by D. R. Bensen
I laughed heartily.
“Chink in your armor, Holmes? Rubbish! There’s no such thing, man!”
He took out his pocket watch and snapped open the case, though it was too early in the journey to check on whether the train was keeping to its schedule. “Isn’t there, Watson?” said he. “Isn’t there? We must wait and see.”
As Sherlock Holmes shut the watch and returned it to its pocket, I recalled that its inner lid bore a carefully cut and fitted miniature portrait of Irene Adler.
Chapter Three
The trouble with split-second arrangements is that un-split seconds have a way of adding up into minutes. An accretion of delays in our railway journey, no one of them significant in itself, came near in their sum to making us miss the Pavonia. Its tall stacks were already trailing smoke as the cab which had whirled us from the station clattered on to a nearly deserted pier. Porters, galvanized by the ten-shilling note I waved like a banner, trotted up the gangplank with our trunks, Holmes and I striding behind them.
I leaned against a rail, puffing slightly, I fear, with the exertion.
“We made it, Holmes, but only just,” I said. “I don’t know how we could have cut it any finer!”
Sherlock Holmes cocked his head toward the still-emplaced gangplank. “Evidently one passenger has done so,” said he.
I turned to look, and saw two burly fellows carrying an invalid-chair containing a black-swathed form, picking their way nimbly up the steeply angled board. A slighter young man in a dark frockcoat followed this strange entourage. As its bearers brought the chair on to the main deck, I caught a glimpse of a horridly emaciated, almost mummy-like face, with luxuriant, though unkempt, white hair straggling under the shawl which covered the head. Then the procession passed through a door to an inside corridor.
“Good Lord, Holmes!” said I. “I doubt that old lady’s in any condition to stand five days at sea!”
“You forget, Watson, that the modern ocean liner is as comfortable and well-appointed as any hotel in a great city—and a great deal more so, I fear, than most hospitals and rest-homes! In any case, you medical men are always talking of the marvelously revivifying effects of the ocean breezes. Doubtless she is counting on that. Though I must admit,” he remarked, looking over the rail to the dark surface of the water below and wrinkling his nose, “that Liverpool Harbor seems to be another matter. Let us go below and see how to dispose our effects so that our shins, if not our tempers, survive the next six days!”
The Pavonia was well out into the Irish Sea by dusk, and Holmes sniffed the air with keen appreciation as we strolled on the deck.
“By Jove, Watson,” said he, “this is a strange position for me to find myself in! I am on grave business, but can do nothing about it. Logic and deduction have taken me as far as they will; I have no way of being in touch with anyone on either side of the Atlantic to gain information or give instruction; I am, for very nearly the first time in my life, isolated and perforce inactive. Well, well, there it is—and I propose to make the best of it. It is a holiday I have not taken by choice, but a holiday nonetheless. I have not had much practice at it, but I believe I shall see what I can do about enjoying myself!”
In the event, Sherlock Holmes’ recreation turned out not to be very different from his profession. His main delight, that first evening, was to observe his fellow-passengers as they promenaded, or were visible through the portholes of the several public rooms and saloons of the great liner.
“Why, it’s a whole world, Watson, in miniature! A throng of people going about their business, unthinking and uncaring of the genius and workmanship that constructed the vessel on which they travel, and scarcely more mindful of the perilous depths they traverse. Just so does the great globe itself plow through the ether, with its voyagers equally ignorant of its motive power.”
“I believe the Pavonia has twin screws,” said I, “and the engines are—”
He halted me with an impatient gesture, which he then amended to a friendly slap on the shoulder.
“Good old Watson,” said he. “I can always count on you to deflate the hot-air balloon of my fancy when it gets too elevated! In any case, whether one considers the world or a ship, it matters not to me what makes it move; it is the passengers and their doings that provide the true fascination. And—hello—is that?—I do believe … Hum. Yes, Watson, some passengers are extremely interesting!”
I followed the direction of his gaze but saw nothing save a small group of men entering one of the saloons.
“Whom did you see, Holmes?” I asked.
“No one of any consequence,” he responded. “I am, after all, on holiday, and life aboard ship must be considered in some sense like that of a water-hole in the veldt, where creatures normally inimical observe a truce, and even the lion and the jackal do not trouble one another.”
The deck was almost deserted now, and Holmes turned to lean on the rail and observe the lights on the Irish coast slipping by.
This last glimpse of the shores of Europe, seen across the moonlit water, stirred me profoundly, but the air was keen and uncomfortably cool, and I felt the need of a sturdier covering than my tweeds. Holmes, as was his wont, was indifferent to the temperature, and I left him by the railing as I went below in search of my stoutest coat.
Picking my way down the corridor, in spite of myself tacking from wall to wall as the ship pitched in the waves, I stopped suddenly as I heard a familiar name spoken by a voice which seemed to come from nowhere. The sound was an eerie, distorted murmur, and I soon realized that it was some trick of the ventilating system that brought it to my ears. The speaker, or speakers, might be in any cabin on the corridor, and I looked helplessly at the line of closed doors on both sides of it, filled with an urgency to know their location.
