The Dracula Caper

3

The Cafe Royal, at 68 Regent Street, was not the sort of place Inspector William Grayson frequented. It was a hit too rich for his blood and he had never cared much for French food. He preferred a public house and the congenial company of the working classes. The Cafe Royal was more a gathering place for writers and artists, not really his sort at all, in spite of what Ian Holcombe might think. On the ground floor of the Royal was a cafe, a grill room and a luncheon bar. The basement held a wine cellar and a billiard room and the upper floors were private rooms.

The manager conducted Grayson to the Domino Room. The decor was fashionably elegant. Grayson thought it was a hit much. The seats were all upholstered in red velvet and the tables topped with marble. The corners of Grayson's mouth turned down slightly as he saw the people at the table they were heading for. They were all poufs. Their postures and affected gestures were unmistakable. But then, he had expected this. He had, after all, come to the court of the so-called "Apostle of the Utterly Utter."

Oscar Wilde was at the height of his success. The leader of the Aesthete movement, Wilde's belief was that art had no real use and existed only for its own sake. As such, claimed Wilde. art knew no morality. "A book," he said, "is either written well or badly, it is not mural or immoral." Grayson did not consider himself particularly competent to judge whether or not Wilde's books and plays were written well or not, he was content to leave that to the reviewers, but he had read Wilde's controversial novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray, and while he did not quite agree with the reports in the press that called it "filthy." it certainly addressed the question of morality. The character portrayed in it was completely immoral.

Grayson had no difficulty recognizing Oscar Wilde in the group. The man had been caricatured extensively in the press. He was the oldest one among the young men at the table. Grayson guessed his age at about forty. The author, poet, dramatist and lecturer was a large man, on the plump side, though Grayson thought he was a good deal slimmer than the newspapers portrayed him. He was not a bad- looking man, though his manner and the softness of his features were decidedly effeminate. Grayson knew he had a wife and two children. but his preferences seemed to lie in a less family- oriented direction. His manner of dress was elegant. He wore a dark, well-tailored coat and striped trousers, his silk cravat was tied perfectly, his hair was neatly combed and parted in the middle and he wore a fresh buttonhole. He looked every inch the gentleman, albeit an elaborately flamboyant one.

"Mr. Wilde." Grayson said.

Wilde held up Grayson's card, which the manager of the cafe had given him, and glanced at it insouciantly. "Inspector Grayson," he said in an appealing, almost musical voice. "It is not often that I receive a calling card from Scotland Yard. So tell me. Inspector, am Ito be inspected?"

The young man at his side tittered, setting off a small chorus of birdlike noises from the others. Grayson recognized Lord Alfred Douglas, the twenty-four year old son of the Marques of Queensberry. The son was not much like his sporting father. He was a pretty, spoiled-looking boy; in fact, he could easily have been Dorian Gray himself.

"I would like to ask you a few questions. Mr. Wilde, if Imay." said Grayson.

"Goodness, a police interrogation." Wilde said. " I trust that I am not about to be arrested'?"

"Why. Mr. Wilde,” Grayson said, affecting an innocent tone, "have you done anything to be arrested for?"

The playwright smiled. "I suppose that would depend upon what one considers criminal," he said. "I can think of any number of reviewers who believe that I should be arrested for my work and others who feel that I should be arrested for my manner. Tell me. Inspector, in which class would you fall?"

"The working class. Mr. Wilde." said Grayson.

"Oh, well done, Inspector!" Wilde said. "I hardly expected to find wit in Scotland Yard."

"It takes wit to do what we do, Mr. Wilde.” Grayson said. "Perhaps not your sort of wit, but wit nonetheless.”

"I see. I take it you do not approve of me, Inspector Grayson," Wilde said.

“I do not know enough about you personally to approve or disapprove.” said Grayson. "I could conjecture, but then the law does not deal with conjecture. The law is concerned with proof, which may be very fortunate for you. On the other hand. if you were speaking of my disapproval as concerns your work. I am afraid that I must disappoint you. I quite enjoyed your play. Lady Windermere's Fan, and 1 found Dorian Gray quite interesting."

"Indeed?" said Wilde. "Interesting is a rather ambiguous word. You did not find it 'filthy' or 'immoral.' a 'dangerous novel,' as the newspapers called it?"

Grayson saw that Wilde's young cohorts were hanging on his every word, expecting to see him poignant the policeman with his wit. Perversely, Grayson decided to play out the game, if for no other reason than to deny them the pleasure of seeing him flustered.

"Didn't you yourself say that art was neither moral nor immoral?" Grayson said.

"I did, indeed," said Wilde, a slight smile on his face, "but then I was asking your opinion."

"My opinion, since you ask," said Grayson, "is that with Dorian Gray, you seem to have contradicted yourself."

"The well bred contradict other people." Wilde said. "The wise contradict themselves. But what an unusual reaction! Tell me, Inspector, just how did I manage to contradict myself?"

"Well, you've stated that art is neither moral nor immoral,” Grayson said. "but in Dorian Gray, you have presented a young man who is utterly immoral, devoted only to his own pleasures and perverse desires, and in the portrait which ages in his stead. you clearly imply that it is not only age which results in the portrait's growing ugliness, but the immoral deeds committed by the ever youthful Gray: evil, as it were, having an obvious malforming effect upon the soul. A very Catholic idea, Mr Wilde, even a very moral one. And in the end of the story, Dorian Gray's sins finally catch up with him and he receives his, just desserts. One might well ask, how can a story be neither moral nor immoral, and yet still have a moral'?"

"Grayson, you positively overwhelm me!" Wilde said, beaming. "I refuse to even try to trump such a refreshingly original review! There is clearly more to you than meets the eye. Would you care to join us'?"

"No, thank you, Mr. Wilde," Grayson said. "I am afraid I have a number of inquiries yet to make."

"Well, then, I shall not waste any more of your time. How may I help you?"

"I understand you are familiar with the company currently playing the Lyceum." Grayson said.

"Henry Irving's production of Becket?" Wilde said. "Indeed, I am. Has there been some sort of trouble?”

"One of the young actresses has died," said Grayson. "A Miss Angeline Crewe. She collapsed on stage last night during a rehearsal. It seems she had not been well. The cause of death has not yet officially been determined and we are merely making some inquiries of her friends and co-workers, purely a routine matter."

"How tragic," Wilde said, "but I fear I did not know that young woman. That is to say, I did not know her very well. She was an understudy, I believe. Rather too prim and proper for an actress. We exchanged greetings on occasion, but that is all."

"Did she seem unwell to you at the time?" said Grayson.

"No, I would not say so," Wilde said. "A bit pale, perhaps, but then she was very fair complected."

"Yes, that would follow," Grayson said. "It seems that she was quite anemic. You would not, by any chance, happen to know if she was a bleeder?"

