Buffalo Bill Wanted! (11 page)

“So his coming along wasn't much help,” Wiggins said.

Owens laughed. “More like the opposite.”

Wiggins nodded. “If Chinless had no experience with animals, why
did
Zeke bring him along?”

He snapped his fingers. “Remember what Buffalo Bill told us when we asked him about smuggling? He didn't think any of his people could be involved because they wouldn't have the connections with people on the ships.”

Owens grinned. “But Zeke Black seems to have had a friend on this ship.”

With a loud whoosh of steam, the train jerked to a halt. Jennie glanced out the window. “This is our stop!”

The train's conductor gave the members of the Raven League a dirty look as they barely managed to get off the train in time. They stood on the station platform, enveloped in clouds of steam and smoke.

“I hope you got all that written down,” Dooley told Jennie.

“Oh, I don't think we'll be forgetting it very soon.” Wiggins reached into his pocket. “Right now, though, we have a little business to take care of.” He fished out half a crown and plopped the heavy coin into Jennie's hand. After a moment's thought, he added a few shillings more. “Will that be enough to feed Silent Eagle and get him a new set of clothes?”

She jingled the coins in her fist. “More than enough if I can get my friend Jacob to help.”

Wiggins glanced at Owens. “Would you help too—with the carrying and such?”

Owens shot him a suspicious look. “And what will you be doing all the while?”

“Dooley and I will be visiting the docks,” Wiggins replied. “Most everything that comes into London— legal and illegal—has to pass through there. The folks that work in the area have to see things.”

He smiled at Dooley. “We need to learn about smuggling, and I'm hoping that some friend or other of your father's will have something to teach us.”

Chapter 12

WIGGINS TOOK A DEEP BREATH, RELISHING THE BRACKISH smell in the air. He and Dooley had spent hours walking the docks, but Wiggins never tired of coming down here. On the few cases for Mr. Holmes that involved the river, he'd run into some truly amazing characters. Even the villains and scoundrels were more colorful than the common thugs of London's underworld.

There were men from many countries—India, Africa, even the South Sea Islands. And there was the booty—ivory, gold, even lost treasures of precious jewels.

Now it appeared that this case, even though it started with an Indian from America, was leading in the same direction. Down to the sea.

Well, at least down to the river,
Wiggins corrected himself. He wondered if his friend shared his feelings about the docklands, especially since Dooley's father worked on land and sea as a carpenter and laborer. Certainly Dooley knew a lot of the dockworkers and sailors, and the boys had spent some time talking to many of them.

“So far we haven't learned much.” Dooley sighed as they moved along the wharves. The cargo boats here seemed large enough to an ignorant landsman's eye, but Wiggins knew far-larger vessels pulled into the gigantic dockyards to load or unload cargo, while even larger oceangoing ships often put in farther downriver, closer to the sea.

“Most of the workers we spoke to wouldn't even talk to us once we mentioned smuggling.” Wiggins poked Dooley with an elbow. “I hope that means they're honest men.”

Dooley pulled his jacket closer, shivering. “I was thinking the same thing. What if word gets back to the people we're looking for?”

“That's why we're only talking to friends of your father,” Wiggins replied, “and why I made up that story we're telling them. So don't give up. Now, who's next?”

Dooley pointed toward a teetering wreck of a flophouse held up, it seemed, only by the wisps of incoming fog. “That's where Old Crowe lives.”

“Who?”

“Old Barnabas Crowe,” Dooley replied. “He's been a sailor since before my father was even born.”

Dooley squinted again as a short, dark figure exited the run-down building. “There he is! Come on!”

The two boys easily caught up with the old seaman, who seemed in no hurry to go anywhere in particular.

“Why, it's young William O'Dare,” Barnabas Crowe declared cheerfully. “'Ow are ye, lad?”

Dooley grinned and shook his head. “I'm fine, and it's Doolan, sir —Dooley to my friends. You know my da. He works on—”

“Half the rigs on these docks,” the old man finished for him. “Course I know him. What old salt worth his cast wouldn't?” He seemed to notice Wiggins for the first time. “Who be ye, boy?”

