The break finally came sometime after eleven. It was the fourth time I had lost contact with him, and when I made a rush across New Road just above Commercial, almost getting trampled in the process, I looked at where I expected him to be and he was not there. I guessed where he’d gone, and when I got there, he was not there. I looked up, down, east, west, south, and north, I changed vantage points, I achieved some height by climbing steps to a stoop, I dashed down a little street, but stilclass="underline" He was gone. I looked for the professor. I could not see him, either.
I cannot tell you what a fool, a failure, I felt. The whole slough of despond emptied its contents upon my head, soaking me in woe. I sat there, feeling the chill as my body temperature dropped in the lack of effort, I sucked for oxygen, having gone without, I yeaned for a sip of water to quench the Arabia that lay behind my lips, I heard the drumming of my heart, I felt the jostle and thud of other passengers in the night as they voyaged by me on the sidewalk, and I faced the reality that he was gone and I had nothing.
I felt the heaviness of the Howdah gun under my left shoulder and felt the strap cutting into my right shoulder. I pulled my slouch hat lower, as if to protect the sweaty nape of my neck from a breeze that evinced itself with aggression, and of all things, I could hear Mother saying, “George, I told you you’d never amount to a thing. Now, be a good fellow, put this London business behind you and return to the export-import business in Dublin, marry a nice Protestant girl, and settle down. Leave the glory to Lucy.” Perhaps I had a moment of Jack madness then, because I realized what pleasure it would be to smash the woman in the face with a balled fist.
However, I quickly put down that reverie and resolved to action. I pulled myself ahead through the crowd and against the aches, pains, agonies of doubt, and self-disparagement, and in time, came to Whitechapel where it intersected with New, turned up it, and headed toward the Aldgate East Station, where Professor Dare and I had agreed to meet at eleven-thirty P.M. if we lost contact with each other or the colonel.
Along the route, there was no sign of either man. I found a pub, seeing that I had more time to kill, and ordered a bottle of ginger beer to break up the ick that had coagulated in my throat. My plan, such as it was, was to reconstitute on the fuel of the ginger concoction, then return to the streets and circle on the hope that I might encounter one or the other. My secret dread was that poor Dare would interrupt the colonel carving, attempt to intercede, and for his trouble be carved himself. He hadn’t the gun that was so necessary to control the transaction.
Circle I did without incident, becoming random watcher as opposed to aggressive follower. I dipped into many black alleys and passageways, hoping to encounter Jack on the job, but instead came across banal business relations between the odd John and Judy and, feeling as if I had breached another’s privacy, departed forthwith. None of the rutters ever noticed me, thank heavens.
At last it was nearly eleven-thirty P.M., and the traffic had somewhat lessened. Though Judys could be seen about, and Johns as well, it was clear that even the randiest of the randy had either had his jizz festival or given up for the night. The chill had to do with this, for no man wants his backside exposed to the cruelties of the north wind; besides, it does much to convince a chuzz to remain at attention. So there I was, ambling disconsolately toward Aldgate East Station, set for rendezvous and redeployment elsewhere, when I saw him.
It was the walk, that bounding, leaping strut, still going full blast as if his internal engine were full of blazing coal, and looking neither left or right, not bothering to check behind, he took a turn into Aldgate East Station, that low structure with mansard roof and the affected symmetry to the architecture of an elegant country house. It took itself all too seriously; after all, it was merely a shed for boarding carts, not the royal court of the Sun King. But more Versailles than shed, it wore its sign, METROPOLITAN RAILWAY, rather proudly above the portico, which was overdecorated in the French Empire way, because it could be done, not because it had to be done.
I paused. I grabbed my pocket watch and saw that it was on to eleven by twenty-eight after and the night’s last train was due in two minutes. Was he dipping in to meet someone? It made no sense. No Judy would be arriving for duty by that last train, the station platform would be deserted, what could the man want except, perchance, to use the loo? I hesitated, and then my eyes lit on a moving figure as it dashed across Whitechapel Road, unimpeded because the horsedrawn traffic had become so light, and recognized by lope, style, fashion, grace, and intent Professor Dare, his tweed cloak afurl on the breeze, his slouch hat low and tight against that same breeze. He had triumphed! He had stayed on the job while poor Jeb had not been up to task! Now, that, I thought, was a hero.
He dipped into the station, unarmed, and I knew that I must get there fast to provide support and use the gun if necessary.
It took me under a minute to get to the station, and it was deserted. I raced to the bank of ticket windows and found them all closed, because there were no outgoing trains requiring tickets, and the man at the turnstile had departed, for there were, of the same reasons, no tickets to be punched. I negotiated the blockage, climbing gamely over with far less grace than ragged hurry, got to the other side, and plunged down some stairs.
Around me, gigantic steel beams buttressed the complexities of the best brick craft in the history of mankind, challenging the ages to destroy them and aware that they would win that challenge. I felt absorbed by the hush of the place and its jags of light and shadow where electrification, rare in the East End, sent a latticework of illumination across my view.
The stairs yielded to the ironwork bridge that spanned the tracks beneath, and I raced down it, amid the intricacy of strut work held stout by fist-sized rivets and baked under bright black paint. It was like being swallowed by the Industrial Revolution itself, and I could hear my footsteps echoing against the iron grid of the flooring. Echoes were everywhere, for I had entered a cavernous space, more cathedral than station, overtopped with a vault of pane glass now dark for lack of sun to penetrate it from above, sustained by yet more latticed girders, all of it heavy with the smell of combustion, for the engines ate coal like hungry monsters, belched smoke and soot and grit, which had already turned the shining structure ancient in effect, with smears of carbon accumulating on glass and polished tile far faster than the architects had calculated. I came to a vast stairway and raced down the glowing marble, to be deposited on an endless platform two feet above the tracks. It was a vast and empty space, unpopulated except by the wild disarray of shadow, and far away, at the end of the platform at the exact entrance to the tunnel through which fled or raced the mighty trains, were the two men.