Moriarty

I saw Mortlake’s hand swing through the air and thought he had slapped the other man across the face although it was strange, for there was no sound of any contact. Clay looked puzzled too. Then I realised it was far, far worse. Mortlake had something concealed in his sleeve, a viciously sharp blade on some sort of mechanism which had sprung out like a snake’s tongue. He had used it to cut Clay’s throat. For just one moment, I entertained the hope that he had missed, that Clay had not been harmed, but then a thin line of red appeared above the thief’s collar. Clay stood there, gasping for air, looking to us for explanation. Then the wound opened and a torrent of blood poured out. Clay fell to his knees and Archie screamed and covered his eyes. I could only watch as the nightmare continued before me.

The hooligan boys had dropped the sacks that they had been carrying and produced guns. Moving almost mechanically, they spread out and began to blast at the policemen, killing two or three of them in the first volley. Even as the bodies fell to the ground, one of them picked up a machete — it was lying on a crate — and swung it through the air, severing a rope just a few feet away. Mortlake had reached out and taken hold of a second rope: the two of them were connected and there must have been a counterweight for he was suddenly lifted high into the air like a magician performing a trick or perhaps an acrobat at the circus. In seconds, even as the noise of the gunfire and the smoke from the revolvers billowed out, he had become a tiny figure four storeys up, swinging himself onto a platform and disappearing from sight.

‘Get after him!’ Jones shouted.

Most of the policemen were armed and returned fire. Hopelessly outnumbered, Mortlake’s protectors continued to empty their pistols but were quickly shot down, one of them spinning onto a trestle table, which collapsed beneath him. I could only wonder at the sense of loyalty or fear that had persuaded them to sacrifice their lives for their master who had simply abandoned them to their fate.

I had not stayed to watch any more of the shoot-out. Ducking down, afraid for my own safety, I had obeyed Jones’s command and had already reached a wooden staircase that zigzagged from floor to floor. There was a second, similar set of stairs at the far end and, as I watched, three policemen peeled off to cover them. Mortlake might have made a dramatic escape from the area of combat but he must still be trapped within the building.

I climbed the stairs, which creaked and bent beneath my weight. Dust and the smell of gunpowder filled my nostrils. Finally, I reached the top and — breathless, my heart pounding — I found myself in a narrow passageway with a wooden wall on one side of me and an unprotected drop on the other. Glancing back down, I saw Athelney Jones had taken charge of the situation. He was not physically able to follow me. Clay lay spreadeagled in a widening pool of blood which seemed even more shocking from this height, like a vast red ink blot. There were casks, crates, hogsheads and bulging sacks scattered all around me and I proceeded slowly, suddenly remembering that although I was unarmed, Mortlake carried a dreadful weapon and could leap out from any of a hundred hiding places. The three police officers had also reached the top but were some distance away, silhouetted against the round window, proceeding slowly towards me.

I came to an opening. It was as if part of the wall had been folded back — not exactly a door nor a window but something in between. I saw the grey of the evening and the rushing clouds. The Thames was before me, a couple of tugs making their way east but otherwise still and silent. In front of me was a long platform connected to the warehouse by two rusting chains with a complicated winch system constructed beside it. Perhaps Mortlake had hoped to use it to lower himself back down, but either it wasn’t working or I had arrived too quickly for there suddenly he was, in front of me, his coat flapping in the breeze and his dead eyes fixed on mine.

I remained where I was, not daring to move forward. The knife, now stained with blood, was still jutting from his sleeve. Standing there on the platform, with his oily black hair and moustache, he reminded me more than ever of an actor on the stage. I’m sure the Kiralfy brothers of New York never presented a character more vengeful nor more dangerous.

‘Well, well, well,’ he exclaimed. ‘Pinkerton, you surprise me. I have come upon your sort before, Bob Pinkerton’s boys, and they are not usually so astute. You seem to have outplayed me.’

‘You have nowhere to go, Mortlake!’ I returned. I did not dare move any closer forward. I was still afraid that he would rush at me and use that hideous weapon. He stood where he was. The sluggish water of the river was below him but if he tried to jump he would surely drown, if the fall did not kill him first. ‘Put down your weapon. Give yourself up.’