Sherlock Holmes and the Shadow of the Rat, page 15
After five minutes of walking he came to the Eagle Printing Co., which was surrounded by a tall wooden fence topped by rolls of barbed wire. The fence, covered by bill posters advertising various products, was punctuated mid-way along its stretch by a pair of stout, solid iron gates, which bore the name of the company in a curved iron sign above. The gates were locked and chained with a heavy padlock. Extracting a small bulls-eye lantern from the folds of his coat, Holmes examined the lock: it was crusted in rust. It was obvious to him that the gates had not been used since the factory closed down and, therefore, there must be another entrance, probably concealed.
Sherlock Holmes walked past the gate to the furthest extremity of the fence that ended by a grain warehouse, which was also in darkness. He looked back along the length of the fence and saw nothing that suggested a means of entry. Slowly and cautiously he retraced his footsteps. He had just passed the gate when something caught his eye on the roadway, which was shiny from the fine rain. Mud had collected in the gutter along the road, making a soft slope up from the cobbles to the pavement. Imprinted in the mud at one point, at right angles to the pavement, were two narrow grooves about five feet apart. Holmes afforded himself a brief smile. These were marks made by carriage wheels, and yet they seemed to lead up to the fence. Holmes reasoned that, however impossible the idea of a carriage passing through a solid wooden barrier, there must be some element of truth in the observation.
Once again he retrieved his lantern and examined the fence. It looked bland and innocent enough but, when he leant his weight against the rough timbers they did seem to sway and give a little. He flashed the lantern further up the fence, its beam falling on a poster for Hornung’s Rejuvenation Elixir. Holmes could see at once that this poster was fresher than its neighbours. It bore none of the grime and browning print of the other bills posted along the fence. It obviously required closer inspection. However, the poster was situated just above head height and therefore was difficult to reach. Holmes looked around and spied a wooden box on the other side of the road. He retrieved it and stood it by the fence. Standing on the box raised his height about another two feet. Now he was almost on a level with the poster. He did not need the aid of the lantern to see that there was in fact a little door about six inches square at the corner of the poster — just big enough to push one’s arm through. The small hinges and edges were cunningly disguised by the illustration on the poster.
Gingerly, Holmes pressed on the little door and it swung back. He peered through. In the gloom beyond he was just able to make out a large brick building with the letters Eagle Printing Co. painted in white. He felt a tingle of satisfaction as he recognised the lettering as that he had seen while under hypnosis. He allowed himself a gentle smile, but this quickly disappeared as he realised there was no sign of light, or noise, from the building. Surely the Baroness could not have moved her base of operations again? Whatever the situation, he would still have to investigate.
He pushed his arm through the aperture and soon found what he expected to be there. His hand came into contact with two metal chains and a pulley system. Within moments he had identified the slacker of the two chains and had begun to tug on it. Slowly a portion of the fence began to fall away, swinging back like a gate. He pulled the chain sufficiently to create a small gap, which would allow him entry into the grounds beyond. Once inside he hesitated. Should he leave this hidden gate slightly ajar to aid his speedy exit if required, and also to provide Lestrade and his troops with a hint as to how to enter this fortress? If he did, and it was spotted by one of the Baroness’s men, then it alerted the enemy that there was a spy in the camp. This eventuality would reduce drastically his chances of success. On balance, he decided to close the gate.
Sherlock Holmes took a risk by switching on his bulls-eye lantern to illuminate his path towards the main building. The beam picked out a track across the wasteland with its overgrown weeds, discarded drums of printing ink, and other debris. At the side of the building he spied a fire escape, which led up to the roof. Without hesitation he clambered up and hauled himself on to the flat roof. From here he had a clear view of the surroundings. Behind the building he saw the curve of the Thames and, moored virtually below him, was a ship. He lay down, with his head hanging over the end of the building, so that he could study the vessel. He felt sure that it was the Matilda Briggs, although the name was different. He could just make out the freshly painted letters, Gypsy Sprite. There were some lights aboard, but no sign of movement or people.
