Martin Gately presents us here with another “classic” Harry Dickson adventure from the late 1930s. Essayist Maxim Jakubowski describes the best of Harry Dickson as “an unholy mix of Louis Feuillade's classic silent serials, Fritz Lang expressionist imagery and Indiana Jones.” This is precisely what is embodied here in the story entitled...

 

Martin Gately: The Columbia Road Blasphemy

 

 

The sky seemed to hang oppressively low over Baker Street on this particular late September afternoon. Storm clouds, like great slabs of dark slate, inched their way westwards towards the red brick edifice of Marylebone Station. Tom Wills watched the angry firmament and wished that he were anywhere but London. Run-of-the-mill cases had kept Harry Dickson and he confined to the capital all through the summer months. There had been no time at all for a holiday. He had hoped for a trip to Cornwall—exploring the ruins of King Arthur’s castle at Tintagel appealed to him—possibly combined with a leisurely investigation of the sightings of the Helford Owl Man. But it was not to be. No sooner had they solved the rather mundane Shoreditch forgery case, than the mysterious appearance of a ghostly polar bear at The Tower of London had to be dealt with. There had been little respite during the course of September. The grave robberies in the East End had started, and Harry Dickson and Tom had been placed on a substantial retainer by Rabbi Abraham Coriell to find out who had stolen the corpse of his recently deceased son, Ephraim, from the Jewish cemetery on Columbia Road. Locals blamed an anti-semitic bodysnatching gang called The Burkers—the two detectives worked long and hard on this case, but couldn’t find any real evidence that The Burkers even existed outside the realm of neighborhood gossip.

Tom turned from the rain-streaked window and observed that Harry Dickson was sitting in his favorite chair, filling his beloved meerschaum pipe with tobacco.

“Don’t worry, Tom. We’ll find time for a vacation soon enough. How about the Balearics, or North Africa?” said Harry Dickson.

Tom was quite accustomed to Dickson breaking in on his thoughts like this. He had ceased to show much surprise at the great detective’s deductive powers a couple of years ago or so.

“I like the sound of North Africa. But if we don’t end up solving a case involving a mummy’s curse, the trip will be one heck of a disappointment…” said Tom, a little too unenthusiastically. It seemed to him that there was going to be a lot more work to do on the Columbia Road case before they could leave London in all good conscience. Rabbi Coriell was possibly even more distraught at the theft of his son’s corpse than he had been by the young man’s death. Tonight, Harry Dickson and Tom would doubtless be back at the graveyard—staking it out in the rather forlorn hope that the grave-robbers would return to the same cemetery, and be within sight or earshot of the improvised lookout hide they had constructed. It occurred to Tom that the long evening and night ahead might be rather more pleasant if they took along a couple of flasks—one filled with strong black coffee and the other with soup. Previously, they had taken along hip flasks filled with cheap Spanish brandy, and while taking a few swigs had warmed him a little, it had been something of a struggle to stay awake into the early hours.

Tom glanced out of the window once more, having heard the approach of a motor vehicle. A cab had pulled up outside, and two men got out of it. Tom did his best to imitate the action of his mentor’s deductive faculties—while he had some faith in his own abilities, the great detective was always encouraging him; as if to intimate that one day the mantle of becoming London’s premier consulting detective would fall upon him. The two men were likely to be father and son—their hair was a similar brown hue, albeit the older man’s was shot through with grey, and though it was difficult to tell from above, their noses appeared to be a similar shape. They had no luggage so they had not travelled from nearby Marylebone Station, and, therefore, probably not from any other London station. Their typical London attire marked them out as residents of the capital. The style of the older man’s collar and waistcoat indicated that he was possibly a member of the legal profession, and while he was plainly too young to be a judge, it seemed quite possible that he was a senior barrister—a King’s Counsel.

Tom saw that the older man was paying for the cab fare, and impulsively lifted the window sash to see if he could observe or hear the amount that was being paid. The older man produced from his wallet a ‘ten bob’ note and received back from the driver an amount in change which would tally with a journey from Grays Inn Road or The Strand—either of which would be closely in the vicinity of the great nests of Barristers’ Chambers within Grays Inn and the Temple. The younger man walked to the door somewhat listlessly, making Tom wonder if he was recovering from a tropical illness. And a moment later the doorbell rang. Tom resumed his seat and lit a cigarette while waiting for the housekeeper to bring the visitors up to their apartments.