"Not to my knowledge,” Wilde said.

"Apparently she was keeping company with a certain young man," Grayson said. He consulted his notepad. "A Mr. Hesketh.”

"Tony Hesketh?" Lord Douglas said. surprised.

"Yes, that is the name." said Grayson. "You know the young man?"

"Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I do." said Douglas. Grayson noticed Wilde give Douglas a sidelong look. "I am surprised to hear that he was keeping company with… an actress."

"Friend of yours. Rosie?" said Wilde, a touch too casually.

"I haven't seen him for some time," said Douglas.

"It seems that no one has," said Grayson. "Any idea where I might find him, Lord Douglas?"

Douglas gave an elaborate shrug. "The last time I saw Tony, he was otherwise engaged. Not with an actress. I mean." He said "actress" as if it were a distasteful word. "He was with a dark, Mediterranean looking gentleman."

"Mediterranean?" said Grayson. "Could you describe him?"

"Tall, slim, black hair, swarthy. but in an elegant sort of way," said Douglas. "Well mannered and well dressed. A man of obvious means. He was foreign, a titled gentleman. He was a very striking looking man. I remember he wore a top hat and an opera cape. I do not recall his name."

"When exactly was this, Lord Douglas?" Grayson said. "Oh, I can't be sure," said Douglas. "Two weeks ago, perhaps'! Maybe three."

"And where was this?"

"Why, at the Lyceum," Douglas said.

"You would not, by any chance, happen to know where I could reach this gentleman'?" Grayson said.

"Haven't the faintest," Douglas said.

"Well, if you should happen to see him again, or Mr. Hesketh, perhaps you'd be kind enough to let me know," Grayson said,

Douglas shrugged.

"Something tells me, Inspector Grayson, that this matter is not entirely routine, as you put it." said Wilde. "Do you suspect some sort of foul play in this young woman's death?"

"I am merely making inquiries, Mr. Wilde."

"I see. Well, Bram Stoker would be your man, then. He manages all of Henry Irving's affairs and he is the Lyceum Theatre's mother hen."

"I see. Well, thank you for your help," said Grayson. "And if you see either of those gentlemen again, I should very much like to speak with them."

"So would I, Inspector," Wilde said, glancing curiously at Douglas. Grayson was glad to leave. Wilde seemed likeable enough, despite his nature, but he did not care much for the coterie surrounding him, particularly the young Lord

Douglas. It was, felt Grayson, a dangerous association, especially given the character of the boy's father.

His thoughts would prove prophetic. Within a year, the Marquess of Queensberry, outraged by his son's relationship with the notorious Wilde, would accuse Wilde of being a sodomite. And Wilde, urged on by the irresponsible Douglas, would ignore the entreaties of his friends and commit the greatest mistake of his life by suing Queensberry for libel, thereby placing the burden of proof for the accusation upon Queensberry's counsel, who would come to trial prepared to bring forward a number of young men to testify that Wilde had committed "indecencies" with them. Wilde would drop the suit on the third day of the trial on the advice of his counsel, but by then it would be too late. Like many artists who were ignorant of the subtler realities of life, Wilde never understood the importance of the distinction between what was widely known and more or less ignored in certain social circles and what was legally proven in a courtroom, where it could not be ignored. On the same day he dropped the suit; Wilde would be arrested and eventually sentenced to two years of hard labor. He would serve the full sentence and upon his release, would be shunned by the society that had once lionized him. Ile would spend the remaining three years of his life in exile and die in Paris, yet in spite of everything, he would retain his spirit to the end. On his deathbed in the Hotel d'Alsace, while suffering from the acute pain of cerebral meningitis, he would jokingly complain about the aesthetically unappealing wallpaper in his bedroom. "It is killing me," he would say with his last breath. "One of us has to go." As for Lord Alfred Douglas, the instigator of it all, he would emerge from the affair unscathed and go on to write a book about his relationship with Wilde. So much for the ironies of life.

But as Grayson left the Cafe Royal, his thoughts were not concerned with Oscar Wilde and his flirtations with disaster so had said. "possibly of Mediterranean blood." And Doyle had also hinted at the possibility of perversion being involved, secrets darkly kept. Some not kept so darkly or so well, thought Grayson. wryly. Douglas had not left much doubt as to the character of Tony Hesketh. Links were forming. A swarthy, foreign gentleman linked to Tony Hesketh. Hesketh linked to Angeline Crewe. Angeline Crewe was dead and Tony Hesketh was missing. And the last place any of them had been seen was the Lyceum Theatre. It was time to have another talk with Mr. Bram Stoker.

Tony Hesketh's sanity was hanging by a thread. He did not know where he was. He knew only that he was in a dark, damp cell, barely illuminated by a single torch set into a sconce in the stone iv-all. It was like a dungeon in a medieval castle: what little he had seen of it when he was brought here was in ruins. He heard the distant drip of water. He could not move to explore his surroundings because he was manacled to the wall, his arms chained to an iron ring above him. He could barely remain standing to support his weight and when he sagged down from exhaustion, the chains sent a wrenching pain through his shoulders. His coat had been removed and his white shirt had been ripped open, exposing his throat and chest. He was cold, but there was a burning pain in his neck, at a spot on his throat directly over the jugular vein.

He did not remember how he came here. The last thing he could recall was going down to Whitechapel with his new friend, his rich, exotic and exciting friend, and they had walked through the thick fog together, fog so thick that Hesketh couldn't even see where he was going, but his friend had taken him by the hand and led him, promising a wild. new experience and then somehow they were here, in this ruined castle- how could there possibly be a castle in Whitechapel! — and he was led down to the dungeon as his friend walked ahead of him, carrying a torch, and it looked as if no one had disturbed the dust of centuries, as if they had somehow stepped out of London and into another place in another, long forgotten time. And then the nightmare had begun.

The sun was going down. Tony Hesketh could not see outside but he knew the sun was going down as surely as if there were a window in the dungeon cell. After three weeks in this horrifying place, three weeks of the same, mind-numbing, terrifying routine, he knew. His eyes had grown accustomed to the dim light and on the far side of the cell; he could see the large black coffin carved from ebony and worked with intricate designs and silver filigree, resting on a marble pedestal. He remembered the chilling words that had been spoken to him the night he had been brought here and chained to the stone wall.

"I will sleep close to you now. I will remain with you until the change has taken place."

He had not known what those words meant then, but he knew now and it frightened him beyond all measure. He could feel it happening. After the first time, he had been sick, retching uncontrollably, his stomach cramping his vision blurring. Then he became racked with fever and then chills. Sweat poured from every pore. He soiled himself repeatedly, but the chains were never taken off and now he stank, encrusted with his own filth. And he was starving. He wasn't given any food. From time to time, he was allowed a drink of water, but lately it no longer satisfied his thirst. His thirst now was for another kind of drink. It filled him with loathing but he could not resist the urge.

