TW08 The Dracula Caper NEW (9 page)

"In a manner of speaking, I do." Moreau said. "Shall I tell you what I know? You are at the moment living with a woman whom you introduce to your neighbors as your wife, although she is not your wife. At least not yet. Her name is Amy Catherine Robbins and you call her Jane. She was a student of yours. You left your wife Isabel for her. You were not always a journalist. You used to teach once under Professor Huxley at the Normal School of Science in South Kensington. You have two brothers. Frank and Freddy; you have been astigmatic from an early age and your health was always poor. You almost died of appendicitis in your youth and you broke your leg when you were seven years old—"

"Good God!" said Wells. "How is possible that you know so much about me?"

"I will tell you the complete truth, Mr. Wells." Moreau said "because I am in desperate need of help and I believe that you can give it to me, but I must tell it to you slowly, otherwise you will surely think me mad. I must convince you that I am not. More than you could possibly realize depends upon it."

"What manner of doctor are you?" Wells said. "Are you a physician or one of these mystics who claims the ability to read minds and such?"

"I would have an easier time convincing you that I am capable of reading your thoughts than of who and what I really am." Moreau said. "I am a professor and I am also a scientist. specializing in the biological sciences."

"Biological experimentation?" Wells said suddenly.

"Yes,"
Moreau said, glancing at him sharply. "What made you ask that?"

"Scientists engage in experimentation, do they not?"

"Yes. I suppose they do." Moreau said. "Still, it was curious that you should say that."

"Let us return, for the moment, to the topic at hand," said Wells. "This murder. You claim you know who was responsible? A patient of yours, perhaps?"

"No." said Moreau. "I do not see patients. But the man I am seeking, the one who I believe may be responsible for this, is without question insane. He was once a sort of colleague of mine. His name is Drakov."

"Nikolai Drakov?" Wells said.

Moreau stopped, frozen in his tracks, staring at him wildly.
"How did you
know that?"

Wells took his arm. "It appears that we both have some surprises for each other." he said. "I will answer your questions just as soon as you have answered mine."

They reached the ABC teashop and went inside. There were several couples in the shop, mostly young, lingering over tea and biscuits. The advent of the teashops was a blessing to young couples in a time where a "proper" young woman couldn't think of going alone to a young man's apartment. To young people without a lot of money, a teashop was the perfect place to meet. Nothing could be considered improper about taking a walk together then spending some time enjoying a "cuppa" and a biscuit or two. It was a date that any young man could afford.

They took their seats at a small table and ordered a pot of tea. Wells saw that Moreau had been staggered by his knowing Drakov's name. Strange, he thought, he had never been much good with names, but he had remembered that one because of the peculiar circumstances under which he had heard it. He wondered what connection there might be between those three Americans who had come to call on him and this curiously intense Frenchman.

Wells scrutinized him closely. Moreau was a small man. perhaps five foot five or six, slightly built, sharp featured. foxlike. He was younger than he seemed to be. Wells guessed he was in his early forties. but he looked older. It wasn't only the grey hair. There were crow's-feet around his eyes, which were red from lack of sleep. He was pale and there were worry lines around his mouth and above the bridge of his nose, between his eyebrows. He was clearly a man under a great strain.

"Before we discuss this any further," said Moreau "you have to tell me how you know Drakov's name. You've seen him? You know where he is? You
must
tell one!"

"Calm yourself, Dr. Moreau." said Wells. "In point of fact, I do not have to tell you anything. What I should be doing is taking you to the police. If you have knowledge about a crime that has taken plate, it is your duty to give that information to the authorities. I agreed to speak with you in private because you promised you would explain yourself. Well then, explain."

Moreau stared at Wells for a moment, then briefly closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "What if I were to tell you that I have come here from the future?"

"From the future," Wells said, watching him uneasily. He chose his words with care. "If you were to tell me that, Dr. Moreau, if that is indeed your name. I would have a great deal of difficulty believing you. I doubt that anyone could substantiate such a fantastic claim."

"Nevertheless, it is true," Moreau said. "I am a time traveler. Mr. Wells. And what is more. I can prove it to you.”

