Warlock Holmes--The Sign of Nine

by G. S. Denning

  At the back of the shop is a worktable, lit by three lamps—a circle of light in the gloomy confines of the shop. At the table is a man. He is old, but not so old as he seems. His work has aged him. Countless hours of bending over that table have left him stooped. He has the papery white skin of a man who rarely sees the sun. On his head is an apparatus of brass arms and lenses that can be pulled down before his eyes. Through two of them, he is peering with masterly interest as he squeezes a few final gears into the back of a tin soldier. With a final “Ha!” he places the soldier on the table, winds it and lets it go.

  It marches across the surface. Properly marches! There is no wheel around which two pinned legs pivot, like pedals on a tricycle. Only legs. The little soldier balances on two feet, just as I do. Five steps into his march, his little booted toe makes contact with a wooden block that the old toymaker has placed in his path. The soldier teeters. The boot bumps again. And slowly, experimentally, it starts to raise.

  In the dream, I am naught but a disembodied observer. I have no mouth. If I had, I’m sure it would be hanging open in gobstruck wonder. That little toy is going to step over the block! Does that mean it could feel it? Is it figuring out how to defeat the obstacle? Has the strange old man behind this dusty bench managed to make a collection of gears and springs capable of reason? Is that toy… learning?

  If it is, it’s not learning fast enough to please the old man. “Ach! Nein!” he mutters, then picks the tin wonder up, pries the hatch off its back and digs in with his tweezers, to pull out some offending gear.

  There is a gentle tinkling from behind me. The little silver bell over the door. The old man sighs and complains, “Irene! So late! Why do you make your grandfather worry?”

  But it isn’t Irene.

  It’s a corpse.

  I mean… it is walking. Moving of its own accord. And yet, to my doctor’s eye, there is no way that it can be a living creature. Once it was a man, but it is impossibly aged. On its back is a tremendous iron boiler. From this emanate four long brass and steel appendages, like the legs of a spider. On these, much more than its two wasted human legs, the corpse man walks slowly towards the toymaker’s worktable. He holds an elegant, silver-topped cane in one hand. He’s wearing a sensible black frock coat, a top hat and a smile of absolute mastery. Leather bellows on the top of his boiler pump air through the corpse’s chest and in hollow, somewhat mechanical tones, it says, “Guten Abend, Herr Adler.”

  The toymaker gapes for a moment, then draws a breath and croaks, “Sir… Sir, are you… a toy?”

  The corpse pauses, rocks back on its spidery mechanical legs. Suddenly the bellows on its back pump with unexpected vigor. The dead man throws back his head, opens his cadaverous mouth, and laughs. The whole apparatus shakes so horribly that, if he isn’t dead already, I fear this overexertion will finish him off. Finally, and with great effort, he controls himself, draws a breath and says, “Ah! Forgive me. I have been called many things but nobody—nobody—has ever thought of me as that. No, no, Herr Adler, my name is Professor James Moriarty. I’ve brought a challenge for you.”

  The spider legs grind forward, propelling the visitor towards the place where—it seems to me—I am standing. Yet, he passes right through me, goes to the table and reaches inside his coat. From one of the pockets within, he draws forth a curious wooden cylinder and places it gingerly on the worktable.

  “Something precious lies within,” Moriarty says. “Can you open it?”

  The toymaker leans in, scrutinizes the thing first with his naked eye, then with a few of his lenses. He purses his lips and mutters. “Not so easy. This catch is false, you see. Look inside. It is meant to look like a pin for a hollow key, but it isn’t. Almost like… a needle?”

  “Indeed. The box is trapped,” Moriarty confirms.

  “And there is a second trap, too,” the old man says, with a nod. “Here and here… See? If you thought you were clever to avoid the catch, it seems you could twist the ends and this might release the lid. But… something comes out through the cracks.”

  “Little poisoned blades. It’s killed three this week.”

  The toymaker looks up at his guest in disbelief. “Your toy is very dangerous.”

  The corpse gives a little smile. “Most of my toys are, Herr Adler.”

