Titanic 2012

escaped justice many times. Take nothing for granted with him; do you understand? If he so much as asks about your health or family, gag the man.”

“But Dr. Belligham, Dean Goodfriar–” cried out Declan—“we’re all in danger of the plague! Not only Belfast but quite possibly Southampton where Titanic’s going next. If this agent is aboard— whether alive or dead—he’ll be spreadin’ the disease!”

“The ship must be quarantined and now!” added Thomas at the top of his lungs.

Ransom joined in as he was led out, “Fools! Damn fools, all of you! You’ve got to listen to the lads!”

“Look at the records I’ve kept, Dr. B, like you’ve taught us—please!” poured forth Declan’s final plea.

Ransom fought his handler, Sergeant Quinlan, long enough to stand before Dr. Bellingham and Goodfriar to add, “This situation needs you men to step up. You’ve a pair of bloody smart doctors in those two lads, and you best heed them! I implore you!”

Reahall had snatched out a bandana, and he now gagged and silenced Ransom. He then gave Ransom a shove and shouted at his subordinates, “Get a-moving, you men!”

In the court yard outside the building Ransom saw the dreaded paddy wagon awaiting him and the young internists, as they made their way down the long walkway past nurses and doctors coming on duty for the morning shift at the hospital proper, many stopping to stare and wonder at the commotion. Ransom took in the last breaths of a breeze, sorry for the boys who must feel the heat of anxiety welling up from within them. Their lives could well be ruined by the night’s work, he imagined. On the other hand, he faced a rope should Reahall discover his true identity.

The two young interns appeared despondent and defeated. But there was a bounce in Constable Reahall’s step as he ushered Ransom along. From just behind Ransom, Reahall whispered in Alastair’s ear, “You’re the bloody fool now aren’t you? Man, you could’ve been away—out of my jurisdiction. Why did you linger?”

Ransom’s answer came as a garbled sound like a dying goose, until Reahall loosened the gag which fell about Ransom’s chin. “Let us say I had an itch needing scratching and an arse needing kissing, and I chose you to take care of it, Constable.”

“You’re sure to feel most at home in a Belfast cell.” Reahall had come around to walk alongside him, and Ransom saw a glint of absolute gleeful satisfaction in his green eyes.

“How much?” Ransom asked.

“A hundred fifty pounds. I’m not a greedy man.”

“You’ll release me then?”

“Aside from myself, no one knows your history; I’ve made it my study of late. But for all anyone knows, you’re arrested for breaking and entering… and this could remain the only charge before the judge. One I can nullify… if you get my drift.”

“I don’t have that much coin,” replied Ransom. “What then?”

“Then I contact your friends in America; you must know someone there who could forward funds. It is, after all, the country where the streets are paved with gold.”

Ransom laughed. “There’re no golden streets in Chicago; golden properties waiting to be developed, yes, but I have no friends back there with deep pockets.”

“Then you are confessing to being Inspector Alastair Ransom here and now?”

“No, not in the least.”

“But you just said you have no friends in Chicago.”

“Correct as I have never lived in that city, although I did visit it once for the World’s Fair. You have me confused with someone else, Constable.”

“Stubborn fool.”

Ransom reiterated his cover story: “As I’ve told ya, Constable, I’ve no friends back there—meaning America and Chicago in particular. I’ve only visited Chicago. I’m Boston born and bred. A seaman at heart, really—hoping to get a berth here in time.”

“Visited Chicago, yes, for the fair… the World’s Fair, so you’ve said.”

“It’s true. I went up on Mr. Ferris’ wheel—a hundred seventy feet into the sky. Terrifying.”

“Liar; you’ve been lying so long, I suspect you think it the truth.”

“Truth be known, you are a common thief, aren’t you Reahall?”

“Not so common, not really.”

“You hold all the cards, sir.”

Reahall smiled. “That much I know… and I know you are a card player—poker, yes? They tell me that’s your game.”

Ransom smiled at this, wondering how many men around the table at the Red Lion were on the constable’s payroll, and how many men in Belfast Reahall had his hooks into. When Walter McComas had volunteered so readily to join them in going to the mine was he, too, on the take—a Reahall snitch? Belfast politics and graft seemed a long way from Chicago’s ills, and yet not so far after all, not now, not as Ransom and his two young clients were forced into Reahall’s paddy wagon.

The ride in the back of the smelly wagon that bumped its way over cobblestone streets gave Alastair pause. Belfast remained behind the times, and his situation now recalled a time when he’d ridden in such a wagon down Chicago streets in 1893, the year of the great fair, the fair that ended with the assassination of Chicago’s most beloved mayor. But why dwell on the unchangeable past, he silently counseled himself, and instead he stared across at the two boys arrested with him. He asked himself the question Reahall had put to him: Why didn’t I disappear when I had the chance? At the same time, the lads kept up a constant chatter about what fools and idiots they had to put up with, and how disappointed they were in their Dr. Bellingham. They outright cursed Dean Goodfriar as a hopeless cause.

The sputtering mechanical wagon, powered by an easily choked off engine, jerked, their bodies reacting, as it pulled for the waiting Belfast jail. When the wagon smoothed out a bit, rattling over the cobblestones, Ransom recalled the evening before when Reahall and Bellingham had come on scene where the ancient creature lay alongside McAffey’s body. He recalled the familiarity between Bellingham and Reahall, and he felt rather lonely in being the only one in the rear of the wagon who knew that Professor Bellingham and quite possibly Dean Goodfriar were as surely in bed with the local constable as any of the toughs at the Red Lion Inn.

EIGHTEEN

It was determined that while they searched for the missing crewman, Houston Ford, that Scorpio would continue toward Titanic without further delay; already a half day had been lost. A search party made up of crewmen who knew Houston Ford had been organized, and every inch of Scorpio was being searched, but so far, nothing had come of their scouring the ship—although the searchers had even gone so far as to open the ovens in the galley to be sure, much to Cookie’s seething anger.

More and more rumors began circulating aboard, and to add injury to insult, a lone albatross had begun to follow Scorpio, occasionally perching atop the crow’s nest. Word was Ford had taken a small collapsible to escape what he’d done to Alandale, because he and Alandale had had an ongoing homosexual relationship, which had ended with Alandale’s death after a big fight.

Some reports had circulated that Alandale’s angry voice could be heard coming from his cabin. Additional hearsay—and that it appeared the two men had a terrible fight and breakup; the rumor continued with Houston Ford’d having panicked and in a rage, he’d stolen some chemicals, most likely from Dr. Entebbe’s stores, and that he’d created a deadly concoction of acids. This he allegedly threw into Alandale’s face—which might explain the discoloring and condition of the disfigured body, but the deceased’s arms, torso, feet were also uniformly discolored. Did that make sense?

Regardless how it happened or what sort of chemicals might be involved, all the crewmen had visited and gazed upon Dr. Alandale’s remains. Meanwhile, the stories grew larger and more fantastic by the hour.

Dr. Entebbe, the Nigerian medical man aboard wanted nothing more to do with the body anymore than the most superstitious crewman might. The members of the crew seemed more concerned with what had killed