Anno Dracula - Kim Newman [31]
‘This way,’ said the amateur cracksman, indicating a wet stretch of stone wall. The new-born Chinese pressed a brick and a section of the wall tilted upwards, forming a hatch-like door. ‘Duck down or you’ll bash your bean. Deuced small, these chinks.’
He followed the new-born, who could see in the dark better than he, and was in turn followed by the rest of the party. As the vampire stooped, dragons on his shoulder-blades silently roared and flapped. They proceeded down a sloping passageway, and he realised they were below street level. The surfaces were damp and glistening, the air cold and bad: these chambers must be close to the river. As they passed a chute from which could be dimly heard rippling water, Beauregard was reminded of the nameless cadavers, supposing this place the source of quite a few of their number. The passage widened and he deduced this part of the labyrinth dated back centuries. Objets d’art, mostly of undoubted antiquity and oriental appearance, stood at significant junctures. After many turns and descents and doors, his kidnappers were sure he could never find his way unescorted to the surface. He was pleased to be underestimated.
Something chattered behind a wall and he flinched. He could not identify the animal din. The new-born turned to the noise and yanked the head of a jade caterpillar. A door opened and Beauregard was ushered into a dimly-lit, richly furnished drawing room. There were no windows, just chinoiserie screens. The centrepiece was a large desk, behind which sat an ancient Chinaman. Long, hard fingernails tapped like knifepoints on his blotter. There were others, in comfortable armchairs arranged in a half-circle about the desk. The unseen chattering thing quieted.
One man turned his head, red cigar-end making a Devil’s mask of his face. He was a vampire, but the Chinaman was not.
‘Mr Charles Beauregard,’ began the Celestial, ‘you are so kind to join our wretched and unworthy selves.’
‘You are so kind to invite me.’
The Chinaman clapped his hands, and nodded to a cold-faced servant, a Burmese.
‘Take our visitor’s hat, cloak and cane.’
Beauregard was relieved of his burdens. When the Burmese was close enough, Beauregard observed the singular earring, and the ritual tattooing about his neck.
‘A dacoit?’ he enquired.
‘You are so very observant,’ affirmed the Chinaman.
‘I have some little experience of the world of secret societies.’
‘Indeed you have, Mr Beauregard. Our paths have crossed three times: in Egypt, in the Kashmir, and in Shanghai. You caused me some little inconvenience.’
Beauregard realised to whom he was talking, and tried to smile. He assumed he was a dead man.
‘My apologies, Doctor.’
The Chinaman leaned forward, face emerging into the light, fingernails clacking. He had the brow of a Shakespeare and a smile that put Beauregard in mind of a smug Satan.
‘Think nothing of it.’ He brushed away apologies. ‘Those were trivial matters, of no import beyond the ordinary. I shall not prosecute any personal business in this instance.’
Beauregard tried not to show his relief. Whatever else he was, the criminal mandarin was known to be a man of his word. This was the person they called ‘the Devil Doctor’ or ‘the Lord of Strange Deaths’. He was one of the Council of Seven, the ruling body of the Si-Fan, a tong whose influence extended to all the quarters of the Earth. Mycroft reckoned the Celestial among the three most dangerous men in the world.
‘Although,’ the Chinaman added, ‘were this meeting to take place very far to the East, I fancy its agenda would not be so pleasant for you and, I confess, for myself. You understand me?’
Beauregard did, all too well. They met under a flag of truce, but it would be lowered as soon as the Diogenes Club again required him to work against the Si-Fan.
‘Those affairs are not of interest