  Which, of course, would be the absolute, final warning for a reasonable man. What sane individual would dare to touch this corpse-man’s deadly toy? But that’s just it: Herr Adler is not a reasonable man. He is a genius. Self-preservation and societal expectation are not nearly so important to him as his art. And this is a rare moment—he is being asked to examine a device whose craftsman’s skills are equal to his own. Could you imagine bringing Mozart the composition of a worthy rival, and expecting him not to play it?

  The two men stare at each other for a moment. Something plays across the toymaker’s face. “Please… My granddaughter will be home any moment.”

  “Then I suggest you hurry, Herr Adler.”

  The toymaker sighs. “Well, it has a weakness. There is a hinge. We go in the back way, ja?” He takes a punch so fine it might almost be wire in one hand, a miniscule hammer in the other. With careful taps, he drives the punch against one side of the hinge-pin until it protrudes from the other side. Then, with fine pliers, he draws the pin clear. “There are no further traps?”

  His visitor shrugs. “Nobody has made it this far.”

  The toymaker nods. Best not to use his bare hands. He picks up a pair of pin awls and works them gently into the cracks by the side of the hinge, then pries. There is a gentle pop as the cylinder lid separates from the base and sides. Still… caution… He works the awls forwards along the curved sides, separating and lifting the lid. Finally, he slides it forward and free of the false catch on the front. He gives a sigh of relief. Within is a worn slip of paper, covered in some strange writing.

  James Moriarty leans in with a satisfied nod. He lifts the delicate paper from the cylinder, slides it into a prepared case and says, “You are as good as your reputation, Herr Adler. I am going to keep you.”

  “Eh?”

  “You were recommended to me by one of those foolish tinkers I mentioned, who fell for the trick of the blades. Trevors was his name. Always a bit of a disappointment, to tell the truth. No, I think you will do better. Gather your tools and say goodbye to your little home. We shan’t be needing it more.”

  “But… No! This is my shop. It is my life.”

  Moriarty’s tone is suddenly cold. “Then you have built yourself a very grubby little life, haven’t you, Herr Adler? All this talent and no customers? What good is skill if it goes to waste in a dusty corner? Admit it: you love the work but only tolerate the customers—when you get them, that is.”

  “I was toymaker to the Emperor of Austria!”

  “And now look at you. You can hardly care for yourself and you certainly cannot care for that granddaughter of yours.”

  “I will!” the old man cries. “I am all she has!”

  “No longer.”

  “When my son left for America, I had nobody. And now he is gone… But at least I have her! We are together!”

  “Together? Then where is she?”

  The old man’s eyes flick to the clock. He blinks.

  “That’s right; it’s after four already,” Moriarty confirms. “Where is she?”

  “Well… She is willful…”

  Moriarty concurs with a groan. “She certainly is. She ran six of my men halfway around this city. I’ll swear she lured two of them right into a pack of constables on purpose. Now I find myself two men down. Who knows how many bribes I’ll have to pay to hush this all up? And what do I have to show for it?”

  The toymaker stares at his guest. His mouth is open, but he’s silent. I can see the fear growing in him.

  “Don’t you see?” Moriarty asks.

  The toymaker is silent.

  “You. The answer is: you.”

  “You cannot do this.”


  “I have to,” says Moriarty, with a cadaverous shrug. “Don’t you see, Herr Adler? I cannot risk my person, exploring devices like this. The pursuit of immortality is not well served by such hazards. Happily, I have been directed to you. It is clear you have little care for money, but you do care for your granddaughter and your work—so I am assuming control of both.”

  “You are a fiend!”

  “Many people feel so, but you have no reason to. Come now, what would have become of your granddaughter without my aid? When this shop finally failed? When you could no longer shield her from the fate London affords to its female poor? But if you are loyal to me, Herr Adler, Irene shall flourish. Under the tutelage I can afford her, who knows how far she can go? And you will get to see. I will make sure you see, so that you continue to work for me with zeal. So hard to force true talent, you know. Easier to inspire it.”

  The toymaker stares up with an expression of horror.

