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

were constantly coming and going, that neither of us could be sure from moment to moment that our quarry was not close at hand.

   Presently I felt a light tug at my sleeve; it came from Murray, who, when I bent down, whispered in my ear: “I seen ’im again, Doctor—’e’s in Barley’s private office now—that door behind the bar. I seen ’im just now when Barley opened it a bit to send another chap on in.”

   I nodded, and in a low whisper passed on this intelligence to Moore. A few moments more, and Barley turned over his place behind the bar to an assistant. With a final laughing remark to his friends, the proprietor also retreated into that room.

   Moore and I exchanged looks; then, as casually as we could manage it, we both moved into a position from which, when the private door should next be opened, we ought to be able to look into the room beyond. Having accomplished this, I judged that there was nothing for it but to wait, and this we settled down to do.

   Soon we could observe a cheerful stir among some men who had gathered near a rear entrance to the parlor. This was occasioned by the appearance of the evening’s intended victims. Rats were being carried in, in crates and bags, by the score and by the hundred, to a total that must easily have surpassed a thousand, and the room seemed to fill with their sharp, musky smell. From the entry they were borne across the rear of the parlor, and up a broad stair there. Ample light shone down from a large room or loft above, which seemed to be the scene of the planned entertainment.

   Most of the workers engaged in bringing in the rats were young men, and it may have been for this reason that my eye first singled out one older man among them. This was a tall, lean fellow who had a crate upon his shoulder when I first saw him, so that his face was, for the moment, entirely hidden from me; but it was obvious from the long, graying hair that hung uncovered about his ears that he was no longer young. This individual was just starting briskly upstairs with his burden, when my attention was drawn from him suddenly by the reopening of the door of Barley’s private office behind the bar. The proprietor himself emerged, leaving the door ajar; but my eager glance toward the room’s interior was not as rewarding as I had hoped. I could see part of a desk, a table with a lamp, and three or four battered chairs. In one of these slouched a villainous-looking individual, a complete stranger to me, but who, by reason of his dark hair and hooked nose, could not possibly be the man we sought. The remaining occupant of the room was visible only in the form of a pair of dark-trousered legs, one foot crossed over the other in stylish black boots.

   Barley, on coming out into the public room, at once raised his arms and called out in his loud, jovial voice that it was time for the company to move upstairs. Having made this announcement, he retired again into his private chamber and shut the door.

   His words brought on a general push in the direction of the stair. Moore and I looked at each other again, and I have no doubt that the disappointment I observed in his face was mirrored in my own.

   Yet there was nothing to be gained by losing heart and hope. Barley and the men in the office with him must eventually emerge. Meanwhile, however, if Moore and I were to continue to be inconspicuous, we must go with the crowd. To Murray, who had remained nearby, I imparted this decision with a look and a slight gesture, and by the same means instructed him to remain on watch on the ground floor. With quick intelligence he took my meaning at once.

   Then, in the midst of a cheerful throng of men of every class, some carrying dogs, many already wagering for or against particular animals, Moore and I went on up. The room or loft to which we ascended was only a little smaller than that below, and very high, having no ceiling other than the beams of the sloping roof. Despite its spaciousness the air was close; from the crates and bags of rats came an exhalation like that of an open sewer, to mingle with the fumes of tobacco, gin, and beer.

   A pit some seven or eight feet square had been constructed in the middle of the floor, by the erection of a thin screen or barrier all round, some two or three feet high, enough to prevent the game from escaping. Ranks of benches, those in the rear somewhat elevated, surrounded the pit, and in it stood a young man with metal clips holding his trousers-legs tight about his ankles, evidently to forestall any desperate rat’s effort to seek shelter by that route.

   This referee soon called for the first dog scheduled to take part in the evening’s competition; its handlers brought it forward, a hundred voices were raised in raucous cries of encouragement or mockery, the wagering became fast and furious, and the sport—if indeed it should be honored with that name—commenced.

   It is not my intention to relate in any detail the events taking place in the pit, where time was kept as at a boxing match. Dog succeeded dog, and the total of slain rats mounted rapidly into—the hundreds. I recall noticing that Lord Godalming’s first terrier did not do well, as one of the intended victims—which were in general remarkable for their apparent helplessness—turned on it and sank sharp teeth into its muzzle. Dr. Seward and its owner withdrew the yelping animal and carried it a little away from the mass of the crowd, endeavoring to do something for its