by Geri Schear
“Miraculous objects do exist,” Watson said.
“Nonsense.” Bazalgette leaned forward and placed his hands on the table. “Truly miraculous objects do not exist except in story books.”
“And yet a man has murdered three people apparently because he believes he has found these coins. One of the victims was your friend, Mr Schwartz.”
“Schwartz? Dead?”
Bazalgette’s face drained of all blood. Watson poured him a glass of water and helped him drink it. “Slowly, slowly,” he said. “You have had a shock.”
“But, but he was here. Just here last week. He sat in that chair where you are sitting now, Mr Holmes. Oh dear, oh dear, what a terrible thing. I am sorry to hear it. Yes, very sorry. He was a decent fellow, you know. Very knowledgeable and interested in so many things. In his own field, that is to say as a jeweller, he was quite exceptional. A master craftsman and creative, too. He once showed me a pin that he made of a bunch of daffodils all in gold. Quite exquisite. Oh dear. I shall miss him.”
“Can you relate your last conversation with him in as exact detail as you can recall?”
He loosened his tie and sipped more water before replying.
“I had a telephone call from Schwartz on Tuesday night and I agreed to meet him the next day. He arrived promptly at four o’clock and sat, as I said, in that chair. He said he was trying to learn as much as he could about the coins of the Coptic Patriarchs.
“I told him bluntly the coins were a myth and not worth his time. He said, as you did, Mr Holmes, ‘I suppose there is no doubt about that?’
“‘None at all,’ I said. I reminded him of the particulars of the tale: Saint Mark had given a gift of the coins to a poor widow who lived in the city of Akhetaten and no matter how many times she spent them she always found them in her purse. These details never vary. However, the Royal City of Akhetaten was abandoned during the reign of King Tutankhamun. That king died in 1325 BC, while St Mark was martyred in the 64th year of Our Lord.”
“Akhetaten?” I said.
“Or Tell el-Amarna as the archaeologists call it. It was excavated some eight or nine years ago.”
“And you told all this to Mr Schwartz.”
“I did. I also pointed out the impossibility of proving that one coin is more special than any other of its type. Could you say with any certainty, Mr Holmes, that one of the pennies in your pocket is more valuable than any other penny?”
“And when you made this point to Schwartz he asked you about provenance?”
“Yes, that is correct. He said what if there was a document that outlined the tale of the coins and listed the names of all of its owners since the widow. I told him such a document would have to be a forgery. There was just such a case in Bavaria about twenty years ago. Someone had a couple of coins allegedly dating to the early Christian Church in Egypt. They produced the coins and a document much like the one Schwartz described. Of course, tests proved conclusively the thing was a forgery. The blackguard vanished before he could be arrested.”
“What was Schwartz’s response?”
“That everything I said fit in with his own thoughts and recollections. That was all. We shook hands and he left.”
“Did he mention the name Demosthenes Jones?”
“Jones? No. Mr Schwartz would never have dealings with a villain like that, Mr Holmes. The man is a thief and a liar.”
“What of someone called Bashir?”
“There are several people of that name, but off hand I cannot think of anyone who has any particular expertise in this subject. Certainly, my old friend did not mention the name. Dear me, I am really very sorry he is dead. I wish I could be of more help.”
“On the contrary, your help has been inestimable,” I said.
Despite his elegant name, Demosthenes Jones is no more than a conduit through which stolen works of art are processed. He is a big man, only an inch shorter than I, but his girth... I vow it would take a full twenty seconds to make a circumference around him. He has a small shop in Soho and spends each day sitting in the back smoking some noxious weed that certainly is not Nicotiana tabacum.
Today his hooded eyes glinted as he looked up at Watson and me when we drew back the heavy velvet curtain and violated his inner sanctum.
“Mr Holmes,” he said, wheezing as always. The gap in his two front teeth gave a whistle to his ‘S’s and the words sounded like Misster Holmess.
