Both constables flanked him, arms akimbo, while Inspector Dunham shook his head. “Go ahead, Barker, have your fun.”
Barker charged his pipe, lit it, and leaned back, hooking an elbow over the gunwale and crossing his ankles. All he had to do was hoist himself up over the ledge and he’d be in the water with the vesta he had just thrown in, leaving me to suffer the consequences alone.
“Swanson shall be quite the hero when he brings in a desperate pair of enquiry agents who work so near Scotland Yard they can toss a stone through the front window,” the Guv said, contributing his pipe smoke to the surrounding haze.
Dunham gave him a quizzical look but gave no answer.
“What would your superiors say if I could deliver the killer of the girls into the hands of the Thames Police? Or would you rather I tell them that you allowed a child murderer to escape when you nearly had him in your clutches?”
“I’d have to be positive you could do so,” Dunham said, raising an eyebrow. “Convince me.”
“Describe Miacca for the inspector, lad,” the Guv said to me. “He’s been awaiting Inspector Swanson’s command here on the launch.”
“He was wearing a long cape and a goat’s head mask with horns. Of course, he’s probably tossed those off by now. But there’s one sure way of knowing him. He’s got a young girl with him who is probably drugged.”
“You saw them at the party?” Dunham demanded.
I spoke first. “I would hardly call it a party. Miacca was just about to sacrifice her when we broke in!”
“Where are they now?”
“In the launch ahead of us, heading back to London. We’ve spoiled his entertainment, and now he is taking his victim to salvage what is left of the night for his pleasures.”
“You know who Miacca is?”
“Of course,” Barker said coolly.
Inspector Dunham looked at him skeptically. “Tell me,” he said.
“Oh, I am just a prisoner, Inspector.”
“If I take off the bracelets, will you tell me?”
“If you free us to continue the investigation, I’ll take you right to him.”
“Impossible,” Dunham scoffed.
“I shall, of course, report myself over Dashwood’s complaints after this is over, but right now I demand a free hand. Both of them, in fact.”
“Slip his darbies,” the inspector ordered. The constables, Swanson’s men, looked at him dubiously. “Are you gentlemen in charge, or am I?” he barked at them. They quickly freed my employer’s hands.
“And Llewelyn’s,” Barker demanded.
“I didn’t say anything about your man here.”
“He is my right hand,” Barker insisted. “I need him.”
Dunham heaved a sigh. “Him, too. But here’s the lock coming up. If nobody’s come through here I’m putting the darbies on you again.”
The lockkeeper was standing at the dock in his nightshirt and cap, looking irate.
“Look here,” he cried as we came up. “This is too much. I’ll not have such shenanigans on my lock, racing at such at hour!”
“Someone just came through?” Dunham asked.
“Not ten minutes ago, and in such a hurry he scraped my gate!” He pointed at a scratch of white paint that ran horizontally across the wood.
“Describe them!”
“White steam launch, sir. Just one man aboard that I could see.”
The inspector swiveled his head toward us. Was Barker tricking him? his expression seemed to ask. Or worse, had the man tossed Ona overboard?
“She may have been lying in the bottom of the boat,” I dared say.
“Open this blasted gate!” Dunham bellowed.
In a moment we were through, the constables shoveling coal into the boiler for all they were worth. Meanwhile, the inspector pushed the handle on the throttle, gaining more speed. Barker abandoned the casual pose that had driven Dunham so mad, and made his way to the bow. He seemed glad to be in a boat and extended his chin forward in the breeze as the shreds of fog whipped by.
When we reached London, the vessel slowed, causing barges and other boats to clank against the docks like toys in a tub.
“Stop!” Barker cried, but it was too late to shut the valve. Miacca’s launch was floating unmanned in the middle of the Thames. Dunham swerved, but we plowed into the back end of it with a rending of wood. The inspector was knocked off his perch, and Barker and I nearly fell overboard. The boat narrowly avoided a dock, and slid up an embankment before smashing into a hut. Both constables were covered in hot coals and began patting out the fire on each other. Barker jumped down onto the shore.
“Come! There’s not a moment to lose, if we are to save Ona Bellovich.”
We had passed under the Tower Bridge, still in mid-construction. Barker spread those long legs of his and ran for all he was worth, his oilskin flapping behind, while we struggled to keep up. In Royal Mint Street, he flagged down a cab, and he, Dunham, and I clambered aboard, leaving the constables to find another or be left behind.
“Who is it?” Dunham demanded. “Won’t you please tell me who we are after?”
Barker only gave him an adamantine look.
“Blast your hide, Barker!” the inspector swore. “Must everything be a secret to you?”
“They cannot be far ahead. Turn onto Cambridge Road, driver!”
It’s Palmister Clay, I told myself. My word, he’s Miacca!
But no, we swept past Clay’s little snuggery, and when we came to Green Street, we did not turn left toward the charity, pressing on northward instead. Barker seemed to know exactly where he was going. I just prayed we were not too late.
31
“Halt!” Barker cried when we reached the Old Ford Road and flung open the doors of the cab. He clattered down to the pavement and ran, leaving Dunham and me a tangle of limbs trying simultaneously to exit the vehicle and pay the cabman. We struggled to the ground and followed my employer. There were scant seconds to lose if we were going to save Ona Bellovich from violation, murder, and mutilation. I knew where we were going now and the identity of Miacca.
The Carrick Photographic Emporium was in sight, and Barker had almost reached it. He did not slow as he approached, but several feet away launched himself into the air. Both of his boots struck the door at once, bursting it from its hinges; and when the door fell, he slid across the room upon it until it crashed into the counter. He vaulted it and landed on the other side.
“Stephen Carrick!” Cyrus Barker bellowed. “Bring the girl here now! Gentlemen, the next room!”
The three of us charged into the room where Carrick took his photographs. It was empty, but there was a half-opened door beyond it. I thrust it open in time to see the face of Stephen Carrick regarding us furiously from a small bedstead, his black cape spread across it like the wings of a bat. Underneath him I could see the still form of Ona Bellovich, dazed from whatever drug he had given her. Carrick began to rise, a look of mad triumph on his face.
Dunham and I tackled him, knocking him from the bed. He struggled forcefully, and I was obliged to seize his hair and bang his head once or twice against the brick wall while Barker covered Ona Bellovich’s body with the cape.
A sound like a cat hissing came from behind me, and I turned in time to be confronted by Rose Carrick. She held a large rectangular tray in her hand, the kind used for developing photographs, and she threw the contents at me. It would have soaked me completely, had Barker not stepped between us, raising the oilskin he wore as a shield. The coat caught most of the liquid, but some splashed over his head and onto Dunham and me, and began to burn.
“Acid!” Dunham cried. I looked up to see Barker’s long oilskin begin to smoke. He tore it off, but I could see that his hand already had angry red blisters on it. He ran it over his scalp and came away with a lock of loose hair.
“Sir!” I cried, reaching for him, but Carrick took the opportunity to dash between us. He glanced back at us and there was a look upon his face of sheer maniacal glee. Another few steps and he would be able to flee into the night with his wife.