“Well, sir, it’s just that—”
“Are you suggesting I’m past it, Hamilton?”
“No, sir; I was just thinking about your, uh, piles—”
“Blast my piles! I’ll have you know I’m as fit as I ever was!”
“I’m sure you are, sir.”
“Let them try to outrun me—I’ll be all over them!”
“Of course, sir.”
“Hmm,” Crawford grunted, as if not convinced Hamilton believed him. “What’s all that blood on your face, then?”
“We’ve arrived,” Ian said as the cab pulled up in front of the massive building, with its ornate Roman baroque façade, and its statue of Victory perched high atop its gold dome. Ian couldn’t help wondering who she would favor tonight.
They promised the driver extra pay if he waited, but there was no sign of Bowers and his reinforcements as they crept around to the back, the hiss of rain shadowing their steps.
“Perhaps we should wait, sir,” Ian suggested as they stood outside the wooden scaffolding surrounding the rear of the building.
“Nonsense,” said Crawford. “I don’t see anything amiss. Best to carry on and find out if we’re on a wild goose chase.”
“But sir—”
“Come along—it’s bloody wet out here,” Crawford said, striding up the wooden ramp leading to the rear entrance. “That’s odd—this door is unlocked,” he said, pushing open the small door, which functioned as a service entrance.
“Sir, I think perhaps we should wait,” Ian said, lowering his voice to a whisper as he followed the chief inside. They were met with a series of corridors leading in all directions. Ian turned at the sound of footsteps echoing down the hall.
“What’s that—” Crawford said, his words cut short by the sharp report of a pistol.
He fell heavily, blood spurting from his left side.
Ian threw himself on top of his superior officer, shielding him with his own body, but the footsteps retreated at a run, followed by silence. The rear door creaked open again, and he looked up to see a familiar figure enter.
“Corbin! What on earth—”
“I saw you leaving the police station and followed you here,” said the reporter.
“It’s not safe—”
“You once saved my life, remember? Pulled me out of that wretched house before I was poisoned to death.”
“That—”
“You may have forgotten, but I assure you, I have not,” he said, kneeling beside Crawford. “Let’s see what we have here. It’s not too bad,” he said. “The bullet seems to have caught his shoulder.”
“You need to leave before you get hurt.”
“If you help me get him into that cab, I’ll take him to hospital.”
“Very well,” Ian agreed. The chief was a large man, probably weighing nearly the same as Corbin and Hamilton put together.
Crawford began to regain consciousness. “Hamilton . . .” he said groggily.
“It’s all right, sir—we’re getting you to hospital,” Ian said as they lifted him.
“No . . . must stay and help catch . . .” he said, and passed out again.
“It’s a good job you showed up when you did,” Ian told Corbin as they carried him outside and loaded him into the back of the hansom, the worried driver looking on.
“Mind you don’t get blood all over the seats,” he instructed them.
“We’ll pay for any damage,” Ian said. “Thank you,” he told Corbin.
“Glad to be of service. Mind how you go,” the reporter said, and they drove off, leaving Ian alone in the rain.
There was still no sign of Bowers. Ian took a deep breath, willing himself to remain where he was. But he was drawn back into the building as if by magnetic force, and before he knew it, was striding back up the ramp and into the arms of danger.
The hallway was once again silent, but the fresh blood droplets on the floor reminded him how deceptive that quiet was. Someone had shot at them, and that person was still somewhere in the building. Ian crept down the hallway in the direction the shot had come from. Reaching the end of the corridor, he took another deep breath and turned right.
Something came down hard on the back of his head. His first impression was that the ceiling had collapsed, but in the brief moment of consciousness as he dropped to the floor, he realized he had been attacked and hit by a heavy object—a police truncheon, perhaps.
And then he felt nothing at all.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
He awoke to the smell of smoke. Panic gripped him, transported instantly to his parents’ basement seven years ago, trapped beneath burning timbers as the house above him erupted in flames. He tried to scream, but found himself bound and gagged, tied to a water pipe. Looking around, he realized he was in the boiler room—just as in the fire that killed his parents, he was trapped in a basement. He looked around the room for something to cut his bonds with, and spied a nail at the base of the opposite wall. Stretching his leg out, he tried to reach it with his toe, but it was too far away. Sweat stung his face, running into the raw wound on his cheek, as the burning smell grew stronger.
He peered desperately at the small window set in the wall above him, as thunder ripped the skies, followed by jagged streaks of white lightning. He strained against his bonds, but they were fastened tightly. Though he was panting and exhausted, hope surged through his breast at the sound of approaching footsteps. Twisting around as much as he could, he looked in the direction of the entrance, as the metal door swung slowly open to reveal a tall, thin figure wreathed in swirling smoke.
“So we meet at last, Detective,” the man said in a hollow, raspy voice.
Ian struggled to speak, but the gag in his mouth prevented him from making any sound other than a muffled groan.
“Don’t try to talk,” the man said. “It will only wear you out.” Nearly as tall as Ian, he wore a long black coat. In spite of the heat from the fire, a thick wool scarf was wrapped around his throat. Ian blinked, trying to make out the man’s features through the swirling smoke, but a wide-brimmed hat was pulled over his eyes, and Ian’s vision was blurry. He fought against the panic gathering in his stomach.
“Brings back memories, does it?” said the man, giving a short, sharp cough. His voice sounded damaged, as if someone had drawn a wicker broom over his vocal cords. “We haven’t much time, so I’ll be brief,” he continued. “You have inconvenienced me greatly, you know. You must stop, you really must.”
Again Ian struggled to speak, and the man chuckled softly. “Why not just kill you now, you are thinking? I have my reasons. But even my patience is not eternal. Take care, Detective—get in my way once too often, and even you will not be safe from my wrath. Do not go down the path you so foolishly seek, or you may end up like Nate Crippen. It should be clear now that you cannot trust your sources as you once did.
“Oh, by the way, congratulations on solving my little distraction. It was a pretty puzzle, wasn’t it? And who knew a woman could be so murderous? Your poor sergeant must be quite disillusioned, with his chivalrous notions of femininity. And now I must be going. Pleasant dreams,” he said, and slipped out the door.