“So near and yet so far, brother mine. Despite everything you have uncovered, Herr Brunner is still at large.”
“Actually, I believe that Herr Alex Brunner could also be Fraulein Brunner.”
Mycroft almost dropped his glass. “What on earth leads you to this conclusion?”
“A few indications I noted in the room our German friend occupied. There was an aura of feminine perfume lingering in the air and, more particularly, in the ashtray there were cigarette stubs smeared by lipstick.”
“But, Holmes, you told me there were some men’s clothes about as well,” chimed in Watson.
“Indeed. I believe that Brunner is a chameleon and is able to assume a male persona when the situation requires it. Remember our late lamented friend, Irene Adler, and her skill at dressing in male attire.”
“Ah, yes ‘the Woman.’ ”
“This is hardly good news to me, Sherlock,” said Mycroft crossly. “You are now telling me that we are searching for someone who can appear as either a man or woman, and this individual is loose in London with the aim of killing our prime minister.”
“Your analysis is simple but correct. However, I think we may be able to narrow things down a little. Tell me about the function at the Ambassador Hotel.”
Mycroft stared at his brother in surprise. “How on earth do you know about that?”
“I am a detective; it is my business to know things. Tell me what is going to happen at this prestigious hotel and how Mr. Churchill is involved.”
Mycroft studied his glass of brandy and soda for some moments before responding to Holmes’s request.
“What I am about to tell you is not in the public domain and must be kept from that arena. Is that understood, Sherlock, Doctor Watson?”
The two men nodded their acquiescence.
“Tomorrow night there is a private dinner to honour the Soviet Foreign Affairs minister, Vyacheslav Molotov. He has been visiting London secretly to discuss the territorial concessions regarding Poland and the Baltic States before flying to Washington to see Roosevelt. He has given Churchill a tough old time in the negotiations, but it seems a satisfactory compromise is on the horizon. This farewell dinner is aimed at keeping him sweet.”
“How many guests will be attending this dinner?”
“About fifty. Members of the cabinet and Molotov’s entourage, along with some civil dignitaries.”
“Then this, I deduce, is where the assassination attempt will be made.”
“What makes you reach this conclusion?”
“That matters little now. Take me at my word, Mycroft.”
“Very well. I trust you. You are seldom wrong.”
Holmes gave a dry smile. “Seldom is correct. You recognise that I am not infallible.”
“That’s true,” mumbled Watson sotto voce.
“So, Sherlock, how is this attempt on the prime minister’s life going to be carried out? Brunner has used many different methods in the past. He or she could be acting as a sniper or planting a bomb or…by some other means.”
“Because of the location, Brunner will need to be absolutely certain his victim has no chance of survival, so I believe bombs or other explosive devices are out of the question. These cause destruction, of course, but cannot be guaranteed to eliminate one intended victim. Similarly, acting as a sniper, Brunner cannot be assured of securing an ideal concealed position to carry out such an operation and to be certain of fleeing the scene without being apprehended. Mr. Churchill will be targeted in a more subtle way.”
“Poison,” said Watson.
“Bravo, my friend. I believe you have it. There will be drinks and toasts galore, no doubt, at this function.”
“So, all one needs to do is ask Mr. Churchill not to touch a drop,” said Watson.
Mycroft shook his head. “Trying to stop Winston taking a drink is like Canute attempting to hold back the waves. Besides, if it is poison, it could be in the food or the coffee.”
“Good point, Mycroft. It seems to me that the only way Brunner can be sure of success is to deliver the poison to Churchill personally. And who could do that?”
“A waiter.”
“Or…a waitress. She ensures the poison has been administered to her victim and then slips away unnoticed before the effects of the deadly draught become evident.”
“The serving staff is vetted scrupulously before these events, but I will ensure that the procedure is extra-vigorous this time.”
“Nevertheless, we are dealing with one of the cleverest agents in Europe, who has the talent to squeeze his way through the smallest loophole.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“That Watson and I will attend this function, so that we can be extra eyes at the feast.”