The sun was down. Tony Hesketh hung from his chains and whimpered. The lid of the coffin opened slowly, with a creaking sound. Like a wild animal, Tony strained against the chains. The manacles hit deeply into the soft flesh of his wrists and blood began to flow. In spite of himself, the sight of it excited him.

"It is almost finished. Tony,• said the man standing before him, dressed in elegant black evening clothes and a long. silk-lined opera cape. "Soon now, very soon, your new life will begin."

"Oh, God," moaned Tony. "It hurts. It hurts so much, please, can't you make it stop?"

"Are you hungry. Tony?"

"No. no. please, no more, not again-"

"You are hungry, aren't you?"

“No!”

"Aren't you?"

"Yes!" Tony whispered savagely. "Yes, let me, please…" "Then give me what I need."

"Yes, do it." Tony whispered. "do it now!"

He bent his head back exposing his throat. Warm lips caressed his neck and then he felt the fire of sharp fangs penetrating the soft skin of his throat and he moaned then shuddered as he exploded in a violent climax. His mouth was opened wide in ecstasy, revealing long, protruding teeth.

It was getting very late and Goodtime Gordy still hadn't found a customer. The night was chilly and her shawl was threadbare, but she could not seek refuge from the cold or even buy herself a nip of gin to warm up her insides. She had run out of money and there'd be no crib for her tonight unless she found a means of paying for it. The trouble was, it was a buyer's market and with every passing day, Gordy had less and less to sell.

It was the young ones, she thought miserably. More of them every day, younger and prettier, still with all their teeth, where did they all come from'? All that was left for her to do was to sell herself more cheaply. At this rate, soon she'd be giving it away. She didn't know what she was going to do. She was getting old and ugly and she looked worn out. The few teeth she had left were loose, her hack was hurting her, her eyes were sunken and bloodshot and her nose was veined with ruptured capillaries from a steady diet of gin. She was twenty-eight years old.

A hunched over figure shambled inwards her through the mist and she quickly prepared to make a desperate pitch. She loosened her shawl and opened up her blouse, pushing up her breasts. She had to remember to smile with her mouth closed. so as not to reveal her missing teeth.

"'Ello. Ducks," she said, striking a saucy pose. " 'Ow's about a bit o'- "

Two hairy hands shot out and grabbed her by her shoulders with incredible strength. She felt claws sinking deep into her flesh. She heard an animal growl and saw a face more horrible than anything that she had ever seen in her worst nightmares. She had time for one, brief, piercing scream.

Steiger poured himself a shot of straight Scotch whiskey and tossed it down, then refilled the glass. There had been two more killings. First the actress, Angeline Crewe. drained of almost all her blood, and then a Whitechapel streetwalker named Glynnis Gordon, "Goodtime Gordy" to her friends, found in an alley with her throat torn out. They had been unable to keep that one out of the papers. Her body had been discovered by two of her neighbors and they had spoken to reporters. One paper had run the story under the headline, "Return of the Ripper?" Another proclaimed. "Whitechapel Murder in the Style of Springheel Jack!" And there were no leads. Nobody had seen a thing.

It was maddening. The file search of recent depositors at the Bank of England and recent real estate leaseholds had produced a large number of correlations which Rizzo and Ransome were busy checking out, but it was taking too much time. Brant and Craven were now on full-time surveillance duty, watching H. G. Wells, but he was going on about his normal routine and nothing unusual had happened. For all they knew, nothing would. It could be simple coincidence that Wells had foreseen so many future developments, coincidence that he had written about a scientist named Moreau who was engaged in biological experimentation, coincidence that he had written about time travel. And there had been nothing unusual in Conan Doyle's behavior. either. He kept consulting with Inspector Grayson, but otherwise, he did not seem to he involved in any temporally anomalous events. Only Neilson had come up with any signilicant information as a result of his cover position at the crime lab. What he had come up with wasn't much, but it was cause for worry.

"I think we've got at least two of them." Neilson was saying. "The Crewe murder was different from the other two. She fits the classic profile of a vampire's victim in fiction. Whatever happened to her, she apparently went along with it willingly, or at least willingly in the sense that she wasn't assaulted with the same physical force as the other victims. There may have been some other form of duress, perhaps psychological, maybe even biochemical, because she apparently never complained about what happened to her."

"What do we know about her?" Steiger said.

"From what Grayson told Conan Doyle in my presence." Neilson said, "all I know is that she had recently arrived in London from Richmond Hill. Her family is very well off. They weren't very pleased about her wanting to become an actress. She was seeing a young man named Tony Hesketh, who has apparently disappeared. Hesketh may have been bisexual. Ile was close to some of the young men in Oscar Wilde's circle and he was last seen at the Lyceum Theatre in the company of a dark, foreign looking man dressed in elegant evening clothes and an opera cape, described as a Mediterranean type, a gentleman, elegant and striking looking, with a title."

"Sounds like Count Dracula." said Finn Delaney. Steiger gave him a sharp look. "You don't think…"

"I was only kidding." said Delaney. An anxious expression crossed his face. "I think."

"Let me see those lists," said Andre. She grabbed the lists of recent bank depositors and real estate leasehold transactions and started scanning them.

"Oh, come on," said Steiger. "Drakov would never be that obvious."

"I don't know," said Delaney. "It could be just the sort of thing that would amuse him, throwing down the gauntlet that way. Jesus, a genetically engineered vampire. And if such a creature's genetic makeup was also contagious-"

"It would be, knowing Drakov," Steiger said.

"How about that for temporal terrorism?" said Delaney. "Unleashing a plague of vampires and werewolves on Victorian London. And the timing is positively macabre. Just one year before Brain Stoker started work on Dracula. One year before The Time Machine was published."

"And it was always believed that Stoker based his character on the historical Dracula from the 15th century," said Andre, still scanning the lists. "Drakov might just have decided to make the character truly historical. And the similarity of their names, that would only be one more thing that would make the idea appeal to him."

"Anything?" said Steiger, watching her scan the lists. She shook her head.

"You know, we may be overlooking something, sir." said Neilson. "What about rentals?"

"Jesus, rentals!• Steiger said. "How the hell would we ever track down rentals? There's just no way!"

"Possibly not, sir," Neilson said, "but on the other hand, would Drakov really go in for a bed-and-breakfast sort of deal? I mean, it doesn't seem very likely that he'd rent ordinary moms like your average London boarder. He'd want something bigger, probably, more private. An unused estate, maybe, or a warehouse-"

"A warehouse!" said Delaney. "And all the killings so far occurred within the same general area, the East End of London, within easy access of the docks on the Thames."