I could not swear to what I had heard, but it seemed to me to have been very like: “Holmes, yes … he knew me … sure of it.” And then, in the same voice, or another: “… only way … deal with him immediately …”
I stood irresolute for a moment. Had I heard aright? And even if I had, could there not be some innocent construction of that fragmentary exchange? I decided that, if there were, I could not think of it, and turned on my heel, meaning to seek Sherlock Holmes out and warn him of possible danger.
Unhappily, the corridors of the Pavonia provide many choices of direction at their intersections, and I had neglected to make myself master of their maze. It was only after several wrong turnings and some delay that I regained the main deck and hurried to where I had left Holmes—to see, as I approached the spot, a silent struggle between two shadowy figures!
Both were visible only in outline, a stocky shape of medium height contending with an unmistakably tall and lean form. And, as I watched, the taller shadow suddenly lurched violently over the railing and disappeared from sight.
“Holmes!” I cried out, in shock and sudden grief, and raced toward the spot. The other shape ran off into the darkness and was lost to sight.
I reached the railing and leaned over it, scanning the shimmering water in the vain hope of spying a floating form.
“There is no need to cry ‘Man overboard!’ just yet, Watson, and if you will lend me the strength of your arm for a moment, we may be able to avoid the necessity entirely.”
Stunned, I looked down, and saw the glimmer of an upturned face below the edge of the deck. Then I made out two hands firmly clutching the bottom of the railing posts.
I made haste to draw Holmes up and assist him in his rather undignified scramble over the railing and on to the deck.
“What—what happened, Holmes?”
“I was taken by surprise and as nearly as anything pitched into the sea,” he answered. “That much is clear. The motive is not, and I find it is a subject on which I should be glad to inform myself.”
I recounted to him the fragmentary conversation I had heard, or half heard, in the corridor, and my apprehension—amply justified, in the event—that it portended danger
to him.
“Holmes, do you suppose some of Moriarty’s men—?”
“No, no, Watson. This has the earmarks of an attack made in panic or on impulse, and the Professor’s men do not allow themselves such failings. What you overheard, unfathomable as it was to you, makes it all clear to me now. As my assailant—whose name, address, and degraded habits I could easily give you if they would mean anything to you—undoubtedly supposes me dead, I think I shall allow myself to stage a resurrection for his benefit.”
I followed in his steps as he strode off toward the nearest of the ship’s many public rooms, dubious. What Holmes said was usually true, yet, with one murderous attack on him before the Pavonia was fairly at sea, it seemed imprudent to ignore the possibility that, by a means I could not grasp, one or more agents of the Professor had made their way on to the ship and meant to pursue their designs on him.
He peered briefly into one room and withdrew; then, another. In the doorway of the third, he stiffened and drew me quietly inside.
“That empty table over there will do us nicely, Watson. Do you stay to my left just a bit as we approach. Our quarry is at the next table, and it would be best for me to screen you.”
I wondered that my friend could think me more recognizable than himself. Then I saw that, without the aid of the devices which made him a master of disguise, he altered, without in any way seeming unnatural about it, his general appearance with a slouching stride, a slump which took inches from his height, and one hand, raised as if to adjust his tie, which contrived to conceal the greater part of his face.
“The point, Watson,” he murmured, “is to introduce enough unexpected and discordant elements into your walk, stance, and manner so that a possible watcher who has formed his image of you from the sum of those things will register a different impression entirely. A second glance would bring about recognition, but the great thing is not to occasion that second glance.”
We reached the table, partly screened from its neighbor by a spiky kind of fern in a pot, and seated ourselves so that we might observe without being observed.
The nature of the activity at the next table was clear: a party of four men were preparing for a game of cards. One was a sleekly dressed and carefully combed man with a saturnine, predatory countenance. Another was an open-faced, burly young chap who seemed unused to the gaiety and luxury of the ship. The remaining pair appeared to be solid, unremarkable men of business, though evidently prosperous.
“I’m powerfully obliged to you gentlemen for asking me to join you in a little diversion,” observed the young man in accents which I had no difficulty in recognizing as those of rural America. “A sea trip can be lonely without something to pass the time. And, say! I don’t mind telling you I’ve enough in my poke to back up my play.”
I saw the predatory-faced man dart a glance at him as he began to shuffle the cards.
I could follow the play easily enough, but soon grew restive and stirred in my chair. Holmes motioned me to silence with an impatient gesture.
“There will be drama enough in this in a moment or so, Watson,” he whispered.
And so it proved. As the sharp-faced man drew in his winnings from the second hand played, the young American, at that point the major loser, sprang to his feet.
“See here!” he complained. “That jack wasn’t in your hand when it was dealt—for here’s the same one in mine!”
“Do you accuse me of cheating, sir?” said the winner in a blustering tone.
“Make of it what you will!” the American said, his face flushed. “I see what I see, and I’ll not back down!”
The saturnine man’s eyes shifted uneasily to the other two players, who returned his gaze sternly.
“You are mistaken, sir,” he announced with a marked lack of conviction. “But be that as it may, I do not care to play further with you. Good evening to you!”
He pushed back his chair, rose and strode off.