  Moriarty grunts his frustration. “Don’t you understand what I am giving you, old man? This is your life’s dream! Every day, I will show you wonders! And every day, you will show me how they work.”

  THE ADVENTURE OF BEPPO VS. NAPOLEON (A FIGHT IN SIX ROUNDS)

  OUR NEXT LITTLE ADVENTURE BEGAN AFTER, I SHOULD think, five nights of my magical experimentations.

  Or eight. Was it eight? Those days are such a haze, I cannot recall. Though the true effects of Xantharaxes exposure had yet to trouble me, I was already feeling the early signs. Most notably, that any sleep found while wandering in the realm of mystic dreams can hardly be considered sleep at all. I stumbled into our sitting room, eyes black and bagged, moustache drooping, with only one thought on my mind.

  Tea.

  I needed tea.

  And I needed to remember. The other problem with obtaining one’s magical education through dreaming is this: the lessons are dreams. And—like any others—they seem so vital and important while one slumbers, only to flee the instant wakeful reason begins to chase them.

  My dream the night before had been utterly preposterous. I dreamed that the telegraph had been perfected and miniaturized to the point that everybody could carry one in their pocket. They had no wires and yet their transmissive powers were so vast, one could even send pictures. Can you imagine such a world? Military mishaps would be a thing of the past, each commander in constant contact with all his units. How could there be civil strife, religious discord, even crime, if all humanity could instantaneously be informed and turn the combined weight of our problem-solving capacity against them? But no… In my dream, people mostly used these miracle devices to send each other updates on what they’d eaten for breakfast.

  Preposterous.

  As I fumbled about making tea, I became vaguely aware that Lestrade was sitting in one of our chairs. He and Holmes were discussing something and he had—I think—made some greeting that I’d ignored. As I began to stammer one out, Lestrade noted, “Are you quite well, Dr. Watson? You look…”

  “He says he has a cold,” Holmes said—which indeed had been the excuse I’d given him. “But to answer your earlier question, Lestrade, I think the strangest thing I’ve ever seen was the blind cobbler of Bangladesh. Fascinating fellow! He’d touch your forehead, you see, then have some sort of epileptic fit. When he emerged he’d run to his bench and start feverishly assembling you a new pair of shoes. Not just any shoes, mind, but the absolutely perfect pair for you. Right color. Right fit. Just perfect. And for the service provided, I found his rates to be most reasonable.”

  “Ha! This is nothing!” Lestrade scoffed. “As a child, I beheld wonders stranger than this. Why, I once met a dolphin stockbroker!”

  “A what?”

  “Yes. He lived in a large glass tank. Every Tuesday, his trainer would show him the financial section of the paper, turning each page until the dolphin got excited. Finally, Chip-Chip—that was the dolphin—Chip-Chip would surge to the top of his tank and shoot just a few drops of water from his blowhole. The stock on which these drops landed would unfailingly return twenty percent within three months.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. Always. Twenty percent. Three months.”

  “Well… that is pleasantly outré, I must admit,” Holmes conceded. “It does not have that element of the grotesque that I treasure, but… I say, Watson, how about you? What is the queerest thing you’ve ever seen?”

  I let the question roll back and forth through my foggy mind as my tea stewed to a pleasing tar-like quality. Finally, I mumbled, “I once surprised a vampire and a wizard in my sitting room, discussing which was the most difficult thing to believe in: dolphins or shoe salesmen. Does that qualify?”

  Lestrade gave me a sour sort of look, designed to say that he did not think it should. And even if it did, the dolphin was still better. Yet Holmes’s face lit with admiration. “I say, Watson! That is fine! I hadn’t thought of it until now but… can you imagine the chain of events that must have occurred to bring such a moment about?”

  “But—” Lestrade began.

  “No, no! I have decided! Watson wins,” Holmes declared, but then his face broke into a mischievous little smirk and he added, “Unless, of course, this weird little case you’re bringing us can best it. What do you say, Lestrade? Tell us of this latest problem upsetting Scotland Yard!”

