Sherlock Holmes: The Army of Doctor Moreau

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

We made our way through the backstreets, the sound of footsteps never far behind us. I didn’t know if Holmes had a particular destination in mind. His passage seemed entirely random as we turned left, then right, then left again, weaving our way through the narrow passageways and terraces. More likely, I realised, he was trying to ensure that our pursuers never had a clear line of sight for long enough to throw another knife, like a soldier zigzagging before enemy fire in the hope of avoiding a bullet.

I was armed. Holmes may mock my willingness to risk the wrath of the law by carrying a loaded firearm on our excursions but I was damned if I was going to skulk around the roughest parts of Rotherhithe without some form of protection. It was little use to me at the moment anyway. I may have been a medical man more than a soldier but even I knew that in the time it took for me to turn around and find my aim I would likely have a knife in my chest. If we were able to find cover so that I could turn the tables then maybe we’d stand a fighting chance. Breathlessly, I suggested as much to Holmes. But he just shook his head and continued to drag me through the backstreets of Rotherhithe.

We emerged close to the river again, having evidently looped right around. Holmes grabbed my arm and pulled me behind a stack of empty crates. I reached for my gun but he held down my hand and placed his fingers to his lips. Within a few moments our pursuers appeared. The first was as hairless as Holmes appeared to be, a thick scar running its way through his pale skin from the top of his head to the corner of his lips. The second made a pretence at refinement, his suit and glistening watch chain such an unfamiliar sight in this environment that it was a wonder he was able to walk the streets unmolested. Or perhaps that said all one needed to know about his potential for violence: only a man confident in his ability to take on all comers would have the audacity to dress in such a manner.

The man with the scar had a knife in his hand, the partner of the one that had narrowly missed us earlier. He spun it in his hand, letting blade revolve after hilt like a deadly carriage wheel.

“Lost them,” said the dapper fellow.

“You give up too easily,” said his scarred comrade, and I noted the German accent as predicted by Holmes. “They must be hiding close by.”

“Probably.” The other man was struggling to catch his breath. “But I’m in no mood to keep chasing them. I’m not paid to run around the docks all night.”

“Lazy.”

The dapper man fixed his comrade with a mean-spirited glare. “Keep a civil tongue, Klaus,” he said. “I’m not beyond beating a bit of respect out of you should it be necessary.”

Klaus smiled and, thanks to the scar, it twisted all of his features out of kilter. It was as if a painter had swept his hand across the face of a still-wet portrait. “You don’t want to pick a fight with me, Martin, I’ll cut your pretty face off.”

“Like someone once tried to do to yours?”

“Oh no,” said Klaus, running the tip of his knife along the thick ridge of his scar, “this was me. I get bored sometimes.”

Martin shook his head. “The people I have to work with.” He reached into his pocket and removed a silver cigarette case. Taking out a cigarette, he tapped it affectedly on the case, placed it between his lips and then replaced the case in his pocket. From a different pocket he removed a box of matches, lit the cigarette and exhaled a large, blue cloud of smoke. The whole business was so theatrical and affected, clearly designed to show Klaus how singularly unconcerned he was at the man’s threats.

“Let’s go and see Kane,” he said after another draw on his cigarette. “We’ll tell him that someone was asking after him.”

“And admit we lost them?”

Martin shrugged. “I’m not ashamed of it. They obviously knew where they were going. He doesn’t pay me to run around the streets all night.”

“Fine. Then you will tell him who it was that decided they not bothered to find them.” Klaus wore his accent like a badge, a brutal club to beat his grammar with.

Martin resorted to showmanship again, tossing his half-smoked cigarette at Klaus’ feet before pushing past him and walking off along the quay. “All right then,” he shouted back. “I will.”

Klaus ground the cigarette beneath his boot with far more violence than the job warranted, and followed on behind.

Holmes waited a moment longer and then whispered in my ear. “Now we have someone who can lead us to wherever this Kane fellow conducts his business,” he said. “Far more useful than a pair of crooks with one of your bullets in them, don’t you think?”

“Of course,” I sighed. “If someone had seen fit to tell me what the plan was in the first place …”

“I’ve already told you,” said Holmes, “no explanations, you can follow at your own pace.”

He slipped out from behind the crates and began following Klaus and Martin, keeping to the shadows.

Restraining the urge to shoot him myself, I did likewise.

There was something to be said for Martin’s insufferable ego—it made him an easy man to follow. He walked with confidence and swagger, never once feeling the need to check for others around him. He was the only important man in his world. He was an idiot. This fact was not lost on Klaus but he was clearly so angry at his colleague that he was also distracted from the path of common sense. Following them along the quayside was unproblematic, and when they came to the side door of a large warehouse, we hung back and watched as they stepped inside.

“It would appear Kane has a sizeable central office,” I said, glancing up at the building. “For a new organisation, he’s doing rather well.”

“Isn’t he,” agreed Holmes.

According to the large, white letters painted on the side of the building, it belonged to E.C. Kenton & Waldemar, who offered “Animal Feed and Farming Supplies”—all suitably innocuous.

“Shall we?” asked Holmes, strolling up to the door.

I took my revolver out of my pocket and we made to step inside.