The frenzied screams woke Stanley Turner and he leaped out of bed and rushed to the window. He threw it open and looked down into the courtyard. The woman lying on the cobblestones below wasn't screaming anymore. She was lying on her back and a man was bending over her. In the fog and the dim light from the streetlamp at the entrance to the courtyard. Turner couldn't see much more than their shapes. He shouted, but there was no reaction from the killer. Across the courtyard. several of the neighbors had thrown open their windows as well. but the killer seemed oblivious to his audience.

"Wot is it?" Turner's wife said, sitting up in bed and clutching the covers to herself, frightened by the screams which had awakened them. "Stan. woes 'append?"

"Stay 'ere," Turner said, moving from the window. He rushed out of the small apartment, pausing only long enough to grab a large carving knife. and ran down the stairs. He encountered one of his neighbors in the hall, Joe Tully. a brawny man who worked in the slaughterhouse and picked up beer money as a bareknuckle boxer.

"There's a murder—," Tully started.

"I know, I saw!" said limier. "Quick, let's get the bloody bastard!"

They ran out into the courtyard, along with three other men who came out in various states of undress from the other buildings. Shouting to each other, they ran towards the murderer, still bent over the body in the narrow courtyard of the cul-de-sac. They were almost on him when he suddenly turned to face them, growling like a wild animal. The five men were brought up short, staring with shock at the face all covered with hair, blond dripping from the snarling mouth.

Before any of them could mow, the werewolf leaped and brought down one of the men. A vicious swipe with a clawed hand cut off his scream. The remaining four men were galvanized into action. One of them brought a club down hard upon the creature's back, but it had no effect. Turner leaped in with his knife. He felt a hairy hand grabbing his own with an iron grip and yanking hard and the next thing he knew, Stanley Turner was sailing through the air. He struck the building wall on the opposite side, hitting with his back and shoulders. He heard a crunching sound and he dropped down to the cobblestones, stunned. He heard another scream as the man with the club was lifted high overhead and flung down upon the wrought iron fence so hard that his body was impaled by the iron spears at the top. They entered his back and penetrated his chest. The massive Joe Tully was flung aside as if he didn't weigh a thing and then another vicious swipe of the claws blinded the other knife-wielding man. As he screamed, slashing about him blindly with his blade, the werewolf plunged a hand deep into his stomach and ripped out his intestines.

The courtyard became filled with screams as people from the rooms above watched the figures struggling in the fog. Joe Tully came at the creature with his fists up in a boxing stance, the corded muscles in his shoulders standing out, his barrel chest thrown out, his left arm held out in front and his right cocked before his chest. He took a swing with his left list
and
the creature caught it in its right hand. Tully swung his right and the creature caught it with its left. Holding Tully's clenched fists tightly in its hands, the werewolf began to squeeze. Tully struggled, kicking at the creature, then howled with pain as the bones in his fingers shattered.

He was forced down to his knees and then the creature let go of his ruined hands and grabbed his hair, jerking his head back violently, exposing the throat. The claws descended with a whoosh and Tully's throat was slashed so deeply that his head was almost completely severed from his body. Then the creature came towards Turner.

Turner sat with his back against the wall, holding the knife before him in both hands. His hands were shaking. He couldn't move. His back was broken. He saw the horrifying apparition approaching. heard the screams from above, felt the creature's fetid breath and then—

"Janos." a deep voice said from somewhere behind the creature.

The werewolf turned.

Turner heard the shrill blasts of a police whistle somewhere close by, in the fog.

"Come. Janos. Enough."

The werewolf turned hack to Turner, snarling, eager to finish him off.

"I said
enough,
Janos! Come!"

Turner was amazed to hear the creature whimper like a dog.

"Come,
Janos!"

It shambled off away from him and through the mist. Turner could barely make out the figure of a very large man dressed in a long dark cloak, a high silk hat, and carrying a walking stick. he turned and walked away quickly through the fog, with the creature hunched over, shambling along behind him. Stanley Turner was still holding the knife out in from of him with trembling hands when the police arrived.

"Lord, what a bloody awful mess." said Grayson, looking around the courtyard.