“The problem is that you don’t know who you are looking for. Brunner could turn up as a man or a woman, and in either case, you don’t know what the devil looks like.”
“That is a problem, I agree, but it is one that I must overcome,” said Holmes with grim determination.
On leaving the Diogenes Club, Holmes suggested Watson return to Baker Street. “I have a little mission of my own, which I hope will bear fruit,” he said.
“Huh, leaving me out of things again.”
“Only briefly. I’ll make certain you’ll be in at the kill, as it were.”
“Unfortunate words under the circumstances,” mumbled Watson, wandering away in search of a cab.
Later that evening, Holmes returned to Baker Street, a broad grin on his face.
“What’s amused you, Holmes?” asked Watson.
“It is always satisfying when an inspired hunch plays off.”
“And what hunch was that?”
“You remember Oberstein’s neighbour this morning, who was so concerned about the noise next door?”
Watson nodded.
“You will also remember his paint-spattered smock.”
Another nod.
“Well, it struck me that the fellow must be a painter, an artist. And I was right. I’ve just paid a visit to him, Hubert Grace by name, and he was kind enough to show me some of his works. They are competent studies, but not of the finest quality. He is no Constable or Rembrandt. However, he does have the facility for capturing a likeness.”
“What has all this to do with the case?”
“I enquired whether he had seen Oberstein’s visitor in the last few days—and indeed he had. As you may have gathered, Mr. Grace is somewhat of a nosey neighbour, and so he had a very good gander at the person in question. So I asked him to draw an accurate sketch of the visitor—it was a man, by the way. I said I would pay for his work, so he was happy to oblige. Starving artist and all that. In fact, he obliged brilliantly, and then as an added favour, I asked him if he would provide an extra drawing for me of the same face as though it were a woman with long hair and the usual female accoutrements of lipstick and eyeshadow. Again, friend Grace came up trumps.” So saying, Holmes drew two sheets of paper from his coat.
“Feast your eyes on these, old fellow. These are fairly accurate likenesses of Mr. or Miss Brunner. The only distinctive feature is that broad fleshy nose.”
“Not very feminine. Don’t know how he gets away playing female with that hooter.”
“My friend Grace was also able to tell me that the fellow was small of stature, about five foot, and somewhat on the plump side. Certainly information, along with these drawings, which will help us in seeking out Brunner at the banquet.”
The following evening, Holmes and Watson arrived at the Ambassador Hotel an hour before the guests and were met by Mycroft, who led them immediately to the banqueting suite. There was a small top table reserved for the prime minister, the foreign secretary, Molotov, and his personal aide.
“That must be the focus of attention when the dinner is served,�
�� observed Mycroft, “but there will be mingling with drinks and canapes beforehand, which is a problem. Churchill has been warned to abstain from both food and alcohol at this stage, but I’m afraid he cannot be trusted to abide by this. He really believes he is invincible.”
Holmes nodded, but said nothing.
“Now, gentlemen, I must leave you. As I am responsible for making sure this affair goes smoothly, I have other tasks to perform elsewhere. I will have to leave the safety of our premier up to you.”
“That’s a daunting prospect, eh, Holmes?” said Watson.
“Yes,” Holmes replied darkly.
It wasn’t long before the serving staff began appearing, all smartly attired and silent; they were followed shortly by the guests. Holmes and Watson separated and stationed themselves at either end of the room, surveying the proceedings with keen eyes. At seven thirty the doors of the suite were opened by two flunkeys, and the familiar figure of Winston Churchill appeared. All eyes in the room turned in his direction. There was a round of applause, and he responded with his trademark V sign. He made his way down the few steps into the main area, followed by the Foreign Secretary, Anthony Eden. A waiter stepped forward with a tray of drinks. Churchill’s hand hovered over one of the glasses and then he withdrew it, with a shake of the head. Then, slipping his hand into the side pocket of his dinner suit, he produced a silver whisky flask and took a quick drink from that. He flashed a smile at Eden, who seemed to share the joke.
