The Return of Sherlock Holmes

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Watson poured him a cup.

  “Where have you been? And why wasn’t I allowed to go with you?”

  “Oh, don’t pull such a petulant face, old fellow. All will become clear in due course.”

  “Will it?”

  “If you must know, I’ve been with Mycroft at Number Ten.”

  “Number Ten? …Downing Street?”

  Holmes nodded.

  “You mean to say you’ve been with…”

  “The prime minister—yes.”

  “Great Scott, what’s that all about?”

  “It’s a case, Watson, a very top secret case. If I tell you, you must swear not to reveal any of the details to a living soul.”

  “You know me, Holmes, the model of discretion.”

  Holmes peered over the rim of his tea cup. “Yes,” he said without much conviction.

  “So, go on, what did Mr. Churchill want with you?”

  “News has reached British intelligence that Alex Brunner has been smuggled into the country and is in London at the moment.”

  “Alex Brunner? Never heard of him.”

  “He is the Nazis’ ace assassin—responsible for the death of the resistance leader Colonel DuPont in Paris earlier this year. Brunner is here on a special mission that could possibly turn the tide in the war.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “To assassinate our prime minister.”

  “Great heavens, Holmes, that’s terrible.”

  “Certainly a successful outcome of Brunner’s mission would be.”

  “He must be stopped.”

  “Always quick off the mark, eh, old fellow?”

  “Just saying…” huffed Watson.

  “Perspicacious, as ever,” said Holmes, kindly. “Indeed, he must be stopped, and that is my job: to track him down and hand him over to the authorities. That will not be an easy task. Brunner is the master of disguise—a virtual chameleon.”

  “If anyone can do it, it is you, Holmes.”

  Holmes gave a bleak smile. “Thank you for your vote of confidence, Watson. Mr. Churchill shares your belief, but I fear we commence this journey looking for that proverbial needle in a very dense haystack.”

  “Where on earth do you start? It seems an impossible task.”

  “Nil desperandum, old boy. Someone must be harbouring Herr Brunner. If I can locate him…”

  “But how?”

  “Mycroft has given me the name and address of Hugo Oberstein, the key German agent currently residing in London. That is my starting point.”

  “Oberstein? You mean the musician, the violin player.”

  Holmes nodded. “Yes, that is his brilliant cover. He fiddles by day and carries out acts of espionage by night.”

  “You obviously haven’t seen the newspapers. The fellow is dead.”

  “What!”

  “He was dragged out of the river in the early hours of this morning. He had been beaten up rather badly about the face and was identified by his papers. Here it is in the Stop Press.”

  Holmes ran his eyes over the print and then, jumping to his feet, he snatched up his coat and hat.

  “You going out again? Thought you wanted that cup of tea.”

  “The tea can wait. There isn’t a moment to lose. I have to get to Scotland Yard posthaste.”

  “Well, wait for me old boy. I’m coming, too.”

  In less than an hour, Holmes and Watson were entering the police morgue in the bowels of Scotland Yard. They were accompanied by Inspector Lestrade.

  “This is the one,” said the inspector, indicating one of the stone slabs which housed a body covered by a white sheet.

  “How did he die, Lestrade? Was it drowning?” asked Holmes.

  “More brutal than that. He was shot in the back.”

  “What a cowardly act,” observed Watson.

  “Indeed, old fellow, but we’re not dealing with gentlemen, you know. Nazis don’t play the game by the Queensberry rules.” So saying, Holmes pulled back the cloth to reveal the naked corpse beneath. Withdrawing a magnifying glass from the inner pocket of his overcoat, he carried out an examination of the body. After five minutes’ close scrutiny, he turned to his companions with a dark smile on his lips.

  “What d’you make of it, Mr. Holmes?” asked Lestrade.

  “Very little, apart from the fact that this man is not Hugo Oberstein.”

  “Blimey! How can you be sure?”

