The Mechanical Messiah (11 page)

‘Fifty-fifty,’ said Darwin the monkey.

‘Pardon me?’ said the colonel.

‘Fifty-fifty we split up the profits.’

‘Ah,’ said the colonel. ‘I see.’

Darwin stuck out his hand for a shake. He knew at least that the colonel was a man of honour. Although perhaps it might have been wise to ask just what the colonel’s plan entailed before agreeing to
anything.
But Darwin was, after all was said and done, a
monkey,
and as such he did tend towards the mercurial, even in his most thoughtful of moods.

‘Allow me to explain,’ said Colonel Katterfelto.

Now a Gaming Hell is a Gaming Hell, no matter how you dress it. You can dress it grandly, as in the casino at Monte Carlo. Or you can clothe it in rags, as in the back-alley dives of old Shanghai. In London there were many ways of dressing it. And many many ways there were of gambling. From the whelk pits of Whitechapel, where East Enders of the sporting persuasion would lay bets upon the fortunes of a single man of sterling bravery who would match himself against as many as twenty wild whelks (that’s
twenty wild whelks!)
with nothing to defend himself but a three-pound brickie’s club hammer …

… to the swank casinos of Mayfair.

Somewhere in between was The Spaceman’s Club. Colonel Katterfelto was a member of The Spaceman’s Club. An honorary member was he. Due to his medal-winning bravery, not amongst the wild whelks of Whitechapel, but the murderous Martians from Mars. The colonel had not only blasted the blighters in Battersea during the Second Worlds War. He had later led his regiment across the wastes of the red planet to mop up any Martian survivors. Not that there had been any Martian survivors to mop up. But there had been plenty of big-game hunting and this takes bravery, also.

The Spaceman’s Club shared something with the Music Hall in that it, too, was egalitarian. As long as you had travelled in space and could prove it, you could become a member. Assuming of course that you could afford the membership fees.

Jupiterians, or Jovians as they were more popularly known, were known to be big spenders at the gaming tables. Unlike the svelte, aloof Venusians, who drifted about rarely speaking to others than their own, Jovians were boisterous, gregarious, rumbustious (although this is very much the same as boisterous) and always up for a wager, no matter how mad it might seem.

Many Jovians frequented The Spaceman’s Club, and as they did not subscribe to the Earthly hours of eating and sleeping, they tended to gamble all around the clock.

‘Good morning, Colonel Katterfelto,’ said Mr Cohen of Cohen Brothers Pawnshop, from his seat behind the counter. ‘Have you come to redeem your ray gun and medals? I’ve kept them all polished and safe.’

Colonel Katterfelto sadly shook his head. ‘Regretfully, no,’ was his reply. ‘I still find myself lacking in necessary funds. I am forced to pawn more of my valuable possessions.’

Mr Cohen rubbed his hands together, as any pawnbroker might. And as any pawnbroker
did,
he rubbed them together beneath the counter and out of sight of his client.

‘That is indeed sad,’ said he. ‘But if I were not here to help out gentlemen such as yourself when they are in need, what indeed would be my purpose on this planet?’

There were elements of disingenuousness in this statement. Although not in as obvious a way as might be supposed. Mr Cohen
did
have a purpose upon this planet, but it was
not
to help out fallen gentlemen. It was indeed to seek the lost Ring of Moses, as Mr Cohen was a practising Cabbalist. Small world!

Colonel Katterfelto smiled upon Mr Cohen. ‘It is a
very
delicate matter,’ he said, ‘and a most private matter also.’

‘Go on,’ said Mr Cohen. Leaning forwards towards the bars of the steel cage that separated himself from his grateful clientele.

Colonel Katterfelto made as if to affect a thoughtful disposition. He gazed all around and about the pawnbroker’s shop. The sad and sorry array of items told their sad and sorry stories as they might. Here hung the tools of artisans and the instruments of musicians. The pewter and silver plate of the once wealthy. The meagre bits and bobs that were precious to the poor.

‘I have a great treasure,’ said Colonel Katterfelto. ‘Perhaps one of the greatest treasures of this age. I am forced to part with it, but only for a single day. Just one single day, do you understand me?’

Mr Cohen viewed the speaker. ‘No, I don’t,’ he said.

‘I need to borrow one hundred pounds,’ said Colonel Katterfelto.

‘One hundred pounds?’
Mr Cohen sank back into his seat.

‘I have a treasure worth far more than that.’

‘Please speak of it,’ said the man behind the bars.

Colonel Katterfelto leaned forwards and whispered hoarsely. ‘It is a talking monkey,’ he said. And he pointed to the monkey at his side.

Mr Cohen rose from his seat, leaned forwards and stared.

‘Get out of my shop,’ said he.

‘No,’ said the colonel. ‘Please hear me out. I have a system. A gambling system. It is infallible. But I need the readies, do you understand me? So I must part with the old talking ape. Wonder of the age and all that kind of business.’

Mr Cohen sighed and said, ‘Get
out.’

‘One moment more.’ Colonel Katterfelto raised a calming hand. The hand of Mr Cohen was moving towards the colonel’s pawned ray gun. ‘Let me ask you one question. You are a businessman. If you were in possession of a monkey that could speak the Queen’s English, what price would you put upon him?’

Mr Cohen shrugged extravagantly. ‘Do you think I’m a schmuck?’ said he. ‘A real talking ape would be worth at least a thousand pounds. A shrewd showman could make that kind of money back in a week.’

Colonel Katterfelto cast a brief yet bitter glance towards his companion. So much he had suspected. But Darwin stubbornly refused to exhibit himself He had only agreed to operate the clockwork minstrel because he would not be seen.

‘Say something to the nice gentleman, Darwin,’ said Colonel Katterfelto.