He was sitting cross-legged on a huge red cushion puffing on a hookah.
“I need to speak to you on a matter of business,” I said, sitting on a decidedly ill-advised statue of an Indian elephant. Watson stood at the doorway, his arms folded. Now and then, he turned his face away in order to inhale some of the slightly less noxious air of Soho.
“Always a pleasure to speak with you, Misster Holmess,” Jones replied. He offered me his pipe; I waved it away with a lazy hand.
“What can you tell me about a man called Schwartz?”
“Schwartz?” He puffed and avoided my eye.
I jangled the coins in my pocket. The puffing stopped.
“I met a Jew by that name a few days ago,” he said.
“What did you discuss?”
More puffing. I shifted my position and a china statue of Vishnu crashed to the floor and shattered into a hundred shards.
“Oh dear,” I said.
“Oy! Be careful!” Jones hissed.
“Schwartz,” I said.
“All right, all right, he wass here. Last week it wass, Tuessday or Wednessday. He were assking about ssometale. Egyptian coinss.”
“And what did you tell him?”
I rested my finger against the base of another statue, a plaster bust of Napoleon.
“Sstop!” cried Jones. “All right. I told him that ssome do ssay the coinss are a myth, though I have heard different.”
“What have you heard?”
“Iss it worth ssomething?”
“Goodwill, Mr Jones,” I replied.
“Your goodwill iss like money in the bank,” he said and bowed slightly. “All the ssame, it don’t pay the rent now, do it?”
I took a guinea out of my pocket and showed it to him. “For the broken statue,” I said. “How much hashish can you buy for a guinea?”
He laughed and his laughter turned into a cough. “Not ass much ass you might think. Sstill, in the interesst of cooperation...
“I have heard from very good authority that the coinss are quite real and are in right here in London.” He reached out his pudgy fingers to take the coin but I covered it with my hand.
“What authority?”
He sighed, puffed on the pipe, and then said, “This must remain between uss, Mr Holmess. It could be difficult for me if it were known I talked to you.”
“You may rely on my discretion.”
“Well, then... There iss a man by the name of Bashir. An Egyptian by birth, it iss ssaid. He had some dealings with the estate of Ssir Nicholass Fleming.”
Fleming! Ah!
“And now?” I said, careful that neither my mien nor my voice betrayed my excitement. “I believe Fleming died some months ago. What happened to Bashir after that?”
“You’ll find the gentleman in Chapel Market.”
“You told all this to Schwartz?”
He nodded.
“Thank you, Jones, you’ve been very helpful.”
“You, ah, won’t mention my name?”
I slid the coin across the counter and his greedy hand grabbed it. “Not a word,” I said.
“Well, well,” I said as I climbed into a hansom with Watson. “Now the threads start to come together.”
“Do you think Bazalgette was wrong and the coins do actually exist?” my friend said.
“N
ot necessarily. It is entirely possible this Bashir gentleman was misled or duped by someone, or perhaps he’s the one doing the duping. A clever fake could be worth a fortune. We still have a great many questions. What is the link between Bashir and Rickman, for instance.”
“You do not think they can be one and the same?”
“Unless a tall, fair man can pass himself off as an Egyptian...” I paused.
“Something has struck you,” Watson said. He lapsed into silence, understanding, as he always does, when I have a need for quiet contemplation.
As we neared Baker Street he said, “I say, Holmes, I think we should go to Camden Town.”
“Why so?”
“Someone ought to break the news to Mrs Prentiss about Connie’s death. She ought to know.”
“Really? Oh, if you insist. Would you mind taking care of it, Watson? And since you will be in Camden Town anyway, see if you can find out anything about the newcomers to the area. There was an African man, I believe.”
“And a widow,” he said.
“Trust you to remember the woman.”
“And trust you to forget.”
