dark. Mr Doyle motioned to Jack.

“Please grab that lamp, Jack,” he said.

In the next instant they started down the stairs with Mr Doyle in the lead and Jack illuminating the interior. At the bottom of the stairs a tunnel led away from them into the distance. A sound echoed faintly towards them.

“They’re getting away!” Mr Doyle exclaimed. “Quickly!”

They raced down the tunnel. Ahead of them they heard the footsteps break into a run. The sound of a metal grate reverberated down the tunnel. A moment later they reached a ladder stretching up above them. Mr Doyle climbed up cautiously and pushed up a trapdoor. He looked around carefully.

“It’s another old house,” he told Jack.

Jack climbed up the ladder and joined him in a derelict room not unlike the one they had just left. A door slammed distantly. They hurried from the room and found a passageway leading to the front door. As they burst through they saw a figure racing across the street away from them.

The person turned around and pointed at them.

“Down!” Mr Doyle grabbed Jack and pushed him to the ground as a pistol cracked and a bullet thudded into the timber over their heads.

They jumped up and gave pursuit. The figure raced down a dark lane towards a better lit thoroughfare. For the first time, Jack was able to get a closer look at their mode of dress. A hat. Long coat. Scarf.

“That’s the person I chased on the train,” Jack gasped as they raced down the alley. “Do you think it’s M?”

“I’m not sure,” Mr Doyle said.

The alley opened into a street occupied by a few pubs, a street vendor selling chestnuts and couples walking out in the early evening.

“M has a habit of killing those closest to him,” Mr Doyle explained, scanning the street. “He leaves no witnesses.”

Jack sighted someone turning a corner at the end of the street. The distant figure glanced back at them.

“There!” Jack yelled.

They hurried down the street. By the time they reached the corner, the figure was moving away from them at a great pace. At the end, the road angled upwards over a bridge crossing another thoroughfare.

The figure turned again and fired. The bullet zinged off the pavement and away from them. As they started onto the bridge they saw the man point the gun at them – but nothing happened.

“He’s out of bullets,” Mr Doyle puffed. The detective was sweating and breathless in the cool night air.

They continued onto the bridge, but this time the killer did not run away. Instead, he examined the road beneath the bridge, shot another look at them and raced across to the opposite side.

No! Jack thought. That’s barmy!

“He’s going to jump!” he cried.

The man leapt onto the hand railing, balanced on it momentarily and fell, disappearing from sight. Jack and Mr Doyle raced over to the side. A steamtruck had passed beneath the bridge. A figure lay spread-eagled on the roof. The man turned and stared back at them until the vehicle turned a corner and disappeared out of sight.

“Damnation,” Mr Doyle shook his head, then gripped his leg, wincing. “If I were twenty years younger I may have caught him.”

“I don’t think anyone could have caught up with him,” Jack said. “That jump was one in a million.”

“True,” Mr Doyle agreed. “Regardless, we’ve lost our best lead at the moment and we’re no closer to finding the bomb.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Jack rose the next morning, washed and dressed and found Mr Doyle eating jam and toast with Gloria Scott.

“Good morning, Jack,” Mr Doyle said.

“Hello Jack,” Gloria smiled. “I trust you’re rested after your adventures last night?”

“Rested?” Jack asked.  “I slept like the dead, if that’s what you mean.”

“A note arrived early,” Mr Doyle said. “We must attend the Prime Ministers residence this morning.”

“The Prime Minister…,” Jack’s voice trailed off. “The Prime Minister of what?”

“England, Jack” Mr Doyle frowned. “There’s only one.” He scoffed down a piece of toast. “It seems they have received Professor M’s demands.”

They quickly finished their meal and hailed a steam cab to take them to the centre of London. The day had turned cold again. Fog shifted among the vehicles on the road as their carriage shunted through the streets till it reached Downing Street.

They climbed from the cab. A number of constables strategically guarded the street. Jack imagined even some of the curious onlookers who waited to catch a glimpse of the Prime Minister were probably security guards in disguise.

Mr Doyle introduced himself at the front door. He and Jack stepped inside and were quickly frisked by two security agents. Finally a butler led them down a corridor. A moment later they were ushered into a room. Jack recognised the three inhabitants of the room – General Churchill, Thomas Griffin from MI5 and the Prime Minister, Horatio Kitchener.

“Hello, Jack,” Mr Griffin said amiably. “Hello Ignatius.”

“May I introduce you to the Prime Minister,” General Churchill announced.

Jack felt slightly nervous shaking the hand of the man in charge of England, but Mr Doyle appeared at ease.

“Thank you for coming so promptly,” the Prime Minister said. “You can appreciate the level of this crisis.”

“We can indeed,” Mr Doyle said. “I understand you have received a communication from M?”

Mr Kitchener opened a folder and placed a letter and large envelope on the desk. Mr Doyle donned a pair of gloves and examined the pieces of paper.

After a moment, he laid down the note and nodded. “Indeed, this is the same letter writer as the original note. How was this delivered to you?”

“A boy was given five shillings to deliver it,” General Churchill said. “Apparently he was approached on the street by a stranger.”

“And a description of the man?”

“Medium height. Slim build. He wore a hat, coat and scarf.”

Mr Doyle and Jack looked at each other. “It’s the same man,” Jack said.

“Apparently,” Mr Doyle commented. “Now we should refer to the actual contents of the note.” His eyes narrowed as he read the page, then anger blazed in them. “This is outrageous.”

“What is it?” Jack asked.

Mr Doyle shot him a look, but did not reply. He turned to General Churchill. “We cannot allow this to happen.”

“I don’t believe we have any choice,” General Churchill said carefully.

“What’s going on?” Jack asked, now a little frightened.

Mr Doyle wordlessly nodded to the letter. Jack moved closer to the desk and examined the letter. It said:

Mr Prime Minister

By now your scientists have evaluated the power of the atomic weapon found at the French metrotower. I’m sure it pains you to realise that I have an identical device and I am prepared to use it unless you follow my instructions to the letter.

You will arrange the payment of the diamonds. They will be delivered to me at the statue next to the bridge overlooking Kings Cross station at midday today. After I receive the diamonds, I will release Lucy Harker and the bomb into your care.

If you do not deliver the diamonds to me, I will destroy London at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon.

If you attempt to capture me or not pay the ransom, I will destroy London.

If you do not follow my instructions to the letter, I will destroy London.

But it was the next words that made Jack’s mouth fall open.

You will send Jack Mason with the diamonds.

Once again, if my demands are not followed to the letter, I will reduce London to a landscape of burning cinders.

.M.

Jack re-read the message twice before he looked up at the three pairs of eyes staring down at him.

“It looks like I’m to be a delivery boy,” he said.

Mr Doyle shook his head. “This is too dangerous…too dangerous…” His voice trailed off.

“There’s no other way around it,” Mr Griffin said. “And we will watch Jack’s every move. There is no moment when he will be out of our sight.”

“Still…” Mr Doyle looked concerned.

“I understand your concern,” General Churchill said. “Believe me, I would never use a child to deal with a monster like M if I had a choice –.”

“But we do not have a choice,” Horatio Kitchener interrupted. “The lives of many thousands of people are at stake.”