  “Look at his hands, those stubby fingers with thick ingrained dirt. They have never held a violin, let alone played one. Oberstein had a reputation as bon viveur, yet this man is obviously malnourished and his teeth are rotten. He is obviously some unfortunate down-and-out who has been dressed in Oberstein’s clothes to create the impression that he has been assassinated. That is why his face has been rendered unrecognisable. As he was shot in the back, such violence was unnecessary unless it was to mask the man’s identity.”

  Lestrade leant over the body and examined one of the hands. “I see you what you mean, Mr. Holmes. What’s it all about?”

  Watson was about to make a remark, but Holmes silenced him with a glacial stare.

  “It is too early in the game for theories. What I would like to see are the belongings and clothes that this poor creature was wearing when he was fished out of the Thames.”

  Holmes examined the tweed suit, the cigarette case bearing the initials H. O., the wallet, and a silver card case containing a set of visiting cards which announced the owner as Hugo Oberstein. He pointed with some distaste at the man’s boots. “Another faux pas committed by the killers. No doubt the clothes belonged to Oberstein, the maker’s label would indicate as much, but I am sure our fiddle-playing friend wouldn’t be seen dead in these crude boots. And of course, he wasn’t. This is further confirmation of my deduction that the body in the morgue is not that of Hugo Oberstein.”

  “Then who is it?” asked Lestrade, scratching the back of his head.

  “Sadly, that is not important for us now. We must leave you to follow that trail in your own inimitable way. The key question for us is why have they tried to create the impression that Oberstein is dead.”

  “Who are they?”

  “When we know that, the mystery will be solved,” Holmes replied tartly as he headed for the door. “Come, Watson, we have work to do.”

  It was approaching noon when Holmes and Watson stood before the front door of 13 Caulfield Gardens, Kensington.

  “I wish you’d tell me why we’re here,” said Watson, with an edge of petulance in his voice. “You haven’t said a word to me since we left Scotland Yard.”

  “Sorry, old fellow. I was thinking. You know how I am when I sink into one of my brown studies. This is Oberstein’s last known address—the obvious starting point of our investigations,” he said as he rang the doorbell. They heard the clanging noise echo through the interior of the house and waited for a response, but none came. Exchanging glances, Holmes rang the bell again and hammered on the door with his fist.

  Then they heard a feeble cry from inside: “I am coming. I am coming. Please be patient.”

  At length the door was opened by a tall woman wearing a maid’s outfit. She had tightly permed hair and a long doleful face. Her large eyes peered out through a pair of thick-lensed spectacles.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she said in a tremulous voice that seemed older than her years.

  “I’d like to see Mr. Oberstein,” said Holmes passing his card to the maid. “It is a matter of great importance.”

  The maid examined the card and then shook her head. “I am sorry, but Mr. Oberstein is not at home. He went out late yesterday afternoon and has not returned. To tell you the truth, I am somewhat worried about him. It is not like the master to stay out overnight without informing me.”

  “I
see,” Holmes said. “Then perhaps I could have a word with his guest.”

  With a bewildered glance, the maid shook her head again. “There is no guest.”

  “Oh, come now. Why bother with the charade if there was no guest, a certain Alex Brunner?”

  “Charade? I don’t understand.”

  “Oh, yes you do, my good sir!”

  The maid’s right hand moved swiftly toward the pocket in her pinafore, extracting a small pistol, but Holmes was too quick for her and landed a sharp uppercut to the chin. The blow sent the creature flying backward, crashing onto the tiled floor of the hall. In an instant, Holmes swooped down and snatched the revolver from the maid’s grasp.

  “What a devil of a woman,” gasped Watson, shocked by the sudden dramatic turn of events.

  “A devil certainly, but not a woman, I assure you.” With a deft tug of his hand, he relieved the maid of her wig. “Let me introduce you to Hugo Oberstein.”

  “Great heavens!”

  “Now, sir,” said Holmes, addressing Oberstein, who had pulled himself up into a sitting position, “I will be obliged if you would inform me where I can locate your guest.”

