Gaslight Grimoire_ Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Barbara Hambly [129]
I pictured what a hellish vampire squid might be. And foresaw unpleasant experiences for Sir Nevil.
“Now,” said the Professor, consulting his watch, “there is just time to catch the last falls. Would you be interested in making haste for Wapping?”
“Rath-er!”
The next few weeks were busy.
Moriarty dropped several criminal projects, and devoted himself entirely to Stent. He summoned minions — familiar fellahs from previous exploits, like Italian Joe from the Old Compton Street café poisonings, and new faces nervous at being plucked from obscurity by the greatest criminal mind of the age. ‘P. C. Purbright’, a rozzer kicked off the force for not sharing his bribe-takings, was one such small fish. A misleadingly strapping, ferocious-looking bloke and something of a fairy mary, P. C. P. specialized in dressing up in his old uniform and standing look-out for first-floor men. He had a sideline as a human punching bag, accepting a fee from frustrated criminals (and even respectable folk) who relished the prospect of giving a policeman a taste of his own truncheon. If you paid extra, he’d turn up while you were out with your darby girl and pretend to make an arrest — you could beat him off easily and impress the little lady with your fightin’ spirit. Guaranteed a tumble, I’m told. He came out of the Professor’s study with wide eyes, roped into whatever bad business we were about.
I was sent out to make contact with reliable tradesmen, all more impressed by the color of Moriarty’s gelt than the peculiarity of his requests. Paul A. Robert, a pioneer of praxinoscopists, was paid to prepare materials in his studio in Brighton. According to his ledgers, he was to provide ‘speculative scientific educational illustrations’ in the form of ‘rapidly-serialized photograph cells from nature and contrivance’. Von Herder, the blind German engineer, bought himself a week-end cottage in the Bavarian Alps with his earnings from the pressurized squid-tanks and something called a burnished copper parabolic mirror. Singapore Charlie, acting for a mad chink who had cornered the market in importing venomous flora and fauna, was delighted to lay his hands — not literally, of course — on as many squid as we could use.
The pets were delivered promptly by Chinese laundrymen straining to lift heavy wicker hampers. Under the linens were Herder Bells, which looked like big brass barrels with stout glass view-panels and pressure gauges. A mark on the gauge showed what the correct reading should be, and a foot-pump was supplied to maintain the cozy deep-sea foot-poundage the average h. v. s. needs for comfort. If this process was neglected, they blew up like balloons. Snacks could be slipped to the cephalopods through a funnel affair with graduated locks. The Professor favored live mice, though they presumably weren’t usually on the vampyroteuthis menu.
Mrs. Halifax supplied a trembling housemaid — rather, a practiced harlot who dressed up as a trembling housemaid — to see to the feeding and pumping. Pouting Poll said she’d service the entire crew of a Lascar freighter down to the cabin boy’s monkey rather than look at the ungodly vermin, so hatches were battened over the spheres’ windows at feeding time. Not wanting to follow ma belle Fifi to Frozen Knackers, Alaska, Polly did her duty without excessive whining. The Prof spotted the doxy, and promised her a promotion to ‘undercover operative’ — which the poor tart hadn’t the wit to be further terrified by.
The squid were quite repulsive enough for me, but Moriarty decided their pale purplish cream hides weren’t to his liking and introduced drops of scarlet