The Holmes-Dracula File Fred Saberhagen (feel good fiction books txt) 📖

animated, and less strained, than it had been when Holmes and I left him standing on the pier a few hours earlier. He entered carrying in his hand a large canvas bag, of a kind I had previously seen used to hold evidence. There was something hard and solid inside, for the bag made a substantial sound when Lestrade set it down. I assured him that Holmes would very likely be back in a matter of minutes, and that it was quite all right for him to wait. I introduced Mr. Peter Moore as a friend of another client, dropping by to volunteer his services.

   “Oh, ah!” said Lestrade. “Please to meet you, sir. You’ve nothing to do, then, with the business on the docks—so I can speak freely. I don’t mind telling you both, gentlemen, that I don’t know how Mr. Holmes does it—but he does. Mr. Moore, if your friend requires a miracle, I’d say he or she has come to the right shop.”

   “What is it, Lestrade?” I asked.

   “Why, the oddity, just as Mr. Holmes predicted. I was lucky enough to be able to get divers on the job within a matter of minutes after you’d left. And on the bottom of the Thames they found this bag.” Stooping to open the canvas container, Lestrade brought out of it another bag, which if unfolded would have been even larger than the first. “And containing these.”

   As he spoke, Lestrade undid the fastenings of the inner bag. Metal clashed as he let its contents slide out upon the carpet. There lay before us two pairs of heavy manacles, circles of steel connected by short, strong chains. “Darbies and leg-irons, I make them out to be, though they’re a good deal different from the style we use at the Yard. I’ve got people at work already trying to trace ’em. Especially made, I’d say, and extra strong. As you see, both pair are locked. The keys are missing.”

   Peter Moore came near to shouldering me aside when Lestrade displayed his find. I looked at the young American in surprise, but quickly forgot my ruffled feelings when I beheld the strange expression of excitement on his face.

   For a few moments Moore seemed unable to find words or even gestures to express his thoughts. Then he seized one set of the manacles and held them up. There were only a few spots and traces of rust on the bright steel, which could not have been long in the river.

“   These were made by my company in New York,” Peter Moore burst out. “And they were with John in the South Seas.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

   Stepping on shaky legs from that droll imitation of a coffin, I knew that I had recovered my identity not an hour too soon to save my life.

   Nowhere but in the hallowed soil of my homeland would I, vampire, be able to find rest. Turning impulsively to the cowed sailor, I barked out: “Tell me! Where shall the unclaimed baggage be taken, from a ship unloading at the East India docks?” Of course I had in mind the great leather trunk that had accompanied me to England; besides containing large sums of money, my own clothing, and papers of identification under several names, it was half full of that sweet stuff I needed more than air.

   Huddling in mute fright, the man could only shake his head. Of course there was no reason why he   should have known anything about baggage-handling procedures, or what had happened to my trunk. Nor had I myself the least idea of where to begin a search; so it was indeed fortunate for my hopes of survival that during my London visit six years earlier I had taken certain measures with the idea of establishing a permanent residency.

   Never mind how foolish those ambitions of mine were proven when the pack of vampire-hunters fastened on my trail; I have told that story elsewhere. The point was that some at least of those scattered, secret nests I had then built for myself, and lined with imported earth, must be still intact after no more than six years—or so I devoutly hoped, as I stalked out of that noisome dormitory toward the main doors of the hostel.

   As I drew near those doors my purpose of departure must have been obvious, for the gatekeeper at once emerged from some cubbyhole nearby. He was a large man, garbed now in a blanket that he had draped about him like a toga, and evidently accustomed to peculiar midnight fits among his clientele. In a voice heavy with authority he warned me that the doors were going to stay locked and barred until daylight.

   “Just toddle back t’ bed now, like a good chap. Wot business you ’as out there will keep till—whoa!”

   Quite gently I set him out of my path, for they were good Christian folk who operated the shelter, and they had served me well—aye, better than they knew. I threw the bar aside, and bent my waning strength, one hand to push and one to pull, upon the lock. It was strong, but not to be classed with those gorilla-manacles. Presently I heard the splintering of old wood, and could feel metal bend beneath my fingers. To pay for the damage I tossed a gold sovereign behind me as I left, and I silently vowed a future donation upon a grander scale.

   The greasy fog had grown even thicker. A few paces along the street, away from the flaring gaslight, and I was out of human ken. A silent pause of a few moments was required, in which to reorganize my restored powers; then in the form of bat I let the pavement drop away beneath my feet, and sought the free winds of the higher air.

   Once risen past the heaviest of the mist, I took my bearings from the stars, and set a course to the