Matthew Pearl - The Last Dickens

“Why have you despised me?” Osgood demanded.

“Because, Os good , you think you can be friends with everybody by flashing your smile. You think everybody can be like you.” Herman's answer flew out of his mouth like a confession, showing his real mind more than he intended.

“It's Mr. Wakefield who has made you who you are, Herman!” Rebecca said persuasively. “He made you into a pirate.”

“I was born one, lassie.”

A torrent of footsteps on the stairs. When Herman turned to look over his shoulder for Wakefield, his smug smile dropped away. Osgood recognized a look of confusion in the face of his captor. In a flash, Osgood lunged at him, throwing himself onto Herman's back and putting his arm around his eyes to blind him. Herman growled out and pried Osgood's fingers with his iron grip. Osgood landed on his feet and put up his fists in a boxing pose. Just then, a club slammed against the back of Herman's turbaned head.

Behind Herman, gripping the hook and bill club, stood the man Osgood once knew as Dick Datchery: Jack Rogers.

There was a sickening sound as the club resounded against Herman's skull. But Herman didn't budge, blinking meditatively.

“Ironhead Herman,” Osgood whispered.

“Ironhead?” Rogers repeated in a worried tone.

Herman revolved around slowly to face Rogers, readying his walking stick. Realizing the man was still unhurt, Rogers thrust the spike at the tip of the club into Herman's sternum. This stunned Herman. He dropped his cane and fell to the floor on his knees. With a shout, Rogers swung the club again as hard as he could against Herman's head. It smashed into splinters and sent the hook and spike flying across the room in bits. Herman dropped onto all fours and, drained of strength, blinded by his own blood, he collapsed flat on top of his walking stick.

“Rogers!” Osgood cried, looking from Herman to the former Harper's policeman. “How did you know…?”

“I told you I would repay my debt to you, good Ripley,” said Rogers, breathing heavily. “I'm a man of my word.”

Osgood threw himself on the floor and began to gather the scattered pages of Drood.

“No time, Ripley! There's no time for any of that!” Rogers called out. “Where's Wakefield?”

“He's already gone-probably back to his ship,” Osgood said.

“Come along!”

Securing his treasure in his satchel, Osgood hesitated to take the hand Rogers held out to him.

Rogers seemed prepared for this. “Because it was my duty, I deceived you in England when my conscience told me otherwise. Now my duty is to follow my conscience above all else. You must trust me- your lives depend on it.”

Osgood nodded and stepped over the motionless Herman on the way to the door. Rebecca paused for a moment, tears in her eyes. She looked down at the man on the floor and she brought her heel down onto his back again and again.

“Rebecca!” Osgood took her in his arms. “Come along!”

Osgood's embrace returned her to the present situation and its dangers. She felt more grounded at once with his touch.

Rogers spoke rapidly as they made their way up the stairs. “Ripley, there is great danger about Wakefield-he makes frequent trips between Boston, New York, and England, but I believe the only tea he trades is in his own cup.”

“What did you find out?” Osgood asked.

“By following his men I have located a mountain of evidence, which we must take to the police, of a string of attacks and murders perpetrated by his agents to protect his enterprise.”

“Dickens's words were the only thing that he thought could bring him down,” Osgood said.

“He was right,” Rogers corrected him. “Now we shall do it. Thank heavens I found you in time, Ripley. Stand here with Miss Rebecca.”

As they reached the top of the stairs, Rogers motioned for Osgood and Rebecca to wait. He looked outside for any sign of Wakefield. Determining the way was clear, he waved them to advance. His hired carriage idled across the street in case anyone from Wakefield's gangs of hirelings had watch on the building. The way appearing clear, Rogers signaled for the rescued pair to get into the carriage. As Rogers and Osgood helped lift Rebecca into the carriage, there was a grunting sound from behind them and a shiny object gliding through the air. It was a furiously reappearing Herman, standing at the door to the building, his arm completing the arc of a throwing motion.

Rogers looked up just as the bowie knife pierced his neck. His body plummeted from the steps of the carriage onto the pavement. Rebecca tripped on the bottom of her dress and nearly tumbled down to the street.

“Rogers!” Osgood cried. He kneeled by his rescuer's side, but the man had bled to death in an instant. “No! Rogers!”

The driver cursed and took up his reins and threw back his whip.

Rebecca's ankle had twisted but she still hung on to the handle of the coach. Osgood pushed her back onto the steps and she pulled herself into the carriage just as the horses started into a trot, spinning Osgood away.

“No-Mr. Osgood!” Rebecca cried out, reaching out her hand.

Osgood shouted to the driver to go as fast as he could as the dust and gravel swirled around him in its wake. Herman would only be able to pursue one of them, and it was Osgood who had the satchel with the manuscript. At least Rebecca would be safe.

Osgood ran up Washington Street, grabbing his bandaged ribs as he went, while trying to ease his painful breathing. The Parsee was going to kill him and nothing would stop him; he would demolish anything in his path to do it. Osgood broke into a run with Herman on his heels.

Ahead was the Sears Building, which Osgood knew well as it was the location of his bank. Outside the front door, there was a janitor with a ring of keys locking the front door of the building. Osgood hoped he could make Herman lose his trail inside and escape. He pushed past the janitor and into the building.

Osgood had reached the other side of the main corridor where he could see another door to the street. Pray the janitor hadn't yet locked it! As Osgood moved closer, the door shook and slowly opened-to reveal the silhouette of a roguish figure with an uncombed beard and a cocked hat. Another opium pusher from the Samaria sent for by Wakefield? Osgood halted in midstep.

Echoes of Herman's running footsteps seemed everywhere, above, below, on every side. Osgood turned one way, then the other, not knowing which corridor to choose. Instead, he rushed to the center of the hall and pulled open the door to the elevator. Then Osgood realized: no elevator operator, not at this hour! The boys didn't sleep in these little rooms, however cushioned and decorated they were. He had been inside many times in the course of everyday business to be carried up to his bank on the seventh floor. Would he remember how he had seen the lads do it?

HIS HEAD TILTED to the side at the sound. The mounting whir of steam pumping; the loud clank clank of chains and metal. Herman slid to a stop in the hall. He surveyed his surroundings: stairs on either side of the building. He ran toward the far end, following the whistling sound of the steam rising up above him.

OSGOOD QUICKLY FORMED his plan. He would stop the elevator on a floor midway up the building, hurry out of the elevator and down the stairs, exiting the building while Herman was still searching inside.

The Sears elevator was what they called a moving parlor. The car had a domed ceiling with skylights and a chandelier elegantly suspended from it. The gas apparatus connected to the chandelier was concealed by a lightweight tube. The rest of the car could have been the corner of a Beacon Hill parlor. Underfoot was thick carpeting, and sofas lined each of the three sides of the car. Atop the French walnut paneling, gilded on its perimeter, were large polished mirrors.