The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen Read online

  "Good one, Nemo. It really helps when you're so bloody mysterious," Skinner said. "What is it?"

  "The future, gentlemen. The future."

  "I believe it is an unorthodox design of an automobile," Mina said. "I notice several fundamental similarities to the contraptions currently being marketed by Karl Benz in Germany and Henry Ford in America."

  Nemo regarded this as somewhat of an affront. Although Karl Benz was indeed selling automobiles — and would probably become the most successful manufacturer of the vehicles within a year or two — Ford had yet to do more than build a prototype. If Ford didn't begin a marketing program soon, Nemo doubted the man's work would ever amount to anything.

  The captain, a consummate designer and inventor in his own right, had researched the capabilities of every model in the world to date and found them all wanting, so he had created his own design. He was proud of the innovations his vehicle represented, but he did not intend to share them with other money-hungry industrialists.

  Nemo stepped up to the side of the muscular automobile. Its steam exhaust vents and swirling lines were marked out in elegant Hindu style, functionality with a veneer of ornateness. Though spattered with the dirt and soot of London's streets, the metallic adornments showed gleaming gold, silver, and chrome over colorful alloy body plates. The vehicle's six wheels would allow it to drive overland as well as down the smoothest streets.

  A tough-looking older man stepped away from the car and saluted Nemo. "Waiting for you, Captain. Ready to go." He opened the side hatch and bade them enter.

  Nemo nodded politely to the man and introduced him. "This is my first mate."

  "Call me Ishmael," said the old man.

  Curious, Skinner clambered into the dry car then reached out his gloved hand to help Mina in, but she pointedly entered without his help. "I wouldn't want you to smear your makeup."

  "What, Missy? You were intending to give me a little kiss? Aheh!"

  "I meant to smear it with my knuckles, not my lips."

  Nemo entered the car, and Quatermain came last, taking a final wary glance at the street. From the far corner, he once again saw the suspicious looking young man lurking on a sheltered stoop, still watching them. Quatermain frowned, then ignored the observer who was so painfully obvious about being unobtrusive. "If the Fantom hires only amateurs like that, then we don't have much to worry about," he muttered.

  The vehicle's engine rumbled loudly, then the six tires began to turn, moving them at increasing speed along the streets. "Our destinations not more'n a mile away," Ishmael said. "Hang on."

  "What a cheerful fellow," said Skinner.

  Uncomfortably silent, Quatermain, Nemo, and Mina sat in the car.

  The invisible man turned to Quatermain. "So how did M get you?"

  "It's none of your business. For a thief you certainly talk a lot. No wonder you were caught."

  Skinner snickered. "Oh, I see! Found something to hold over you. Saucy daguerreotypes? I've heard that jaded travelers find the long-limbed boys of North Africa a delicious respite—"

  "Do shut up."

  Skinner turned back to Mina, grinning behind his face paint. "Ah, that's nothing compared to how the League got me, eh Ms. Harker? Hell! Aheh!"

  "A sordid business theme is no need to relate, so as Mr. Quatermain said, do shut up." Her mouth formed a tight rosebud of annoyance. "I have no wish to revisit it."

  Now the invisible man seemed to be pouting, though it was difficult to tell behind his greasepaint and dark glasses. "Just making conversation, Ma'am, and Quatermain. Hold onto your pith helmet. If we're all supposed to work together, and risk our lives together, what's wrong with a little healthy curiosity?"

  Nemo brooded, looking at the others with intense dark eyes. "The thief's question was perfecdy acceptable, Mr. Quatermain. Why are you here?"

  "I have been pressed into service to resolve a situation in which you are all participants," Quatermain said, which answered nothing at all.

  "A little testy, Mr. Q," said Mina.

  "Please call me by my full name, Mrs. Harker. Let us leave the mysterious single letters to our friend M, all right? Besides, I doubt if a woman would measure danger the way that I do."

  Mina retorted, "And I imagine you with quite the library, Mr. Quatermain. All those books you must have read — merely by looking at their covers…?"

  The confines of Nemo's car seemed to be oppressively close. Quatermain felt defensive. "It is not an assessment I make without basis. I've had women along on past exploits, and I've found them to be either a nuisance or outright trouble. At best, they are a distraction."

