‘Are you serious, man?’
‘Of course not,’ said the great detective. ‘But then neither were you.
The chief inspector shook his head. ‘Shall we hide over there?’ he said. ‘And I’ll put out the lantern.’
It is always the waiting that does for you. When whatever is going to happen, no matter how horrid it might be, does happen, it’s almost a relief, really. The actual waiting is the worst part of all.
‘Do you hear that?’ whispered Cameron Bell.
Chief Inspector Case did not reply, but a curious lip-smacking sound was to be heard.
Cameron Bell struck out in the darkness. ‘Wake up, there!’ he muttered.
‘I was only resting my eyes. What time do you think it might be?’
A nearby clock struck midnight. An owl asked, ‘Who?’ A bat flew upside down.
‘There,’ whispered Cameron Bell. ‘Look up.
The chief inspector peered towards the windows high above as a shadow fell upon them, stood still for a moment, then moved on.
‘Somebody up there,’ whispered the chief inspector. ‘I trust you have your ray gun, Mr Bell.’
‘Raised and ready,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘And a few more things besides.’
It happened so fast that none could say exactly what happened for certain. One moment the chief inspector was huddling next to Mr Bell and the next minute he lay unconscious on the floor. There were brisk movements, a struggle in the darkness and then the Jewel Room door was flung open and a figure in a high top hat, a death’s-head mask and a long and trailing cloak sprang from the Jewel Room bearing a bag marked SWAG.
He took off along the stone lane that led to the outside world at extraordinary speed, moving with queer and bouncing strides. Constable Reekie raised his gun. The man in black with the death’s-head mask clubbed the constable down.
Out across the courtyards, into shadows and out again.
Down from the Tower of London and on towards Tower Bridge.
Above, something glittered in moonlight. A tiny airship secured to the uppermost ironwork of the tower — a getaway craft for the modern-day criminal mastermind.
Into the north tower went the figure and up the many flights of steps that led to the topmost structure of the bridge.
Alarm bells now sounded from the Tower of London. Lights were flashing on in tiny windows. Beef-eating guardians were awakening from unauthorised slumbers. Constable Reekie was out in a courtyard blowing hard on his whistle.
The cloaked and frightful figure of the Masked Shadow issued from a tiny doorway in a lofty peak of the bridge’s northern tower and sprang onto one of the iron maintenance gantries that spanned the bridge from one side to the other. Fifty yards ahead of him, the tiny airship hung, moored to the gantry, awaiting him to make his sleek departure.
The Masked Shadow merged with darkness.
Beneath another shadow now and one cast from above. Something rather wonderful was moving through the sky. It appeared to flutter, as might a falling leaf, but then to ripple and twist, as a flock of starlings. It looked as some aerial jellyfish, transparent then opaque, and at its centre a single figure.
That of a striking woman.
Short of skirt and high of boot, with a corset of brass and a black rubber headpiece, Lady Raygun drifted down from above.
The Masked Shadow was gone into darkness, then reappeared beneath his tethered airship.
He turned and beheld the vision that dropped to the gantry.
The curious jellyfish-something appeared to dissolve into nothingness and the Mistress of Mystery, the Angel of Death, stepped lightly forwards on towering heels, a ray gun in her hand.
‘So,’ said she, ‘the Masked Shadow. Prepare yourself for death.’
40
oonlight tinted Tower Bridge with silver.
High upon an iron gantry figures stood defiant, one a shapely woman in most exotic garb, the other clad in cloak of black, with high top hat and death’s-head mask. A chill breeze blew and an airship hung above.
‘Any last words?’ asked Lady Raygun.
‘Last words?’ said the man in black. ‘Now why would I say those?’
‘Because you are about to die.’ The lady’s ray gun pointed at the death’s—head mask.
‘You cannot kill me!’ cried the figure in black. ‘I am the Masked Shadow.’
‘Evil men die as easily as do the good.’ Lady Raygun squeezed upon her trigger and electrical fire darted forward. Struck the figure all in black. Passed completely through him and crackled against ironwork beyond.
The lady’s shoulders stiffened. She fired her ray gun once again, then fired it many times more.
The Masked Shadow laughed and waved his arms.
