The Mechanical Messiah (17 page)

here was chaos in the theatrical dig-gings.

Artistes in various states of undress filled the halls and crowded the stairs. Lucy Gladfield pushed her way amongst them.

There was much light now, for all mantles were lit.

Cameron Bell called down from the topmost landing. ‘There is no cause for alarm,’ he called. ‘Everything is under control.’

‘Everything is far from
that,’
cried Lucy Gladfield. ‘And what are
you
doing in my house?’ And spying the pistol added, ‘And who have you shot?’

‘A burglar and I suspect a murderer, too,’ the private detective called down. ‘But everything
is
now under control.’

‘Let me get up there.’ Lucy Gladfield, proprietress of the establishment, forced her way to the top of the stairs.

Cameron Bell said, ‘Madam, if you please—’

‘Let me pass,’ demanded Lucy Gladfield. ‘I want to see just what went on in one of my finest rooms.

‘I really do feel it best that you do not.’

Lucy Gladfield glared at Cameron Bell. ‘How
did
you get in here?’ she wanted to be told.

‘The front door was unlocked.’ Cameron Bell was never too far from a necessary untruth. ‘I suspect the burglar picked the lock. After we both observed Harry Hamilton’s luggage being stolen this morning, I felt it prudent to keep a watch on the house this evening, in case the villain returned, seeking even more.’ He paused here to gauge the reaction of the landlady.

Lucy Gladfield bobbed her head. It was enclosed by a tight and laced night bonnet. Clearly the helter-skelter hairdo was a wig.

‘Is he dead, this burglar?’ Lucy Gladfield squinted into the darkness.

‘It would probably be for the best if I went in alone to find out.’

‘Yes, probably.’ The wigless woman offered her box of lucifers to the private detective. ‘There is a mantle to the left of the door,’ she said.

‘My thanks.’ Cameron Bell struck a lucifer, held it before him. Entered the room.

He turned up the mantle and lit it.

The room welled into light. It had been thoroughly ransacked. Bed linen cast to the floor. Pillow torn open. Wardrobe overturned. But all done evidently in silence so as not to awaken the household.

Lucy Gladfield fell back in alarm. ‘You have shot a child, ‘she cried and fainted dead away.

In the middle of the untidy room, the toppled and extinguished bullseye lantern by his side, lay a small, slight figure. Face down in a spreading pool of blood.

Moving on the lightest of feet, the private detective approached the fallen figure. It did appear to be a child. An awful chill passed into Cameron Bell.

What have I done?
he demanded of himself
Irresponsibly fired off rounds into a darkened room,
was the answer to that. But he had heard a fearful sound. As of a ferocious animal.
A dog, perhaps? Some beast that still lurks in the room?

Cameron Bell stepped warily and took to reloading his pistol.

The smell of carbide tainted the air. And another smell also. Of something unidentifiable. Strange.

Mr Bell ducked down and peered beneath the bed. Nothing but a chamber pot. The beast had somehow departed.

With a heavy heart the private detective approached the small and slender body. Slowly he stooped to examine it. And here he saw something that caused him concern. The child was shaven-headed.

Cameron saw more.

From the crown of the head to the nape of the neck ran a line of raised ridges, not unlike the dorsal spines of a fish. Cameron Bell took hold of a shoulder, gently turned the body onto its back. It seemed all but without weight. And then he saw the face.

It was not the face of any child that ever walked this Earth.

It was not the face of any human being.

The breath caught in Cameron’s throat. He stared in fascination at the thing that lay before him. It was certainly
not
a human being. But then what, exactly, was it?

Some trained animal dressed in human clothes?

Cameron knew of trousered apes, but this was no such thing.

Which left …?

‘Not of this planet,’ said Cameron Bell, gazing down at the face.

There was something of the reptile to the features, the nose parts consisting of two small holes, the mouth being wide and lipless. The eyes were all-over black, lustreless now; they put Mr Bell in mind of a pair of shark’s eyes he had seen preserved in a jar at the London Hospital. Part reptile? Part fish? Part mammal?

Cameron set to searching the corpse for some identification.

The sounds of commotion, of shouting, pushing and shoving, came to him through the open doorway. A voice shouted, ‘Return to your rooms.’ Another shouted, ‘Now.’

Cameron Bell made haste with his search. Discovered something, slipped it into his pocket.

‘Step away from the body now, sir, if you please.’

It was
not
a request, but a clear command. Cameron rose and turned to face the speaker.

Two men stood in the doorway. Two men these and very much alike. They wore identical black morning suits, with black wing-collared shirts and black bow ties. Each wore a pair of pince-nez specs. The lenses of these were black.

‘We will have to ask you to leave now, sir,’ said one of these gentlemen in black. ‘There is nothing to see here.’

‘Quite the contrary,’ said Cameron Bell.

‘I repeat,’ said the blackly clad figure, ‘there is nothing to see here. Please return to your room. We will speak with you presently.’

Cameron Bell opened his mouth to protest. But thought better of it. ‘I saw nothing here,’ he said. ‘I will return to my room.

‘There’s a good gentleman,’ said a fellow in black. ‘Cut along now, we will correct this untidiness.’

‘Yes,’ said Cameron Bell.

He had to squeeze between the two gentlemen in black and this was not easy as they chose not to stand aside— ‘Remember,’ whispered one of them. ‘You saw
nothing
here.’

‘Nothing at all,’ said Cameron Bell, politely taking his leave.

He stepped carefully over the unconscious body of Lucy Gladfield, made down stairs that were now deserted. Opened the front door and passed into the street.