  "Oh?" Mina said. "Do I distract you?"

  "My dear girl, I've buried two wives and many lovers. And I'm in no hurry for more of either."

  "Well, aheh, you can send them my way—" the invisible man said, leaning forward.

  "Skinner, shut up," Quatermain and Mina rang out simultaneously.

  Nemo sat stock-still, his back rigid in the seat, as if he heard nothing of the silly quarrels.

  Ishmael brought the car to a gliding halt, and the engine puttered and hissed. "Here we are, Captain. Tiger Bay, East of Limehouse."

  Only too happy to be out of the odd looking car, and the company it contained, Quatermain fumbled with the latch and eventually figured out how to operate the door. He stepped out and took a deep breath of the damp air as mist rolled in after the rain. He could smell the mud of the river and fish from the markets. Warehouses large and small lined the Thames bank. Water lapped eerily against the nearby docks,

  Nemo emerged and waited for Mina and Skinner to join him. They all stood together in the street.

  "Shall I wait, Captain?" Ishmael called from the driver's compartment.

  Nemo's eyes narrowed beneath his turban. "No, Ishmael. Bring my Lady to me."

  The first mate nodded and drove away. The evening fog had already begun to thicken, and people were hurrying home for the night.

  Ignoring the invisible thief, Mina primly touched her hair, regained her composure, and looked about at the buildings. "Yes, this is the place." She pointed a chalky pale hand toward an ominous house that spoke of ancient, moldering wealth.

  As Thames fog rolled in, the building seemed to groan with menace and the weight of years of unforgiven sins. Mina looked far from happy.

  "That's where we will find Mr. Dorian Gray."

  SEVEN

  London, Dorian Gray's Residence

  The door of Dorian Gray's house was a massive wooden barricade with ornate panels and a heavy brass knocker. The invisible man hung back as the other League members approached, not out of fear but from lack of initiative; Mina Harker hesitated for an entirely different reason.

  Quatermain looked at Nemo, but the dark captain simply stared implacably, as if the door would have the good sense to open by itself. It was left to the old adventurer to step up to the entrance, grasp the handle of the ostentatious knocker, and rap hard several times. It sounded like a hammer battering a piece of thick hull plating.

  After the resounding echoes died away, Quatermain waited, staring at the door instead of his fellow recruits. Finally he heard soft, delicate footsteps padding like a lion approaching prey. The door opened to reveal a suave man shrouded in shadows and lingering sweet tobacco smoke. "Hello?"

  Quatermain squared his shoulders, facing him. They were of the same height, but the other man seemed much more full of himself. "Gray? Mr. Dorian Gray?"

  The man stepped forward into the light. He was a dashing fellow with unruly hair and a smile that seemed just the faintest degree away from an outright sneer. He wore a deep purple smoking jacket and exotic slippers. "I am indeed."

  "We… came by way of M."

  "Ah, M for mystery… or perhaps it's for melodrama… or mediocrity." Dorian Gray looked at the old adventurer on his doorstep as if he was nothing more than a speck. "Well, I told him and I'm telling you— whoever you are — I'm not interested."

  He finally deigne
d to notice the odd company on his doorstep: Nemo in his outlandish semi militaristic uniform and colorful turban, Skinner in his dark glasses and white face paint.

  And Mina.

  "Hello, Dorian," she said, seeing his eyes go wide with sudden recognition.

  "Mina? Mina Harker! It's been ages… though perhaps not long enough—"

  Without comment, she pushed past Quatermain, her skirts rustling, and entered Gray's front hall. The elegant man backed up to let her inside.

  Before the other League members could follow her, she grasped the edge of the door and flung it shut in Quatermains' face, leaving them standing alone outside on the rain-damp step. He blinked, at a loss. "She who must be obeyed," Quatermain muttered under his breath. "I've heard that one before. And she already thinks she's our captain. Trouble. Plenty of trouble."

  Skinner snickered. "I knew she was a sassy one. Aheh!"

  Nemo had not moved. "Another demonstration of the much vaunted British civility."

  The three men stood there in uncomfortable silence, then the door opened again. Now Gray wore a more friendly expression, smiling so that his youthful face appeared ready to crack. "Please, gentlemen, excuse my bad manners. Come in." He extended a welcoming hand.

