by Marvin Kaye
We took a cab to the train station at Charing Cross and arrived in the port city about an hour later. We located the Friesland easily and went up the gangway to the main deck, where stevedores were loading cargo in preparation for the ship’s departure. The Friesland was both a cargo and a passenger vessel. Holmes sought out the first mate, James Woodson, who spoke English, and furnished him with a card. Woodson was leery initially, but he warmed to Holmes’s friendly approach. Even so, he answered questions cautiously. Holmes explained that he was trying to find the rightful owner of a large amount of money that had been transported aboard the ship. This seemed to put the seaman at ease completely. In response to a question, he told Holmes that the ship had made a voyage from New York City to Rotterdam, its home port, and then on to Southampton. It next was sailing back to New York.
“There is a man who might be of assistance but whose name I do not know,” said Holmes, and he described the caller who impersonated Athelney Jones.
“Ah, the nose and those eyes,” replied the first mate. “That could be no one other than Mr. Bracken, who boarded the Friesland in New York. I remember him because he had some valuables that he wanted to store in the ship’s safe. What they were he did not specify, but I informed him we had no safe large enough to accommodate the belongings of our passengers. He became annoyed and threatened to file an action against the owners of the ship if he were robbed.”
Holmes requested to see the passenger manifest to determine Bracken’s first name. It was shown to be William and it further revealed that he had booked passage to Southampton.
“Would it be possible, Mr Woodson,” Holmes wanted to know, “for any person aboard this ship to gain access to the cargo hold?”
“It would be possible, for the area is not locked, but I can’t imagine why anyone would want to do that,” the first mate answered.
“Certain people have motives that are sometimes beyond the imagination,” Holmes observed. “Was Mr Bracken traveling alone?”
“As far as I know he was alone. I saw him associate with no other passenger, and he occupied a compartment with a single bed.”
Finished with the interview, Holmes left the ship and found a telegraph office to send a wire to a private detective in New York, John Joyce, for whom Holmes once had done a favour. The wire asked Joyce to make inquiries of the authorities to ascertain whether William Bracken was wanted for a crime and whether any criminal act had been committed recently involving a hundred thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills. The wire contained a description of the man believed to be Bracken.
On the train back to Charing Cross, Holmes speculated as to why Bracken would have deposited the money into the parcel. “Obviously, he was aware of an enemy watching him. Perhaps because he had been careless and allowed himself to be seen with the cash. Whatever the reason, Watson, he was fearful enough to separate himself from the money, clever enough to conceal it from his adversary, and bold enough to deceive Miss Maker so he could make off with a fortune into the recesses of Greater London. We are dealing here with a seasoned manipulator.”
“And finding him now,” said I, “will be more difficult than locating the proverbial needle in the haystack.”
“All is not so hopeless,” remarked Holmes. “No investigation ever comes to a standstill unless one’s determination is lacking. Tomorrow I shall call upon the currency exchange counters at the major banks and see if anyone matching his description has tendered large denominations of American money. Perhaps the merchants of Fleet Street can point us in the direction of Mr William Bracken.”
To our amazement, when we returned to our apartment, Miss Maker was there waiting for us. She was horribly disfigured. Her right eye was swollen shut and there was a bruise on her left cheek. Her lower lip was cut and turgid.
“Oh, Mr Holmes,” she moaned, relieved to see him. “They thought I was his confederate and beat me so I would tell them where I had hidden the money.”
“Come, come now, Miss Maker, start at the beginning, please,” Holmes encouraged, and patted her on the back. Meanwhile, I fetched a basin and poured out some dark vinegar to treat her wounds.
“I was on my way to my shop this morning,” she related, “and when I shut my door and was about to lock it, two men, ruffians they were, came out of nowhere in the hallway and forced me back inside. They said they had been watching me ever since Mr Bracken—that’s what they called him—had come to see me. They had followed him to my flat and they said they knew he gave the money to me to hide. They wanted me to tell them where it was. When I told them I had given the money to the man who called at my door, they began to strike me. One of them held me while the other with the tattoo on his forearm struck me in the face, again and again. They then ransacked my quarters after warning me not to make a sound. A lot of good that would have done anyway, because my landlord, who lives upstairs, is practically deaf. When they were satisfied that the money wasn’t anywhere to be found, they departed, cautioning me against calling the police. I disregarded them and notified a constable, who contacted Inspector Jones. He took down their descriptions and said he would investigate immediately. After I straightened up my apartment, I came here. I’m afraid to go back there, Mr Holmes, in the event they’re waiting for me.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Holmes instructed her. “Dr Watson and I will go back with you, but not before Dr Watson tends to your injuries. Once you are back inside your apartment, lock the door and don’t open it for anyone. You’ll be quite safe. Now, if you don’t mind repeating, would you describe these thugs for me?”
“The one who beat me about the face was stout with a big belly. He was about forty years old.