  “Go to hell!”

  “That particular journey is out of my hands. I am aware that you are in league with Alex Brunner.”

  “I do not know what you are talking about…”

  Holmes pursed his lips. He had dealt with Nazi agents before and knew of their iron reserve. They would rather die than betray the Fuhrer. With a sigh, he handed the pistol to Watson. “Keep this fellow covered while I search the house. Don’t hesitate to shoot the scoundrel if he tries anything funny.”

  Watson waggled the gun in the direction of Oberstein. “You can rely on me, Holmes.”

  The detective began his search of the premises. It was a very well-appointed town house with smart and expensive furnishings. The downstairs quarters revealed nothing of any significance. After an exhaustive search of the bedrooms upstairs, Holmes was growing frustrated. He had examined drawers and bookshelves and other locations where plans or secret documents could be concealed. Also, there was no sign that anyone other than Oberstein was in residence. “I feel like the dog barking up the wrong tree,” Holmes muttered, on the verge of resigning himself to failure, and then he spied a dirty mark on the pale wallpaper in the smallest bedroom by the side of a large chest of drawers. On closer inspection, he determined that the mark was a dusty fingerprint. On instinct, he pulled the chest away from the wall to reveal a small door just over three feet in height. It was obviously an entrance to the loft area. Pulling the door ajar, he squeezed through and entered a large space illuminated by daylight falling through the skylight. It was open, allowing a cool breeze to filter into the chamber. There was a chair placed beneath the skylight. Holmes stood on it and stared through the open window at the panorama of rooftops beyond. It was clear to him that Brunner had made his escape this way, no doubt after overhearing the altercation downstairs.

  Stepping down from the chair, he focused his attention on the room. It contained a bed and a small trestle table and certain items of men’s clothing. There was no doubt in Holmes’s mind that this had been Brunner’s bolthole. With practised thoroughness, Holmes searched for clues, anything that would give him some indication of Brunner’s plans for the assassination attempt and his current whereabouts.

  What immediately caught his eye was the ashtray on the table at the side of the bed. There were two cigarette stubs lying in a thin layer of grey ash. He lifted one of the stubs and examined it, his eyes widening in surprise as he did so. He slipped it into his pocket and continued his search.

  On the trestle table he found a notepad. The top page was blank, but he observed that there were faint indentations that had been pressed through from the previous sheet before it had been removed. Bringing the ashtray over, he gently smeared some of the ash over the notepad, which allowed the indentations to appear in relief. In this way he was able to make out some of the letters: “Ambass…tel…ar.”

  Just then he heard a series of loud cries from the ground floor, followed by a gunshot. In an instant Holmes was racing down the stairs into the hallway, where he found Watson and Oberstein lying on the floor, their bodies entwined. Neither was moving.

  “Watson,” Holmes cried, “for God’s sake, say you’re not hurt!”

  Watson raised his head slowly. “Just a bit winded, that’s all. This fellow tried to make a dash for it, grabbing my gun, which went off in the struggle. I’m afraid he’s had it, Holmes. I’m so sorry.”

  “As long as you are all right, that is what really matters. Here, let me help you to your feet.”

  “He tried to wrestle the gun from me, but I held on tight. As we struggled… I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t blame yourself,” said Holmes with some warmth. “What happened, happened. At least you are unharmed. It’s a pity that we’ve lost a key link in this mystery, but you did the right thing in trying to prevent his escape. There’s a telephone in the sitting room; I’d better ring Lestrade and tell him to scoop up the body—the real Hugo Oberstein this time.”

  As they were leaving, a tall grey-haired, bearded fellow was making his way up the path. He was dressed in a smock which was spattered with paint. “Is everything all right?” he said. “I thought I heard a disturbance and something that sounded like a shot. I reside next door, you see.”

  Holmes smiled ingenuously. “Everything is fine. My careless friend here knocked a small table down the stairs—but all is ship-shape now. No cause for alarm.”