  Mina stood in the foyer behind him, looking satisfied.

  "Mina tells me that an intelligent man, an open-minded and cultured person such as myself should do his guests the courtesy of listening to them — before turning down their request." He shot a sly look at Mina, whose green eyes reflected the challenge back at him.

  Dorian Gray seemed full of life, but in the way a piece of spoiled fruit is full of flavor. His eyes were wide and bright, as if dazzled by harsh lights, despite the gloom of the day and the dimness of the foyer. His skin was vibrant, almost feverish, but when Quatermain shook his hand, Gray's grip felt dry and cool.

  Strolling with unhurried grace after they had all made introductions, their host led them up a flight of creaking stairs. The wood of the rail was the most expensive mahogany, polished to a fine luster, no doubt by the sweat of many servants, though the house seemed quite silent Gold-framed mirrors hung in prominent positions on the walls, implying that the man often liked to inspect his general appearance.

  The walls were covered with portraits, all of them originals and no doubt quite valuable. The people featured on the canvases looked dark or oddly unhappy, possibly malformed in an indefinable way. Not being an art critic and unschooled in such things, Quatermain could not pinpoint exactly what was wrong with all these people. Perhaps the artist had been playing a malicious trick on his subjects, or perhaps he simply saw deeper to an inner rot in Dorian Grays ancestors.

  Farther along the wall, though, a single portrait was prominently missing. The vacant spot was like a shout.

  "You seem to have lost a picture, Mr. Gray," Quatermain said.

  "And you don't miss a thing, do you, Mr. Quatermain?" Gray walked along, running fingers through his thick hair as if admiring it; he didn't seem to feel that any additional answer was necessary.

  "Maybe someone stole it," Skinner muttered under his breath.

  They entered an impressive library, lined floor-to-ceiling with shelves and shelves of leatherbound books. Sliding ladders on rails ran up the walls, extending to even higher alcoves, and a spiral staircase led to a loft in the immense room. The chairs, vases, and furniture were all of the most stylish and expensive variety. Dorian Gray certainly enjoyed his material pleasures.

  Removing his rain-wet hat and leaving a gaping emptiness where the top and back of his head should have been, Skinner zeroed in on the drinks trolley. "Scotch, anyone? Ah, an excellent double-malt. Pricey!"

  "Yes. Please. Help yourself," said Gray.

  Gaslight radiated through the invisible man's greasepaint mask. With gloved hands he poured a large tumbler of scotch and drank it in gulps. The fluid was visible as it poured down his throat and pooled in his stomach. "Ah, nice and smokey! Burns as it goes down. Care for a snort, Quatermain?"

  "At least it isn't sherry."

  Nemo watched the transparent thief's performance, but seemed more curious about Dorian Gray's complete lack of surprise. "You take Skinner's uniqueness in your stride."

  Sounding bored, Gray led them to a sitting area where a roaring fire blazed. "Yes, well, I spent many years seeking new pleasures and unique experiences. And I did them all. By now, I've seen too much in my life to shock easily." He picked up a poker and stabbed at the burning logs like a hunter slaughtering his kill. Sparks flew from the grate as he turned to Mina, who stood behind a high-backed leather chair. "Although, I must say, I was surprised to see you again."

  Mina answered with equal parts venom and sarcasm, "When our last parting was such sweet sorrow, Dorian?"

  "Meow," Skinner said, dutifully handing a drink to Quatermain after pouring a second Scotch for himself. Both glasses were very full of the amber liquid.

  Their host looked as if nothing in the world could penetrate his cool composure, or bother him in the least. "Ah, so you're merely meant as an enticement to me, Mina. M must be losing his touch."

  Skinner said, "I read the papers, Mr. Gray. Wasn't there some sort of business with you and Oscar Wilde? Before his numerous… er, troubles with the press, eh?"

  "Mr. Wilde and I are no longer on speaking terms, and I'm afraid it ended badly." Gray turned with a flicker of anger that made him look incalculably old, but the invisible man did not know when to stop.

  "Was it his fondness for the highlife?"

  Gray snapped at him. "I have no fear of hedonism. I simply lost my tolerance for Mr. Wilde's immeasurable ego. Nothing about him warrants my further interest."

