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Old 10-27-2022, 07:07 PM   #30 (permalink)
Trollheart
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III: The End of the Chase

Even with five men on his trail, I never realised how hard it could be to catch a man of such agility and nimbleness. As an acrobat, Deschamps – or, as I should call him, Baudelaire – leaped obstacles which we had to run around or climb over. Some of which, I should also point out, were pushed in our way as the killer made his escape. It seemed the clown had been right: everyone here was under Baudelaire's spell. Of course, there surely also came into play that distrust and dislike of the law that is innate in these people, but whatever their motivation, their efforts slowed us down and stymied us, threatening to rob us of our prey.

As I ran, two very large women approached me and, seemingly accidentally, blocked my way. As I moved past them, they moved with me, tittering in apparent confusion or embarrassment as we matched move for move, until finally my urgency outfought my natural instincts as a gentleman, and I pushed them aside. It occurred to me as I left them behind that there was something odd about these women other than their size, then I remembered the beards. A shot rang out, but I had no idea whence it had come, and continued running.

A good distance ahead of me, Sherlock Holmes had had his progress checked as a man led a huge grey elephant across his path, and my friend was forced to wait till the animal had passed. To the left I saw Lestrade trying to fight off the attentions of a brace of clowns, who were hitting him with water balloons and honking little horns, one throwing a bucket of water over the detective, to his intense annoyance. Off to the right, the constable with the broken wrist was staring up at a man on stilts like a midget who fears being crushed by a giant, and everywhere rang out the merry circus music, and people ran hither and yon.

In other circumstances the scene would have been a most amusing one, but all these delays and barriers and distractions had allowed our quarry to make it to the main circus tent, into which he disappeared. Having shaken off two very determined dwarfs, who were trying to hang on to my legs and bring me down, I joined Holmes inside the huge marquee. A moment later Lestrade puffed up beside us.

“I hate circuses!” he growled, gasping for breath. “One of those lunatics tried to set a monkey on me. Had to shoot the damned thing!”

Holmes was looking up, and we followed his gaze as we watched Baudelaire, the Yukon Terror, scale a ladder towards a tightrope stretched at least a hundred feet above, his movements as sure and as rapid as the very primate which Lestrade had had to put down. Holmes made for the rope, but I held him back.

“No, Holmes! He is a professional acrobat!” I warned him. “He can attain the tightrope faster than you ever could, then all he need do is cut the ladder and you would plunge to your death.”

My friend nodded.

“You see the logic of the situation, Watson,” he said, “and you prevent me from acting against my own better judgement. But by God, I'll not lose him – good God!”

His exclamation of horror was repeated by both of us, and indeed the two constables, who had now joined us, all five of us in time to see Baudelaire reach the tightrope, climb to the platform where a man, preparing to launch himself on the trapeze, stared at the newcomer in astonishment. There was a brief struggle, moments only, and the man pitched down towards the floor of the tent with a terrible cry. We rushed forward, as with a snarl of triumph, the Canadian launched himself into the air, using the trapeze to fly halfway across the space. He then let go, but as he fell he executed four perfect loops, and landed unhurt on the ground, like a cat. He was out the entrance and gone before we could gather our wits.

We stared at the dead man on the ground, one of Baudelaire's companions, a fellow performer, whom he had killed without a second thought, merely to gain the advantage on us. Holmes was the first to spring into action. We caught sight of the acrobat tumbling among some further tents, behind which a line of cages stretched.

“He's heading for the animal enclosure!” shouted Holmes, a look of horror on his face. “The fool!”


Indeed, as we caught up with the man and could see him more clearly, he was no longer tumbling and cartwheeling, but running, with a look on his face carved out of pure terror. I could not imagine how that fear could been engendered by the sight of Holmes, myself and the long arm of the English law. As we drew nearer it became evident that Baudelaire was mouthing something, and while we initially believed he was taunting us, it was a simple matter to see this was not the case. His demeanour had changed. From an arrogant, desperate, cold-hearted murderer on the run he had been transformed into a frightened man, a man so terrified that it seemed he didn't even know where he was. His mouth, open in a grimace of terror, seemed to frame the word “No!”

“What's wrong with the man?” called Lestrade. “I thought he was a cold-blooded killer! Can three policemen and your good selves have him screaming so?”

The wails came back to us on the wind as the Canadian vanished between the cages. He was babbling in his own language now.

Non! Mon chere! Tu est mort! Mort! Je t'ai tue! Tu est mort! Mere de Dieu!

