Seward went on: “Before we depart for France we shall launch my thousand rats into the London sewers, where in a day or two they will begin to sicken and die. In a week a million rats will be infected, and in a week after that, possibly a million men, women, and children. A pity you and the damned bloodsucker did not allow us a chance, here in London, to arrange a foolproof system for collecting our ransom—but in the next city the authorities will be not at all stiff-necked about paying; not with the example of the world’s greatest metropolis fresh before them. You’ll be in no position to interfere, next time, and if Dracula continues to take an interest I’ll find a way to deal with him—perhaps he would not refuse a partnership.”
He was interrupted by a rattle at the door, which in the next moment was unlocked from outside. It swung open to admit the man Holmes had already identified as Dr. David Fitzroy. Fitzroy’s mustache had been shaved off, and a pair of sideburns was under cultivation since I had seen him at Barley’s, but still I had no difficulty in recognizing him again.
Exchanging terse greetings with Seward, he crossed the room to draw a blind over the window—the last faint rays of the sun were just disappearing there, and my heart sank at the thought that I should probably never see it again. Coming back, Fitzroy cast a single, impersonal glance at me, then paused to look down at my companion. “So,” he murmured, “this is what the greatest detective in London looks like. But you know, I have the feeling that I’ve seen him before.”
Seward at once changed the subject. “You have the extra serum with you? Just in case any of us should need a dose?”
“Yes—there are only six of us left now, I believe? I saw Day and Morley upstairs, and here are Campbell and the Pincher.”
“That’s right.”
“Then there’s plenty.” And Fitzroy indicated a small black bag he had brought in with him and set down on the table. The two muscular attendants, who had been following this portion of the conversation with special interest, now nodded with satisfaction. They had completed the task of removing my boots, and were standing one on each side of my cart, ready to push it up to the cage when their masters should command them.
I thought Seward was on the point of giving that command, but Fitzroy held him for a moment with a gesture. “We’re all ready for departure, then. The other cage for the Rat is aboard the launch, and the launch is fueled and ready. We’ll just stop at the old place to release the rats into the sewers, and then be on our way for France. But what about—?” And he motioned toward the upstairs.
“My guests? What about them?” Seward asked coolly.
“Well, the other day you mentioned the possibility of one more person coming with us, and I saw you talking to the woman then, and I thought...”
Seward turned away. “No, I care nothing about her. Let her stay and enjoy the plague with the rest of London.”
Just at this point, I was startled by a low moaning or keening sound, proceeding from the still figure lying at my side. When I looked toward Holmes, his dazed expression had not altered, though his eyes were now fixed on Seward. The strange wail issued from my companion in a way that made my hair start to rise on end—then it cut off abruptly, and he muttered a few words that I could not make out.
Seward and Fitzroy both hurried to his cart, where they bent over him on either side, straining to hear better. But hardly had they done so, when Seward abruptly straightened again. Following the direction of his suddenly staring eyes, I saw with blank incomprehension that Holmes’ right arm had somehow come free of its shackle—the steel ring was still closed, and fixed to the cart, but it no longer held his wrist.
Frowning, Seward reached to take hold of the escaped limb. But that thin, white hand rose steadily on its lean arm. It brushed aside Seward’s grasping fists as though they were those of an infant, and took him neatly by the throat.
Simultaneously Fitzroy straightened up, as if he realized that something had gone wrong but was not yet clear on what. Before he could do anything purposeful, the left hand of the figure on the cot slid easily of its restraint, and struck at him with a cobra’s speed. I saw its fingers clench round the unfortunate Fitzroy’s neck. His eyes started from their sockets, as bone and muscle together were crumpled like twists of paper in that grip. An instant later, and his lifeless body had been flung aside, like some huge, weightless doll.
So quickly was the incredible deed accomplished that it was over before the attendants had been sufficiently aroused from their inattention to throw themselves into the struggle. Meanwhile I, on my own cart, strove with might and main—but uselessly—to free myself.
The cart beside mine slid and rolled, then went over with a crash upon its side. All four of his limbs now freed as if by magic, the man who had been on
