I heard Holmes arrive downstairs and tucked the bonny thing into my dressing-gown pocket.
He joined me at the breakfast table. His eyes raked over me in that disconcerting fashion. ‘There is Chubb’s over near St Paul’s. They were tasked with locking up the Koh-i-Noor Diamond during the exhibition. You could try there,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Most famous locksmith in London. If he cannot help you, then Boobbyer, 14 Stanhope Street, the Strand, might.’
‘Boobbyer? Odd name!’
He smiled. ‘Probably an attempt at anglicization of a French word. Bobbière, or something.’
‘Holmes, how on earth do you know of—’
‘Simple research, Watson!’
‘No! You are not a mind reader! How did you know that I was thinking of the box?’
‘Bulge in your dressing-gown pocket. Cigar-cutter on the table. You don’t smoke cigars in the morning.’
‘But I might.’
‘But you do not. You have been attempting to open that box. Fruitlessly, I might add.’
He picked up a large envelope which had arrived for him, opened it and gave a shout of delight. ‘Ah! Files on the Cavendish Laboratory. I have an inside track there, Watson. I have learned a bit more of Cosimo Fortuny’s work. Fascinating!’ He eagerly removed a stack of files, tossing the envelope onto the floor.
Mrs Hudson brought more coffee. She skulked out with a glance at the littered floor, clearly irritated at Holmes’s continual additions to the disarray.
‘Holmes, I’m going to try that second locksmith you named – Boobbyer?’
‘Do go, dear fellow, I must read these files. You’ll be back in an hour, I warrant. Then we are off to visit Santo Colangelo. I have gone to the address Madame Borelli gave for her former flame while you lingered abed this morning. It seems he has moved on to cheaper lodgings. I sent him a note, and he has agreed to see us. Go, Watson, have your consultation with Boobbyer!’
My visit to the second locksmith was a disappointment. Mr Boobbyer, a kindly old man with an eyepatch and a pendulous lower lip, attempted for fifteen minutes to assail my mysterious box. He then handed it back, unopened.
‘Trick lock,’ he said. ‘Specialty item. No one can open this. You’ll need the key, and instructions.’
‘What do you mean a trick lock?’ I demanded.
‘I mean it’s tricked. Picking won’t work. It will either take more than one key or something like a key partially inserted, turned, then inserted further and turned another way two times, followed by pressure on this little lever – some odd combination like that. Unless you know how to open this lock, you won’t be able to.’
‘I thought all locks were assailable in some fashion,’ I said.
‘No, they are not. Would you like me to try drilling it open?’
I hesitated. Not knowing the contents, or their placement in the box, I was leery to progress to this. ‘Let me consider it,’ I said, and pocketed the box.
I arrived back at Baker Street in a surly mood, aggravated by Holmes’s irritation at having been made to wait. We then set out at once for Colangelo’s new address.
The rain had done nothing to dispel the tropical heat which suffocated London. As we rattled towards the Strand past limp plane trees and drooping pedestrians, Holmes exuded a jittery energy I had seen often enough when he had not enough to occupy that great, churning mind.
Borelli’s fate was of marginal interest to him, of that I was sure. Holmes was convinced the fellow could look after himself and was perhaps even guilty of rigging his own accident. Nevertheless, he had promised Ilaria Borelli to investigate her former lover, magician Santo Colangelo, to determine conclusively his involvement with last night’s near fiasco.
Santo Colangelo’s lodgings were in The Blackbird Arms, on a dingy side street off the Strand. As we stood outside the door to his rooms, the strong smell of onion soup filled the shabby, dimly lit hallway. Holmes admonished me to say little. I wondered what story he had concocted for the man to receive us.
Santo Colangelo opened the door and I was struck by his strong resemblance to the Great Borelli. Tall, dark-complexioned, and with some heaviness about the middle, he sported the same pointed beard and moustache, making him appear like an older, less athletic brother of the more famous man. There was something softer about him, rounder, less aggressive, but still quite handsome. Like Borelli, he had a thatch of thick, shiny black hair, worn long, but groomed back from his face.
Madame must have a particular kind of man who attracted her, I thought. I wondered if her new love, the professor, also fit the mould.