"Neilson, you seem to be the only one who's doing any thinking around here." Steiger said. "Start checking the warehouse district on the docks during your off-duty hours from the crime lab. I'll try to get you some help. There can't be that many warehouses standing empty, so you can automatically eliminate the ones in active use. Maybe we're finally getting somewhere. Christ, it's like looking for a goddamn needle in a haystack. Somehow, we've got to get a break on this."

"What about the newspaper reports?" said Andre.

"Not much we can do about them now," said Steiger. "I'd rather have them writing about a new series of Ripper murders than vampires and werewolves loose in London."

"There's one more thing, sir," Neilson said. "The man who's missing, Tony Hesketh. It may not be a bad idea to stake out his apartments. If he returns, he may no longer be the same if you know what I mean. He's been missing for about three weeks. I don't know how long it would take for the viral genome to bring about a mutation, but if he's not dead, he may provide us with our first real lead."

"Good idea," said Steiger. "I'll pull Rizzo off the estate search and assign him to watch Hesketh's rooms. Have we got an address on him?"

"Not yet, sir," Neilson said, "but I might be able to sneak a look at Grayson's files and get it."

"All right, do it. But be careful. Don't get caught. We can't afford to have you sacked from your job at the lab. It's been our only source of information so

Simon Hawke

The Dracula Caper far."

"I'll be careful, sir. "Okay. get going." Steiger checked his watch. "Who's watching Conan Doyle now? Craven?"

"Yes. I had her relieve me for about an hour so I could make the briefing." Andre said.

"All right, get back there. She'll have to relieve Brant at Wells' house in several hours and I want her to be fresh." "How are you holding up?" said Delaney.

"I'm not getting much sleep, if that's what you mean," said Steiger. "But then holding down the fort has never been my style. I'll be glad when something breaks and we can stop stretching ourselves so thin. But until then, it's got to he a waiting game." He tossed back another drink. "I only hope we won't have to wait too long."

The small, slightly built man with the prematurely grey hair and beard stood in the entrance to the offices of the Pall Mall Gazette, holding a folded copy of the paper in his hand and glancing around nervously.

"Excuse me," he said, stopping a young man walking past him "are you on the staff here at the newspaper?"

"Well, after a fashion. I suppose, — said the young man. "How may I help you, sir?"

"My name is Moreau. Dr. Phillipe Moreau. The gentleman who wrote this story, about the killing in Whitechapel_• "The murder of the prostitute, you mean?"

"Yes. I was wondering if I could speak with him."

"Well. I am afraid he is not in the office at the moment. Dr. Moreau, and I have no idea when he will return. I was just leaving myself. I am not actually on staff here: I write occasional articles, but perhaps I can assist you?"

"Oh, I see. Well, I don't know. Mr. — "

"Wells."

"Thank you, Mr. Wells, but I don't think that will be necessary” said Moreau. "Perhaps I should not even have come. I just thought, perhaps-"

"Why don't we sit down?" said Wells. "There is obviously something troubling you. If there is anything that I can do to help, I will certainly try."

"Yes, all right," said Moreau, taking the seat Wells indicated. They sat down at a desk.

"Now then." said Wells, "what about this murder?"

"Well, I have a daughter, you see," Moreau said hesitantly. "That is, I had a daughter. I have not seen her for quite some time. She came to London and, well. I have been searching for her-"

"And you thought perhaps this dead girl could be your daughter?" said Wells. "You wanted to satisfy yourself as to her identity?"

"Yes, precisely." said Moreau. "The newspaper gave her name as Gordon. I know, but it is possible that she had taken another name…"

"I understand," said Wells. "However, if that had been the case, we would really have no way of knowing, you understand. You realize that the odds of this poor murdered girl being your missing daughter are really quite small." -

"Yes, yes, highly unlikely, I know," said Moreau, "but something told me-I just simply had to know, you see. Perhaps if I could speak to someone who had an opportunity to view the remains.."

"I do not know if that would help you. Doctor," Wells said. "As I understand it, the body was… well, the poor girl's face was damaged beyond all recognition. Her neighbors identified her mainly by her clothing and a few personal possessions. The murder was quite savage. Considering the odds, why subject yourself needlessly to such an ordeal?"

"You don't understand," said Moreau, "I must know. The nature of the wounds, the manner in which-" He suddenly caught himself and stopped.

"What about the nature of the wounds, Doctor?" Wells said. watching him carefully. "Why should that happen to interest you?"

"Nothing, you misunderstood Inc." said Moreau. "I am merely distraught. I should not have come here. Forgive me for taking up your valuable time…"

"One moment, Doctor," Wells said, catching him by the arm.

"Please," said Moreau. -Let me go."

"Not just yet, Doctor," said Wells. "I do not think that I misunderstood you. And something tells me that you are not being entirely truthful with me. Why come to the newspaper? Why not go to the police?"

"Yes, undoubtedly that is what I should have done," Moreau said, “I merely thought that — "

"Why don't we go see the police together?" Wells said. "We can go right now."

"No, really, thank you, but there is no need for you to trouble yourself. It's really quite-"

"You really do not want to go to the police, do you?" said Wells. "Why is that? What are you afraid of"

Moreau looked at him with alarm. "I see what you are thinking," he said. "You think perhaps I may have had something to do with this crime."

"I am merely wondering why you seem reluctant to go to the police." Wells said. "Why are you so interested in this murder? What is it about the nature of the wounds? What do you mean? You are not really seeking a missing daughter. are you?"

“Yes, of course I am, — Moreau said. "Why else would I be so concerned?"

"That is what I would like to know. Dr. Moreau," Wells said. "You are obviously an educated man, and yet the newspaper reports clearly stated that the dead girl was a Cockney. strictly working class. Moreover, your accent is slight. but definitely French, I think, as is your name. I suppose it is possible that an educated French gentleman could have a daughter by a Cockney mother. but then if that were so, why would you be reluctant to go to the police? That would be the natural avenue of inquiry for a man seeking a missing daughter, would it not?"

A number of the people in the office had become interested in the conversation. "What is it?" one of them said. "Some sort of problem?"

"Please," said Moreau in a low voice. "I cannot discuss this here."

"I think we had best get to the bottom of this, Dr. Moreau," Wells said.

“No, let me go," Moreau said, pulling away, but Wells would not let go. Moreau's sleeve was pulled back, exposing a strange-looking bracelet. It caught Wells' attention. It was made from an unusual black material, with small, numbered studs arranged upon it in a pattern.

"What's this?" said Wells, looking down at it.

"Don't touch it!• Moreau said, jerking his arm back violently.

"I think perhaps we had better speak with the police," said Wells.

Moreau looked around frantically, seeing himself being hemmed in. "Please," he said, "I beg you no police. They would not understand. I swear to you. I am no criminal."

"Who is this chap, Bertie?" one of the other reporters said. "What's he on about?"