‘Would’st thou sell thy fellow man into slavery?’ said Darwin, who had clearly been exercising his reading skills. ‘Cut me, do I not bleed?’

‘Oh, very good,’ crowed Mr Cohen. ‘A fine ventriloquist’s act you have on the go there. But enough of such larks, I have work to be doing.’

Colonel Katterfelto sighed. ‘I will exit the premises,’ he said. ‘Leave you to converse, as it were. Smoke a pipe outside. Return in five minutes.’

And when five minutes had passed, Colonel Katterfelto returned to Mr Cohen’s business premises. Inside he discovered Darwin to be no longer before the counter, but behind it, in the company of Mr Cohen.

‘Well now,’ said the colonel. ‘What of this?’

‘One hundred pounds,’ said Mr Cohen, counting money notes onto the counter before him. ‘That was the sum we agreed on, I believe.’

‘Indeed.’ The colonel nodded sagely. ‘And I will return within twenty-four hours to redeem my loquacious companion.’

‘No hurry,’ said Mr Cohen. ‘The loan is yours for a week.’

Colonel Katterfelto noted that Mr Cohen now appeared to be packing things into a small suitcase. As if he was going away somewhere, perhaps? Was thinking to give up the pawnbroking trade, perhaps? Intending, mayhap, to join a travelling sideshow? Perhaps?

‘Going somewhere?’ asked the colonel, counting and recounting money notes.

‘Just tidying up,’ said Mr Cohen.

The colonel nodded, then said, ‘Whilst I have money in my hand, perhaps now would be the time to redeem my medals and my ray gun.’

‘I will tell you what,’ said Mr Cohen. ‘As a gesture of good will, I will return both medals and ray gun to you without charge.’

‘I say, that really is most generous.’ The colonel huffed and puffed in a gracious manner. ‘Damned fine fellow that you are. Many thanks. Many thanks indeed.’

Colonel Katterfelto folded the money notes into the inner pocket of his dress uniform. Repinned his medals onto his breast, reholstered his ray gun. Saluted the man behind the iron cage. ‘You are a gentleman, sir,’ said he.

‘Indeed, indeed,’ said Mr Cohen. ‘Now don’t let me keep you any longer. You get off about your business. And good luck with the gambling system.’

‘I’m sure it will pay off,’ said the colonel. And with that left the pawnshop.

But Colonel Katterfelto did not go immediately to The Spaceman’s Club. Rather did he take himself a little way off from the pawnbroker’s shop, to an alleyway, where he merged into shadows and took once more to the smoking of his pipe.

He was not far gone with this endeavour when there came to his ears a terrible crying and caterwauling, as of someone in great pain and distress.

And these dreadful sounds suddenly increased in scale as the door to Mr Cohen’s establishment burst open and the proprietor staggered out into the street, vainly attempting to beat off the violent assault that was being visited upon him. By Darwin the monkey.

The beleaguered businessman called for help from passers-by. But given the fury of the beastly attack no gentleman of sterling bravery stepped forwards to aid Mr Cohen.

Darwin bit Mr Cohen’s right ear, then leapt from his shoulders and bounded over the road.

Mr Cohen clutched at his bleeding ear, sank down onto his bottom, fainted and fell backwards through the doorway of his pawnshop.

The passers-by went passing by and there was peace once more.

‘Nice work,’ said Colonel Katterfelto, patting his accomplice upon his hairy head. ‘And that is a rather nice waistcoat you are sporting. A gift from Mr Cohen?’

‘So I might look smart for the packed houses, during the European leg of our world tour.’

‘Splendid,’ said the colonel. ‘And now I don’t feel quite so bad about our bit of duplicity.’

Darwin the monkey stuck out his hand.

The colonel took and shook it.

‘No,’ said Darwin, baring his teeth. ‘My share of the booty, please. Fifty pounds, if you will.’

nusual, to say the very least.’ These words belonged to Sir Frederick Treves, surgeon general to the London Hospital and private physician to Her Majesty Queen Victoria. He spoke these words to Cameron Bell as they stood in the hospital’s morgue.

‘I have seen some queer things in my time,’ Sir Frederick continued. ‘In fact, they do not come much queerer than that chap over there.’ Sir Frederick took up a severed human arm from the dissecting table and pointed with its fingers.

The object of this pointing turned away. His name was Joseph Carey Merrick, better known to Londoners as the Terrible Elephant Man. ‘Up yours,’ he was made out to mutter.

The surgeon general winked at Cameron Bell. ‘Joseph and I are not presently seeing eye to eye,’ he said. ‘He wanted me to take him to the Electric Alhambra last night, but I had an appointment at a society event. He is sorely miffed that he missed the spectacle of Mr Harry “Hurty-Finger” Hamilton being reduced to ashes on the stage.’

‘It was not an edifying experience,’ said Cameron Bell.

‘I suspect it to be on this occasion a Roman plebeian sort of thing,’ the great physician went on. ‘The Roman plebs taking great delight as the Christians were cast to the lions. The joy being that at least
someone
was worse off than they were.

‘It wasn’t that at
all,’
mumbled Mr Merrick. ‘I wanted to see the acrobatic kiwis.’

‘I will be going to see them myself, tonight,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Perhaps you might care to accompany me.

‘Oh yes.’ Joseph Merrick turned, offering the full force of his hideousness to the private detective. ‘You are so very kind, my friend. Would you care for a cup of tea?’

‘Indeed I would,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘But please do not put any laudanum in it, as you did last time. I nearly fell under a hansom cab and I could not tie my shoelaces for days.’

‘His sense of humour, like laudanum, can be something of an acquired taste,’ Sir Frederick Treves said to Cameron Bell as Joseph Merrick turned and hobbled away.