Moriarty

Intrigued, I set down my napkin and left the room to find the most reprehensible-looking fellow waiting for me by the front door. I saw at once that he was dressed as a sailor, though one who would have disgraced any ship that would choose to have him as part of its crew. His red flannel shirt hung out of his canvas trousers and he had an ill-fitting pilot’s coat whose sleeves barely reached halfway down his arms. He was unshaven, his face stained with indigo, and there was a filthy bandage wrapped around his ankle. He had a crutch tucked under his arm and if it were not for the absence of a parrot, the picture of piracy and dissolution could not have been more complete.

‘Who are you?’ I demanded. ‘What is it you want?’

‘Beg pardon, sir.’ The man touched a dirty finger to his forelock. ‘I come from Blackwall Basin.’

‘And what is your business with me?’

‘To bring you to Mr Clay.’

‘I’ll be damned if I’ll go anywhere with you. Are you telling me that Clay sent you here? How did he know this address?’

‘It was given to him by that policeman. What’s his name? Jones! He’s waiting for you even now.’

‘Waiting for me where?’

‘I’m right in front of you, Chase. And the two of us should be on our way!’

‘Jones!’ I stared at him and as I did so, the detective moved forward, leaving the chimera of the sailor behind. ‘Is it really you?’ I exclaimed. ‘Well, I’ll be damned! You had me completely fooled. But why are you dressed like this? Why are you here?’

‘We must set out at once,’ Jones replied, and his voice was completely serious. ‘Our friend Mr Clay will be at the warehouse later but we must be there ahead of him. Devereux will not suspect that anything is amiss. He will have read the newspaper and he knows that Clay lives in fear of him. Even so, we can take no chances. Everything must be prepared.’

‘And the disguise?’

‘A necessary addition — and not just for me.’ He leaned down and picked up a cloth bag which he threw at me. ‘A sailor’s jacket and trousers — they came from the slop-house but they are less filthy than they appear. How quickly can you get changed? I have a cab waiting outside.’

Jones had suggested to me that I might one day recount our adventures — in the new Strand, perhaps — and it was as if, in taking me to the London docks, he had set me my first, impossible task. For how can I begin to describe the extraordinary panorama, the sprawling metropolis on the edge of the city, that now presented itself to me? My first impression was of a darkening sky but it was only smoke, vomiting out of the chimneys and reflecting drearily in the water below. Against this were silhouetted a hundred cranes and a thousand masts, a fleet of sailing ships, steamboats, barges, coasters and lighters, few of them moving, the majority of them frozen together in a grey tableau. I had never seen so many different flags. It seemed that the whole world had gathered here and as I drew nearer I saw negroes, lascars, Poles and Germans all shouting in different languages as if the tower of Babel had just fallen and they were fighting their way out of the debris.

The river itself ran black and indifferent to the chaos it had propagated. A network of canals had been cut inland, giving berth to Russian brigs, to hoys laden with straw, to luggers and sloops, while the cranes swung round with sacks of grain and great lengths of timber still smelling of turpentine, and the scene was as much an assault on the nose as on the eyes with spices, tea, cigars and, above all, rum, making their presence known long before they were seen. After a while, it became impossible to progress any faster than walking pace. Our way was blocked by a tangle of sailors and stevedores, horses, vans and wagons and even the widest passageways proved unequal to the task of processing this great mass of humanity.

Eventually, we climbed down. We were surrounded by shops — a carpenter’s, a wheelwright’s, a blacksmith’s, a plumber’s — vague figures going about their business behind dirty windows. A butcher in a blue apron strode past carrying a fat, squealing pig in a tiny cage, the whole thing balanced on his shoulder. A crowd of ragamuffin children — chasing each other or being chased — scattered on each side. There was a cry of warning and something foul and odorous splashed down from an open doorway above. Jones grabbed hold of me and we continued past a chandler and the inevitable pawnbroker, an old Jew sitting in the doorway, examining a pocket watch with an oversized magnifying glass. Ahead of us, I saw the first of the warehouses, a construction of woodwork, iron and brick, mouldering in the damp and half-sinking into the ground, which seemed unable to bear its weight. There were derricks jutting out in every direction and barrels of wine, boxes of hardware and all manner of sacks and hogsheads being lifted on ropes and pulleys, unloaded onto platforms and then swallowed up inside.