“Ah, new clients,” said Harry Dickson. “If they knew the little success we’re having with the Columbia Road matter, they might’ve been tempted to take their business a little way along Baker Street to a different consulting detective.”

“Perhaps they are aware that our fixed fees are slightly cheaper,” said Tom.

The housekeeper brought in the two men and Harry Dickson bade them sit down by the roaring hearth and make themselves comfortable. The housekeeper scurried away with instructions to make a fresh pot of Earl Grey.

“Sir,” said Harry Dickson, addressing the older man, “please tell me your name and define for me in the most precise terms what your problem is—for all I know, at present, is that you are King’s Counsel in the Temple with a criminal law practice that take up much of your time, and that your son appears to be suffering from a severe case of insomnia and exhaustion.”

“Mr. Dickson, your deductive powers are every bit as impressive as I had been led to believe by my contacts at Scotland Yard. I am Sir Reginald Clements, K.C., a criminal prosecution barrister, and this is my son Alexander.”

The young man squirmed somewhat at this introduction, and Tom anticipated that the problem that was about to be aired was something that would cause Alexander Clements some great personal embarrassment.

“My son has recently taken up residence in an apartment in the Temple. He has not long since come down from Oxford and is looking for a place as a pupil barrister. He is much troubled by nocturnal visitors who... disturb his sleep,” said Sir Reginald.

“Visitors?” said Harry Dickson.

“Women. Three women enter my son’s bedroom at night and, ah, interfere with him,” said Sir Reginald.

“They are not ordinary women,” said Alexander Clements. “They are demons out of hell; temptresses with flaming eyes and small horns at their temples. They are also naked and ravishingly beautiful,” he added, uncomfortably. “Yesterday, I went to the British Library on Great Russell Street and perused the shelves on mythology and the supernatural that are available to the general public. It took less than half an hour of study to identify the creatures who have chosen the manifest themselves to me—they are succubi!”

“What precisely do these female demons get up to during their manifestations in your rooms?” asked the American Detective.

“Two of them engage in a strange ritual: piling up my possessions and objects from drawers into a great heap or pyramid, while the third sits astride me—pinning me down. She presses down on my chest... limiting my breathing until I no longer have the strength to resist her. Then she commences to seduce me. Once she has sated herself, and thoroughly had her way, one of her ‘sisters’ exchanges place with her—and the former’s function switches to working on increasing the size of the pyramid of objects. And finally, the last of the ‘sisters’ mounts me—it is all beyond reason, desire, and mortal endurance,” said Alexander Clements.

“And how often have the she-demons appeared to you?” asked Harry Dickson

“I believe it has been five times in the last two weeks,” said the younger Clements.

“Surely, Mr. Dickson you do not entertain the idea that these women are supernatural in nature,” said Sir Reginald.

“I have long since set aside the aphorism that ‘nothing unreal exists’—too many times have the resolutions to my cases involved the supernatural or the unearthly. But the most extraordinary explanation is not always the correct one. Before we can conclude that these women are demons, we must first discount the mundane and the rational,” said Dickson.

“What do you mean?” said Alexander Clements. “What other possible explanation could there be?”

“I wonder if you have ever heard the term ‘hag-ridden’—there is a phenomenon which disrupts sleep, causes nocturnal rest to be unrefreshing, and leaves the sufferer with the impression that a witch-like creature has been sitting on his chest. And this is mere postulation... but is it not possible that in a young man with a strong interest in the opposite sex, the hag is swapped for a beautiful woman?” said Dickson.

“In which case, doesn’t Sir Reginald need to take his son to an expert on sleep disturbance rather than a consulting detective?” asked Tom.

“I rule nothing out at this stage, Tom,” said the young detective’s mentor. “But I am more than aware that you and I are already engaged on a case upon which we are making very little progress. I am loath to stretch our resources any further. I suggest that your son sleeps elsewhere for the time being. At your family home, Sir Reginald, would be ideal. With loved ones and servants close at hand and your own general practitioner made aware of the situation.