  “What a relief. So pleased. Well then, I’d better get back to things.” With a gentle wave, he retraced his steps and entered his own property.

  “My careless friend,” chided Watson indignantly.

  Holmes smiled and gave him a gentle pat on the back.

  Later, as they travelled back to Baker Street in a taxi, Watson sought some explanations from his friend. “What puzzles me, Holmes, is why they carried out the fake murder of Oberstein.”

  “No doubt it was to put the police off the scent. If Oberstein was presumed dead, he could not be involved in the planned assassination, and therefore the Scotland Yarders would focus their attention elsewhere, leaving his guest Brunner to get on with his assignment unhindered.”

  “With Oberstein remaining incognito as his own maid!”

  Holmes gave a grim smile. “So it would seem. He was there to repel inquisitive boarders.”

  “Amazing. And it all could have been successful if you had not deduced that the body fished from the river was an imposter.”

  “Well, certainly that led us down the right path, but it is one that remains convoluted and enigmatic. Brunner is still at large, and I fear we are running out of time.”

  On returning to Baker Street, Holmes sat smoking in his chair by the fire while staring at the sheet of notepaper containing the letters “Ambass…tel…ar.” At length he passed it to Watson.

  “What d’you think of that? I’m having some difficulty making sense of it.”

  Watson stared at it for some moments. “Well, I think it possibly refers to some ambassador, some dignitary or other, and possibly the ‘tel’ was part of his telephone number.”

  “Yes, that was one of my early thoughts, but I’m not convinced. What about ‘ar’? ”

  “Not a clue, old boy. Sorry.”

  “This is a certainly a three-pipe problem requiring my strongest shag.”

  Watson groaned. “Gracious. It’s like a pea-souper in here as it is. If it gets any thicker, I’ll have to feel my way out of the room. If you’re going to persist in polluting the atmosphere further, I may have to book myself into a hotel for the night.”

  At these words Holmes froze, his eyes sparking with excitement. “By George, I think you’ve got it.”

  “Have I? Er, what have I got?”

 
“Hotel! Of course! The ‘tel’ is not a reference to a telephone number, but to the word ‘hotel.’ And when you have the letters ‘Ambass’ before it, it seems logical to me that we have the Ambassador Hotel which, as my memory serves me, is located at Marble Arch, which also covers the letters ‘a’ and ‘r.’ ”

  Watson scratched his head. “Well, I can see that your theory fits, but it is rather a stretch of the imagination.”

  “If we did not stretch our imagination, we would never find the solution to any puzzle.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Make a long arm, Watson, and pass me my London gazetteer. I want to look up the Ambassador Hotel.”

  Holmes skimmed the pages and read the entry he was seeking.

  “What does it tell you?”

  “Very little of consequence. A luxurious hotel built in the eighteenth century. Fully modernised in 1875. Favoured by the aristocracy and royalty. Used occasionally for state banquets.” Holmes gave a sharp cry of excitement and then, snapping the gazetteer shut, he rose quickly from his chair. “What time is it, Watson?”

  The doctor consulted his watch. “Four thirty.”

  “Excellent. By the time we get to the Diogenes Club, brother Mycroft will be ensconced in his favourite chair, nursing a brandy and soda. I have a few questions to put to him.”

  So it was that, just as Holmes and Watson entered the Members’ Room at five minutes past five, they discovered the corpulent Mycroft Holmes, as predicted, sitting near the window with a glass in his chubby hand. “You can set your clock by Mycroft’s movements. Five o’clock on the dot he will enter this room and very shortly a drink will be served to him,” whispered Holmes, ignoring the frowns of a few members for breaking the absolute rule of no talking.

  On observing Holmes, Mycroft indicated with a wave of his hand that they would have to move to the Stranger’s Room, where conversation was permitted. It was a large, airy chamber, overlooking Pall Mall.

  “You have made progress, Sherlock?” enquired Mycroft, once they were seated in their new quarters.

  “Possibly.” Quickly he recounted our adventures of the day.