“I forget nothing. It is unfortunate that Chapel Market is closed on Mondays. We shall have to delay our investigations into Bashir until tomorrow. I am anxious to see if there have been any further developments in Hatton Garden. We shall rendezvous in Baker Street later.”
I found Stevens on Saffron Hill. He was helping an old woman with her bags. He nodded towards me and then, with a jerk of his chin indicated I should meet him down the street.
He joined me a few minutes later. “Good afternoon, Mr Holmes,” he said, greeting me with a smile and a handshake.
Saffron Hill is a little too narrow, a little too overlooked for quiet conversation, and we headed for the wider thoroughfare of Hatton Garden.
“Well,” I said as walked down the street. “What news?”
“That fellow de Vine is a slippery customer and no mistake,” Stevens said. “I am glad to have a chance to talk to you, Mr Holmes, because I think I must report the fellow to Inspector Glaser, but I wanted to talk to you before I do.”
“Well?”
“I said he was lazy but, my word, that’s not the half of it. He takes bribes; he uses his position to bully people. In all, he is a thorough disgrace to his uniform.”
“Does he know he has been so unfortunate as to lose your regard?” I asked.
The man was too distressed to catch my humour. “No,” he said, earnestly. “I have been very careful to play the part, wretched though it makes me.”
“If it is any comfort to you, Stevens, Glaser already knows de Vine was lying.”
“Oh, that is a relief. He’s a fine gentleman is the inspector. As to de Vine: He tries to avoid discussing the murder but of course, he thinks I’m just some dolt who knows nothing, and I play that up.
“I told him I thought he was very brave to go into that house after hearing a gunshot. He admitted he didn’t realise it was gunfire at the time. I do believe he was horrified by what happened. He says remembering makes him ill and from the way he looks when he remembers I’d say that much is true. He did say one very odd thing though. He said, ‘Old fool should have waited.’”
“‘Old fool should have waited?’” I repeated. “Ha! Excellent! Well done, Stevens, well done indeed.”
“What does it mean?” Stevens said.
“It means we need to find Inspector Glaser.”
These things never go as smoothly as one expects. Firstly, Glaser had to be found and informed; then Hill had to take over in Glaser’s absence; Lestrade had to redistribute his own work; and then we had to rendezvous at Scotland Yard. An hour and a half passed before we could confront de Vine.
The fellow marched into the room the very model of a good policeman. On the outside, anyway.
I sat in the corner and let Glaser and Lestrade get on with it.
Seeing us shook the fellow and the good policeman façade began to crack.
“Have a seat, de Vine,” Glaser said.
“What’s this about, Inspector?” he asked. His chair chattered on the floor in answer to his trembling.
“I think you know full well,” Glaser said. “Your only hope is to make a clean breast of it.”
“I should caution you,” Lestrade said, “If you attempt to lie you may face prison for obstruction of justice. Let’s have it. The whole story. The truth, mind, or I shall march you down to the cells myself.”
The fellow’s teeth chattered. “I didn’t mean no harm,” he stammered. “It was just... I didn’t know what was going to happen, did I?”
“Start at the beginning, de Vine,” Glaser said. “When Mordechai Schwartz asked for your help.”
The fellow was sweating profusely. His body emitted a terrible odour, the stench of fear. I had a flicker of sympathy and then I remembered Schwartz and my heart hardened.
“I didn’t know him,” de Vine said. “I mean, I’m sure I’d seen him but I don’t know those people. Those beards and the hats, they all look the same to me. Anyway, it was Friday afternoon and he was hurrying up the street. He stopped me and asked if I’d seen the inspector. I said I hadn’t and he was probably on his patrol.
“‘Well,’ says the fellow, ‘it’s very important that the inspector and his officers meet me in my workshop this evening after services. Ask Glaser to tell Mr Holmes that we have him.’”
“But you did not tell me, did you?” Glaser said. “And you were not there at the workshop. You let Schwartz face that villain alone.”
“I did go,” de Vine protested. “Only I was a bit late.”