Colangelo was dressed in threadbare street clothes, over which he had thrown a once expensive but equally worn Chinese silk dressing gown. In the room behind him, I could make out a massive clutter of books, papers and magic paraphernalia. A crystal ball glinted in the sun from an open window, and decks of cards spilled onto the floor. Various other items which I did not recognize, decorated imaginatively with glittering stars and symbols, were strewn about the room. No fewer than four cats were draped on the backs of chairs, the sofa and a table. They appeared to be asleep and I hoped they remained so. I disliked cats for their sudden surprises.
The man fingered a coin in his left hand which he made dance between his fingers, right to left, then left to right. I noticed his right hand stayed in the pocket of his dressing gown.
‘Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson,’ said Colangelo, greeting us with a certain chilly reserve. ‘Ilaria sent word you were coming. I would otherwise have turned down your request, Mr Holmes. If you forgive me, I no longer shake hands. Enter.’
Something strange glinted in his mouth as he spoke.
We stepped into a large room which served as both a sitting-room and bedroom in this hotel. A small double bed was tucked into a corner and two large armoires were cracked slightly open, revealing a jumble of items and what I presumed was the man’s entire wardrobe, including some rather garish velvet jackets. Several tables were about, including one containing foodstuff and a heating device not unlike Holmes’s Bunsen burner, and another that served as a dressing table. A sink sat in one corner; piled in it were several cheap dishes encrusted with food. A makeshift living arrangement, I thought, poor yet infinitely better than those of the many vagrants who littered the parks and alleyways of London.
We were invited to sit on a lumpy velvet sofa which faced the windows, and Colangelo took a seat on a high-backed wooden chair, sharply silhouetted. It put us, or at least me, at a distinct disadvantage, for the man’s features were hard to make out.
Holmes hesitated to join me and moved instead to the windows, where he pulled back the curtain and glanced out at the street.
Colangelo regarded him strangely.
‘Do sit, Mr Holmes,’ he said.
Holmes scanned the room once more, then joined me on the sofa and proceeded to waste no time.
‘Mr Colangelo, you know that I am here on behalf of Madame Ilaria Borelli. She is concerned about the incident in which you lost a finger from a small device provided to you by the Borellis. She believes that you blame her husband for this accident. Do you, in fact, believe he tampered with the device in order to cause you injury?’
The magician shrugged. The coin continued to dance across the fingers of his left hand.
‘She fears retribution,’ continued Holmes. ‘We all are wondering if perhaps you were behind the accident which befell Mr Borelli the night before last. You know of it?’
‘Of course. The police questioned me.’ His English had only the slightest trace of an Italian accent.
‘And—?’
The man snorted. ‘If I were guilty, I would hardly say so.’
‘Where were you throughout that day?’
‘Here. Practising.’
‘Alone?’
The man nodded. But his sideways glance gave evidence, even to me, that he was lying.
‘Then you have no alibi?’ persisted Holmes.
‘The police did not ask for one.’
‘But I do.’
‘I … Yes, all right then. I do have an alibi. She will prove I was here. A young lady. She was with me all day.’
‘Will she vouch for you?’ said the detective.
‘Her reputation—’
‘Will she vouch privately for you, to me?’
A pause. ‘Yes.’
‘Her name?’
‘Eloise Marchand.’ Colangelo continued to weave the coin through the fingers of his left hand. I noticed he did so without looking.
‘Summon her,’ said Holmes.
‘I cannot, she works in the daytime at a milliner’s.’
‘And the day before yesterday—?’
‘Her day off. Easy to confirm. I tell you, she was with me all day. And late, past ten.’ He smiled. The mysterious glint was revealed as a small diamond embedded in one of his canines. A theatrical touch!
‘And the name of the shop where she works?’
‘Capital Toppers. In Soho.’
‘I will check,’ said Holmes. ‘But back to the sad accident causing damage to your finger. Do you blame Borelli for the incident?’
Colangelo’s smile dropped. ‘No! That idiot. Borelli could not have done so. He is an ignoramus.’ He pronounced it ‘ig-nor-a-moose’. ‘I thought Ilaria sent you to find who actually did tamper with the device.’