“It seems as though you have saved us from an expensive lesson at the hands of a card sharp,” ventured one of the businessmen. “He seemed unusually lucky, but I doubt if I or my friend would have spotted what was taking place.”
“Where I come from, you have to keep an eye out for crooked play,” said the American. “I’ve no use for such fellows, hate ‘em like poison. In some of the places I’ve been, a man like that would be shot like a dog. Honest cards, honest dealing, honest play—that’s my motto, and Uncle Sam’s, too.”
The game resumed, with the young man and his two companions now on the friendliest of terms.
Holmes watched keenly for a moment, then said loudly, though appearing not to address anyone in particular, “Wot price the briny, eh, Napper? Sweeter nor a cell in Wormwood Scrubs, cor strike me if it ain’t.”
His voice was a precise imitation of the hoarse croak of a seasoned convict, used to speaking from the corner of his mouth to elude the warders’ notice.
The young American sprang from his seat, his ruddy face suddenly ashen. Without a word to his astonished companions, he left the table and made as if to dash for the outer door. As he passed our table, Holmes reached out an arm and drew him to a halt.
“On your way to a swim, Napper, like the one you tried to give me not an hour ago? I doubt you’d like it. Now, I don’t propose to take steps about that trifling matter; a man’s likely enough to see red when he runs into the man who got him four years’ hard labor—was it four or five, Napper?—and give way to a touch of pique. But you’ve got that out of your system now, and have also exhausted your passion for card-playing and traveling-company melodrama for the remainder of this voyage, I trust. In any case, I don’t wish or expect to hear further from you. Do you take my meaning?”
The stocky young man, in whom I could now perceive a resemblance to the shadowy form I had observed in near-mortal struggle with my friend, let fall a stream of foulness from his twisted lips, in accents more redolent of an East End slum than of the American plains.
“I see you do. Be off with you, then—and I suggest that you and Nice Ned keep to your cabin for the remainder of your voyage, or my patience may not prove to be all-enduring.”
The “American” stumbled off, as unsteady in his steps as a blind man. The two businessmen, alarmed and confused, made their way to another part of the saloon.
“What on earth was all that, Holmes?” said I. “I was sure that that frank-faced young chap had exposed a card cheat, whom I supposed to be the man you were observing. But that seems not to be the case.”
“That, Watson, was the Nottingham Napper, who used to make quite a good thing out of appearing a bumpkin among the flasher London crowds; and his associate, Nice Ned, whose sinister appearance made him one of the less successful of confidence-men in town. It was the Napper’s genius that suggested this be turned to their advantage, and that they play a drama in which Ned would be cast as the villain, and the Napper as the honest hero. He has now worked up an atrocious stage-American manner, which I am surprised to think would fool a child” (I bridled at this, but then subsided; after all, I had not committed myself to Holmes on the matter) “and uses it to great advantage. Had the game continued, those two mercantile gentlemen would certainly have found themselves a great deal poorer by morning, and yet completely unsuspicious of the honest-dealing young fellow they had enriched. For had he not, after all, detected the blatant cheat in their midst? Well, well, they have shot their bolt now, and I do not expect to be troubled with them again.”
Chapter Four
Two days at sea is enough to give one the feeling that he has lived that kind of life for a very long time, and will continue to do so for an indefinite period. Hour by hour, one becomes more attuned to the ways of the sea and more removed from those of the land. Relaxation is one important element of this feeling, and so is, I must confess, boredom. It was with a certain amount of pleasurable excitement, then, that both Holmes and I became aware of the smoking-concert being organized by the purser for the third night
out. A Cunard purser must be qualified to fill most of the diplomatic or intelligence posts any government offers, for the Pavonia‘s seemed to be aware of the interests and capabilities of every First Class passenger. On that afternoon, he approached Sherlock Holmes and invited him to participate.
“After all, sir,” he said, “your virtuosity on the violin is well-known, and I venture to say that you have your instrument with you.”
Holmes admitted both to his ability and to the presence of his fiddle, and made only the feeblest of attempts to beg off performing.
“I shall be glad of the chance to give it a proper tuning,” he told me, his manner a good bit less than convincing. “Without a little exercise, it will doubtless be woefully slack from the sea air by the time we reach New York.”
“I dare say. The plain fact is, Holmes, that you are idle and restless, and want the chance to show off.”
“And you, Watson, have your nose out of joint because you were not asked to appear at the concert—I confess it.”
I considered this, and finally nodded my head. “Well … I don’t suppose I should have cut much of a figure reciting ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade,’ which is about my only concert turn!”
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” We turned and saw a tall man in his twenties crossing the deck toward us. “Say, could I talk to you about the concert this evening?”
Though, to my ear, his accent was twin to that of the fraudulent Napper’s, Holmes appeared to accept him as a genuine American, and was soon in amiable conversation with him.
“You see, they’ve got me booked to sing some cowboy songs, things the range hands sing around the campfires, and I don’t know’s I’m so set on doing it solo. I hear you’re going to be playing the fiddle just before me, and I wonder if you could kind of stay on and give me some kind of accompaniment.”