between forefinger and thumb. “I want information, Mr. Y. I trust you’ll be happy to oblige.”
The Chinaman yelped in reluctant agreement.
“Capital,” said Moon, releasing his nose. “Now let’s see if we can manage a more civilized conversation. I’m investigating the murder of Cyril Honeyman.”
Yiangou nodded sullenly.
“I’m sure a man of your intelligence could hazard a guess at my next question.”
Yiangou laughed. “You must be desperate to come here,” he said. “I think you fail. You fail!”
“I never fail,” Moon replied stiffly.
“Clapham!” The Chinaman cackled triumphantly. “I think you fail there.”
The shadow of the Somnambulist fell across Yiangou, and the Chinaman immediately fell silent.
“I want names,” Moon demanded, “anything you might have heard. Any whisper, any clue let slip by one of your poppy-addled clientele. Every evil thing in London comes through here at some time or another. One of them must know something.”
Yiangou gurgled a sigh. “I no help you, Mr. Moon.”
“I could persuade you.”
“I think you could not.”
Moon glared. “Do you know something?”
The Chinaman gave an elaborate shrug, only to give himself away by giggling.
“You do!”
He shook his head.
“Given our long friendship, Mr. Yiangou, I rather think you owe it to me to say.”
Yiangou simpered.
“Alternatively,” suggested Moon matter-of-factly, “I could ask my friend here to break your fingers one by one.”
“Ah.” The Chinaman sighed. “I been told to expect you.”
He clapped his hands and two burly men appeared by his side, stripped to the waist, awesomely muscled, prolifically tattooed, glistening with perspiration. Yiangou snapped his leathery fingers. At this signal both men drew out alarmingly vicious-looking swords and advanced toward Moon and the Somnambulist.
“You’ve been told?” the conjuror said thoughtfully. “By whom, I wonder?”
One of the men lunged eagerly toward him, his blade cutting the air inches from Moon’s face.
“You’re making me nervous, Mr. Yiangou. And you used to be such a generous host.”
The man swung his sword again and Moon took an instinctive step backwards, silently berating himself for not bringing a gun with him. He gulped and wiped a trickle of sweat from his temple.
The other thug brandished his sword at the Somnambulist who, unlike the conjuror (never at his best in any physical confrontation), stood resolutely firm.
“Run away!” Yiangou squealed as Moon muttered something about the better part of valor. “You come to me,” the Chinaman went on. “You threaten. You disturb my customers. You aggravate for many years.”
“I can close you down any time I like,” Moon protested, rather out of breath. “The only reason you’re still here is because you’re of use to me.”
It was quite the wrong thing to say. Yiangou clapped his hands. “Bored now,” he said, and the thugs moved in for the kill, their eyes aflame with the promise of murder. Moon leapt aside as one of them tried to skewer him, but was forced back against the wall. Exhausted, he knew he wouldn’t last much longer.
But still the Somnambulist stood firm. The other man ran roaring toward him and, like some especially ferocious javelin-thrower unable or unwilling to let go of his spear, thrust the blade deep into the giant’s belly.
The Somnambulist looked down at the wound, his face a picture of mild curiosity, looked up again and smiled. His would-be assassin gazed back in disbelief and then in real terror as, without betraying the slightest outward sign of pain, the Somnambulist strode forward, thrusting himself further onto the sword to reach his attacker. Expecting his quarry to fall at any moment, the man kept tight hold of the hilt but still the Somnambulist came relentlessly on, unstoppable as the sword slid smoothly into his belly and emerged unstained on the other side. The man held tight until the Somnambulist was almost upon him, when, shrieking inchoate curses, he let go of his weapon and ran in terror from the scene.
Disturbed by the noise of the rumpus, some of the opium slaves started to stir in their sleep, a few shambling to their feet, mumbling and howling confusedly. Yiangou squealed in frustrated rage and barked an order to his remaining servant. Foolishly, but with admirable loyalty, the man ran at the Somnambulist and buried his sword in his back. The giant swatted him easily aside and, still unflinching, plucked both blades from his body. Just as at the Theatre of Marvels, the swords were clean of blood. Moon walked to his side.
“Thank you,” he gasped. They turned to face Yiangou. “Now. Who the devil told you to do that?”
Numbly, the Chinaman shook his head.
“Mr. Yiangou,” Moon said reasonably, “you said someone had told you to expect me. All I want is a name.”
Yiangou seemed terrified. I can’t, Mr. Moon, I can’t.”
“Very well. I’ll just have to ask the Somnambulist to be gentle with you. But as you’ve seen, he’s not a man who knows his own strength.”
One of the pipe smokers, a whiskery fop who had hitherto lain silent, suddenly lumbered to his feet and yelled something unintelligible into the air. Startled, Moon and the Somnambulist turned toward him, but as they did so Yiangou saw his opportunity and took it. He ran, vanishing from sight almost immediately, disappearing deep into the warren of his establishment. The Somnambulist set off in pursuit but Moon called him back.
“No good. Yiangou knows this place far better than us. I fear we’ve lost him for tonight.”
The Somnambulist seemed disappointed.
“Are you all right? That must have taken its toll even on you.”
The giant frowned.
“You don’t look well. I think we should get back.”
They left the opium wrecks behind them and headed home, looking forward to the broth Mrs. Grossmith had promised to prepare for their return, but as the coach drove into Albion Square, they saw Detective Inspector Merryweather waiting on the steps outside their lodgings. He stood next to Speight, evidently uncomfortable in the vagrant’s company, even if the latter seemed in the midst of lively conversation, talking loudly and gesticulating at his perennial sandwich board.
SURELY I AM COMING SOON
REVELATION 22:20
“Gentlemen!” Merryweather called out as the pair descended from the cab.
“Inspector.”
“What have you been up to this time?” he asked, eyeing their torn and bloodied appearance.
“Solving your case,” Moon replied, a little tartly.
“It’s bad news.”
The conjuror sighed. “Go on.”
Merryweather drew himself up to his full height and paused dramatically.
“Well?” Moon was in no mood for theatrics.
The inspector swallowed hard. “There’s been another one.”
As the coach sped back into the city, Merryweather explained it all.
“What was his name?” asked Moon. He seemed alert again, re-energized, whilst the Somnambulist, exhausted by the battering the night had already given him, had begun to drift off into a pleasant doze.
“The victim’s name is Philip Dunbar. Wealthy. Like Honeyman, an only son, an idler and a wastrel. Like Honeyman, he fell from the tower.”
“The same site?” Furious, Moon clenched his hands into fists.
“Dunbar was lucky.”
