Onyx City (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles Book 3) (3 page)

“Egypt?” Stoker said, his eyebrows raised. “You intrigue me, sir. “I have a good friend who has been many times. Brought back all sorts of jewels and mummies. Is it true that their religion involved the resurrection of the dead?”

“Well not as such,” said Lazarus. “It’s a common misconception.”

“Oh, I don’t mean mummies walking around as you or I do, I speak metaphorically of course. I refer to reincarnation.”

“Mummies walking around?” Mansfield said with a snort of laughter. “You see, Lazarus, Bram here has a feverish and demented imagination. One never knows what fantasy he’s going to dream up next.”

Lazarus forced a smile. “Shall we be off? I’m famished.”

Chapter Three

In which our hero is introduced to a new acquaintance

The following morning, Lazarus returned to Whitehall and met Morton in the long corridor outside his office. An Otis hydraulic lift took them down to a cellar deep below street level.

Morton caught him gazing at the brick pillars and arches that looked Tudor at the very latest. “Never been down here, eh? It’s where we keep our tinkerers, tailors and quartermasters, not to mention the armory and rifle range.”

“You said I was to meet my associate,” Lazarus said. “Is he one of your ‘tinkerers’?”

“Not at all. I just wanted you both to get some practice in on the targets. Never know when it might come in handy during your plumbing of the depths of the East End.”

“I can assure you that my aim is as true as ever.”

“Well it’s just a good idea for you both to fire off a few rounds side by side. Develops a bond, you know.”

“Will I be getting another Colt Starblazer?”

Morton sucked air in between his teeth. “Not really inconspicuous is it, a shiny new model like that? No, I think we’ll give you something older, perhaps military issue. Firearms are certainly not uncommon in the circles you will be moving in, but you need something that rings true to your cover story.”

“And that is?”

“Ex-soldier. Fought in the Soudan but was injured. Now you’re just looking for good honest work. Strong man, good with your hands. Warehouse work, that sort of thing. Those are the places that these socialist groups tend to spring from. No family in London but a sister in Kent.”

They entered a large cellar with brick arches on either side. Several scientific-looking men in frock coats were dwarfed by perhaps the largest man Lazarus had ever seen. His rough flannel jacket strained against bulging shoulders that started a good foot above the head of the tallest scientist present. A tattered waistcoat met sagging grey trousers patched at the knees. A flat cap was jammed on his head; a head which was the most remarkable thing about him, for no part of his face was visible. Instead, a mask of tin or some other metal had been fashioned into the likeness of a square-jawed mug complete with eyeholes, nostrils and a black oval between open lips, into which the man kept jamming the end of a fat cigar before exhaling blasts of smoke.

“Lazarus, meet your colleague for the duration of the case. His real name is withheld for reasons of security but the chaps down here call him Mr. Clumps.”

“H... how do you do?” Lazarus stammered, holding out his hand to the imposing figure.

The man grasped it in a gloved fist, but his grip was surprisingly gentle as he shook it. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Longman,” said the voice behind the mask. “I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

Well, he was polite enough, that was something at least. Lazarus was put in mind of an oversized simpleton from a Dickens novel, but couldn’t remember which one.

“Poor Mr. Clumps here suffers from phossy jaw after working for many years manufacturing warning flares for the navy,” Morton explained. “His face is ruined by the exposure to white phosphorus, and he feels the need to hide it for the sake of decency. Now, I’d like you both to get reacquainted with the firearms in our arsenal. The rifle range is just through those doors there.”

They went through the double doors and Lazarus immediately knew how Mr. Clumps had got his name. His wide, flat feet were encased in what could only be custom-made boots, thudding down with resounding ‘clumps’ that reverberated throughout the cellar. He walked with a shuffling, lopsided gait that reminded Lazarus of something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. In the room beyond, they found targets set up and a table with an array of pistols and boxes of ammunition.

Lazarus spotted a Colt Peacemaker, a Smith and Wesson Model 3 Russian (Katarina’s gun of choice...), a British Bulldog pocket revolver, a Webley Mk I and his own preferred Enfield Mark II. He picked up the Peacemaker first, being the forerunner to the state of the art Starblazer. He loaded cartridges into the cylinder, leaving one chamber empty, and fired them off in quick succession at his target.

