Warlock Holmes--The Sign of Nine

by G. S. Denning

  13

  BLAIR ISLAND IS A LITTLE NOTHING OF A PLACE IN THE Andaman chain, far off the coast of India in the Bay of Bengal. As a prison, it had only one thing to recommend it: it was remote. Any prisoner who was not capable of swimming two hundred miles or so, or of secretly constructing an ocean-worthy craft with several weeks of stores on board, had little chance of seeing mainland civilization ever again.

  That is not to say it was the worst place Jonathan Small could have ended up. As we fuzzed in, I have to say I was rather taken with the bracing sea air, the beauty of her swaying palms and the boundless expanse of blue sky. Also, I’m told the fact that none of the natives seemed to put much stock in the idea of clothing did contribute to the island’s popularity amongst the British military staff.

  Yet, these natives had proved to be less gullible than those in other parts of the world. They suffered only as much contact as they absolutely had to with the occupying foreigners. Indeed, farther up the island chain, they had a not-undeserved reputation for spearing and eating any sailors who had the misfortune of being shipwrecked there. It may seem cruel, but to give credit where credit is due: they were one of the few people our ships had reached that did not find themselves quickly placed both beneath our flag and our sailors.

  Port Blair was the exception. As the prison was yet in the early stages of its construction, most of the inmates were kept chained in a large, palm-frond-topped lean-to, but released during the day to gather food and materials to build the colony. Those who showed any familiarity with the British way of life were treated much better. A number of them—Small included—had little huts at the base of the hills. Blair Island was a prison to Small only in that he was not allowed to leave it. I think if the colonel at Agra had realized he was sentencing Jonathan Small to life in a private hut in a tropical paradise, he might have been more than a little put out.

  In fact, I think he might have been jealous.

  Yet this did not stop Small complaining about his treatment as he showed us the cabin where he had spent his days, the officers’ mess where he served refreshments, and the little infirmary where he worked. It seems he’d acquired some medical skills in his year on the island, which allowed him to be of some help in dispensing drugs for Dr. Somerton, the army surgeon. This in turn allowed him to purloin no small quantity of said drugs, which he put to any number of dubious uses. Most prominently: trading with the local soldiers and officers in exchange for items and favors to make his life easier. But the thing he really gained was information.

  In the evenings, Dr. Somerton, the officers, the sailors who ran the docks and a few civilians would gather to play cards in the infirmary. Small would sit in Somerton’s office, filling bottles, writing out forms and ordering replacements for the supplies he’d just stolen. Often he would listen to the players’ talk. And that is the scene we entered. Small in the office, busy with his thievery and eavesdropping, while seven men sat playing a card game of hideous complexity. The deck they used was gigantic and seemed to be composed of cards from several traditions: the familiar fifty-two-card deck, but also tarot cards and a few symbols that reminded one of mah-jong. It was one of those games with several rounds of betting, of discarding and re-drawing, maneuvering for advantage with an opponent’s discarded cards, and battling the shifting vicissitudes of luck.

  Or, no… not luck… cheating.

  There was entirely too much conversation for there not to be agreed-upon little codes about what one was holding or thinking of discarding. Too many funny little gestures that tended to be repeated. Too many raised eyebrows and answering smiles. It was clear the air was abuzz with secret language. Just as clear: the civilians spoke it fluently. The officers did not.

  We watched for a few moments, trying to glean the obtuse and intricate rules, until—with a final burst of laughter and moans, a quaffing of final brandies and flicking of final cigars—the game broke up. The civilians rose. Dr. Somerton excused himself. Two officers remained.

  I knew them.

  One, I had seen in a painting. Major Sholto was younger, to be sure, less worn by care and his own misdeeds. Yet that shabby brand of martial splendor I’d noted in his portrait attended him already.

  The other was less familiar. Yet, if one noted the general grayness of his form and character—that bitter unfriendliness of bearing and the pinched grimace of a man who thought the world owed him more than it was delivering—there could be no question. He was certainly related to Mary Morstan. He sat with his head in his hands, staring down at the table with horrible anger.