“He had a broad nose, bulbous eyes, a knit cap, and rotten front teeth. He was not very tall, a little taller than I. The other, who held me, was bigger and did most of the talking. He wore a pea jacket and a knit cap as well. His eyes were sunken and his mouth was wide. He was about forty also.”
“What was the tattoo on the forearm of the one who struck you?”
“It was a mermaid holding an anchor.”
We accompanied Miss Maker home and made sure she was safely inside before leaving. On the way back to Baker Street, Holmes suggested that the attackers came from the Friesland because they apparently had followed Bracken from the time he left the ship. Holmes guessed they were crewmen, based on the particulars supplied by Miss Maker.
“I doubt, Watson,” said he, “that Inspector Jones has made any connections between the parcel and the Friesland, or between Bracken and the men who attacked Miss Maker. So, first thing tomorrow, we shall make a trip to Scotland Yard to share the information. I prefer to work independently, but in this instance only the official detective police force can bring to justice the miscreants who assaulted Miss Maker.”
The next morning, after hearing the results of Holmes’s investigation, Inspector Jones, his eyes twinkling, expressed appreciation for the evidence but he questioned Holmes’s intent. “Do you want the credit for solving the assault upon Miss Maker or do you have designs on the money, or is it both?” Jones pried.
“The credit belongs to you entirely, for it is you who would benefit most from the favourable publicity,” Holmes answered with some indignation. “As for the money, we have no clue yet as to the rightful owner, so the question of a reward is still an open one.”
The solution to the mystery of the money, however, awaited Holmes upon our return to Baker Street. Mrs Hudson had accepted delivery of a telegram from John Joyce, the private detective in New York City. He reported startling news about Bracken and the money. Bracken, said Joyce, was an alias for an international malefactor from London, one Daniel Garber, who had formed a gang in New York City to kidnap a wealthy businessman. The gang had demanded one hundred thousand dollars ransom. Once it was paid, Garber gave the slip to the authorities, double-crossed his recruits, and made off with the loot, leaving them
for the police to capture. All but one of them was caught. Once in custody, the others named Garber as their leader. There was no more evidence against him, though, so the police would be gratified, according to the telegram, to have Garber found in possession of the ransom money. The bills were marked, the telegram said.
Holmes and I took a cab back to Scotland Yard, only to learn that Jones already had gone with some constables to the Friesland to arrest the men responsible for the attack on Miss Maker. Holmes put a sheet of foolscap into Jones’s typewriter and left him a detailed note about the villain we knew as Bracken. Holmes and I spent the remainder of the morning and part of the afternoon alerting the clerks at currency exchange counters about the marked hundred dollar bills. None had been negotiated so far. The clerks were given a description of Bracken, or Garber, and told to notify Holmes or Inspector Jones if an attempt was made to exchange the money.
After we had finished at the last of the banks, we returned to Scotland Yard, where we found Miss Maker seated next to Jones’s desk. She was looking refreshed and was excited to have identified the men who had beaten her. Jones was working on a report.
“They do not deny what they did, Mr Holmes, but they say they know nothing of the whereabouts of Garber,” said Jones. “It is their contention that they stopped following him after he entered Miss Maker’s apartment. They say they are sure he left the money with her. Maybe a few days in the dock will make them want to change their tune.”
The day was a satisfying one, despite the lack of progress on locating the ransom money. Holmes and I escorted Miss Maker home once again and went back to our own apartment afterward. Mrs Hudson had prepared a pot roast with fresh vegetables for supper, and we enjoyed that with a glass of port. Later, Holmes, still seated at the table, took a long drag on his cigarette and marveled at the restraint shown by Garber in not cashing in at least some of the booty.
“There is a reason for him to act contrary to what would be normal,” said Holmes. “It is the absence of normal behaviour that is the key to this mystery.”
There was soon more to add to this conundrum.
We were disturbed in our reading of the evening papers by a strong ring of the bell and a clamour of footsteps on the stairs. “It is someone desperate for help, if I am not much mistaken,” said Holmes as he opened the door to greet a breathless Athelney Jones.
“Mr Holmes, can you and Dr Watson come with me to the Carlton Private Hotel on Harley Street?”
“What is it, Jones?”
“It seems that the two birds who manhandled Miss Maker have no end to their violent ways. Your Mr Bracken, Garber, has been found dead, murdered. We’re sure it is he because of the description, plus he registered at the establishment using his given name. His skull has been bashed in, and the canvas bag he carried to Miss Maker’s is on the bed, empty. There was a terrible struggle in the room and it would be helpful if you used your keen eyes to make a sweep of the place and give us the benefit of your advice.”
I was on my feet in an instant, not even taking time to fold the newspaper. Holmes and I grabbed our jackets off the rack and were out on the street with Jones before he could say another word. The cab he had waiting took us to the hotel in less than a half hour, but by this time there was a crowd of curiosity seekers milling about the entrance. The manager was standing in the hallway talking to two constables. He stopped in mid-sentence and climbed the stairs to the second floor beside the inspector, saying how the expected publicity would be bad for business. “There’s nothing I can do to discourage the press from writing about it,” Jones told him.