“This is Wiggins,” Dooley answered eagerly. “He's my friend, and—”

“I was about your age when I went to sea,” Crowe told Wiggins. “That was on the old
Venture
. Grand ship out of . . .” He scratched his head. “Now, what was that port?”

“Sounds like a great story, sir,” Wiggins said politely. “We've been trying to find out something very important, and Dooley thought you might have the answers.”

“If it has anything to do with the sea, I'm your man.” The old seaman took a seat on a nearby crate and motioned for the boys to do the same. “What's your question?”

Wiggins took a second to recall the details of his prepared story. “A friend of ours is in trouble,” he explained. “He found some goods that didn't belong to him—”

“Stole 'em?” The old seaman scowled. “Got no time to palaver with a thief.”

“No, sir,” Dooley quickly declared. “He didn't steal nothing, and neither did we!”

“That's right,” Wiggins added. “We think the, uh, things he found were brought here by smugglers. And if we don't find out who they are, our friend could wind up in trouble with the law.”

“Smugglers, eh?” Barnabas Crowe rubbed his stubbled chin. “Now, there's a scurvy lot, to be sure.”

Wiggins and Dooley leaned forward eagerly.

“They run about every port in the world the way rats swarm through the sewers,” Crowe told them. “They'll steal anything, lie through their teeth, and slit your throat for a tumbler of gin and a song.”

Dooley shuddered and then glanced around the almost-empty street. Wiggins tried to appear as if this were old news to him, but he felt almost as uneasy as his friend.

“Seen 'em in every port I traveled,” the old seaman went on.

“Even here in London?” Wiggins asked.

“Oh, aye,” Old Crowe replied. “More here than in most places. That's because London is a rich port city.”

Crowe fumbled in his old peacoat to pull out a stained clay pipe. “Even with open trade, there still be bounty that folks want, but the law says otherwise.”

“Like what?” Dooley asked. All around, the evening fog began to roll in. The buzz of a busy and crowded seaport slowly faded, replaced by the sound of lapping waves and a calm but eerie quiet.

“Folks might want to bring goods in without giving the queen her due.”

Seeing the puzzled expression on Dooley's face, he explained, “They don't want to pay no duty, uh, taxes, on tea, tobacco, and suchlike. If they get caught, it's off to prison, and their goods are burned here on the docks.” He frowned as he lit his pipe. “Burnin' good tobacco. You'd think they could give it away free.”

“Is that all they smuggle?” Wiggins asked.

Old Crowe laughed. “No, no, lad. All sorts of things come through. Opium, I hear—and even people.”

“People!” Dooley exclaimed.

“I hear tales.” The seaman blew smoke from between his yellow teeth. “How do you think all the Chinese folk are turning up in Limehouse?”

Wiggins knew some of the old tales of brandy and wine being smuggled in from the Continent, but this sounded much bigger. “How can they get away with it?” he asked in amazement. “The police must know what you know.”

“Ha!” The sarcasm in Crowe's voice was thick. “Nay, laddie, they know some of what I know. But ye have to realize that the smugglers have been at this longer than there's been a law.”

The old sailor closed his eyes thoughtfully. “Some of those gangs go back three or four generations,” he said. “Their course is sure and their channels clear.”

Crowe opened his eyes and must have noticed the boys' confusion. “I mean, they have all their connections set, all the right people in place.”

Both boys nodded. Colonel Cody had told them much the same thing earlier.

“There's captains, crews, and port officials to be paid off,” Crowe went on. “Then, once you've got your cargo past them—and the honest lawmen—you need a place to hold your goods till your . . . customers come for them.”

“Sounds like a lot of business to take care of,” Wiggins commented.

“I told you, lad.” Crowe relit his pipe and took a few short puffs. “Some of the best smugglers been at this a long time. In fact, many fine old merchant families made their fortunes from smuggling rum, spices, and slaves.”

“Old families?” Wiggins mused aloud.

“You mean some of the posh folks was criminals? ” Dooley gasped.