A Black Maria was parked next to the kerb. One of those new electric police vehicles for housing criminals during transportation. This one, however, was unusual in that it did not bear the distinctive crest of the Metropolitan Police Force upon its sides. It was all—over black. A driver sat in the forward cockpit. He was dressed in black, with matching pince-nez.

Alice Lovell called to Cameron Bell from across the street. The private detective sighed. He had actually forgotten about
her.

She sat upon her luggage and the sound of waking kiwi birds was irksome in the otherwise silent street.

‘Some very unpleasant men dressed all in black said I was to sit over here and not move until they returned,’ said Alice Lovell. ‘What happened in there? Did I hear gunshots?’

‘Well now, dear lady,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Well now, well now indeed.’

Alice Lovell looked up at Cameron Bell. Fixing him with her big blue eyes. ‘I am homeless, am I not?’ she asked.

‘Regretfully, yes,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘It would certainly not be prudent for you to gain occupation of your new room at this time. There has been — how might I put this? —an incident.’

Tears filled Alice Lovell’s eyes. She began to weep.

‘Oh, weep not, fair lady,’ said the gallant Mr Bell. ‘I have of course organised other accommodation for you this night.’

‘You have?’ asked Alice Lovell. ‘Where is
this?’

Cameron Bell thought hard for a moment. ‘At
my
house,’ said he.

The sounds of wheels upon cobbles reached the detective’s ears. It was
not
the arrival of a four—wheeled growler. Rather it was another unmarked Black Maria.

‘I feel it best if we start walking
now,’
said Cameron Bell. ‘We can hail a cab on another street, I am thinking.’

Even though struggling beneath a load that was now made ever more difficult due to boisterous kiwi birds, Mr Bell enjoyed the walk. For it was a walk
away
from the gentlemen in black and one in the company of the beautiful Alice Lovell.

‘You really are my protector,’ said she, skipping at his side.

‘It would be ungentlemanly not to aid a lady in distress.’ Cameron Bell was growing breathless, but he plodded on.

‘Is it far to your house?’ asked Alice.

‘Not too far, as it happens. But flag down a cab if one comes.

Sadly no cab came in their direction, so Cameron kept on walking. His enjoyment tempered now by near exhaustion.

‘You shot someone, back in Carlton Road, didn’t you?’ asked Alice, skipping backwards before the detective. Fixing him with those eyes.

‘Shot a person?’ The voice of Mr Bell had a certain distance.

‘Shot a person. Yes.’

‘I did
not
shoot a person,’ he said. And this was strictly true.

‘I’m glad,’ said Alice. ‘Shooting people is horrid. Do you know who killed Mr Belly? It was the same one who killed Mr Hamilton, I suppose.

‘Undoubtedly,’ said Cameron Bell. And then a thought struck him most forcefully. That the person who murdered Mr Harry Hamilton was
not
the person who had stolen the portmanteau. The person who had escaped upon the flying platform and who had dispatched the whatever-it-was to search the room that Alice Lovell sought to occupy was
not
the murderer. If Harry Hamilton had been murdered by someone who sought to acquire the Ring of Moses from him, he would never have been done to death in such a manner that might well have destroyed this treasured item. The murder of Harry Hamilton and the murder of Charlie Belly were undoubtedly the work of the same evil hand. But it was
not
the same hand that sought to gain possession of the ring.

There were certain flaws in this train of logic and Cameron knew this. He would deal with them when the time was right. But for now he was certain that he had made some kind of breakthrough. He was looking for two criminals. And it was more than just possible that neither of these were human.

‘You are suddenly smiling,’ said Alice Lovell, still skipping before him. ‘What has made you smile? Please tell me, do.’

‘Your company,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘I find you — how shall I put this? — inspirational.’

‘Am I to be your muse, then?’ Alice affected a most coquettish expression.

Would that it were so,
thought Cameron Bell.

Presently and with Cameron now feeling that he was surely upon his last legs, they reached the home of the detective.

‘What a beautiful house,’ said Alice. ‘Is it
very
old?’

‘It is Georgian,’ said Cameron Bell, ‘and has been in my family ever since it was built.’

‘How lovely.’

‘But just one thing.’ Cameron Bell lowered bags and boxes and the kiwis’ travelling cage onto the doorstep before his home. ‘Regarding your kiwi birds,’ he said to Alice.

‘They are very well behaved,’ said Alice Lovell.

‘They are nothing of the kind and you know it. There is a wash house in the yard to the rear of the premises. I must insist that the birds be lodged there and
never
enter the house. Do you agree to these terms?’

‘Are they the
only
terms?’ asked Alice.

‘What other terms might there be?’ came the reply.

Alice smiled upon Cameron Bell. ‘None whatsoever, I am sure,’ said she.

Cameron Bell took out his house key and raised it to the front door. To his horror the front door swung open before him.

‘You forgot to lock your door,’ said Alice Lovell.

Cameron Bell drew out his pistol. ‘That is something I
never
forget,’ he said. ‘Wait here.’

Moonlight, streaming in through the open front doorway, lit the hall to an eerie perfection. Cameron noted with some relief that there were no immediate signs of ransacking. He edged forwards and then threw open the door to his beautiful study. All was as it had been. All was neat and nice. Cameron Bell turned up the gas mantle.

Someone
had
been here. His desk chair had been moved.

‘Oh my dear dead mother.’ Cameron Bell swiftly crossed the study floor. Took himself to the rear of his writing desk, tugged upon the lowermost left-hand drawer. The drawer opened to reveal neat piles of paper. Cameron reached inside, tapped upon a hidden button. A secret compartment slid open from beneath the drawer revealing a small black box.

Cameron Bell lifted the box from its hiding place. But even before he opened it, he knew that it was empty.

His secret drawer had been discovered.

The Ring of Moses was gone.