"Have we got some kind of trouble here?" another said. "Please," Moreau said softly. And then his eyes grew wide. "Bertie?" he said. "Herbert Wells?"

"Yes,• said Wells, looking at him strangely.

"Herbert George Wells?"

"How is it that you happen to know my full name, Doctor'?" Wells said. "I did not give it to you and I do not use it professionally… I am certain we have never met."

"Please, Mr. Wells," Moreau said, "I promise to answer all your questions, but we must speak somewhere in private. I assure you that I have no personal involvement in this killing but I believe I know who was responsible."

"Very well." said Wells, "but I promise you that if you do not adequately explain yourself. I will summon the police."

Moreau nodded. "Very well, I shall accept that. But please let us speak in private."

"There is a small teashop just down the street," said Wells. "Come, we can talk there. Give me your ann."

You think I will try to run away?" Moreau said.

"I think you are a desperate man. Dr. Moreau." said Wells. "There is an edge of hysteria in your voice and panic in your eyes. Very well, we shall simply walk together, but if you run off, rest assured that I am quite capable of giving the police a completely accurate and detailed description of you."

Moreau nodded. They left the building together and started walking down the street towards one of the teashops operated by the Aerated Bread Company.

"What is that curious bracelet on your wrist?" said Wells. "If I told you the truth" Moreau said "you would not believe me. You would think me mad."

"I never leap to uninformed conclusions, Doctor," Wells said.

"No. you wouldn't," said Moreau, smiling. "Not you. Wells frowned. "I find your remarks most puzzling. You behave as if you knew me."

"In a manner of speaking, I do." Moreau said. "Shall I tell you what I know? You are at the moment living with a woman whom you introduce to your neighbors as your wife, although she is not your wife. At least not yet. Her name is Amy Catherine Robbins and you call her Jane. She was a student of yours. You left your wife, Isabel for her. You were not always a journalist. You used to teach once under Professor Huxley at the Normal School of Science in South Kensington. You have two brothers. Frank and Freddy; you have been astigmatic from an early age and your health was always poor. You almost died of appendicitis in your youth and you broke your leg when you were seven years old-"

"Good God!" said Wells. "How is possible that you know so much about me?"

"I will tell you the complete truth, Mr. Wells." Moreau said "because I am in desperate need of help and I believe that you can give it to me, but I must tell it to you slowly, otherwise you will surely think me mad. I must convince you that I am not. More than you could possibly realize depends upon it."

"What manner of doctor are you?" Wells said. "Are you a physician or one of these mystics who claims the ability to read minds and such?"

"I would have an easier time convincing you that I am capable of reading your thoughts than of who and what I really am." Moreau said. "I am a professor and

I am also a scientist. specializing in the biological sciences."

"Biological experimentation?" Wells said suddenly.

"Yes," Moreau said, glancing at him sharply. "What made you ask that?"

"Scientists engage in experimentation, do they not?"

"Yes. I suppose they do." Moreau said. "Still, it was curious that you should say that."

"Let us return, for the moment, to the topic at hand," said Wells. "This murder. You claim you know who was responsible? A patient of yours, perhaps?"

"No." said Moreau. "I do not see patients. But the man I am seeking, the one who I believe may be responsible for this, is without question insane. He was once a sort of colleague of mine. His name is Drakov."

"Nikolai Drakov?" Wells said.

Moreau stopped, frozen in his tracks, staring at him wildly. "How did you know that?"

Wells took his arm. "It appears that we both have some surprises for each other." he said. "I will answer your questions just as soon as you have answered mine."

They reached the ABC teashop and went inside. There were several couples in the shop, mostly young, lingering over tea and biscuits. The advent of the teashops was a blessing to young couples in a time where a "proper" young woman couldn't think of going alone to a young man's apartment. To young people without a lot of money, a teashop was the perfect place to meet. Nothing could be considered improper about taking a walk together then spending some time enjoying a "cuppa" and a biscuit or two. It was a date that any young man could afford.

They took their seats at a small table and ordered a pot of tea. Wells saw that Moreau had been staggered by his knowing Drakov's name. Strange, he thought, he had never been much good with names, but he had remembered that one because of the peculiar circumstances under which he had heard it. He wondered what connection there might be between those three Americans who had come to call on him and this curiously intense Frenchman.

Wells scrutinized him closely. Moreau was a small man. perhaps five foot five or six, slightly built, sharp featured. foxlike. He was younger than he seemed to be. Wells guessed he was in his early forties. but he looked older. It wasn't only the grey hair. There were crow's-feet around his eyes, which were red from lack of sleep. He was pale and there were worry lines around his mouth and above the bridge of his nose, between his eyebrows, He was clearly a man under a great strain.

"Before we discuss this any further," said Moreau "you have to tell me how you know Drakov's name. You've seen him? You know where he is? You must tell one!"

"Calm yourself, Dr. Moreau." said Wells. "In point of fact, I do not have to tell you anything. What I should be doing is taking you to the police. If you have knowledge about a crime that has taken plate, it is your duty to give that information to the authorities. I agreed to speak with you in private because you promised you would explain yourself. Well then, explain."

Moreau stared at Wells for a moment, then briefly closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "What if I were to tell you that I have come here from the future?"

"From the future," Wells said, watching him uneasily. He chose his words with care. "If you were to tell me that, Dr. Moreau, if that is indeed your name. I would have a great deal of difficulty believing you. I doubt that anyone could substantiate such a fantastic claim."

"Nevertheless, it is true," Moreau said. "I am a time traveler. Mr. Wells. And what is more. I can prove it to you. 4 _

The frenzied screams woke Stanley Turner and he leaped out of bed and rushed to the window. He threw it open and looked down into the courtyard. The woman lying on the cobblestones below wasn't screaming anymore. She was lying on her back and a man was bending over her. In the fog and the dim light from the streetlamp at the entrance to the courtyard. Turner couldn't see much more than their shapes. He shouted, but there was no reaction from the killer. Across the courtyard. several of the neighbors had thrown open their windows as well. but the killer seemed oblivious to his audience.

"Wot is it?" Turner's wife said, sitting up in bed and clutching the covers to herself, frightened by the screams which had awakened them. "Stan. woes 'append?"

"Stay 'ere," Turner said, moving from the window. He rushed out of the small apartment, pausing only long enough to grab a large carving knife. and ran down the stairs. He encountered one of his neighbors in the hall, Joe Tully. a brawny man who worked in the slaughterhouse and picked up beer money as a bareknuckle boxer.

"There's a murder-," Tully started.

"I know, I saw!" said limier. "Quick, let's get the bloody bastard!"