The lady clicked her trigger, but the ray gun’s power was spent.
She cast aside the dissipated weapon, strode forward and kicked the Masked Shadow straight in the death’s-head mask.
To find herself kicking at nothing whatever at all.
‘It is a fine illusion, is it not?’
The Mistress of Mystery turned at these words to find the Masked Shadow behind her.
She paced forward and he aimed a ray gun towards her. ‘Fire it, do,’ said Lady Raygun. ‘Then prepare yourself for death, as you can harm me not.’
‘Then take not a single step forward or I will press this button.’
The Masked Shadow held in his other hand a small polished-brass contrivance.
‘Look down,’ said the Shadow. ‘To your feet, my dear.’ The Angel of Death glanced down. Beneath her feet and secured to the gantry were sticks of dynamite.
‘I am aware that you are immune to bullets,’ said the man in black. ‘I suspect, however, that dynamite will be the match for you.’
‘You will die, too,’ said the lady.
‘That is a risk I am prepared to take.’
The two stood staring, one at the other. Figures frozen against the backdrop of London and the star-strung sky.
A long minute passed and then the Shadow spoke.
‘I only wish to offer you a proposition,’ he said, ‘and I hope you will take it, Miss Violet Wond.’
The lady drew back and cried, ‘How do you know this name?’
‘I know that it is a name you choose to go by. I doubt that it is the name that you were christened with.’
‘I was never christened,’ said the lady on the bridge.
‘And you have so very much anger. Give me your word that you will listen to what I say and I will put this aside.’ The Masked Shadow waggled his brass contraption.
Lady Raygun slowly nodded her head.
‘Then firstly, know this,’ said the Shadow, removing his mask. ‘My name is Cameron Bell.’
‘Mr Bell, are you there?’ Chief Inspector Case did flounderings in darkness. And then the light of a bull’s-eye lantern fell upon his face.
‘Are you all right, sir?’ asked Constable Reekie.
‘I’ve a bump on my head,’ said the chief inspector. ‘Where is Mr Bell?’
‘Perhaps chasing after the Masked Shadow, sir. There’s an awful lot of confusion.’
‘Come on, then,’ said the chief inspector. ‘Let’s get up and at it.’
Up upon high, Cameron Bell removed his high top hat. The moonlight glinted on his baldy head. ‘I have gone to a very great deal of time and expense to arrange this meeting,’ said he, ‘for it is most important.’
Lady Raygun clapped her hands together. ‘And why not?’ said she. ‘How perfect, this, a famous detective, and I know well of you, Mr Bell, for I once saved your life from an East End bare-knuckle fighter and an unconvicted poisoner.’
‘And I am grateful, fair lady,’ said the gallant Mr Bell.
‘But how perfect that you should be the Masked Shadow.’
‘There is no Masked Shadow,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘He is pure invention.’
‘And yet you have robbed the Jewel House at the Tower of London and are preparing to make your
getaway aboard this airship.’
‘Firstly,’ said Mr Bell, ‘my SWAG bag contains nothing more than Chief Inspector Case’s sandwiches and Thermos flask. And secondly, I do not believe that the tiny airship hanging there could actually carry my weight, do you?’
‘Then you have gone to all this effort simply to arrange a meeting with me?’
‘I could think of no better way of drawing you out. I had the Masked Shadow’s Manifesto printed and posted up around London by a close acquaintance who owed me a favour. I leaked stories about the Masked Shadow to the press under the name of SWORD OF TRUTH. I put the word around Scotland Yard that the Shadow would strike tonight because, having studied your file, I drew the conclusion that you have a contact inside Scotland Yard who supplies you with information.’
‘You are very clever,’ said Lady Raygun.
‘Thank you,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘But I am not quite done yet. I moored the little airship here on one of the highest points in London where a female avenger who has the gift of flight could clearly see it. I acquired a pair of Rutherford Patent Spring-Heels, designed for the military to enable infantrymen to double their marching speed. Believe me, I could not have climbed all those stairs without them. And of course I paid out a great deal of money for the illusion. An improvement upon the popular Pepper’s Ghost of the theatre. It creates a most lifelike image, does it not? I stood below. It is all done with mirrors. I reasoned that you would be employing your ray gun. I decided it better that you use it upon an image rather than myself.’