  John Sholto picked up a stub of cigar from the ashtray, took an exploratory puff and said, “That last hand, Artie… What the hell was that? Couldn’t you see he was building a hangman’s bridge? You just kept betting.”

  “Of course I saw what he was building! I’m not a fool! But I knew I could beat him!”

  “Well… you didn’t.”

  “But I had fours! Nobody was holding fours! I knew I could get them all. I had the four of diamonds, the four of cups, the four of fives and the lotus blossom four. All I had to do was stay in the game until someone dropped a four and I’d have had him!”

  “Four of spades came by, didn’t it?”

  “And I grabbed it up! Yet no sooner did I have it in my hand than I realized I never did have the four of fives…”

  “Oh! No, Artie, not again!”

  “I’d been holding the bloody five of fours! They look exactly alike!”

  “Not quite.”

  “Well, they’ve got those same twenty dots on them, don’t they? I mean… I dropped it as soon as I could and started looking for that last card to get my five-of-akind, but…”

  Major Sholto gave a grim smile. “How bad is it?”

  “All the way! I’m done!” said Morstan, throwing up his arms. “I thought I could save myself, you know? Win back all that money I was supposed to have been sending home! So I just kept throwing more and more in. I’ve nothing now. Less than nothing. How am I going to pay back those marks I was betting at the end?”

  Sholto shrugged. “Well, don’t look at me. I passed the point of no return last week. I’ll be out of the army in a month; I’ll have to sell my commission to cover my debts.”

  “Then I suppose I’ll see you back in England, for I think that is my only course now, too,” Morstan said.

  At this point, the two men were interrupted by the sound of the closing office door. They looked up in annoyance to have their secret shame intruded upon.

  There stood Young Small, with a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Oh,” he said. “So sorry, sirs, I thought the game was done.”

  “It is, Small, it is,” said Morstan. “Yes, I’m afraid the game is well and truly done.”

  “But you know, I’m glad to catch the two of you,” said Small, “for I’ve got a question about the army. Policy and procedures and such.”

  “Tomorrow, damn it,” Sholto barked. “Can’t you see we’re busy?”

  “Oh, but it’s just a small thing,” said Small, struggling to keep the smile off his lips. “I wanted to know who to report hidden treasure to.”

  Sholto’s eyes brightened just a shade. Morstan’s did not. He waved his hand dismissively and mumbled, “The regional exchequer. They handle all that sort of thing. I’ll help you write a letter tomorrow if you want, but Major Sholto is right: leave us alone.”

  Sholto’s hand gripped his friend’s shoulder with sudden earnestness. “Oh, but, Captain… are you sure? We’ve got time, haven’t we?”

  “Time? What time have we left?”

  “God damn it, Artie! Aren’t you curious? Don’t you wish to know about this hidden treasure?”

  “Not really. Go away, Small.”

  “You don’t think it might be amusing to find out how much it is? And… er… where it is? And how many people know about it?”

  “Not particula—Ow!”

  Major Sholto’s grip was now so tight it looked as if he might crush Mo
rstan’s clavicle. He stared down with wide eyes and a smile so broad and tense it looked as if he’d eaten three pounds of large decorative rocks and was now attempting to pass them. As Morstan looked up, his countenance made it plain that he had no energy for this. Yet his friend appeared most earnest, so he sighed and said, “All right. What is it, Small? Find a shiny pebble, did you?”

  “Several, actually,” Small said, with a smile. “I don’t know if you’ve heard what got me sent here, but the three Sikhs and I were sent down for the ‘possible’ murder of a merchant. His cousin said that merchant had been in possession of a great treasure at the time, but of course we didn’t know anything about that. But… well… now we’ve been on this island for a while and probably nobody’s too worked up about that merchant anymore… I thought, maybe if we did remember something about a treasure, perhaps we could exchange the information for our release.”