“Mr. Dickson, I implore you to do more for my son than that. At least visit his apartment. You may be missing vital clues and insights that are not apparent to you as you cogitate on the matter confined to you Baker Street rooms,” said Sir Reginald.

“Unfortunately, I cannot be spared from the Columbia Road matter. But, my assistant Tom Wills is fully conversant with my methods, and I trust that he will be more than capable of dealing with this issue. My suggestion is that your son and Tom go immediately to the Temple apartment so that Tom can review every aspect of this case in situ. In the event that the succubi appear again tonight, I would like Tom to spend the night alone in the apartment. Furthermore, I would like him to sleep in young Mr. Clements bed; pretend to be him, so to speak, in every way possible.”

Tom nodded. The thought of dealing with a case on his own filled him with some trepidation, but he was up for the challenge. Besides, he would be sleeping in a bed tonight instead of squatting in an improvised canvas hide in a cold and windy London cemetery. For a second, he felt as if he was perhaps shirking his duty, but Harry Dickson had specifically asked him to undertake the assignment. And Dickson himself had not ruled out the possibility of the supernatural in this case, so there was still danger, albeit rather hypothetical and unlikely. Nevertheless, Tom steadfastly refused to prejudge the matter. There might yet be evidence within the Temple apartment which indicated the existence of the succubi.

Mrs. Benvie the housekeeper eased open the door, brought in the tray of Earl Grey tea and set it down on the octagonal cherry wood table. Tom excused himself from the room for a moment while he collected certain items from his own room; he was impatient to be off with young Clements to the Temple so that the investigation proper could commence.

Alexander Clements and Tom alighted from a cab in the Strand and then walked through the medieval gateway into the environs of the Temple. Immediately in front of them was Middle Temple Church, a reminder that this part of London had once been the province of the Knights Templar. They walked along the narrow gaslit passageways past many barristers’ chambers—immediately recognizable since the names of the incumbent lawyers were painted in black in a neat copperplate script, with the head of chambers at the top and the other barristers in descending order of seniority until the name of the Chief Clerk is given. Tom had heard that Chief Clerks took a percentage of the earnings of all barristers within their ‘set’—which meant, in practice, that they could be richer than the men they served. Tom could not imagine a job where he was tied to a desk slaving over a ledger and processing fee notes.

Of course, not all of the rooms were barristers’ offices, some were residences. Finally, the two young men arrived at an alleyway just off Fountain Court. Here was the anonymous arched doorway which led up to Alexander Clements’ apartment.

Tom immediately noticed some damage to the wall immediately to the right of the door, as if a metal plaque had been removed.

“Who had these rooms before you Mr. Clements?” asked Tom. “It looks as if one of those brass name plates that some professionals use has been removed. It couldn’t be a barrister—they always have their names painted by the door.”

“You are quite right, Mr. Wills. The previous occupant was the late Professor Harris, a patent attorney and chartered physicist, as I recall,” said Alexander Clements.

They ascended the stairs and Clements unlocked the door into the nicely appointed rooms. While the state of décor and furnishing was good, the apartment was not spacious, and in a less salubrious part of town it might’ve been called a bedsit-cum-office. There was a sofa and easy chair near the hearth, a writing desk and small filing cabinet and a bed, partially concealed by a folding oriental screen, in an alcove not far from the window.

“You mentioned that the she-demons piled up your possessions. Have you tidied them away yourself?” asked Tom.

“Actually, this time my char woman did it. I was getting fed up with the whole process,” said Clements.

“There’s an odd smell in here too,” said Tom. “A sort of cross between nail polish remover and petrol.”

“It’s the smell that those things give off—the she-demons. They exude it. Perhaps it is their equivalent of brimstone,” said Clements.

They spent another twenty minutes or so going over every aspect of the manifestation of the succubi, and then Tom was left alone in the apartment. He didn’t plan to retire for several hours, so he made his way into the little kitchenette and prepared some hot chocolate. Consuming it did little to steady his nerves, although he knew that the she-demons—whatever they really were—were unlikely to appear until he was fast asleep in bed. His plan was to go to bed wearing Alexander Clements’ pajamas, and feign sleep for as long as possible. There were a few preparations that he wanted to make in advance of that. He undertook all his actions stealthily and surreptitiously, for he could not be sure that he was not under observation by persons or entities unknown.

