The Future Door Read Online Free Page B

he’d taken from the gaslight and, with a shaking hand, passed them to the old gentleman. He’d long forgotten what it was that he’d wanted to say. Just being in the presence of Professor Moriarty had driven all thoughts from his head.
    The professor gazed at the photos for several long moments, taking in the slightly blurred, sepia-toned images of Mrs. Hudson and Charlotte Pepper.
    Then he glanced up at the hulking form of Chester Drummond and said drily, “On your way.”
    Chester hesitated. He’d suddenly remembered what he’d wanted to say to the professor, but was having difficulty summoning up the courage to say it.
    â€œWell?” the professor growled.
    â€œSir, I . . . I was wondering . . .”
    â€œSpit it out, man.”
    â€œWell . . . I wanted to . . . to know how much this job pays. I wasn’t told how much I’d get when I said I’d do it,” Chester finished awkwardly.
    Professor Moriarty gave him a shrewd glance. “So what you mean to say is that you feel you deserve some kind of reward for your services, is that it?”
    Chester beamed, happy that the professor understood what he was getting at.
    â€œYes, sir.”
    Professor Moriarty exchanged a knowing look with his butler. “I think that we can arrange something for you. Charles, please see to it that Mr. Drummond gets his payment.”
    And as Chester Drummond followed the butler into one of the side rooms, he began to wonder, even though he was severely lacking in the imagination department, if asking for such a thing from Professor Moriarty had been such a very good idea after all.

4
UPSIDE DOWN
    D on’t move, son,” a kind voice said.
    Griffin observed that the badge on the policeman’s hat was extremely bright and must have been polished recently with tremendous attention, that it bore the number 271, that the man’s hat size was approximately seven and three-eighths, and that the officer had cut himself shaving earlier that morning.
    Then the next thing Griffin realized was that he was lying on his back, and there were pieces of broken carriage strewn all around him.
    â€œWhere am I?” Griffin asked.
    â€œYou’re on Beacon Street,” the policeman replied. “You were in a terrible accident, young man. And judging by the wreck and the size of the bullet holes in the wall of that cab, you’re lucky to be alive.”
    Griffin tried to sit up, but in doing so felt waves of pain rush through his body. The policeman patted his shoulder gently. “Don’t try to move just yet. You’re going to be all right, but you’ve taken quite a walloping.”
    Griffin groaned and lay back. “It . . . it was a woman,” he said.
    The officer removed a small notebook. “Can you recall what she looked like? It might be tough, but anything that you can remember would be helpful.”
    Griffin shook his head, trying to clear it. “She was wearing goggles.”
    The officer nodded. “Hmm. Anything else?”
    Griffin took a deep breath. Then, looking up at the officer, he said without stopping, “She was approximately five foot three in height and weighed one hundred and twenty-seven pounds. Her hair was an auburn color, shoulder length, and she had thirteen freckles across her nose. She wore goggles— aviator’s goggles, I think—made by the ACME glass company of Long Island, New York. Beneath her glove on the third finger of her left hand was a lump; I assume it was some kind of ring . . .”
    The policeman stared at Griffin with an incredulous expression as he rattled off the details.
    â€œ. . . Her kid gloves were produced at a special tannery that services only a few shops in Bologna, Italy. I’ve seen that style twice before, and they’re very expensive. The hat she wore had a large brim, was made of wool, and was also of foreign make. The bullet holes were fired from a gun made by Richard Gatling