The maître d’ approached Churchill and whispered some instructions in his ear. The prime minister listened attentively and nodded. Once the Russian delegation had arrived and had been greeted by Churchill and other members of the cabinet, the maître d’ consulted with Churchill once more, before banging a gong and requesting that the diners take their seats. As the guests made their way to their allotted seats, with Churchill shepherding Molotov toward the top table, Holmes approached the maître d’ to ask him the location of table seven. The fellow, a short, lean individual with large blue eyes, seemed somewhat flustered at this request. He waved an arm vaguely as an indication. “Over there, sir,” he said. “You will excuse me; I have my duties in the kitchen.” With these words, he rushed away. Holmes waited until he had disappeared through the swing doors that led to the kitchen before following in haste. The maître d’ had not got far before Holmes caught up with him.
“Oh, Alex,” he cried.
On hearing the name, the maître d’ froze, his back stiffening, before slowly turning around to face Holmes.
“Don’t move, Brunner, or I will be forced to shoot you,” said Holmes, producing a pistol.
The man’s features twisted with anger, the mouth uttering a Germanic oath. His hand moved toward his jacket pocket.
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” snapped Holmes, firing his pistol so that the bullet landed inches from Brunner’s feet. “Next time, my aim will be more accurate. Just make sure there isn’t a next time. I’m afraid for you, my dear sir, the game is up.”
“So you think,” snarled Brunner, but Holmes could tell that this was an empty threat.
At this moment he was joined by Watson. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“We’ve hooked our fish, old fellow,” he said, stepping forward and relieving Brunner of the pistol lodged in his jacket pocket. “Just keep him covered for me, Watson, while I have a quick word with Mr. Churchill.”
Holmes emerged from the kitchen and headed for the top table. He was just in time to see Churchill retrieve his hip flask and prepare to take a drink from it.
Holmes lunged forward and knocked it from his hand.
“What the devil!” cried Churchill.
“It’s poisoned,” cried Holmes.
Churchill gazed up in surprise at the intruder. “Why, Mr. Holmes, it’s you. What is all this nonsense about? It can’t be poisoned. This flask was filled with my own single malt before I left Number Ten tonight.”
“It has been tampered with. The maître d’ is our spy. He took the flask from you, picked your pocket, and then returned it after adding the poison.”
“He took it without me knowing.”
“It is a pickpocket’s skill.”
Churchill stared with some incredulity at the silver flask which lay on the table, and then his features creased into a broad smile. “Bravo, Holmes. A very neat piece of work.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Later that evening, Holmes, Watson, and Mycroft were seated around a blazing fire in Baker Street, enjoying a nightcap.
“Now all the fuss is over and Brunner is safely stored away, I would be most obliged if you would explain how you knew the maître d’ was our man,” said Mycroft.
“It was a collection of small details. When I saw the maître d’ being so familiar with Churchill, standing so close to him, my suspicions were aroused, and when I got to the fellow and spoke to him, there were other indications that he was not who he seemed to be.”
“What indications?” said Watson.
“Well, you remember those sketches, and that rather interesting nose, which was effectively captured by Oberstein’s neighbour. This fellow had such a nose. He also had pierced ears—ideal for wearing earrings when disguised as a woman. I noted specks of red on his fingernails which I suspected were the remnants of nail polish, again used when Brunner was in female mode.”
“But Oberstein’s neighbour said that the fellow was stout. The waiter chap was slim.”
“Padding used as a kind of camouflage, no doubt. The more Brunner could change his appearance, the less chance he could be identified.”
“Amazing.”
“Elementary, my dear Watson.”
Mycroft chuckled with delight. “Well, it seems I may have to alter my view of you, Sherlock. You are infallible.”
“Well, we have conquered this time, but I fear there will be many more instances when the enemy will threaten our democracy and freedom. But as a nation, as individuals, I am sure we will persevere and survive. The dark hours may be long, but one day we will emerge into the bright sunshine of peace once more.”
