pristine floor.
“You didn’t lock it?” I shouted to Warlock, who had time to shrug slightly before the murderer swung the empty trunk at his head. Warlock collapsed against the wall, blood streaming down his face. The killer turned for the door. I stood to block his escape, but I might have saved myself the trouble. He put his shoulder into me as he passed, knocking me aside as if I were a man of straw. I wound up on the floor, half indoors, half out. Holmes was shouting something.
“The cab! Watson! Shoot the cab!”
My gun was under me, stuck in my coat. I struggled up to one knee and yanked it clumsily from my pocket. It occurred to me to wonder what effect one pistol round might work upon a cab, but I had no time to ask. The killer was already on the garden path and nearly at the street. I knew I ought to shoot the horse, but the animal was blameless and it seemed unfair he should die for his master’s sins. I resolved not to aim my first shot at him and squeezed the trigger with the cab in my sights. I felt the Webley buck in my hands and heard its report ring through the neighborhood. An instant later, the front of the cab exploded in a flash of purple flame. The horse must have been even more shocked than I was; it bolted down the street, dragging the ruins of its harness with it. The explosion had freed the animal from the cab, which lay sprawled in the road, with one wheel crushed and the cabin smashed wide open.
For the second time in less than twenty seconds, I was knocked to the ground—
much
harder this time. Grogsson had roused himself. He later admitted that he had been perfectly happy to let Holmes and me handle things, until he saw what the killer had done to his nice clean floor. His frailty forgotten, Grogsson stormed past like a maddened yak, with Warlock close behind, clutching his bleeding nose and shouting, “Alive! Torg! We want him alive!”
Though he might have preferred rougher alternatives, Grogsson mastered himself enough to obey. He overtook the killer just as he sprang back from his stricken cab. Grogsson grabbed the back of his coat and the belt of his trousers and hoisted him easily off the ground, slamming him roughly into the side of the wrecked cab. The blow was enough to daze the killer, who went limp, the empty trunk dangling from his wrist. Warlock cheered. Grogsson roared in triumph. I might have joined them, if I had not been checking each of my teeth with my tongue, wondering how many would fall out later.
As soon as he recovered from the shock of being thrown against his cab by Grogsson, the killer held up his free hand in a gesture of surrender and said, “Enough. You have me.”
Warlock removed the cuff that bound the trunk to the murderer’s wrist and used it to fasten the man’s hands together. This was not enough for Lestrade, who came down squarely in favor of binding him, head to foot. Having been released from his own bondage, Lestrade suggested we also use the other two pairs of cuffs—one around the prisoner’s ankles, and the third between the other two, locking him in a bent-over position. Then, he said, we should chain the trunk full of rocks to him again, and drain enough of his delicious, wonderful blood so that he would be too weak to run away.
“I say, Vladislav, that seems a bit much, doesn’t it?” Holmes asked. “Are we gentlemen, or are we not?”
“Well… probably not,” Lestrade reasoned. Grogsson nodded that yes, he concurred with this assessment.
“You’ve no worry of me,” the killer said. “I’ll not run now. Ain’t a point to it. I reckon I’m a deader this time tomorrow, no matter what. I’ll confess all, but when I tell you why I done it, I think you’ll find each of you would have done no different.”
His account had to wait, however, for at that moment he burst into the most spectacular nosebleed I think I have ever seen. Lestrade went fairly ballistic and had to be restrained by Grogsson. The tiny Romanian
“You didn’t lock it?” I shouted to Warlock, who had time to shrug slightly before the murderer swung the empty trunk at his head. Warlock collapsed against the wall, blood streaming down his face. The killer turned for the door. I stood to block his escape, but I might have saved myself the trouble. He put his shoulder into me as he passed, knocking me aside as if I were a man of straw. I wound up on the floor, half indoors, half out. Holmes was shouting something.
“The cab! Watson! Shoot the cab!”
My gun was under me, stuck in my coat. I struggled up to one knee and yanked it clumsily from my pocket. It occurred to me to wonder what effect one pistol round might work upon a cab, but I had no time to ask. The killer was already on the garden path and nearly at the street. I knew I ought to shoot the horse, but the animal was blameless and it seemed unfair he should die for his master’s sins. I resolved not to aim my first shot at him and squeezed the trigger with the cab in my sights. I felt the Webley buck in my hands and heard its report ring through the neighborhood. An instant later, the front of the cab exploded in a flash of purple flame. The horse must have been even more shocked than I was; it bolted down the street, dragging the ruins of its harness with it. The explosion had freed the animal from the cab, which lay sprawled in the road, with one wheel crushed and the cabin smashed wide open.
For the second time in less than twenty seconds, I was knocked to the ground—
much
harder this time. Grogsson had roused himself. He later admitted that he had been perfectly happy to let Holmes and me handle things, until he saw what the killer had done to his nice clean floor. His frailty forgotten, Grogsson stormed past like a maddened yak, with Warlock close behind, clutching his bleeding nose and shouting, “Alive! Torg! We want him alive!”
Though he might have preferred rougher alternatives, Grogsson mastered himself enough to obey. He overtook the killer just as he sprang back from his stricken cab. Grogsson grabbed the back of his coat and the belt of his trousers and hoisted him easily off the ground, slamming him roughly into the side of the wrecked cab. The blow was enough to daze the killer, who went limp, the empty trunk dangling from his wrist. Warlock cheered. Grogsson roared in triumph. I might have joined them, if I had not been checking each of my teeth with my tongue, wondering how many would fall out later.
As soon as he recovered from the shock of being thrown against his cab by Grogsson, the killer held up his free hand in a gesture of surrender and said, “Enough. You have me.”
Warlock removed the cuff that bound the trunk to the murderer’s wrist and used it to fasten the man’s hands together. This was not enough for Lestrade, who came down squarely in favor of binding him, head to foot. Having been released from his own bondage, Lestrade suggested we also use the other two pairs of cuffs—one around the prisoner’s ankles, and the third between the other two, locking him in a bent-over position. Then, he said, we should chain the trunk full of rocks to him again, and drain enough of his delicious, wonderful blood so that he would be too weak to run away.
“I say, Vladislav, that seems a bit much, doesn’t it?” Holmes asked. “Are we gentlemen, or are we not?”
“Well… probably not,” Lestrade reasoned. Grogsson nodded that yes, he concurred with this assessment.
“You’ve no worry of me,” the killer said. “I’ll not run now. Ain’t a point to it. I reckon I’m a deader this time tomorrow, no matter what. I’ll confess all, but when I tell you why I done it, I think you’ll find each of you would have done no different.”
His account had to wait, however, for at that moment he burst into the most spectacular nosebleed I think I have ever seen. Lestrade went fairly ballistic and had to be restrained by Grogsson. The tiny Romanian
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