The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(107)

“Be a good lad, Mike, and watch over the lady’s companions while she and I repair upstairs, will you?” he said louchely.

Mike nodded, solemn as a child whose sole desire in life is to make his father proud. He took charge of the weapon and glared at the prisoners. Without further ado, the lame man took a step toward the pale and tremulous Emma, offering her his hand and giving a grotesque bow.

“Please, miss, would you permit me the pleasure of a private dance in my chambers?”

He had scarcely finished speaking when Murray made as if to stand between them, but Mike, who had been watching the millionaire like a hawk, pulled him up short by placing the gun barrel to his temple.

“Stay where you are, fat face,” he barked. “Don’t make me waste a bullet.”

The millionaire sized him up for a few seconds, during which Wells’s heart leapt into his throat, but finally obeyed and stepped back, realizing if he was dead he could not help Emma. The lame man grinned at his submissiveness and yanked the girl toward him.

“Very good, gentlemen, that’s what I like to see,” he gloated, brandishing his knife an inch from Emma’s neck. Then he spoke directly to Murray: “Would you like me to leave the door open so you can hear her groans of pleasure?”

Murray said nothing. He simply gazed at the man with an astonishingly calm, even condescending expression on his face, as though he considered the whole thing a tedious game. Yet the look of icy determination in his eyes did not escape Wells’s notice. It was the look of a man who has understood that the meaning of his life had suddenly changed, that all his past actions and future plans no longer mattered because his only aim in life was vengeance. And Wells realized that, exactly as he had promised, the millionaire would kill the lame man, that even if Murray met his death, he would return from the afterlife to do so. The hatred that had begun to possess his soul would form a bridge between the two worlds, allowing him to come back.

At that moment, through the window next to the staircase, Wells saw a dark shadow drop to the ground then stand up and vanish to one side. He felt a pang as he realized this could only be Clayton. Fortunately their captors had their backs to the window, which meant the inspector still had surprise on his side. Wells glanced at Murray to see whether he had also seen Clayton jump, but the millionaire’s eyes were fixed on the lame man as he dragged the terrified girl up the stairs. When he saw them disappear down the corridor, he lowered his eyes in despair, as though he were about to pray, preparing himself to hear the woman he loved cry out with pain and rage as she was violated by the station porter, who, through some cruel twist of fate, had become the person in the whole world who could most harm her.

“Now, now, don’t look so sad, gentlemen,” he heard Mike say sarcastically. “What shall we do to pass the time and forget what’s going on upstairs?”

“Why not make them dance, Mike?” the redhead suggested with a grin, displaying a row of decaying teeth. “You know, we could shoot at their feet.”

The other man looked at him contemptuously.

“How many bullets do you think are in the gun, Joss?”

“I don’t know, Mike.”

“Six, six bloody bullets. Are you suggesting we waste them on that?”

Six bullets. Until that moment, it had not occurred to Wells that the gun might be empty, but he quickly worked out they would have no such luck: three shots had been fired during the skirmish at the station, two into the air and one into the porter’s foot, which unfortunately meant there were three left, enough to kill them with. At that moment, a noise came from the kitchen. Wells realized Clayton must have climbed in through the window and was attracting their captors’ attention as part of his rescue plan. Or so he hoped. The two henchmen turned toward the kitchen. So did Wells, also tensing his body, ready to act if necessary. Only Murray appeared oblivious to the scene, his eyes glued to the top of the stairs.

“What was that?” Mike said, still pointing the gun at them. “Go and have a look, Joss.”

“Why me?” the redhead protested.

“Because I’ve got to stay here and watch these two idiots!”

Joss opened his big mouth to protest once more, but his companion’s stern gaze dissuaded him. He gave a disgruntled sigh and walked cautiously toward the kitchen door, waving his knife. He surveyed the room carefully from the doorway but did not seem to notice anything untoward. Wells wondered whether Inspector Clayton would be able to overpower such a bulky individual, who although clearly none too intelligent, doubtless had a record of street fights as long as his arm. For a few moments nothing happened. The redhead’s companion, who was not exactly a paragon of patience, was about to call out when, suddenly, they heard a series of dull thuds, stifled grunts, and pans clattering to the floor.

“What’s going on, Joss?” Mike shouted.

When no reply was forthcoming, the fellow with the apelike face, without lowering the pistol, began edging slowly backward in the direction of the kitchen door to find out what was happening. Wells swallowed hard, his body tense as a spring. It occurred to him that he and the man called Mike had more or less the same build, and that if he jumped on him unawares, he might manage to wrestle the weapon from him. No sooner had he formulated the idea than it seemed completely mad, given he had never had a fight in his life. But Clayton would almost certainly need some assistance, however feeble, and the millionaire, whose eyes were still fixed on the staircase, was clearly in no state to offer him any. If they were to have any chance of reversing the situation, Wells would definitely need to intervene. And so the author took a deep breath and got ready to spring. Just then, two entwined bodies burst from the kitchen and crashed to the floor, rolling a few yards before coming to a halt beside Mike’s feet. Wells could see that one of the men was Clayton. As the inspector began pulling himself up off the ground, a carving knife plunged up to the hilt in his adversary’s chest became visible. Wells saw immediately that Clayton would not have time to get up and confront the other man, for Mike had instantly turned the gun on him. Wells realized his best chance was now, while Mike’s attention was on Clayton, since if Mike shot the inspector he would be obliged to kill them, too. Although Wells had no background in fighting, his rugby experience at school had taught him how to tackle. In a flash he lunged at Mike, just as the man was preparing to shoot Clayton. The impact of the bullet knocked the inspector backward: his head hit the floor with a dull thud. However, as Wells had calculated, the fellow could not wheel around quickly enough to shoot at him. Wells managed to land on him before he had time to react, using the force of his leap to hurl him against the wall. The collision caused the pistol to fly out of his hand. They both watched it glide over the floorboards and come to a halt in the middle of the room, out of their reach but close to Murray, who gazed at it in bewilderment, as though he had just awoken from a deep sleep. Wells felt Mike twisting violently beneath him, trying to get his hands round Wells’s throat. He saw Murray slowly rouse himself and pick the gun up off the floor, as though not quite realizing what it was. Murray glanced at the staircase and after a moment’s hesitation bounded upstairs, a look of grim resolve on his face.