“Still are.” Crowe snorted. “Along with the folks they put in office.”

Now Wiggins rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Could Pryke be involved in smuggling? Mr. Shears said he used to have a shabby little office, but now he was moving up the ladder of importance.

Maybe he was involved in smuggling, and some of his cronies turned on him—beat him up,
Wiggins pondered.
Maybe Zeke was one of those cronies. If so, what were they smuggling?

“Aye, they're a wild bunch of gentry, they are,” Crowe added, speaking more to himself than the boys. “And to hear them talk, nobody can outsail, outfight, or outdrink 'em. But I showed 'em. Showed 'em up good.” A leer appeared on the old man's craggy face. “I can 'andle me drink and me fists.”

“You had to fight 'em?” Wiggins asked, trying not to seem too eager. “Where?”

“Quite a few places,” Old Crowe admitted. “Never too far from pier or port. Smugglers, they like being close to water in case they have to leave sudden-like.”

“But where in London?” Wiggins pressed.

“Oh, pubs like the Oak and Ivy, the Midnight Flit, the Bucket. Dangerous places, they be. Best keep your teeth in your head, your back to the wall, and your coin out of sight.”

“We will,” Dooley assured him.

“Eh?” Crowe blinked, jarred out of his memories.

“Nothing, sir,” Wiggins said, grabbing Dooley by the arm. “He was just caught up in your story.”

Crowe eyed them suspiciously. “Don't you be goin' near them places, boys,” he warned in earnest. “One wrong word or step and they'll find your bodies in the Thames.”

The warning hit home for both boys. The memory of Dooley's brother, Tim, found floating in the river, was still fresh and painful.

“We're just getting information,” Wiggins told the old sailor. “Like I said, to tell our friend.”

“To be sure, that's all it better be,” the old salt warned.

“Thanks for your help, sir,” Dooley added.

“You're welcome, young Dorley.”

“Dooley, sir. Dooley.”

“Aye. I know that.”

Wiggins and Dooley said their good-byes and left the old sailor still sitting on the crate, smoking his pipe.

The shadows were getting longer now, and the docks were almost deserted. The fog had become thicker, seeming to curl and slither along the damp wood of the pier.

“Well, that gave us a lot to tell the others,” Wiggins said. “Especially that part about the rich folks and their connections.”

“That's true,” Dooley agreed. “But there's so much going on, so much to remember.”

“Jennie will write it all down,” Wiggins said. “That'll help. Let's hurry.”

Eager to meet up with the others, Wiggins and Dooley raced along a particularly desolate part of the docks. During the day, it was jammed with workers, peddlers, and their customers. But now, they saw closed shops, stacked crates, and piles of garbage. The boys were used to the usual vermin that came with this area, but the wharf rats that suddenly stepped out of the shadows were the two-legged kind.

They were large, muscular men, with unshaven faces and worn, ill-fitting clothes. One was bald with a scar that ran down the length of his right cheek. The other had dark, greasy hair. Even from eight feet away, Wiggins and Dooley could tell neither had seen a bath in some time.

“Well, lookee what we have here,” Baldy said, gesturing toward the boys. For the first time, Wiggins saw that he had a knife in that hand. “A bit late for two young tykes to be about these parts.”

“Dangerous parts, at that.” The other man sneered.

“If that's so,” Wiggins said as he and Dooley backed away, “we'll just be on our way.”

They quickly turned, then stopped as a third ruffian appeared beside a stack of crates behind them. He was tall and thin, his skin burned dark by the sun. This time Wiggins immediately saw the item in his hand, a small wooden club about twelve inches long. Sailors called them belaying pins. They had many uses on a ship, but here on land, Wiggins could think of only one purpose.

He grabbed Dooley and cut left, going up and over the stack of crates. As the thugs came around the obstacle, the boys jumped onto a pile of garbage, rolled out of it, and ran down a narrow alley between two old buildings.

Wiggins could hear the men shouting and footfalls thudding in pursuit. He and Dooley reached the end of the alley and turned down another narrow passage, hoping it would bring them out onto a busier street.