‘Have you quite finished blowing your own trumpet?’ asked Lady Raygun.
‘I just felt things might need an explanation,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Oh, and I might also mention that another reason for the creation of the Masked Shadow character was so my associate Chief Inspector Case could apprehend this criminal mastermind, take all the credit and earn a knighthood in the New Year’s Honours List.’
‘And continue to pay you a handsome salary,’ said Lady Raygun.
‘Well, now,’ said Cameron Bell, ‘your informant at the Yard is most informative.’
‘And as you are in such an informative mood,’ said Lady Raygun, ‘then tell me this. How could you possibly know that I use the name of Violet Wond?’
‘Ah,’ went Cameron Bell. ‘Well, I have the chief inspector to thank for that. He had discovered that a Miss Violet Wond was the owner of the Martian spaceship that crashed into Lord Brentford’s Bananary.’
Lady Raygun stiffened slightly. She knew nothing of this.
‘I knew,’ continued Mr Bell, ‘that Ernest Rutherford was the brains behind this particular spaceship’s interior workings. I wondered what he might tell me about this Violet Wond, so I paid him a visit two days ago. But I did not speak with him because I saw him leaving his house in the company of a heavily veiled lady. I took the liberty of following this veiled lady — you, madam — to your lodgings. And I took the further liberty of searching your lodgings during the next time you were away. I discovered a portmanteau beneath your bed containing the Lady Raygun costume.’
Lady Raygun took a step forward. ‘Then know this, too, my clever fellow. My informant at Scotland Yard has told me that Chief Inspector Case is presently employing your services to solve a certain case for him that he is unable to solve. To wit, that you bring Lady Raygun to justice.’
‘Of course,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘But I do not wish that!’
‘What?’ cried Lady Raygun. ‘All this subterfuge, all this deception, the employment of a stage illusion atop Tower Bridge and you do not wish to capture me?’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Quite the contrary, in fact. I wish you to continue your crusade. The streets of London are far safer when villains fear to step from their doors as the Mistress of Mystery might take them.’
Lady Raygun shook her head. The tightly fitting rubber hood with its circular eyeglasses and queer mouth grille created a most fearsome sight by moonlight, or indeed any other.
‘You went to all this trouble simply to speak to me,’ said she. ‘Would it not have been easier just to have had a note delivered to the lodgings of Miss Violet Wond?’
‘Considerably so,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘But not nearly so much fun.’
‘Fun?’ cried Lady Raygun.
‘Come, come,’ said Mr Bell. ‘What greater fun can there ever be but danger?’
Lady Raygun shook her head once more.
‘And,’ said Cameron Bell, ‘on a serious note, I wished to make it plain to you that should I set out in earnest to track you down, I could accomplish this task.’
Lady Raygun shook her head yet again. ‘No,’ said she. ‘That will not happen and I will tell you why. I avenge the good by destroying the evil and I will not be held from my crusade. You know my identity and so, regrettably — because I do not kill the good as a rule — regrettably, you must die.’
‘I think not,’ said Cameron Bell and he now shook his head. ‘You see, my gift, as it were, is one of perception. Give me an article of clothing and I will disclose to you all manner of personal details regarding its owner, details that the average person would find truly amazing. Miss Wond, I spent a considerable time in your private lodgings. I studied your articles of clothing with considerable care.’
‘You foul creature!’ cried the lady. ‘I will do for you.
‘Please.’ And Cameron Bell displayed once more the brass contrivance. ‘Such is the reaction I expected from you. You are a most secretive creature and for good reason, considering all you have experienced in your life. But I would have you as a friend and not an enemy. I have penned a letter regarding yourself that will be opened should I come to an untimely end.’
‘Do your worst!’ cried Lady Raygun, taking a single step forwards. ‘I have no fear of death. I hate all.’
‘And that is not strictly true,’ said Mr Bell, ‘because in fact you are in love with Ernest Rutherford, and it is your hope that he can reverse the wrong that was done to you.
‘You are a remarkable man, Mr Bell,’ said Lady Raygun.