They ran out into the courtyard, along with three other men who came out in various states of undress from the other buildings. Shouting to each other, they ran towards the murderer, still bent over the body in the narrow courtyard of the cul-de-sac. They were almost on him when he suddenly turned to face them. growling like a wild animal. The five men were brought up short, staring with shock at the face all covered with hair, blond dripping from the snarling mouth.

Before any of them could mow, the werewolf leaped and brought down one of the men. A vicious swipe with a clawed hand cut off his scream. The remaining four men were galvanized into action. One of them brought a club down hard upon the creature's back, but it had no effect. Turner leaped in with his knife. He felt a hairy hand grabbing his own with an iron grip and yanking hard and the next thing he knew, Stanley Turner was sailing through the air. He struck the building wall on the opposite side, hitting with his back and shoulders. He heard a crunching sound and he dropped down to the cobblestones, stunned. He heard another scream as the man with the club was lifted high overhead and flung down upon the wrought iron fence so hard that his body was impaled by the iron spears at the top. They entered his back and penetrated his chest. The massive Joe Tully was flung aside as if he didn't weigh a thing and then another vicious swipe of the claws blinded the other knife-wielding man. As he screamed, slashing about him blindly with his blade, the werewolf plunged a hand deep into his stomach and ripped out his intestines.

The courtyard became filled with screams as people from the rooms above watched the figures struggling in the fog. Joe Tully came at the creature with his fists up in a boxing stance, the corded muscles in his shoulders standing out, his barrel chest thrown out, his left arm held out in front and his right cocked before his chest. He took a swing with his left list and the creature caught it in its right hand. Tully swung his right and the creature caught it with its left. Holding Tully's clenched fists tightly in its hands, the werewolf began to squeeze. Tully struggled, kicking at the creature, then howled with pain as the bones in his fingers shattered. He was forced down to his knees and then the creature let go of his ruined hands and grabbed his hair, jerking his head back violently, exposing the throat. The claws descended with a whoosh and Tully's throat was slashed so deeply that his head was almost completely severed from his body. Then the creature came towards Turner.

"Turner sat with his back against the wall, holding the knife before him in both hands. His hands were shaking. He couldn't move. His back was broken. He saw the horrifying apparition approaching. heard the screams from above, felt the creature's fetid breath and then "Janos." a deep voice said from somewhere behind the creature.

The werewolf turned.

Turner heard the shrill blasts of a police whistle somewhere close by, in the fog.

"Come. Janus. Enough."

The werewolf turned hack to Turner, snarling, eager to finish him off.

"I said enough, Janos! Come!"

Turner was amazed to hear the creature whimper like a dog.

"Come, Janos!"

It shambled off away from him and through the mist. Turner could barely make out the figure of a very large man dressed in a long dark cloak, a high silk hat, and carrying a walking stick. he turned and walked away quickly through the fog, with the creature hunched over, shambling along behind him. Stanley Turner was still holding the knife out in from of him with trembling hands when the police arrived.

"Lord, what a bloody awful mess." said Grayson, looking around the courtyard.

"Bloody's the word, all right." said Constable Wilkes. shaking his head. "I've never seen anything like this in all my life.”

It was still late and the fog was thick, but with the aid of their lanterns, they could see the bodies scattered all around the small courtyard. Blood was everywhere. They could hear the wailing of the women upstairs in their rooms, where members of the Metropolitan police force were trying to take statements from them. Grayson had instructed his men to keep the courtyard clear, not to allow anyone to come down until all the bodies had been removed and to keep everyone away from their windows. He also had a couple of men block off the entrance to the cul-de-sac. Wilkes had been the first to arrive on the scene, within moments after it had happened, and his whistle had summoned several other men on patrol, whom he had immediately directed to keep the neighbors inside.

"You've done well here, Wilkes.” said Grayson, nodding. "You've got the situation well under control. The last thing we needed was to have everyone tramping around down here, acting hysterical."

"Thank you. sir." said Wilkes. "But just the same, I'm glad you're here, sir. I was about at my wit's end. Near as I could make out, one man did all of this. One man! Makes Jack the Ripper look like a bleeding amateur."

"That's enough of that!" said Grayson. "I want no talk about the Ripper, understood? That happened years ago. It's over. Over and done with."

"Right, said Wilkes, indicating the bodies. "Tell them." "Get a hold of yourself, man." said Grayson. "Snap to. There's work to be done.”

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

"Right. Now where's the bloke who survived?"

"Right over there, sir," Wilkes said, pointing. "Wouldn't let us move him, thinks his back is broken. He's in shock, I think. Keeps saying that a-"

"Who's that with him?" Grayson said suddenly.

A man was crouching down on one knee beside Turner, talking to him.

"Here, you!" shouted Wilkes, rushing forward. He grabbed the man and yanked him to his feet, spinning him around."Who are you?" he said. "How'd you get in here?"

"Dick Larson, The Police Gazette.”

"Oh, bloody hell!" said Grayson. "Who let him through? I'll have his guts for garters! That's all we need, reporters!”

"Come on, you, out!" said Wilkes, grabbing Larson by his coat.

"Just a moment," Grayson said. "How did you get here so fast?"

"I've been investigating the other killing, Inspector." Larson said, "asking questions of people in the pubs hereabouts. I heard all the commotion and I ran to see what was going on."

"Well, we don't need any reporters getting in our way.• said Grayson. "Those damn stories you people have been writing are going to have the entire city in hysterics. I've got a responsibility-"

"In that case, I suggest you listen to me, Inspector," Larson said. "That is, unless you want it to get about that there's somesort of werewolf on the loose."

Grayson grabbed him by the shirtfront. "What did you say?"

"Steady, Inspector," Larson said, gently prying his fingers loose. "I don't want to frighten people needlessly any more than you do. This man's still in shock, but he's starting to come out of it. I managed to get a few words out of him about what happened here tonight. I don't think I'll print what he told me he saw. In fact, I've been trying to convince him that he saw something else, not only for the public good, but for his own good, as well. The poor sod's been through enough without being thrown into a madhouse."

"I think you and I had better have a little talk, Mr. Larson,” Grayson said. "Stick around until I get this mess cleaned up. Wilkes, make sure he doesn't go off anywhere."

"Right, sir," said Wilkes. Grayson went to supervise the removal of the bodies and interview sonic of the neighbors. "You had to go and blunder in here, didn't you?" Wilkes said to Larson. "And here I'd just been complimented on how well I had things under control."

Larson held out a cigarette case to Wilkes. "Cigarette?" he said.

Wilkes looked around. "Thanks," he said, taking one.

"You're welcome, Constable-?"

"Wilkes. Brian Wilkes."

"Take it easy. Brian." Larson said. "I'm not going to cause you any trouble. Believe me something like this is bigger than just getting a good story. The maniac who did this must be stopped and it won't help you stopping him if we all start writing lurid stories about ghastly creatures lurking in the shadows of Whitechapel. Any idiot can write that sort of nonsense. I'd much rather write a story about how the police brought a deranged killer to justice than print stories criticizing you chaps and making your job that much more difficult “

Wilkes raised his eyebrows. "You having me on, mate?"