“Because you were sleeping,” Glaser said.
Lestrade leaned forward. “Is this true? Were you sleeping? Is that why you didn’t let the Inspector or Mr Holmes know of Schwartz’s plan?”
“It was just... I mean... I was sick,” de Vine said with a wail. “I had to take some medicine for my back and it put me to sleep. I did head over there as soon as I remembered. I looked for the inspector and for Bing but I couldn’t find them.
“Look, I’ve been a copper for eight years now. That’s four years longer than most other fellows and what have I got to show for it? Bad hours, bad pay, and no respect.”
“Well, you need not worry about the unfairness of your lot any longer,” Lestrade said. “I am discharging you. You may face charges-”
“You? Discharging me?” de Vine, shouted, interrupting the inspector.”Fine. Stuff it, I say.” He tore off his uniform jacket and his hat and flung them across the table. Both hit Lestrade in the face. Then came his truncheon and other items of his profession.
A moment later, he was gone and we all sat in silence.
“I am sorry, Glaser,” Lestrade said. “I should have listened to you all those times you complained to me about that fellow. If I had, Schwartz would not be dead and Rickman would be in custody.”
He rose to his feet at least ten years older than when he had sat down.
“Are you all right, Lestrade?” I said.
He shook his head and left.
For some moments, Glaser and I sat in silence. I was seething at the rank stupidity of it all. Schwartz had him, had arranged for us to catch him, and because of one lazy, worthless policeman it had all come to nothing. No, worse than nothing for Schwartz had paid for his good intentions with his life.
“How are things in Hatton Garden, Glaser?” I asked after I subdued my fury.
“What?” It took a moment for Glaser to shake out of his reverie. “Oh, there was a report of a sighting,” he said. “Someone claimed they had seen Rickman up by Montague Street again. Strange that he is still in the area.
“I’ve been thinking: What if he’s part of a gang? Maybe there’s a few of them holed up together
somewhere, keeping an eye on the diamond district while they plan a robbery.”
“He is almost certainly being directed by someone,” I agreed. Glaser looked crestfallen.
“Oh,” he said. “You already worked that out. Well, of course you did. I’m a fool.”
“Do not berate yourself, Inspector. Most of your colleagues would have missed all the clues that you spotted.”
“Well, I reckon if he was left to his own devices he’d have scarpered by now. That he is still staying around says he probably has people, or at least one person, telling him what to do. Though I suppose if the job was big enough he might think it worth the risk. But why him? A man like that will stand out anywhere, even more so in a district such as this.”
“Precisely,” I said. “You have put your finger on it, Inspector. Why Rickman? If you wanted to hire someone to commit murder, why would you choose a man who must attract attention, unless attention was the point for some reason? And why kill Schwartz? All the evidence suggests a premeditated murder, and yet the killer was so distressed when he killed Bing that he was violently sick. No, someone else is pulling the strings, but who? Why?”
We both sank again into silence. I broke it by saying, “Other than the reported sighting of Rickman, have there been any other developments?”
“Only the usual petty thefts and arguments that you’d find anywhere. If anything, things have been quieter than usual. People are afraid.”
“That fear will not last long.”
We returned to Hatton Garden and I watched how his keen eyes scanned his district with a fierce protectiveness that seems to define him.
I said, “You will be careful? Beatrice is very fond of you, you know.”
“And I of her,” he said. “I shall be careful. At least I have Stevens now; he is worth ten of de Vine. Good evening, Mr Holmes.”
Watson arrived in Baker Street not long after I. “Ah, you’re back, Holmes,” he said. He took off his coat and rubbed his hands together before the fire. He was trying to act coolly but his excitement enveloped him like a cloud.
“You have news,” I said. “Tell me everything.”
He smirked and sat in his customary seat. “You know me too well,” he said. “I visited Mrs Prentiss’s house first. I told her about Connie’s death. Not any of the details, but just the fact that the girl was dead.