The cracks of the rounds echoed along the length of the range. Splinters of wood and shredded paper that had been plastered to the target drifted in the wake of the shots. The smell of gun smoke brought back memories of bloody warfare in the African grasslands, and the stink of intrigue and clandestine killings from his work with the bureau.

“Top marks, Longman,” said Morton, taking his fingers out of his ears. “All five on the target. Try the Webley. We drew up the contract for ten thousand of them last year. The loading mechanism is a vast improvement on the Enfield’s.”

“I’d like to see Mr. Clumps have a try,” said Lazarus.

The big man brought his cigar up to his silver lips and inhaled deeply, blowing the smoke out through his mask’s nostrils. He selected the Webley Mk I and broke it open to slide in the cartridges. Lazarus watched him intently while reloading the Peacemaker. As Mr. Clumps raised the revolver and pointed it at the target, Lazarus aimed his Peacemaker at the big man’s head.

“Drop it!” he shouted. “All of you get back!” he commanded Morton and the scientists.

Mr. Clump’s metallic face slowly revolved on its neck to fix its hollow eyes on Lazarus. His gun arm lowered but still gripped the Webley.

“Longman, have you lost your bloody mind?” Morton bellowed.

“Stay back!” Lazarus shouted. “I don’t know what’s going on or how it happened, but this thing is a mechanical! Somehow a bloody mechanical posing as a human has snuck into your top secret basement, Morton!”

“You may put down your revolver, Mr. Clumps,” Morton said, “lest our agent actually damage you.”

Mr. Clumps set the Webley down on the table and turned to face Lazarus.

“Bravo, Longman,” Morton said. “Bravo. I was confident that if anybody could call him out on it, then it was you. Ingenious workmanship, eh? You can set your gun down too, you know. He’s not a danger.”

“Morton, what the hell is going on?” said Lazarus, still pointing his gun at those blank, lifeless eyes.

“I’m sorry for the trick, old boy, but we needed to see just how passable our creation here is. It seems that only a man with extensive experience with these mechanicals can see through its disguise. Still, that’s good enough for us.”

“You mean your crackpots actually built one of these things? How?”

“With some help from our American friends. We called in some specialists from the C.S.A. for advice, but he’s all British workmanship. Put down your gun and I’ll show you.”

Lazarus slowly set the pistol down on the table, not taking his eyes off the mechanical.

“Mr. Clumps,” said Morton. “Remove your mask.”

The giant reached up and fiddled with some screws that were disguised in the molded sideburns of the mask. With those steady, massive hands, he removed the metal visage to reveal what had once been a man’s head. It was sickly, pale and bald. Its jaw was missing and a blackened pipe protruded from the esophagus.

“The organic pilot’s vocal chords are still intact, which was essential for authentic speech,” Morton explained. “Steam from its internal boiler is released from this pipe too, disguised as cigar smoke which necessitates the permanent ‘smoking’ action. It’s a fake cigar, of course, with a small light that simulates burning and a scent valve that disguises the steam as tobacco smoke. A mild blend from Spitalfields, in fact.”

“What of its fuel source?” Lazarus asked. “Not mechanite, surely.”

“Actually, yes,” Morton replied with a smile.

“How on earth did you get mechanite into England?”

“It was part of a new deal with the C.S.A. They lent us some scientists and a small supply of the stuff in order for us to try out this experimental model. Think, Longman! Think if we could disguise mechanicals as people!”

“To what end? They’re not clever enough to be spies. And too clumsy to be assassins.”

“Ah, yes, well, their applications are not yet fully understood, but it’s through experimentation that we shall find out the potential possibilities.”

To Lazarus this sounded a lot like ‘because we can’. “And this is supposed to be my colleague on the mission? A mechanical? Well you can forget it. I’m out if this thing has anything to do with it.”

“Come now, Longman, don’t be prejudiced.”

“Prejudiced? Several of these things tried to kill me in Egypt. And I’ve seen the unfortunate prototypes this kind of research turns out. Men assimilated against their will, mutilated, corrupted. I don’t stand for this and I’m surprised you do, Morton.”