Tom removed from the bedside bookshelf a copy of Dickens’ Martin Chuzzlewit, but could not settle to read it. Eventually, he decided that he might as well get ready for bed and commence his pretence. He turned out the lights and got into bed. He lay under the bedclothes on his stomach with his face to the wall. He controlled his breathing until it became slow and regular. His mind was very alert. It was odd to have to keep so very still when adrenaline was surging through his body. After the first hour, this heightened level of excitement gradually abated. Tom was left with the feeling that he was just wasting his time, or, in his more optimistic moments, he felt that it might take several nights of watchfulness before the she-demons reappeared. After all, they only manifested themselves to Alexander Clements five times in the last couple of weeks. And he also found himself thinking about Harry Dickson, alone in the hide at Columbia Road Cemetery. What if tonight, of all nights, the Burkers appeared and he was taken by surprise. Shouldn’t he really be there watching the American’s back? Tom was just about to abandon his vigil when a strange odor began to permeate the room. It was an odor something like nail polish remover.

There was a murmur, like women talking in hushed and conspiratorial tones. There was the sound of drawers being carefully opened and shut. There was the sound of items being placed very gently upon the rug. Tom suddenly realized that he was very afraid. The feeling had crept up on him so gradually that he had barely noticed it. He knew now what it was like to be a coward, because he dare not even slowly turn his head to see the succubi. And God, there was hardly any breathable air in this room—just that thick cloying acetone stench, that was starting to make his eyes and nose smart. Then he felt the bedclothes being pulled back, and strong hands maneuvered him so that he was on his back. He risked cracking open his eyelids just a slit, and was amazed by what he saw. Perhaps he should not have been, for the succubus was much as Alexander Clements had described her. The nude she-demon clambered on top and straddled him. Placing her weight squarely on top of his lower abdomen and grinding her loins roughly and provocatively against him. At the same time she pushed down on Tom’s sternum with all her considerable strength; this made it very difficult for him to breathe, and at the same time seemed to have the effect of draining away his will to resist her seduction.

The bedsprings creaked noisily due to the rhythmic movement of the succubus, and Tom surrendered to that most basic of male instincts: sexual arousal. He was almost hypnotized by the sight of her breasts, as they rose and fell with each powerful undulation of her hips. Tom knew little of the female response to stimulation, but he could see that the she-demon’s nipples had become protuberant fleshy cylinders, almost as long as cigarette stubs. She brought Tom’s hand up to her left breast and held it there, then ceased to grind against him while she slipped her other hand downwards and fumbled in his pajama pants. The temptation to continue with this parody of lovemaking was almost overwhelming. Tom blocked out the mindless craving to rut with this creature, and reasserted his identity, his purpose. He was a detective, a man with a client to protect and a job to do. It had all been clear earlier, when there had been no personal physical temptation. He had planned for this moment and planned well.

Tom’s free hand shot under the pillow and reappeared holding a pair of handcuffs. He hooked one of the open cuffs over the she-demon’s wrist and snapped it shut. Just as quickly, he locked the other around the bed’s brass bedstead. The succubus was now secured to the bed. He had deliberately not brought the key with him. He had her.

Utterly horrified, she leapt off the bed and tugged futilely at the handcuffs. Only then did Tom realize that the she-demon’s static, expressionless face was a mask. The ‘horns’ at her temples doubled as clips to hold it in place. Instinctively, Tom pulled away the mask—the real face beneath was less placid than the India rubber facsimile—twisted with fury, snarling, but still lustful and wanton.

“I’ve found it!” said a muffled female voice.

Tom whirled in an effort to locate the speaker. His thought processes were fogged by the heavy cloud of ether in the room. Momentarily, he looked into the back of the mask he was holding. There was a charcoal impregnated filter inside it for the nose and mouth. He put the mask to his own face and breathed in. Only then was he able to concentrate on what the other succubi were doing; one of them was holding a small silver-colored box as if in triumph. Yes, they had found what they had been searching for these long nights.

“He’s got me! The boy’s cuffed me hand,” said Tom’s victim.

“Just leave her,” rasped one of the succubi from behind her false face. “We’ve got what the Burkers were after!”