"Not in the least,” said Larson, puffing on his cigarette. "Look at it this way, Brian, I could hand you all sorts of rubbish about social responsibility and the like, and it wouldn't be entirely rubbish, mind you, but the simple fact of the matter is that I intend to make something of a name for myself as a police reporter, covering crime in the city, and I've a few ideas as to how to go about that."

"You don't say," said Wilkes. "How's that?"

"Well, there are places a reporter can go where a policeman would be too highly visible and there are people who would speak to a reporter, but would never be seen talking to police. A clever man could develop his own sources of information, information that the police might not otherwise have access to. Such a situation could benefit both that reporter and the police, if they were to work together."

"Yes, I suppose I can see that," said Wilkes. "What you're proposing is a sort of cooperation. Each scratching the other's back a bit, as it were. You let us in on a tidbit now and then and don't write anything we wouldn't like you to and in exchange, we let you in on things other reporters wouldn't have, is that it?"

"I see you grasp the concept," Larson said, smiling. "And if it would help your situation, Icould sort of mislead other reporters and then I'd have all the proper details when the whole thing was wrapped up. I'd have the best story then, you see."

Wilkes grinned. "I shouldn't think that would make you very popular with your fellow members of the press."

"I'm not out to win any popularity contests, Brian. We're all competitors, after all. Except for myself and Tom Davis of The Daily Telegraph. We've made sort of an arrangement to get the lion's share for ourselves, a silent partnership, as it were. I'm going to speak to Grayson about it. What sort of chap is he. by the way?"

"Chief Inspector Grayson? Blade straight and steel true that one. I wouldn't try putting anything over on him if I were you. I'd present it to him straight up, like you've just done with me. If you deal straight with him, he'll deal straight with you, but Lord Help you if you cross him. He's like a ratting terrier. Once he's got his teeth into you, he never lets go until you're done."

"I'll keep that in mind," said Larson.

"You do that, mate," said Wilkes. He clapped him on the shoulder. "Thanks for the smoke."

"Don't mention it," said Larson. He smiled. It was a good beginning. Now to see if he could win Inspector William Grayson's trust.

"They did what?'' said Steiger.

They clocked out." said Linda Craven. "Right there in the teashop. One minute they were sitting at the table, drinking tea and then the next, they simply disappeared. There were several couples in the shop, but nobody noticed than clock out except me. I came in after them, as if I was waiting to meet someone and I was pretending to read a magazine, but I was watching them out of the corner of my eye. I saw the man Wells was with look around quickly, to see if anyone was watching, and then suddenly they were gone. I'm sorry, sir, the man didn't match Drakov's description and it just never occurred to me that he might have a warp disc."

"Christ," said Steiger. "What did this man look like? Describe him, carefully."

Craven bit her lower lip. "A small man, about live foot five or six, thin, grey hair and beard, very animated. Maybe late forties to mid-fifties, hard to tell his age exactly. His face was thin. sharp-featured. sort of delicate-"

"Moreau!" said Steiger.

Her eyes grew wide. "The head of S.O.G.'s Project Infiltrator?" she said.

"That's the one," said Steiger. "The description matches." "Oh, God," she said. "I should have put it together, but I just didn't think — "

"Never mind," said Steiger. "Nothing we can do about it now. Get back to Wells' house. If he shows up again, contact me immediately."

"Yes, sir."

"And Craven'? One more thing If you spot Moreau again even if it's in broad daylight with a dozen witnesses around waste him. Understand?"

She swallowed hard. "Yes, sir."

Wells stood motionless in the small apartment above the apothecary shop, his face pale, his breath caught in his throat. A moment ago, he had been sitting in a teashop in Fleet Street and now, suddenly inexplicably, he was… somewhere else. He blinked several times, looking around. Moreau stood before him, watching him anxiously.

"Where are we?" Wells said.

"In my rented room in Limehouse," said Moreau.

Wells shook his head "Limehouse? No, that isn't possible." "Look for yourself." said Moreau, moving to the window and opening the drapes.

Wells looked out the window. He could see soot-begrimed buildings, factories and warehouses and the river just beyond them. "Limehouse," he said softly. "This cannot be. I must be dreaming."

"I assure you, Mr. Wells." Moreau said, "You are not dreaming. If further proof is required, I can supply it."

"No, no, wait," said Wells. "I must take this in. This is incredible. I have to think."

"May I offer you a drink?" Moreau said.

“Yes, I think I'd better have a drink," said Wells. "A strong one, if you please."

Moreau poured him a whiskey and added just a dash of soda from the gasogene on the sideboard. Wells tossed it down.

"How is this possible?" said Wells. "How did we get here?"

"This bracelet you were so curious about." Moreau said, pulling up his sleeve and showing it to him, "It is called a warp disc. Simply put, it is a sort of time machine.”

"A time machine!" said Wells.

"It is capable of broadcasting a sort of field," said Moreau, "by tapping into-well, it would be far too complicated to explain to a man of your time. However, as you can sec, it does work."

"I think I had better sit down," said Wells. He slowly eased himself into an armchair and let out a long breath. "Dear God," he said. "Are you telling me that we have actually traveled through time?"

"Only in a manner of speaking." said Moreau. "No more than a moment or two have passed since we left the teashop. However, I could just as easily have programmed-that is, instructed the disc to take us back several centuries if I had wished to. Or ahead. The method of travel is called temporal transition. A sort of teleportation, if you will. We can go from one place to another within the same time period, or from one time period to another with equal ease."

Wells shook his head. "And all this is accomplished by a device so small that it can be contained within that bracelet? Amazing! It is beyond belief!"

"And yet you have experienced it, Mr. Wells," Moreau said.

"How can you not believe it?"

"Indeed," said Wells, "unless you have somehow mesmerized me and brought me here without my knowing it…"

"Would a more conclusive demonstration satisfy you?" said Moreau.

"I… I do not know," said Wells. "That is, I-" Suddenly. Moreau was gone.

He had simply vanished, right before his eyes. Wells blinked, then shook his head, then slowly took a deep breath and let it out.

"Steady on, Bertie," he told himself. "You're not going mad. You're only dreaming. This cannot possibly be happening. There is a rational explanation for all this, there has to be-"

Moreau suddenly reappeared before him and Wells jumped about a foot. Moreau was sweating heavily and his shirt clung to him, as if he had been in intense heat for some time. He was holding his coat in his hands. Something was wrapped inside it. And it was moving.

"I have brought you something." said Moreau. "A present.”

He placed his coat in Wells' lap. There was something wriggling around inside it. Wells sat perfectly still, afraid to move.