‘My thanks,’ said the great detective. ‘And when you have heard what I have to tell you, it is my hope that we might form a partnership and work together.’
‘I work alone,’ said the lady.
‘Please delay your final decision until you have heard my proposal.’
‘Go on, then,’ said Lady Raygun. ‘But do make it brief, for you are surely the most loquacious fellow I have ever met.’
Cameron Bell now suddenly took a step back. ‘They are coming,’ he whispered. ‘Up the stairs. Policemen. Fly, Lady Raygun, please. Meet me tomorrow for luncheon at one, at the Savoy Grill. Now — please go.
Lady Raygun swayed upon her towering heels, then sprang up onto the gantry railings and flung herself into the sky. The curious membrane swam about her and she was borne off into the London night.
‘Bell,’ puffed Chief Inspector Case, issuing through the tiny doorway of the northern tower. ‘Are you all right, man? Where is the Masked Shadow?’
‘Dead,’ said Mr Cameron Bell. ‘We had a bitter struggle. He was a most terrible opponent, fought as a thing possessed—’
‘Extraordinary,’ said Chief Inspector Case.
‘He said,’ continued Cameron Bell, ‘that the only man he truly feared was you.’
‘Me?’ said Chief Inspector Case.
‘He knew I was working for you. He knew you were the man who would bring him down.’
‘But you brought him down.’
In the moonlight, Cameron Bell raised an eyebrow.
‘Ah, yes,’ said the chief inspector. ‘I brought him down.’
‘After a bitter struggle,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Which I witnessed. While you were saving my life.’
‘Quite so, Bell. Quite so.’
‘So bravo to you and good luck with that knighthood.’ Chief Inspector Case did preenings of his lapels. ‘A good night’s work,’ said he. ‘Although—’
?
??Although?’ asked Mr Cameron Bell.
‘Well, just two things,’ said the chief inspector. ‘Firstly, there appears to be no immediate evidence that this Masked Shadow fellow actually stole anything out of the Jewel Room.’
‘And secondly?’ asked Cameron Bell.
‘Well, secondly, why is it you who is wearing that cloak?’
41
atisfactory explanations were offered up by Cameron Bell and gladly accepted by Chief Inspector Case. The two men descended from Tower Bridge and stood once more upon terra firma.
‘You have done a man’s job, Bell,’ said the chief inspector and gave Mr Bell a very manly hug.
It was a hug of such manliness, in fact, as to press down hard upon the pockets of Mr Bell. One of which contained a brass contrivance.
The explosion that then occurred high above upon Tower Bridge had that famous London monument and artery of traffic closed for a week for repairs.
‘A damnable anarchist, that Masked Shadow,’ the chief inspector said, whilst ducking his head. ‘London Town is a safer place without him.
The morning papers were greatly in accordance with this sentiment and much praise was heaped upon Chief Inspector Case for ridding the Empire’s capital of this Devil—made— flesh, and demands were put about that a knighthood should be forthcoming.
‘That man is a credit to England,’ a waiter at the Savoy Grill told Cameron Bell as he sat nervously awaiting the arrival of Miss Violet Wond. Nervously because he feared that she might well have packed her goods and chattels and gone off-world, never again to be seen upon this planet. And while this might have its benefits, possibly financial in the case of Mr Bell if he could concoct some convincing tale for the chief inspector of how he had personally managed to defeat her, it would be of far more benefit to Mr Bell to have her remain in London and team up with him.
The Savoy Grill was bustling with life. Its wall mirrors, richly etched and ornately framed, reflected the very cream of London society. There sat Lady Elsie Grover, the glamorous personal dresser to Her Majesty. It was this lady’s job to design and fit the monarch’s fetching attire, and this season it appeared that black was once more to be the new black. There, too, sat a romantic brooding character of the Byronic persuasion, and surely this was the enigmatic Herr Döktor, a figure who moved within high society doing only good, for he was the creator of a clockwork apparatus designed to act as a panacea for ladies’ hysteria. Holding court was Sir Peter Harrow, lately released from a stay in hospital brought on by major burnings and his ‘nerves’. Sir Peter was, as it happened, extolling the virtues of Herr Döktor’s clockwork apparatus.