With an effort akin to shoveling coal, Tom’s mind tried to access his recollection of where he had concealed his Webley .450 revolver. But he had already inhaled too much ether. He slumped onto the floor, and not long afterwards the naked, handcuffed woman dropped onto the carpet beside him.

Tom was awakened by the sound of a sash window being raised, seemingly somewhere far, far above his head. And talking of his head, it felt as if someone had been pummeling his skull with an unmuffled jackhammer. He sat up very slowly and then realized that Harry Dickson’s beaming face was looking down at him from over by the window.

“That’s pretty good work, Tom,” said Dickson. “You captured a demon right out hell, even though you must’ve been heavily intoxicated by the ether.”

A freshening breeze wafted in through the open window; it dissipated the sickening reek of diethyl ether, but brought with it the unmistakable smell of the nearby Thames, mixed with the ubiquitous odor of London: soot and chimney smoke.

Tom turned his attention to the ‘she-demon’. Ever the gentleman, Harry Dickson had covered the woman’s nakedness with a blanket. Still unconscious from the ether, she snored softly, her right arm was still attached to the brass bedstead by the handcuffs and looked like it was raised it some weird greeting.

“The succubi were working for the Burkers,” said Tom. “They were looking for something that had been very well concealed by the former occupant of these rooms, Professor Harris—a patent attorney and physicist. It looked to be a small silver box, possibly electrical.”

“That is very interesting indeed,” said the American. “My vigil last night at the Columbia Road Cemetery resulting in nothing but chilled bones, but by coming here you seem to have cracked the case. I had some suspicions, but nothing concrete, and you know how I hate jumping to conclusions.”

“What were your suspicions?” asked Tom.

“Three obviously beautiful and promiscuous women working together put me in mind of the ‘Daughters of Lilith’ trapeze act in the now defunct Broxtowe’s Travelling Circus. When Old Man Broxtowe’s sons embezzled the business out from under him, most of the performers went their separate ways. But the ‘Daughters’ diversified into cat burglary and housebreaking; finally, they were reduced to becoming common Kings Cross prostitutes. It looks to me as if the Burkers rescued them from that fate and put them to work. Although what they wanted with the device they retrieved from these rooms I could not begin to guess.”

Tom suddenly became aware the succubus had stirred, and was now lying quietly listening to their conversation.

“Well? You’re working for the Burkers... what do they want with that silver box?” demanded Tom.

“You’ll get nothing out of me, you great pair of sissies,” spat the she-demon.

 

In an electrical workshop concealed behind a florist’s shop on Columbia Road, Black Eyed Jack—the leader of the Burkers—watched as Professor Grindell Matthews applied electrodes to the temples of the corpse of Ephraim Coriell. The electrodes were connected to long wires which ran to the silver box which the Daughters of Lilith had recovered from Alexander Clements’ apartment. This was the second demonstration of the functioning of the box. It had worked so well the first time that Black Eyed Jack had scarcely been able to believe his eyes or ears.

“His consciousness is restored again,” said Grindell Matthews.

“Tell me again, Ephraim,” said the leader of the Burkers. “You worked in the Goldstein Diamond Merchants in Hatton Garden—what is the combination of the main jewel storage safe?”

Ephraim Coriell commenced to mouth the answer. As before, it took a while for his necrotized vocal chords to engage and make coherent sound.

“Twelve, twenty-nine, nineteen, six, thirteen,” said the corpse.

“The same answer as last time. There can be no doubt that sufficient of his cognitive function has been regenerated to allow truthful, accurate recall,” said the Professor.

“It is unbelievable—the answers I need from the lips of a deadman!” exclaimed Black Eyed Jack. “Now show me how you are getting on with my little army...”

They passed through the workshop and out into a yard, which fortunately was not overlooked by any of the surrounding buildings. In this yard, four reanimated corpses jerkily staggered backwards and forwards. Each corpse wore an electrical chest-plate topped with an aerial, which provided the nerve impulses that made the dead men move. These impulses were being broadcast from a cabinet sized radio transmitter in the corner of the yard where the controls were being manipulated by the two remaining Daughters of Lilith.

“We’re getting the hang of it, but we need to start practicing with the weapons soon,” said the girl.

“Get used to it quick!” ordered Black Eyed Jack. “The raid is in two days.”

