The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(179)
Meanwhile, the detective Sherlock Holmes and his archenemy Professor Moriarty were engaged in a violent struggle above the Reichenbach Falls. Although seen from below by untrained eyes they might have looked like a pair of clumsy dance partners on the narrow path beside the falls, the two men were exchanging well-aimed punches, each trying to throttle his opponent by means of surprise chokeholds, demonstrating their skills in the art of wrestling. At some point, the rivals gripped each other tight and a vigorous tussle ensued, which took them to the edge of the abyss, over which they finally toppled. It took Holmes and Moriarty seconds to fall into the deep well past the eight-hundred-foot black escarpment down which the mass of water plummeted. A continual spray drifted up like smoke from its craggy edges, making the air look like iridescent glass. A few droplets splashed onto Arthur Conan Doyle’s face as he stood at the foot of the waterfall. He wiped them away with the back of his hand, his eyes fixed intently on the mighty cascade stretched like a gigantic liquid sheet between two buildings on Queen’s Gate.
“Good heavens . . . I’ll be damned if it isn’t the Reichenbach Falls!” said Murray, who was standing right beside him. “And that was Holmes, who just perished in front of us exactly as he did in your story. What the devil does all this mean?”
Doyle made no reply. He was still in shock after seeing the scene he had pictured in his mind’s eye seven years before acted out with a degree of realism that human imagination could never hope to create. Then, rousing himself from his stupor, he grabbed Murray by the arm and forced him to carry on running.
“Come on! It doesn’t matter now. We can think about it later . . . assuming we manage to reach the museum and save the world, of course.”
“Do you really think we can stop all this?” Murray said, panting loudly beside him.
“I don’t know,” Doyle admitted. “As I explained, Inspector Clayton has a book that can supposedly do so. But for all we know, the Invisible Man has already snatched it from him.”
“What of the brilliant plan you mentioned? The one you didn’t let me in on . . . ,” Murray reminded him, unable to prevent a note of resentment from entering his voice.
“For the love of God, I told you I tried calling you a hundred times! And I only went to your house today because no one answered . . . Otherwise I would have stayed at home watching the kettle and would be taking part in the ambush right now!”
Doyle suddenly came to a halt. They had reached the back of the imposing Romanesque building, but instead of walking round to the front, Doyle went over to a small door hidden discreetly down a narrow alleyway. Murray followed him with a disconcerted look.
“Clayton gave George and me a set of keys to all the doors in the building, so that we could enter the museum even when it was closed to the public. I think this is the one closest to the Chamber,” Doyle explained as he started trying all the keys in the tiny lock, cursing each time one didn’t fit.
“Well, he might have labeled them for you,” remarked Murray. “I don’t mean to sound pessimistic, but I think I detect a distinct lack of organization in your plan.”
“You aren’t being very helpful, Gilliam,” Doyle muttered, poking around angrily in the lock.
“What do you mean? May I remind you that I shot the Invisible Man with a bolt. Doesn’t that inspire you with some confidence?”
“It would if you had your crossbow,” grunted Doyle, just as one of the keys clicked in the lock, finally opening the accursed door.
On the other side, a maze of corridors awaited them. Doyle strode resolutely down one but had scarcely reached halfway when he spun round, walked back, and set off down another with equal determination. Murray tagged along, unconvinced it was the right way.
“This Chamber of Marvels seems rather hard to find . . . don’t you have a map or something?” He snorted. “The Chamber of Marvels . . . Who the devil thinks up the names for these places?”
Just then, they heard a clamor coming from somewhere among the maze of corridors. Doyle stopped in his tracks and Murray bumped into him.
“Blast it . . . ,” he muttered.
Doyle ordered him to be quiet and he pricked up his ears . . .
“It sounds like they are in trouble,” he whispered.
Following the noises, he changed direction and walked down another corridor. Murray followed behind, rubbing his bruised nose. As they advanced, the din grew louder: it was made up of desperate cries, deafening thuds, and, almost drowning everything else out, a familiar hurricane roar. At the end of the passage, they saw the door to the Chamber of Marvels flung wide-open. They hastened toward it, rushing into the room without stopping to think what they might find. But as soon as they entered they came to a halt. A rent in the fabric of the air similar to the one that had ended the skirmish between Captain Shackleton and the automatons had opened up inside the Chamber and was threatening to devour everything in it. The tear reached almost from the floor to the ceiling, widening slightly in the middle like the iris of some gigantic reptile. Its force field was spreading relentlessly through the enormous room. Close to the hole, where reality had already started to warp, they saw a handful of police officers clinging to crates or other heavy objects, which the whirlwind was unable to drag toward it, at least not yet. A few yards in front of the police officers, they saw Captain Sinclair holding on like grim Death to one of Crookes’s columns, the suction power pulling at him with such force that his stocky form was almost parallel to the floor. And finally they made out Inspector Clayton, sprawled unconscious on the floor, the whirlwind dragging his crumpled body along the ground, bringing it dangerously close to where the force field seemed strongest. If no one did anything, in a matter of seconds he would be sucked into the hole. Exchanging glances, Doyle and Murray rushed toward him with the admirable intention of grabbing him and dragging him away, but as soon as they entered the suction field they realized it would not be so easy. They immediately felt themselves pulled by a funnel of air, paltry in comparison to the one that had tried to suck them up on Cromwell Road, but strong enough to cause them to lose their balance. They fell on the floor and slid around as though riding on an invisible sleigh while Clayton’s body suddenly gained momentum as it neared the center of the hole. Meanwhile, Captain Sinclair, who had calculated that Clayton’s body would pass near him, extended his left arm as far as he could and managed to grab hold of Clayton’s metal hand. But the suction was so great, he was left holding only the prosthesis. One-handed and unconscious, Clayton’s body continued on its path toward the hole until it bumped into one of Crookes’s columns and became momentarily entangled in its wires.