Simon Hawke - The Dracula Caper

Moreau poured him another glass and then changed into a fresh shin. Wells held the drink in a trembling hand. He sipped it slowly this time, trying to calm himself.

"So it's true, then." he said finally. "My God, One c an travel through time!"

"Indeed, one can," Moreau said. "I have come from hundreds of years in the future. Mr. Wells. A future you shall write about one day."

"So that is what it was all about then," Wells said. "Those other three who came to see me-"

"What other three?" Moreau said sharply.

"The ones who told me about Nikolai Drakov," Wells said. "They said something about my story, 'The Chronic Argonauts'… they wanted to know if I had met him, if I had discussed the subject of future scientific developments such as biological experimentation-"

"What were their names?" said Moreau.

Wells sighed. "I have never been very good with names," he said. "It is surprising that I recalled this Professor Drakov's name. They were Americans. One of the three was a young woman. blond, quite fit and very striking looking, and the other two were men-"

"Was the woman's name Andre Cross, by any chance?" Moreau said.

"Yes, I do believe that was her name," said Wells.

"And the two men with her, Steiger and Delaney? One blond, hook-nosed, one with dark red hair, large, very muscular?"

"Yes, they are the ones!" said Wells. "They said they were scholars of some sort. Are they friends of yours?"

"Hardly friends," Moreau said. "They would not hesitate to kill me the moment they set eyes on me, in spite of which, I am enormously relieved to know that they are here."

"Why?" said Wells. "I understand none of this! What reason would they have to want you dead?"

"It is a long story," said Moreau, "but one that you must hear if I am to convince you of the danger we all face. It involves war, Mr. Wells. The greatest war of all time. A war to end all wars. And there is no telling how long it may last. It is even possible that it will never end. But first, you must meet the only other man who shares my secret. He may seem like an unlikely ally, but do not be deceived by his age or his appearance. He is a most unusual man. His name is Lin Tao…"

For a change, Ian Holcombe was glad for the help. It had been a long day and after working with Conan Doyle for several hours, he no longer had any qualms about "scribblers" in the crime lab.

"I owe you an apology, Doctor," Holcombe said as they were washing up and removing their aprons. Neilson handed them fresh towels. "About my behavior towards you earlier-"

"Think nothing of it," Doyle said. "And please, call me Arthur."

"Nevertheless, I do apologize. Arthur," Holcombe said. "You are a first- rate medical man. For someone not trained in pathology, you possess remarkable skill."

"Well, it's true that I am no pathologist," said Doyle, "hut I served as a ship's surgeon on several occasions, which is as good a way as any that I know to learn adaptability. And I had the good fortune to study under a most remarkable man once, Dr. Joseph Bell of Edinburgh, who taught mc the value of observing, rather than merely seeing. I never knew him to make a single incorrect diagnosis. His deductive faculties were brilliant. He could tell what a man's occupation was simply by observing him carefully. In fact, I modeled Sherlock Holmes on him."

"How is it that you became a writer instead of a practicing physician?" Holcombe said.

"A peculiar trick of fate, I suppose." said Doyle. “It seems that people would prefer me to stick to writing rather than practice medicine. They pay me truly exorbitant sums for my stories, but if I had to live off my medical training, Louise and I would doubtless starve." He chuckled. "I could not get any patients, and yet sometimes it seems as if the entire world is hammering down my doors, demanding more stories about Holmes. You simply would not believe the response to my killing him off. You should see my mail. I am berated with the most outrageous accusations. One woman called me a heartless brute." He sighed. "My own creation has me by the throat. And yet, I must confess, right now I almost wish I had him here beside me, in the flesh, to help us unravel this mystery and bring this maniac to justice."

"You think it is all the work of one man?" said Holcombe. "Another Jack the Ripper?"

"The evidence certainly seems to support that theory." Conan Doyle said, putting on his coat. "The modus operandi in all these grisly killings is the same, with the sole exception of the Crewe girl."

"The additional hair samples matched the ones you found beneath the fingernails of Constable Jones?" said Holcombe.

"Yes we got some good ones off the late Mr. Tully. He must have grappled with the killer. That we are dealing with a madman, there can he no doubt, not only from the sheer brutality of these crimes, but from the strength the killer obviously possesses. To throw five men around as if they were no more than kittens takes much more than ordinary strength."

"A madman's strength," said Holcombe.

"Indeed." said Doyle. "But what puzzles me most is the manner in which the wounds were inflicted. I thought, perhaps, that our killer possessed some kind of weapon, a small club of some sort fixed with sharp animal claws, similar to those carried by some tribes of African natives. A minor example of the taxidermist's art. That might have accounted for the animal hairs-or at least hairs that appear to be very like an animal's. But then closer analysis suggests that they are human hairs, albeit unusually coarse. Consider the testimony of the eyewitnesses who saw the struggle from their windows. From the way things seem to have occurred during the struggle, it would have been necessary for our killer to use both hands during the fighting, which means that if his weapon were a club or something that he had to carry, he would have had to drop it and pick it up again several times during the fight."

"So the claws, or whatever they were, had to have been worn upon his hands, like gloves?" said Holcombe.

"That does seem to be the only possible conclusion that the evidence will support," said Doyle, "and yet, it seems to me that something worn upon the hands in such a manner would have to affect the killer's dexterity to some degree. And consider the manner in which Tully's hands were crushed. The bones in the fingers were all shattered, as if squeezed in a powerful vise. And at least two of the witnesses report seeing the killer catch Tully's fists as Tully tried to strike him and then force Tully to his knees. No one saw anything resembling a weapon, although with the heavy fog, the reliability of these reports is open to some question. No one was able to see the killer's face clearly, which is truly unfortunate. Still, everything we know indicates that this struggle took place hand to hand, which raises the inevitable possibility, unlikely as it may seem, that the killer actually has claws."

"The werewolf hypothesis again?" said Holcombe sourly. Neilson pretended to be busy cleaning up. but he was listening closely. As common with doctors working around "lesser employees." the two men spoke as if he wasn't even there.

"For obvious reasons, I am as unsatisfied with that conclusion as you are, Ian," Conan Doyle said, "but when we conclusively eliminate all probable explanations, what remains, no matter how improbable it seems, must be the truth."

"But have we eliminated all the probable explanations?" Holcombe said.

"We do not yet possess enough evidence to say for certain." said Conan Doyle. "Consider this. We are confronted with a killer who murders with animal savagery, and in an animal manner. A man whose hands seem to have sharp claws. A man who tears the throats out of his victims with sharp teeth. A man who seems to have inhuman strength. What if our killer is not human? The more we consider these facts, the less it seems that we are dealing with a man."