  Morstan shook his head. “I shouldn’t think so. The charge is murder, Small. Do you think the Crown will so easily forget such a serious—”

  “The treasure’s worth at least half a million.”

  Several eyebrows in the room went up. Mine included, for I knew it to be a gross underestimate of the Agra treasure’s true worth. Half a million? Please. You’d be wrong to trade that iron box and its contents for the Crown Jewels. Sholto looked excited. Morstan thoughtful. After a time, Morstan said, “You may have a point, Small. The sheer value of such a contribution might make the Crown forget much. I’m not sure if it would get all four of you off, but just you… perhaps. I tell you what, I’ll write the exchequer a note tomorrow—”

  “What? Exchequer? No, no, no, Artie! Think of what you’re saying!” Sholto cried. “What good would that do? Why, even if Private Small here could secure his freedom, even if he could get freedom for all his friends, where would they be? All that money would disappear into Her Majesty’s vaults. Private Small would still have no prospects. Think: might there not be a better way for us to help?”

  “What do you mean?” Morstan asked.

  “I mean, if what Small says about the value of the treasure is true, why, that’s enough for more than just a pardon. That’s enough for a boat. That’s enough for a one-way ticket off this island for whoever thinks they might want to go—for new papers and new names and a fresh start. All Small would need is a confederate who could come and go from the island freely.”

  Morstan sniffed. “Well, good luck finding one! This island is—”

  Sholto slapped him across the face and peered down at his friend with pure fury. Morstan looked up in shock and indignation for about half a second, before realization lit his features and he cried out, “Oh! Oh! We could be his confederates!”

  “Hey now,” said Small, finally letting his hidden smile burst forth, “there’s an interesting idea.”

  “I think we might imagine a scenario,” said Sholto carefully, “wherein one of us goes to confirm the treasure is real. If so, I’m sure release might be secured one of these nights for Private Small. Just think: half a million, split three ways—”

  “No!” Small insisted. “Six ways! The Sikhs are my brothers and I swore an oath. I think I could talk them into going sixes, but whatever deal we strike has got to end with me and my brothers on a boat with our cut. I gave my solemn vow!”

  “Awwwww,” said Holmes to me and present-day Jonathan Small. “Now that is nice. You see? An unexpected vein of loyalty to brighten a character stained by disrepute. Nobody is irredeemable, I always say!”

  “That’s one interpretation,” I said. “But here’s mine: Jonathan Small had no intention of giving up five-sixths of the Agra treasure. Yet, if he could secure his freedom and a boat so cheaply, that would be more than worthwhile. As long as he made sure he was at sea before he murdered the three Sikhs, he could be reasonably sure he’d keep their share.”

  “But that’s horrible!” said Holmes. “And besides, it would be three to one; they’d overpower him.”

  “They might,” I agreed, “if he hadn’t spent a few years stealing drugs from Dr. Somerton. I imagine, just following dinner one night, the three Sikhs might find themselves feeling rather drowsy.”

  Present-day Jonathan Small crossed his arms over his chest and mumbled, “Any man would have done the same.”

  Holmes’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, well! Grogsson is right about you, Mr. Small. You are absolutely the worst!”

  “Except he can’t have managed to pull it off,” I noted, “because when this story began, he didn’t have the Agra treasure, did he?”

  Small made a horrible face and nodded. “You guessed it. I talked to the others. Singh agreed, so long as he got to keep the black coin. The other two were just glad of a way off the island. Of course, Morstan and Sholto weren’t about to throw away what was left of their careers unless they knew the treasure was real. I didn’t want to let them do it, but they swore up and down they’d be true to us. In the end we made a deal: the Sikhs and I would make a map to the treasure and we’d trade this for a full confession of our escape plan, signed by Morstan and Sholto. Then one of them would go to Agra, confirm the treasure was there and send a boat for us. We’d all go pick up the treasure together.”

  “Even better,” I scoffed. “Once off the island, with all five others on a boat in the middle of the Bay of Bengal, with a pocket full of sedatives, you could be pretty sure you’d end up with the whole treasure, couldn’t you?”