 

Once Harry Dickson discovered that the silver box was listed in Professor Harris’ records as The Lazarus Device, his deductions on the Burkers’ target and purpose flowed as swiftly as a spring tide. Two days later, Harry Dickson and Tom Wills stepped out from their places of concealment in a Hatton Garden side-alley. As they did so, they removed from beneath their long coats their weapons—the pair were both armed with Browning Automatic Rifles. The strange, staggering scarecrow figures of the electrically-powered zombies brought a terrifying surreality to the diamond district this dreary September morning; even more so since the zombies were armed with sawn-off shot guns.

“Aim for those electrical chest-plates,” commanded the American, and with that they both commenced shooting.

A staccato burst of orange fire from Tom’s muzzle caught one of the zombies in the forehead—ripping open his skull. Tom adjusted his aim and shot lower this time. But the bullets just caromed off the metal plate and struck an adjacent jeweler’s window. Now the zombie raised its sawn-off shotgun and Tom ducked for cover behind a parked car. There was a loud report, and Tom’s cover was liberally peppered with buckshot.

Harry Dickson blasted away at the zombie’s knees until they exploded in crimson gouts, and the reanimated corpse fell to the pavement—limbs jerking like an epileptic’s during a seizure. Then Harry too was forced to take cover from the barrage of shotgun blasts. After a few moments, the shooting ceased and the remaining ragged corpses started to file into the premises of the Goldstein Diamond Merchants by means of smashing in the door.

Harry gestured to Tom to stay hidden, as in the distance a canvas-backed lorry started to reverse slowly down Hatton Garden. It was obvious why—the zombies were under direct radio control from someone in sight of the diamond merchants. But at that distance, they could not be sure if the two detectives had been killed by the shotgun fire. Doubtless the plan was to load the bags of gems—both cut and uncut—directly into the vehicle.

A man with dark eyes, a black beard and long unkempt hair jumped down from out of the back of the lorry. He wore a tight fitting black overall and wielded a Mauser automatic pistol.

“Drop it, I say!” barked Harry Dickson.

And when the dark eyed man moved to draw a bead on Harry, both of the detectives opened fire with their automatic rifles—the frangible bullets cutting the man to pieces.

At that moment, the zombies re-emerged from the diamond merchant’s—a couple of them still clumsily trying to reload their weapons.

“Spray the lorry,” said Dickson, calmly. “Whoever is controlling those things is in there.”

They blazed away until their magazines were both empty. At this point the zombies stopped moving. A couple froze like statues and the others lost equilibrium and fell over. Then the two men walked forward to inspect their handiwork. As they did so, a beautiful long-legged girl dressed like a trapeze artist jumped down from the lorry’s cab and sprinted away. Tom started to reload his rifle, but Harry shook his head.

“Let her go… I suspect we have already killed their leader,” said the great detective.

Inside the lorry, a girl lay dead—her face eaten away by the impact of heavy caliber bullets. She too wore the fringed leotard of a circus performer, the flesh beneath the shredded fabric was cratered with gaping wounds. The radio control cabinet was next her, but lying on the floor of the cab was a young man. A young man, miraculously untouched by the bullets; a small silver box was attached to his skull via a series of wires.

“Twelve, twenty-nine, nineteen, six, thirteen,” he said.

“Good Lord! It’s Ephraim Coriell!” exclaimed Tom.

“Yes, and he’s alive—after a fashion, anyway,” said Harry. “We had sought to return him to his father for reburial, but instead we return him to his father’s care. Who can say how long this artificial life will last... I hope for sometime; since one thing is for sure: no father should have to bury his own son.”

Tom contemplated for a moment the good sense of the deceased patent attorney, Professor Harris—an invention so potentially disruptive of the natural order of things had come into his possession that he had hidden it; suppressed it. The silver box—The Lazarus Device, had perhaps been decades in development. The inventor had wanted it back, and that had cost Harris his life. Tom doubted if the inventor had been the man killed at Hatton Garden today. He was still out there, and God knows what he would do next.

 

Professor Grindell Matthews sat down at his drawing board and smiled secretively to himself. Perfecting his Death Ray was going to be surprisingly simple. He’d given up working on it years ago, but now he had it all worked out. The world would never be able to mock him again.