He pulled himself back and examined his surroundings. At the centre of the roof was a raised door, which obviously allowed entrance down into the building. On examining it he discovered, as expected, that it was locked. However, the wood was wet and old and after two blows with his boot, Holmes had managed to split the wood around the lock enough for him to wrench open the door.
He then waited, his heart thumping with excitement: waited to see or hear if his exertions had roused anyone below. He heard nothing. Retrieving his pistol from his coat pocket, Sherlock Holmes descended a rickety staircase into the building: the enemy’s lair.
Chapter Nineteen: The Giant Rat of Sumatra
With bated breath, Sherlock Holmes slipped down a short wooden ladder and landed nimbly on a rickety metal gallery, which clung precariously to the walls of the factory, running a circuit of the building some twenty-five feet from the ground. There was a narrow stairway down to the ground floor situated at the corner on Holmes’s right.
Peering over the gallery rail, he could see directly below him the huge, rusting steam engine, which once upon a time had run the great printing presses. These were now absent, but shaded markings on the stone floor indicated where they had stood. A large pipe ran from the base of the engine and disappeared into the far wall, leading to the chimney. The cavernous building was illuminated by a row of electric lights strung on makeshift hooks secured to the girders, which crisscrossed the factory just below the gallery. A small generator hummed quietly in the shadows by the door. Apart from the illumination, the place had an air of dereliction and decay. However, what galvanised the attention of Sherlock Holmes and caused his heart to beat faster was a large rectangular object placed in the centre of the building. He had seen it once before. It was a large cage some six feet high and eight feet long, the front of which was covered by a sheet of heavy sacking in order to conceal the contents. But Holmes knew, with heart-stopping certainty, what lay behind that innocuous brown sacking: it was the rat — the giant rat of Sumatra.
Here it was then. He had been correct in his deductions. The mutant creature, which threatened the lives of thousands of people and, indeed, the stability of the city, was but a few feet away from him. So tantalisingly near and yet so far. The cage was guarded by two men who sat on a packing case nursing rifles in their laps. They were smoking cigarettes and chatting idly in soft voices, neither taking much notice of the precious item they were guarding. Holmes knew that these two fellows had to be dealt with in some way before he was able to progress further. If he were able to reach the cage unhindered he would then have a chance to put a bullet through the brain of the monstrous rodent. Once the rat was dead, he could deal with the guards.
Holmes surveyed his options and the lay of the land. Within seconds he had lit upon a course of action that might just work. It was dangerous and audacious but, if the fates were in his favour, he believed he could bring it off. In any case, taking risks, even life-threatening ones, was an accepted professional hazard for the consulting detective. Throwing off his outer coat, he manoeuvred his way around the gallery. The rusting metal structure swayed precariously and creaked at times, as though refusing to bear his weight. Each time the walkway groaned in protest, he stopped and flattened himself against the wall, in case the noise attracted the attention of the men below; but they seemed completely unaware of the intruder in the shadows above their heads.
It was with some relief that Holmes came into a position directly over the girder that ran from north to south across the building, passing, at one point, some twelve feet above the cage. Slipping off his shoes and stuffing them into his jacket pockets, he clambered over the rail and, with great care, lowered himself down onto the girder. In doing so he dislodged a scattering of dust and flakes of rust which fell in a silent shower on to the floor below. Holmes froze and held his breath, his eyes fixed on the faces of the guards, but they still remained engrossed in their conversation, oblivious of his presence.
The girder was just less than a foot wide. Crouching like a chimpanzee, his toes pressing firmly down to maintain a grip, while his fingers grasped the rough edges of the girder, Holmes inched his way along its length, slowly and silently, never taking his eyes off the guards. It took the detective some five minutes to reach the section of the girder that was directly over the rat’s cage. At that moment, without warning, one of the guards stood up. He flung his arms wide and yawned noisily. In doing so he threw his head back, with his mouth agape and eyes shooting upwards to face the roof. His actions were so quick and spontaneous that Holmes had no time to react. It was too late to try and lie flat on the girder: any sudden movement would have caught the guard’s attention immediately. Instead, Holmes became rooted to the spot, not moving a muscle, praying that he blended in with the shadows.