"What is it?" he said. "Not a snake? Moreau, you wouldn't-'

"Open it and see."

Wells slowly untied the coat sleeves and unwrapped what was inside the coat. He stared, bug-eyed, at the small, ungainly, reptilian-looking creature cradled inside Moreau's coat on his lap. it was a baby dinosaur.

"You have studied the biological sciences. Mr. Wells," said Moreau. "Perhaps you will recognize the creature as a baby sauropod. A Camarasaurus of the Upper Jurassic, to be exact. Have no fear, it cannot harm you. It is an herbivore. Its teeth and claws cannot injure you. I regret to say that you will not be able to watch it grow to its full size of 19.8 meters in length, with a weight that could reach as high as twenty-five tons. It will not live very long in this climate. It is far too cold for its constitution.''

Wells stared with disbelief at the shivering little great lizard in his lap. He touched it hesitantly. It looked somehow pathetic. "Take it back." he said. "Please."

"As you wish," Moreau said. He picked up the coat, wrapped it around the little dinosaur, and disappeared again, to reappear a moment later, even wetter with perspiration than before. "Convinced?" he said.

Wells leaned forward and put his head in his hands. "I think I would like another whiskey, please," he said.

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."

"But the witnesses saw a man," said Holcombe.

"The witnesses saw what appeared to be a man," said Conan Doyle. "In the heavy fog, how could they be certain? Remember, no one saw the killer's face. I keep thinking about the sole survivor of the struggle, Stanley Turner. A face covered with hair” he said. What does that mean, a heavy heard? He said a man appeared out of the mist and called to the killer, called to him-or it-several times while it growled, apparently eager to attack Turner and finish him off. The killer finally responded and then, in Turner's own words, 'shambled off after the mysterious stranger. One might describe the movements of a great ape in such terms."

"A trained ape?" said Holcombe. "Dressed in a man's clothing?"

"A great ape would have the necessary strength required," Conan Doyle said, "and the other elements would seem to fit as well, only the hair does not match that of any ape I am familiar with. Still, there are such rare creatures as the silver- backed gorilla, for example, which might have hair to match those samples that we have found. There are no such creatures in captivity in England that I know of, but great apes are very manlike and I have seen chimpanzees trained to an astonishing degree, so that they almost seem like people."

"But what motive would someone have to train such a creature to kill, apparently at random?" Holcombe said. "And how could someone keep such an animal concealed?"

"I don't know," said Conan Doyle, frustrated. "It is a maddening case. But the more I think about it, the more I consider the evidence, the more convinced I become of the fact that our killer is not human. The question is if he is not human, then what is he?"

"I'd sooner accept the theory that we are looking for an ape rather than a werewolf," Holcombe said wryly.

"So would I. Ian, so would I." said Conan Doyle. "One thing seems certain, though, and that is that we are dealing with some sort of a monstrosity. I will be curious to see what happens in the next few days, if there will be any more killings after tomorrow night.''

"Why after tomorrow night?" said Holcombe, puzzled. "Because tomorrow is the last night of the full moon," said Conan Doyle.

Neilson almost dropped a tray of instruments.

"A werewolf' said H. G. Wells. He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Really, Moreau, this is too much. just how much do you think one man can absorb in just one short afternoon'?"

"Not only a werewolf," said Moreau, "hut I have reason to believe that

Drakov may have created a vampire as well. The template for the creature was outlined in the notes he showed me-"

"Wait, wait," said Wells, holding his bands up in protest. He glanced from Moreau to the old Chinaman, Lin Tao, then back to Moreau again. "Let me understand you. Are we seriously talking about werewolves and vampires, such as those described in folklore? Men who turn into wolves when the moon is full, capable of being killed only by a silver bullet? Corpses reanimated by the devil, existing by the means of drinking human blood? Beings you cannot see reflected in a mirror, who turn into bats and can be destroyed only by wooden stakes driven through their hearts?"

"No, no. of course not," said Moreau. "What you are talking about is fantasy, the supernatural. What I am talking about is science. Specifically, the science of genetic engineering and biomodification. Biological experimentation, if you will, that is my field. I had developed a new way of manipulating human DNA… no, that would mean nothing to you, of course. How can I put it? This werewolf we are discussing, in a way, it was I who created him. I was the one who taught Nikolai Drakov everything he knows, to my everlasting shame. I was the one who showed him how animal genetic material… well, how surgical procedures, for lack of a better way of explaining it to you, can create beings who are neither men nor beasts, but something in between, creatures in whom elements of both men and beasts are combined. I never dreamed that he would take it so far. It never occurred to me that he had been studying the field for years, that he was an insane genius who would be able to observe my techniques and duplicate them, even refine them, that he was using me…"

Moreau's voice trailed off. He balled his fists and took a deep breath, shaking his head in an agony of rage and frustration.

"I am only confusing you," he said. "I can see it in your face. How can I explain? How can I make you see?"

"Why not convince him as you convinced me, Phillipe?" Lin Tao said softly. "Why not show Mr. Wells how much one man can absorb in just one short afternoon?"

Moreau stared at Lin Tao. "I had considered it," he said, "but it frightens me. What if something should go wrong? I mean no offense, old friend, but you are not historically important. Wells is. He will write extensively about the future. He will leave his mark. I have already interfered too much in his destiny. I am afraid to take it any further."

Lin Tao looked thoughtful. "In the words of the poet Hakuyo, 'Over the peak are spreading clouds, at its source the river is cold. If you would see, climb the mountain top.' It time is, indeed, as you have explained it to me, like a river with no end and no beginning, then perhaps, Phillipe, you should he afraid not to take it any further."

Moreau licked his lips nenou. sly. "Creatures in whom elements of both men and beasts are combined,” he murmured softly to himself. "And then the remarkable coincidence of my name…" He shook his head. "But that was another world. another timeline. It's true, this one is almost a perfect mirror image-"

"Moreau, in Heaven's name, man, what are you mumbling about?" said Wells. "I understand none of this!"

"Perhaps not at this moment, Mr. Wells," Moreau said, "but you will very shortly understand it perfectly. As you have already observed, the type of warp disc that I wear can generate a temporal field large enough to transport more than one individual. You have experienced one very short temporal transition, from Fleet Street to Limehouse. How would you like to experience a far greater one, from the 19th century to the 27th?"

Wells stared at him. "Do you mean that you propose for us to travel over seven hundred years into the future?"

"Exactly," said Moreau. "I think that would convince you of what science can accomplish beyond any shadow of a doubt." Wells swallowed nervously, glancing from one man to the other. "I am still not entirely convinced that I amt not dreaming all of this," he said. "But if it is truly possible to see the future, to actually travel there

… How could any man possibly. resist such a fantastic opportunity? When would we leave?"

Moreau pulled back his sleeve. "Right now."