The Secret Tunnel by Lear James

Author:Lear, James [Lear, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Tags: Itzy, Kickass.to
ISBN: 9781573445047
Amazon: B001ECQH3C
Publisher: Cleis Press
Published: 2008-10-17T17:59:06+00:00

Our first port of call was the Rookery Club in Russell Square. We rang the bell several times before we finally heard footsteps.

A little hatch slid back in the doorway.

“Who is it?”

“My name is Mitchell.”

“Don’t know you.” The hatch slid back. I hammered the door.

“Wait! I have information for you!”

The hatch opened again. “Are you the police?”

“Of course not. Are you going to let me in?”

“What’s the password?”

The password? This was ridiculous, like something out of the corny crime stories my kid brother read back in Boston.

“I don’t know. But I have this.” I unfolded the scrap of letterhead that Andrews had dropped and pushed it through the hatch. It had the desired effect; bolts were drawn, chains rattled, and the door opened.

“Come in quick, then,” said an old gentleman in carpet slippers and a long, shapeless knitted garment. “We don’t want the whole world and his wife seeing you.”

We followed him up two flights of stairs. The carpet was worn, the runners loose, and the banisters wobbled as we gripped them. It looked as if the house had not been decorated, or even cleaned, since the 19th century. The old man himself looked Dickensian, or Thackeravian, or whatever the correct adjective might be. The ghost of queerness past…

“In ’ere…”

He pushed open a heavy, dark wooden door, the brass doorknob so corroded that it looked like an archaeological find.

And there, on the other side of the door, was a kind of Wonderland.

Crimson sofas in various stages of disrepair were arranged in a rough circle, covered in a crazy assortment of furs, rugs, and throws which spilled down onto the floor. The parquet was worn, uneven, and black, the crystals on the chandelier were thick with dust, and the heavy black velvet drapes so worn and frayed that if they were ever opened, they would surely disintegrate.

“Welcome to the Rookery,” the old gentleman said. “To whom do I owe the pleasure of your acquaintance?” His cracked old voice veered crazily between a sort of theatrical diction and its (presumably) native Cockney.

“William Andrews sent us.”

His mouth went into a tight little circle, and he paced up and down for a while, his slippers slapping against his stockinged heels. “And what did Mr. Andrews suggest you might find here?”

The true answer was “nothing”; I wasn’t even certain whether Andrews had dropped the paper on purpose. “I was hoping you might be able to answer a few questions.”

“Oh, yes. I ’ope you’re not the long arm of the law.”

“On the contrary. In fact, I hope to rescue Mr. Andrews from its clutches.”

“Hmmmm…”

“You don’t seem surprised to learn that he’s in trouble.”

“Me, dear? I’m never surprised by anything. But that Andrews… He’s been riding for a fall for some time.”

“In what way?”

“The usual way. Wanting more than he can reasonably expect. Breaking the rules. Getting greedy.”

“Greedy? You mean he was involved in some kind of racket?”

“Oh, no, dear. Very upright gentleman, indeed, from what I could make out. Always turned ’is nose up at some of our more…colorful members.

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