  “I might have. Me and Singh and Khan and Akbar made that map in good faith. I wrote ‘the sign of nine’ at the bottom and we all signed our names.”

  “I’ve seen it,” I told him. “It was in the possession of Arthur Morstan, and subsequently his daughter.”

  Small shrugged, “He musta got it from Sholto, then. For Sholto were the one who did us wrong.”

  Just a small leap forward in time brought us to the two officers, leaning in over their massive deck of cards. Morstan cut the deck, flipped the cards in his hand upward and cried out, “Yes! The ace of aces!”

  “Well, an impressive-sounding card,” Sholto said, “but let us remember that the value of ace is one.”

  “Oh.”

  Now it was Sholto’s turn to cut. Was it my imagination, or was there just a flick of the wrist as he palmed the cards? Had he forced the draw? It seemed he hardly had to look at the card in his hand before he declared. “Bad luck, Artie! It’s the twelve of cards, I’m afraid. Looks like I’ll be the one to go to Agra. Don’t worry though, I’m sure I’ll be bringing back good news.”

  Present-day Small frowned. “The first sign of trouble came the morning after Sholto left. I’d tucked the confession he and Morstan had signed into my shirt and slept with it overnight, while I tried to think of where to hide it. When I woke, it had dissolved into a gooey mess of nothing. Seems like it was trick paper, made with gelatin in the pulp. I was furious of course, but Morstan seemed as surprised as I was. That’s what made me really worry. Sure enough, a few weeks later, a letter comes. Says the treasure wasn’t there—either I was lying or someone else had found it. After that, nothing. Sholto should have come back but he didn’t. Instead, a few months later, we got word he’d left the army. Apparently some rich uncle nobody knew he’d had left him a pretty sizeable fortune in jewels.

  “Now, with Morstan deep in debt and holding on to his commission by the skin of his teeth, it took him years to find out where Sholto had gone. At last he got word that Sholto had bought a huge house in London. He wrote and demanded to know why Sholto had betrayed him. Morstan don’t know it, but I saw Sholto’s return letter before Morstan himself did. Sholto promised Morstan half the treasure, and all Morstan had to do was make sure me and the Sikhs was dead, then come to London and claim his share.”

  “Why didn’t he?” I wondered.

  Small shrugged. “Probably didn’t want to risk facing a firing squad until he were damned sure he was going to get his half of the treasure. Took a little holiday to London and never come back. From what
I can gather, Sholto did him in as soon as he saw him.”

  “I know something of the matter,” I said. “And I am forced to agree. So you must have had a very long wait for your revenge. But how did you ever make it off the island?”

  “I thought I never would. Until I met Tonga.”

  “Oh! Oh!” said Holmes. “Watch this!”

  Blur. Fuzz.

  We were standing just behind the infirmary. It was a drizzly sort of day, and we were watching a somewhat older and more careworn Jonathan Small peeping out of the back door to talk to a small deputation of Andaman natives. One of them wore an ornate headband, decorated with beading and a few sprigs of feathers and clearly meant to say, “I know you’re not one of us, but do you think hats like this happen by accident? No. A lot of effort went in, and it looks like it denotes social importance, yeah? So, probably talk to the guy with the hat.”

  Their language was strange to me. Small had picked up a smattering of the local tongue and the man who came to deal with him had learned some English. Yet, though the words were a laborious mixture of the two languages, one of the benefits of stealing another man’s memories is that the underlying meanings are clear.

  “They said you wanted to talk to me?” said Small.

  The head of the native deputation nodded. “It is said you know much of the white man’s medicines and poisons.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s what is said. What of it?”

  The islander looked around to be sure they wouldn’t be overheard and asked, “Do you know of a way to kill a spirit?”

  “A what?”

  “A spirit. Have you heard our word ‘Tonga’? It means… how should I say…? It means to take revenge against somebody who has not really done you any wrong.”

  Small smiled. “Is that why you fellows sometimes shoot a poisoned dart or two at us English?”