  He seated himself in the comfortable chair in front of the fire and crossed a leg over his other knee, dangling his exotic slipper close to the flames. He looked up at the older adventurer, raising his eyebrows. "Nevertheless, your presence intrigues me, Mina. And Quatermain. They say you're indestructible. They say you ve survived enough exploits to kill a hundred men."

  "A bit of hyperbole." Embarrassed, Quatermain took another sip of his Scotch, noting that it was indeed quite good, far superior to anything Bruce at the lamented Britannia Club had ever served. "Well, a witch doctor did bless me once… I saved his village. He said that Africa would never allow me to die."

  "Ah, but you're not in Africa now," said Gray.

  "No. Therefore, I'd best be careful."

  Mina leaned over Gray's chair and looked down at his full head of hair. She ran her fingers lightly through it, seductively, as if she had a purpose. "So will you join us, Dorian?"

  He sighed long and slow, staring into the flames. His expression was a mask of utter disinterest. "Ah, there was a time when my love of experience would have drawn me to this adventure. I would have enjoyed it, no doubt. A lark But now I have other priorities. I seek to… tame my own demons. Therefore, I must decline. Sorry. I'm sure M can dredge someone else out of his extensive files."

  Nemo turned from studying the spines of the extravagant books in the library. "Yes, his files. I confess a curiosity as to what those files say about Mr. Gray. And why he is considered so important. We, all of us, have obvious traits useful in this endeavor. Quatermain is a hunter, and Mrs. Harker represents science. I myself am quite skilled with technology, and Mr. Skinner has stealth." Crossing his arms over his blue uniform, he scrutinized Dorian Gray. "What of you?"

  "I have… experience," he answered with an undertone of great weariness. "A vast amount of experience."

  Nemo looked at the man's boyish appearance, and his lips turned down in a skeptical frown. "How could one as young as yourself have experienced more than Quatermain or I?"

  For the past several minutes, Quatermain had been staring at the man, ransacking his memory. Finally, the answer came to him, unlikely as it seemed. "Because Gray and I have met before. I didn't recall it at first, but I remember now. Many years ago at Eton College."

  "A lecture, no doubt?" Mina said.
"You the nations hero, telling of your exploits in Africa, King Solomons mines, the lost city of gold. Dorian the eager listening boy." She seemed amused.

  "No, quite the reverse, Mrs. Harker." Quatermain seated himself in the second leather wingback by the fireplace, leaning closer to their host. The suave man in the other chair looked at him, secretly amused. "It was Gray visiting Eton, giving his lecture — and I was just a boy. Isn't that right, Mr. Gray?"

  Their host pointed a finger at him. "Touchй."

  Quatermain shook his head, turning back to Mina and Nemo. "He hasn't changed a bit in all those years. Not a bit."

  "Must be a healthy diet and virtuous living," the invisible man said snidely from the drink cart.

  "Hardly," Gray said.

  Skinner finished his Scotch with a slurp and poured a third, very full glass for himself. "Anyone?"

  The others were still trying to make sense of Quatermain's remark when the old adventurer suddenly snapped to attention. He surveyed the room's upper levels, peering toward the high bookshelves, the railed alcoves above, the loft filled with shadows. Everyone felt his tension.

  "What is it?" Mina whispered.

  Without a word, Quatermain slowly rose from his chair. The old leather let out a rustling sigh, but when he held out a hand for silence, no one dared to ask what he sensed. The others stared into the shadows, noticing nothing. The tension grew, accompanied only by the crackle of the fire and the quiet breaths of the waiting companions.

  Gray seemed to think he was overreacting. "Really, Mr. Quatermain. You must be on edge—"

  Then they heard a creak, the faintest sound. Dust sifted downward from the loft railing. Mina instinctively crouched; she moved like a panther, despite the tight, confining bodice and voluminous skirts of her dress.

  Quatermain reached inside his linen jacket and eased out his Webley revolver. It felt heavy but comforting in his grip.

  Before he could cock the hammer, though, a flurry of marksmen appeared like a startled flock of birds from every shadow on every level. Long rifle barrels extended, ominously reflecting the gaslights and the library fire.