Room 211 looked as if a locomotive had passed through it. Every stick of furniture was upset except the bed, but the mattress and box springs were partially on the floor because the slats had been knocked off the frame. Curled in a corner near an upturned writing table was the man with the beak-like nose, a grotesque expression on his face. The side of his head was blood-soaked from a wicked blow by a blunt object. He was wearing a lightweight frock coat, indicating that he had just come in from outside when the ruckus occurred.
Holmes began at once to examine the body, taking his usual methodical approach. Then he started in the corner where the victim lay and worked his way clockwise around the room close to the walls. “Halloa! A button from a waistcoat, and not Garber’s,” said he, picking up the object from under an overturned armchair. At the center of the room he came across a glass paperweight and announced that he had discovered the murder weapon, noting a perfect palm print in the dried blood covering most of the surface.
“It matters not which of our two sailors dealt the blow, they are both equally culpable in this crime,” said Jones. “Garber was a ne’er-do-well, but I shall see them swing for this just the same.”
“Don’t be too sure of your case against them,” Holmes warned, but he declined to explain. He continued his slow exploration of the room, which involved setting the furniture upright, one piece at a time. “The absence of any footprints, due to the dry weather, is a distinct disadvantage,” said he as he stood a bench on its legs again. It was the last piece of furniture needing to be turned upright. “There is nothing more to learn here,” said he, finally.
The constables on the scene had gone up and down the hall on all three floors to locate anyone who heard or saw anything. The chambermaid who found the body in the evening said she had been in the room about the same time the previous day and nothing was awry then. One tenant in the adjoining room said he thought he heard thumping noises coming from the direction of Room 211 in the late afternoon. He said he looked out to see a man leaving. The tenant said he only saw the back of the man in the hallway and remembered he carried a satchel. The man was wearing plaid trousers, a blue waistcoat and tan gaiters. Jones pressed the witness to be sure there was only the one man walking in the hallway and not two. “There was only the one,” the tenant said, recalling that the man had flaxen hair plastered down, bushy side-whiskers, was about six feet tall and weighed about two hundred pounds.
We accompanied Jones back to headquarters, where Holmes asked to speak with the two culprits in the beating of Miss Maker. Jones took Holmes down to the lockup and opened the outer door after explaining to the guard that Holmes was assisting Scotland Yard in an investigation. The pair had just finished eating supper, a bowl of fish chowder with bread, when Holmes approached their cell.
After he introduced himself, Holmes apprised them that Inspector Jones was prepared to charge them with the murder of the man they knew as Bracken.
“Please, please, Mr Holmes, help us,” said the one with the big belly and decayed teeth. “We’ll take our medicine for what we did to the woman, but please don’t let him pin a killing on us, too.”
“I shall do what I am able,” said Holmes. “You can help yourselves by telling me if Bracken associated with anyone aboard the Friesland.”
“He had no friends that I am aware of,” said the other assailant. “He kept to himself.”
“I saw him talking to another passenger once,” said the fat sailor. “He was a man who also came aboard in New York. His name I never heard, but it was a lively discussion, for the other man was waving his arms and shaking his head no.”
“Describe him.”
“He was about twenty-five years old, flaxen hair plastered down, bushy side-whiskers, big round eyes, maybe six feet tall and two hundred pounds or so.”
Holmes got all he could from the pair, then went back up to Jones’s desk.
“I doubt these boys know anything about what went on in Room 211,” said Holmes to the tired inspector. “I hope you consider the probability of another killer.”
“I am considering it enough that I will not charge them with the murder tonight,” responded Jones. “A good night’s sleep will give me fresh perspective tomorrow.”
“Then I bid you a good night,” said Holmes.
“It has been a long d
ay, and I am wishing for a good night,” said Jones as we parted company.
* * * *
Once again back in our rooms, Holmes was contemplative and seemed to gain buoyancy by using me as a sounding board for his train of thought, a purpose that I served on many occasions and one for which he had complimented me several times. He had changed into his mouse-coloured dressing gown and was perched in an armchair with his knees drawn up to his chin, smoking a cherry-wood pipe, a comical sight that reminded me of a giant owl perched in the crook of a tree branch. I joined him with a pipe full of my favourite Arcadia mixture.
“Our deceased gang leader, Watson, feared more than the two seamen in Jones’s lockup,” said Holmes. “He might not even have known of their interest in him. It was his accomplice in the kidnapping, the man he betrayed and who eluded the police—that was who troubled him.”
“But surely he worried about the authorities, too,” I interjected.
“Yes, but he knew if they were an imminent threat they would have put him in irons before the ship left New York Harbour. Is it not more plausible that the one gang member boarded the ship and was waiting for the opportunity to overtake him? An attack aboard ship would have been unpropitious because the list of suspects would be short. He waited until the ship docked and the two of them were far from it.”
“If the killer followed Garber to the hotel, he must have seen him stop at Miss Maker’s.”