"Bloody's the word, all right." said Constable Wilkes. shaking his head.

"I've never seen anything like this in all my life.” It was still late and the fog was thick, but with the aid of their lanterns, they could see the bodies scattered all around the small courtyard. Blood was everywhere. They could hear the wailing of the women upstairs in their rooms, where members of the Metropolitan police force were trying to take statements from them. Grayson had instructed his men to keep the courtyard clear, not to allow anyone to come down until all the bodies had been removed and to keep
everyone away from their windows. He also had a couple of men block off the entrance to the cul-de-sac.

Wilkes had been the first to arrive on the scene, within moments after it had happened, and his whistle had summoned several other men on patrol, whom he had immediately directed to keep the neighbors inside.

"You've done well here, Wilkes.” said Grayson, nodding. "You've got the situation well under control. The last thing we needed was to have everyone tramping around down here, acting hysterical."

"Thank you. sir." said Wilkes. "But just the same, I'm glad you're here, sir. I was about at my wit's end. Near as I could make out, one man did all of this. One man! Makes Jack the Ripper look like a bleeding amateur."

"That's enough of that!" said Grayson. "I want no talk about the Ripper, understood? That happened years ago. It's over. Over and done with."

"Right,” said Wilkes, indicating the bodies. "Tell them."

"Get a hold of yourself, man." said Grayson. "Snap to. There's work to be done.”

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

"Right. Now where's the bloke who survived?"

"Right over there, sir," Wilkes said, pointing. "Wouldn't let us move him, thinks his back is broken. He's in shock, I think. Keeps saying that a—"

"Who's that with him?" Grayson said suddenly.

A man was crouching down on one knee beside Turner, talking to him.

"Here, you!" shouted Wilkes, rushing forward. He grabbed the man and yanked him to his feet, spinning him around."Who are you?" he said. "How'd you get in here?"

"Dick Larson,
The Police Gazette.”

"Oh, bloody hell!" said Grayson. "Who let him through? I'll have his guts for garters! That's all we need, reporters!”

"Come on, you, out!" said Wilkes, grabbing Larson by his coat.

"Just a moment," Grayson said. "How did you get here so fast?"

"I've been
investigating the other killing, Inspector." Larson said, "asking questions of people in the pubs hereabouts. I heard all the commotion and I ran to see what was going on."

"Well, we don't need any reporters getting in our way,” said Grayson. "Those damn stories you people have been writing are going to have the entire city in hysterics. I've got a responsibility—"

"In that case, I suggest you listen to me, Inspector," Larson said. "That is, unless you want it to get about that there's some sort of werewolf on the loose."

Grayson grabbed him by the shirtfront.
"What
did you say?"

"Steady, Inspector," Larson said, gently prying his fingers loose. "I don't want to frighten people needlessly any more than you do. This man's still in shock, but he's starting to come out of it. I managed to get a few words out of him about what happened here tonight. I don't think I'll print what he told me he saw. In fact, I've been trying to convince him that he saw something else, not only for the public good, but for his own good, as well. The poor sod's been through enough without being thrown into a madhouse."

"I think you and I had better have a little talk, Mr. Larson,” Grayson said.

"Stick around until I get this mess cleaned up. Wilkes, make sure he doesn't go off anywhere."

"Right, sir," said Wilkes. Grayson went to supervise the removal of the bodies and interview some of the neighbors. "You had to go and blunder in here, didn't you?" Wilkes said to Larson. "And here I'd just been complimented on how well I had things under control."

Larson held out a cigarette case to Wilkes. "Cigarette?" he said.

Wilkes looked around. "Thanks," he said, taking one.

"You're welcome, Constable—?"

"Wilkes. Brian Wilkes."

"Take it easy. Brian." Larson said. "I'm not going to cause you any trouble. Believe me, something like this is bigger than just getting a good story. The maniac who did this must be stopped and it won't help you stopping him if we all start writing lurid stories about ghastly creatures lurking in the shadows of Whitechapel. Any idiot can write that sort of nonsense. I'd much rather write a story about how the police brought a deranged killer to justice than print stories criticizing you chaps and making your job that much more difficult.“