The yawn over, the guard stretched his arms wide once again, and ruffled his hair. He showed no signs of having seen Holmes. At length he resumed his seat and pulled a hip flask from his pocket. He took a long swallow before passing the flask to his companion. Holmes waited a few moments for the two men to resume their desultory conversation before he made his next move. Holding his breath to steady his nerves, he slipped over the edge of the girder until he was hanging from it like a trapeze artist in the circus. His fingers gripped the top of the girder tightly, but he was aware that they were beginning to slide in the dust. Flakes of rust dropped down on to his face. Holmes was now at his most vulnerable: suspended in mid-air above the rat’s cage, with the bottom half of his body illuminated by the harsh spread of light from the dangling electric lamps. He was fully aware that he made a ridiculously easy target. It only required one of the men to glance up and he would be seen. Then it would need only seconds for the fellow to raise his rifle to his shoulder and fire. It would take a very incompetent marksman to miss such a target at that distance. Sweat ran in rivulets down the side of the detective’s face. He felt the creeping onset of a paralysing fear take hold of his body. He knew that he had to act quickly or his nerve would fail him.
Suddenly one of the men broke out in a raucous laugh that echoed eerily around the cavernous warehouse. Holmes took this as his cue. Releasing his grip from the girder, he dropped some six feet on to the roof of the cage. Although he was in his stockinged feet, the noise of his landing resounded dully in the lofty chamber, sounding like the distant beat of a drum. In an instant, the two guards were on their feet, rifles at the ready. Their relaxed demeanour had vanished; their bodies were now tense and alert. Looking about them with quick nervous glances, it was clear that they could not locate the source of the noise.
“What the hell was that, George?” cried one.
“Dunno. Where’d it come from?” his partner replied.
“I reckon it was over by the door.”
“You could be right. Let’s go take a look.”
Holmes, who by now was lying flat on the cage roof, had further problems. The impact of his landing there had caused the rotten wood to sag and splinter. With the weight of the detective now pressing down on it, the roof began to split wide open, eventually giving way altogether. Holmes found himself slipping inexorably through a jagged aperture like someone sinking into a quicksand. Within seconds he was crashing down into the body of the cage. He landed somewhat shocked but unhurt on the straw-laden floor. Near him, in the gloom, was a large inert presence. Automatically, Holmes wrenched his gun from his inside pocket.
Outside, beyond his sight, the guards, having heard the disturbance, were rushing back to the cage. Within seconds, the taller of the two whipped back the tarpaulin. Light flooded in. On seeing Holmes crouched there like a cornered animal, the guard’s face cracked open with a laugh. “Look here, George. Look what we got: a new exhibit,” he cried with glee. And then his smile disappeared completely to be replaced by a strange puzzled expression. The guard’s face crumpled with pain and his eyes rolled wildly in his head. With a strangled gasp, he clutched his chest where Holmes’s bullet had struck him. For a moment he swayed like a drunkard, a kind of disbelief and wonder mirrored in his misting eyes, and then he fell to the floor, the rifle clattering away from him on the stone flags.
His associate dropped to his knees, but before he was able to lift his weapon for use, Holmes fired again. This time he only winged his adversary, but the fellow gave a guttural moan, spun round, and dropped face downward in a swoon at his comrade’s feet.
Holmes’s heart was pounding against his ribs as he glanced over to the corner of the cage where the giant rodent lay. It was a ghastly sight with its huge bulk covered in matted, rusty-coloured, shaggy fur. The mouth was agape and its enormous, treacherous yellow teeth were fully exposed as though in a silent snarl. Indeed, everything about the creature seemed silent; and the vicious, red, bulbous eyes stared at Holmes in a vacant sightless fashion. The rodent did not move at all. Its great sides were still. There was no heartbeat within that monstrous body. Moving closer, it became quite clear to Sherlock Holmes that the giant rat of Sumatra was dead.