“The world is changing, Lazarus. We have enemies gathering around us like a storm cloud that threatens to engulf Europe, or even the world. We need to keep current with progress lest our rivals surpass us.”

“It’s not just my moral stance on the matter that’s the problem. This mission is an undercover job. How long do you think I’ll last in the East End with this great lug following me around? A seven foot mechanical powered by an illegal energy source? Very bloody inconspicuous!”

“Doesn’t he pass for human? An extraordinary human to be sure, but you yourself did not know him for what he was at first.”

“I had my suspicions.”

“How
did
you know, in fact?”

“It was when he aimed his pistol. Mechanicals have a certain way of holding a gun. They don’t take aim like us, slow and coordinated with a relaxed elbow and a firm grip. Mechanicals thrust the gun out like a brand, their arm stiff as a plank.”

Morton frowned. “I see. You boys listening to this?”

The scientists nodded.

“But as I said, you have come into contact with these things before. You know how they work and how to spot them. Nobody in the East End will. And this is why I wanted you in particular for this case. We need somebody to keep an eye on Mr. Clumps here when he’s out and about on his first mission. A test drive, as it were.”

“So I’m a nanny for a mechanical.”

“Think of yourselves more as a duo. He is there to protect you, and you are there to make the best use you can of him. There’s more riding on this mission than just finding out what the socialists are up to.”

“I still don’t like it.”

“You’ll complement each other very well, I feel. As I’ve said before, you are one of our best agents. And Mr. Clumps is damn near invulnerable, not to mention incredibly strong. You’ll be safe as houses. Now, would you like us to arrange accommodation for you both? It won’t be Langham Hotel standards, naturally, but you’ll need a base of operations and somewhere to get your head down at night.”

“Best if I arrange accommodation,” Lazarus said. “I know the East End and I don’t want you boys putting me up in some doss house.”

That afternoon Lazarus took the opportunity to pay a visit to his mysterious cobbler in Stepney. Who knew when he would have a chance to pursue his personal interests while he was ferreting around the gutters on Morton’s orders?

Fifty-seven Copley Street may well have been a cobblers at one point. There was a sign above the door indicating that at least, but the windows were grimy and weeds grew between the cracks in the steps that led up to its battered and flaking front door. He peered through one of the windows and saw nothing but gloom and cobwebs. He knocked on the door.

After waiting for an amount of time that told him he was not going to receive an answer, he wandered around the back and scrambled over a wooden fence. It was all very strange. Why leave a calling card for a business that no longer existed? Either somebody was trying to throw him off the scent or wanted him here for some other reason. He found himself in a shabby yard filled with bricks and broken furniture. The back door was bolted but the window to the side was slightly open, which was handy.

Too handy
.

He scrambled in and drew his Enfield revolver. This whole business was fishy enough to call for caution. The ground floor of the house was empty. He found only peeling wallpaper and a marked workbench littered with tools rusted beyond use. He climbed the stairs slowly, trying not to make them creak too much. The bedrooms were as deserted as the rooms below, but as he entered the last one a boot lashed out from behind the door and caught his wrist, sending the revolver skittering across the floorboards.

He whirled to face his attacker and found an oriental sort bearing down on him, with a flurry of kicks and punches that Lazarus desperately blocked, recognizing the martial art at once. It was Muay, the fighting style of Siam, and not a style that he himself was wholly unfamiliar with.

He lunged forward and gripped his attacker in a neck hold, flinging his legs back alternately to dodge the savage knee blows to his abdomen. Using all the strength in his body, he hurled the man to the ground but had overestimated his opponent’s weight and found himself toppling over to land by his side. Then, it was a frantic scramble to be the first man to his feet. The more agile oriental was up first and swung his leg around at head height, connecting with Lazarus’s temple with a dizzying crack that sent him sprawling once more.

Lazarus had kept himself in shape and occasionally practiced the moves he had learned in childhood, but he knew he was no match for this mysterious attacker who no doubt trained several hours a day. He sprung to his feet as fast as he could, ready to block the next kick which he just about managed. He ducked low and punched with his left but was blocked, then brought up his right knee, also blocked. An elbow came crashing down on his forehead which sent sparks flashing before his eyes. He reeled backwards, protecting his head with his bunched fists. He tasted blood.