Motionless (part four)

Stepping from the hansom cab onto the wet street and up my stairs to my apartment  I instantly noted subtle signs amiss the lingering footprint on the damp step, the slight rustle of a curtain within, and the unsettling ease with which my front door yielded to my hand. My fingers instinctively closed around the revolver concealed in my coat as the bitter tang of unfamiliar tobacco smoke filled the entryway. Clearly, someone had dared breach my sanctuary in my absence. Prudence dictated withdrawal; silently, I faded back into the shrouding mist.

Resolving that immediate action was imperative, I dispatched urgent instructions to my taylor : forward all essential wardrobe  posthaste to New York. By noon, My secured passage aboard the RMS Oceanic, adopting a quiet anonymity. Yet even as I ascended the gangplank, a prickling awareness warned me I was observed. A figure in distinctly American attire a wide brimmed hat shadowing sharp eyes was closing fast. With deliberate precision, I feigned indifference until he lunged, revealing a concealed weapon. Swiftly, a nearby rope became my ally; with a deft twist, I entangled his feet, sending him splashing ignobly into the Thames. His curses drifted up from the murky waters as I cast one final, coldly amused glance before stepping aboard.

My cabin exuded understated luxury. Polished mahogany panels lined the walls, and a plush, velvet chaise lounge invited repose. An intricately carved writing desk sat beneath a porthole, offering a view of the rolling waves. Rich tapestries adorned the bed, and a brass lamp cast a warm glow, creating a sanctuary of comfort amidst the sea’s expanse.

That evening, attired impeccably for dinner, I maintained a mask of polite detachment, keenly conscious of another observer a bearded gentleman whose gaze remained fixed upon me with singular intensity. Outwardly composed, my mind calculated potential threats. Later, traversing the shadowed corridors, my suspicion was confirmed by stealthy footfalls following my own. With practiced calm, I retreated silently into my cabin, securing the door and readying both dagger and revolver. There is something about the sea that denies a man the comfort of fixed perspective. Land, with its chimneys and hedgerows, with its order and upright consequence, allows one to categorize people, crimes, afflictions of the soul. But the sea... the sea resists the mind's neat boxes. It is all shifting shades and undulating uncertainty.

I stood there, a demitasse of espresso warming one gloved hand, a square of Venezuelan chocolate melting delicately between the fingers of the other. The bitterness of both had always pleased me two instruments tuned to the same key. Precision and sharpness; they calmed the riot of thoughts.

Beyond the glass of the porthole, the Atlantic loomed in its unbroken expanse. Waves rose and fell like the quiet respiration of something vast and half-asleep. It reminded me, uncomfortably, of the unsolved.

There is a peculiar loneliness in being between continents, between cases, between identities. I am not the man they believe me to be in London, nor yet the cipher they whisper about in Germany . Here, I am simply a passenger. A vessel inside a vessel.

Until then, I have the ocean and this espresso to keep me company.

 At precisely five o'clock, the sonorous tones of the ship’s grand clock resonated along the corridor, stirring the lingering silence. It was in that very morning  that my cabin door burst violently inward, splintering from the force, as two shadowy figures stormed into my quarters. From my concealed vantage beneath the sturdy bedstead, I could see their boots heavy, worn, and moving with savage intent. Each man gripped a hefty cudgel, the polished wood glinting ominously in the wan lamplight.

With brutal efficiency, they set upon my room. The first blow crashed into the bed above me, the wooden slats buckling with a deafening crack mere inches from my face. I held my breath, fearing the slightest movement might betray me. Another stroke shattered the chair by the writing desk, and I heard the splintering of furniture, the sharp crash of glass, and muffled curses uttered with increasing fury.

My belongings, however, were safely stowed away, hidden from sight. To their baffled eyes, my room was inexplicably vacant, devoid of any trace of occupancy. They searched feverishly, overturning drawers and tearing aside curtains, their frustration mounting with every futile second. At one dreadful moment, a man dropped heavily to his knees, thrusting his brutish face beneath the broken bed frame. My pulse thundered like a drumbeat in my ears; surely he must hear it, I thought. Yet fortune favored me, for the shadows shielded me from his gaze. With an irritated grunt, he withdrew, convinced of my absence.

Finally, their wrath spent and hopes dashed, they exchanged words too low for me to discern and departed into the passageway, leaving devastation in their wake. Still motionless beneath the shattered bed, I allowed several heartbeats to pass before daring to stir. Only when certain of their retreat did I emerge cautiously from my hiding place, untouched and very much alive, having narrowly escaped their murderous intent.🔍