  “It is a matter of no importance,” said Lestrade with a shrug, “but passing strange…”

  “What is it? Tell me, tell me, tell me!”

  “Very well, stop shaking me! It began three days ago at the shop of Mr. Morse Hudson in the Kennington Road.”

  “Aigh!” Holmes cried. “Any relation to our Mrs. Hudson?”

  “No. Hudson is a common name.”

  “Oh, I know, but I still get a fright every time I hear it. So what about this Morse Hudson fellow?”

  “He sells pictures and statues—fripperies for the middle class. Nothing special. Mr. Hudson’s assistant was watching the shop but had stepped into the back for a moment when he heard a loud crash. He ran into the shop and found that one of the statues had been broken—a plaster bust of Napoleon, worth eleven shillings or so.”

  “That was all?” I asked.

  “That was all,” said Lestrade. “There was nobody in the shop, so the assistant ran out into the street to see if he could spot the vandal, but saw no one of particular interest. The case was reported to the neighborhood constable.”

  Holmes shifted in his chair, gave Lestrade an apologetic look and confided, “Well… I was hoping for better.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, it got better the next night. You see, also on Kennington Road, just a few hundred yards down from Hudson’s shop, lives Dr. Barnicot. The doctor has something of a mania for Napoleon—worships the little blighter.”

  “Ah! Perhaps it is he who smashed the bust,” Holmes volunteered. “Perhaps he felt such cheap replications did no great justice to his idol. His love of Napoleon makes him a possible suspect!”

  “No,” said Lestrade evenly. “It makes him the second victim. You see, Dr. Barnicot had bought two copies of the same bust from Hudson’s shop, some months ago.”

  “Two?”

  “Yes, one for his home on Kennington Road and one for his surgery, which is in Lower Brixton. Yesterday morning, he awoke to find he’d been burgled, the thief gaining entry through the window of his upstairs study. Barnicot has a successful practice, so his home contains several items of value. Nonetheless, only one object had been taken.”

  “The bust of Napoleon?” I asked. Lord knows I wanted nothing else than to get my cup of tea and retreat back to my waiting bed, but I knew Lestrade would not have brought this case to our attention if my guess had not been right. And when one thought about it, the case was already a strange one. No great harm had been done, perhaps, but the motive for such bizarre actions was mysterious and compelling.

  “The bust of Napoleon,” Lestrade confirmed, with a slight smile—enough to let us know he was smiling, reserved enough
to hide his maw of fangs. “It was found just six houses down, in the garden of an empty home, smashed to fragments.”

  “That is strange,” said Holmes.

  “Yes, Dr. Barnicot thought so, too. He was even more of that opinion when he arrived at his surgery at noon yesterday to find his second bust had received the same treatment.”

  “What?” said Holmes and I together.

  “Well… not stolen, per se. Smashed where it stood, on a decorative table as one enters the surgery.”

  Holmes pushed back his chair and gave a low whistle. “My, my… Some sort of petty burglar who’s got a personal grudge against Napoleon?”

  “It is unlikely someone would have a personal grudge against Napoleon,” I noted.

  “Perhaps the man is an ex-soldier and blames Napoleon for the death of his comrades.”

  “The war against Napoleon ended nearly seventy years ago, Holmes.”

  “Really?” said my friend, bunching his brow. “Seems like only yesterday…”

  “The Battle of Waterloo was fought in 1815. For your supposition to be correct, we’d have to be looking for a ninety-year-old cat burglar with a military background.”

  “Ye gods, I hope it’s true!” said Holmes, leaping to his feet. “I hope he still wears one of those feathered shakos! Oh, what a fellow! Can you imagine him?”

  “Holmes, control yourself,” Lestrade urged. “I don’t think you’ll be finding any nonagenarian house-breakers. I think it is much more likely we are dealing with a simple madman. Don’t you agree, Doctor?”

  “Hmmm… I suppose we might be looking for a man who suffers from monomania—the fixation with a certain person, item or idea. It is possible the subject has some hatred for Napoleon, or that the sight of his face brings back some unhappy memory, such that he cannot stand to leave an image of him intact.”