Chapter Twenty: An Encounter in Solomon Road
“This is typical of Sherlock Holmes! We should have known better than to let him handle this case without close supervision.” The face of Inspector Giles Lestrade was pale and grim, and his eyes flamed with anger.
We were travelling at high speed through the darkened streets of the city on our way to Solomon Road in Rotherhithe. Our cab was the lead vehicle in a convoy, which also included two police wagons full of constables and several plain-clothes detectives. As well as Lestrade, Mycroft, and myself, the fourth occupant of the cab was a young inspector by the name of Lanyon. He remained silent for the whole of the journey, his features betraying no emotion whatsoever.
“I know my brother can be difficult,” observed Mycroft defensively, “but he always places the interest of the case as a prime priority.”
“Only if it suits him,” snapped Lestrade in response. The pressure of this investigation had dissipated his natural politeness and deference. It was clear that he was not about to accept any mitigating claims for the strategies of Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade’s fury had shown no signs of abating since Mycroft and I had arrived at Scotland Yard to inform him of recent developments. I had taken it upon myself to explain the thinking and purpose behind my friend’s actions that evening, an explanation that was met by a spluttering eruption of anger. In a voice that echoed around the walls of his office, he informed me that he felt he had been betrayed and treated with disdain by the ‘high and mighty Mr Holmes’. In all honesty, I could not defend my friend against these accusations. Since Lestrade had stormed out of his office to rally his men in preparation for our journey, he had not trusted himself to address me and pointedly averted his gaze when I attempted to speak to him. I realised that the wisest course of action was to sit quietly and hope that, by the time we reached our destination, Lestrade’s sense of duty would conquer his ire. Observing Mycroft’s tight-lipped stare, I deduced that he had decided upon a similar course of action.
The carriage rattled at breakneck speed through the damp thoroughfares of south London and, far sooner than I thought possible, we arrived at our destination. On Lestrade’s instructions the cab stopped and we alighted.
I glanced at my watch. It was a little after eleven. Holmes would already have had about two hours in which to carry out his investigations. I just hoped that he had been successful and that he was free from harm.
“Lanyon,” snapped the Inspector, addressing his colleague, “inform the rest of the men to wait for my signal — three sharp blasts on the whistle — and then they are to come a-running, weapons at the ready.”
Without a word Lanyon scurried off to the first police van some six yards behind us to impart his superior’s orders.
On his departure, Lestrade turned to us. “Now, we’d better stroll down Solomon Road and see what we can sniff out, yes?”
Mycroft and I muttered our assent and the three of us turned down the dark and dreary thoroughfare that was Solomon Road. There were two or three street lights dotted along its length, but their feeble yellow shafts of illumination spilled little further than the base of the posts. However, as the three of us moved down the road at a steady pace, we observed a figure leaning against one of the lamp-posts, some distance ahead of us, apparently smoking a cigarette. The red tip glowed brightly in the dim rays. Although the character was but a mere silhouette, it was clear from the stance and attitude of its pose that the fellow was relaxed and unconcerned by our approach.
“Watch this cove,” whispered Lestrade under his breath. “This may be some sort of trap.”
As we drew nearer, I began to suspect that the Inspector was correct in his assumption, for it occurred to me that this man — and I now could see that it was a man — was actually waiting for us. As we drew near, he lit another cigarette and, for a moment by the flickering light of the match, I observed his features clearly. He was in late middle age with a grey walrus-type moustache, heavy eyebrows of the same hue, blotchy skin, and sharp, piercing eyes. A greasy, flat cap was pulled low over the face. He viewed us with a mixture of amusement and disdain.
“Evenin’ gents,” he croaked in a husky voice, turning to face us. His accent was pure cockney.