Even I, with my poor smattering of French, recognised one word in this stream of invective.

Mort.

Dead.

As we followed him – we noticed that the circus folk were no longer impeding us; perhaps the death of the trapeze artist at the hands of their erstwhile colleague had shown them the error of their ways, or perhaps they saw the man who had dominated and intimidated them all for so long was finally unable to cow them – we saw him vanish between the cages.


“He's asking for trouble!” rumbled a clown with a very serious face beneath the happy makeup. “Nobody goes near the lions at feeding time.”

“Watson,” said Holmes to me as we entered the enclosure, Nilsson now having joined us and leading the way cautiously, “don't you get the distinct feeling that M. Baudelaire does not wish to go where his feet are taking him? That something is forcing him, driving him in that direction?”

I had to admit, the look of horror on the killer's face, and the cries in French he made seemed to back this theory up. It was as if he was running from someone – or something – not just us. Holmes gave me a grim smile I did not much care for.

Just then, two dwarfs and a slim woman in a spangly costume collided with the man on stilts, who fell over, causing much consternation. I rushed to his aid, and could determine at once that he had a shattered elbow. I stayed with him and did what I could for the man as the others raced on.

Suddenly, a piercing, soul-rending shriek tore the evening air. It was like the cry of a thousand damned souls, all screaming out at once.


By the time I had finished my ministrations, and joined the others, it was all over.

Baudelaire lay on his back, his arms, legs, back and head torn open, blood and intestines leaking out of his shattered, ripped body, which looked like someone had put it through one of those new machines they have in factories for stripping cotton. He was quite dead.

“What – what happened?” I gasped as I caught up.

One of Lestrade's constables was heaving up his dinner into the grass off to the side. The other two were pale as sheets. The inspector pointed at the cage.

“Damnedest thing I ever saw,” he told me, pointing at one of the cages. “The fellow had a chance to make a clean break, but instead came this way, shouting and screaming, as if the very devil were at his heels. He backed up against that cage, seemingly oblivious to its occupant. He was babbling something in French I think – Mr. Holmes will tell you; his grasp of the language is somewhat better than mine, which is limited to “oui” and “non” and “monsieur” - and was looking away from the cage. Once the hungry lion reached through the bars it was all up with him. We did our best, but nobody was willing to go too close to those slashing claws and teeth. Mr. Nilsson here ran for the trainer, but by the time he got here it was too late.”

I looked at the mangled corpse crumpled on the ground. So badly clawed, torn and chewed was it that had it been come upon after the fact, there would have been little to no chance of identification. The lion's paw had evidently punched in the back of Baudelaire's skull and come out through his face, and there was little enough of the head left to even qualify as one. Lestrade suddenly snapped at his subordinates.

“Get those people back! You too, Osbourne! You'll see worse in your career, my lad, let me tell you. Learn to deal with it, or you may find you're not cut out for the police. Now get to it!!”

Holmes shook his head sadly.

“A fitting end, perhaps, for the Yukon Terror,” he declared. Lestrade frowned at him.

“You really think this is him?” He seemed dubious. “Why, those crimes were committed nearly ten years ago, Mr. Holmes. What would a Canadian murderer be doing working in a circus in England?”

Holmes covered his mouth and nose, and turned away. I did the same. The stench was somewhat overpowering. A pall of death hung heavy over the circus, a dread contrast to the brightly-coloured tents and the now-doleful clowns and acrobats who wandered about in shock. Somewhere, a woman was screaming, while a tiger in the adjacent cage let it be known in no uncertain terms that the death of one human was no excuse to deprive it of its meal.

The four-wheeler which had taken four constables and one inspector to the circus made a slow, morose journey back as the remaining three carried their fallen comrade back to the station. They took with them word of the capture, and subsequent death by mauling, of the notorious Canadian killer.

“I shall of course explain all, Inspector,” Holmes promised. “But first I need a word with our friend, Mr. Nilsson.”



Holmes returned a few minutes later carrying a small box, and then hailed a cab. We found ourselves back in Baker Street, but there was no time to relax. Holmes merely looked in to take his pipe and mine, and a pound of tobacco, and then directed the cabby onward.

“Where are we going now, Holmes?” I asked, a little petulantly. It had been a long day, and I was tired, somewhat heartsick at the carnage I had witnessed, and nursing a very healthy appetite. Such things did not seem to concern Holmes.

“We return,” he announced, “to the scene of the crime!”
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