Two days later, a parcel was delivered to Baker Street by special courier. It contained a solid silver hip flask bearing the inscription: “To SH from WC with gratitude.”
Cast:
Sherlock Holmes: Basil Rathbone
Dr. Watson: Nigel Bruce
Mycroft Holmes: Sydney Greenstreet
Inspector Lestrade: Dennis Hoey
Mrs. Hudson: Mary Gordon
Hugo Oberstein: Henry Daniell
Mr. Grace: Miles Mander
Brunner: Gerald Hamer
Winston Churchill: ?
About the Editor
MAXIM JAKUBOWSKI is a London-based former publisher, editor, writer, and translator. He has compiled over one hundred anthologies in a variety of genres, many of which have garnered awards. He is a past winner of the Karel and Anthony awards, and in 2019 was given the prestigious Red Herrings award by the Crime Writers’ Association for his contribution to the genre. He broadcasts regularly on radio and TV, reviews for diverse newspapers and magazines, and has been a judge for several literary awards. He is the author of twenty novels, the latest being The Piper’s Dance, and a series of Sunday Times bestselling novels under a pseudonym. He has also published five collections of his own short stories. He is currently Chair of the Crime Writers’ Association.
www.maximjakubowski.co.uk
About the Authors
MATTHEW BOOTH is the author of Sherlock Holmes and the Giant’s Hand and one of the authors contributing to The Further Exploits of Sherlock Holmes. Matthew was a scriptwriter for the American radio network, Imagination Theatre, syndicated by Jim French Productions. He was a regular contributor to their series The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Matthew is the creator of former criminal barrister and amateur detective, Anthony Rathe, who appea
red in a radio series produced by Jim French Productions. Rathe now appears in When Anthony Rathe Investigates, published by Sparkling Books.
Born in Haworth, West Yorkshire, ERIC BROWN has lived in Australia, India, and Greece. He has won the British Science Fiction Award twice for his short stories, and his novel Helix Wars was shortlisted for the 2012 Philip K. Dick Award. He’s published over seventy books, and his latest include the seventh and eighth crime novels in the Langham and Dupré series, set in the 1950s, Murder by Numbers and Murder at Standing Stone Manor. He lives near Dunbar in Scotland, and his website is ericbrown.co.uk.
MARTIN DALEY was born in Carlisle, Cumbria, in 1964. He cites Doyle’s Holmes and Watson as his favourite literary characters, who continue to inspire his own detective writing. His fiction and nonfiction books include a Holmes pastiche set predominantly in his home city in 1903. In the adventure, he introduced his own detective, Inspector Cornelius Armstrong, who has subsequently had some of his own cases published. For more information, visit www.martindaley.co.uk.
DAVID STUART DAVIES is the author of eight Sherlock Holmes novels and Starring Sherlock Holmes, which details the detective’s film career. David’s three successful one-man plays, Sherlock Holmes: The Last Act and Sherlock Holmes: The Life & Death have been recorded on audio CD by The Big Finish. Sherlock Holmes: The Final Reckoning, premiered in Edinburgh in February 2019. David is the author of other works of crime fiction, including seven Johnny Hawke novels—the latest being Spiral of Lies. Other recent titles include Sherlock Holmes: The Instrument of Death and Oliver Twist & the Mystery of Throate Manor. David is a Baker Street Irregular and a member of The Detection Club and edited Red Herrings, the monthly magazine of the Crime Writers’ Association, for twenty years.
O’NEIL DE NOUX is a New Orleans writer with forty-one books published and over four hundred short story sales in multiple genres. His fiction has received several awards, including the Shamus Award for Best Private Eye Short Story, the Derringer Award for Best Novelette, and the 2011 Police Book of the Year. Two of his stories have appeared in the Best American Mystery Stories anthology (2013 and 2007). His latest book is 12 Bullets, a police thriller. He is a past Vice-President of the Private Eye Writers of America. His website is www.oneildenoux.com.
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