‘So then Madame Borelli has no reason to worry that you intend her husband harm?’
‘Ilaria? She wishes to cause me trouble, perhaps? She is angry with me because I left her.’
‘She states otherwise, Mr Colangelo. She says that she left you for Borelli. She told me this accident ruined your act, and for that you blame Borelli.’
‘Why would that fool do me harm? If she left me for Borelli, truly, then he has “won the prize”, as you say. Ilaria is his.’
‘Then Madame Borelli did leave you?’
Colangelo was silent for a moment. Then, finally, ‘Well, yes. We had a … a falling out.’
Just then the coin slipped from his left hand where it had continued its dance. It hit the floor and rolled over to me, stopping when it struck my foot. I leaned down to retrieve it and handed it to Colangelo.
‘Mr Colangelo, we could save valuable time if you would only begin with the truth instead of arriving at it by circuitous means. Is Madame Borelli accurate in saying that locks are not your forté?’
The man shrugged. He placed the coin on the table, stood up, and approached me, standing close. Uncomfortably close. I remained seated but felt uneasy.
‘How adept are you at dealing with mechanical contraptions, Mr Colangelo?’ persisted Holmes.
‘I am not so good with the locks. I am what’s called the “sleight of hand”.’ He gently waved his empty left hand in the air. With a sudden lunge, and before I could react, Colangelo struck me a sharp blow on the side of the head.
CHAPTER 21
The Tables Turned
‘Ouch!’ It happened so fast that I had no time to duck.
A coin appeared in Colangelo’s left hand, as though he’d removed it from my hair.
‘Sleight of hand will be learned by the left hand! Progress, you see!’ he exclaimed triumphantly, holding up this second coin.
He sat back down in the chair facing us and placed this coin next to the first on the table. A third appeared as if by magic in his left hand, and he resumed threading it back and forth through his fingers. ‘Though now I am mostly a mind reader.’
‘A mind reader, yes, of course,’ said Holmes, archly. ‘Madame Borelli so informed us. Perhaps a more difficult trick.’
‘It is no trick,’ said Colangelo. ‘Mind-reading, this is the real magic.’
Holmes shook his head.
‘I see that you doubt me, Mr Holmes. Then tell me this: how do I know that you drink your coffee black? That you eat very little? That you play a stringed instrument? That you care very much for the man sitting beside you? Too much, perhaps. It may be the death of you.’
There was a pause. I glanced at Holmes, realizing at once that my reaction to this could easily give something away. I turned back to Colangelo, attempting to keep my face neutral.
To my surprise, Holmes laughed.
‘Not bad,’ said he. ‘Three of four are correct. But a trifle obvious.’
‘How so?’ asked Colangelo, his irritation evident.
‘The cuff of my left sleeve has the slightest coffee stain, but dark, with no milk. You are lucky in that one. I did not notice this, or I would have changed shirts before coming.’
‘It is surprising, as I see from the rest of your clothes that you are very – what is the word? – fastidious.’
‘I was in a hurry. I am thin, although this could be from illness—’
‘There is no sign of ill health.’
‘Therefore, I am a light eater. Obvious. And I have calluses on the fingers of my left hand, but not the right, from which you infer a stringed instrument. That, at least, indicates keen observation. They are not terribly noticeable, but you are looking for such clues.’
Colangelo smiled broadly and shook his head. ‘No. It is all magic.’
‘I do not believe in magic.’
‘You are one of few. So you think number four is wrong? That you do not care—’
‘There is no magic, Mr Colangelo. But how, then, do I know that you are a hypochondriac, have recently gained weight, hide sweets in your humidor, and are currently seeing not one but two young ladies?’
Colangelo froze. His jaw twitched.
Holmes waved his arms in a flourish. ‘Magic!’
‘You have been spying on me!’
‘No. We met for the first time just now.’
Colangelo’s eyes darted around the room. ‘You are guessing!’
‘Not at all. You look perfectly healthy, if perhaps overfed, but you have more medicines than six consumptives, and these are visible in the small cabinet above your sink with the door slightly ajar. That, coupled with your copy of Gunn’s Home Book of Health marked with dozens of bookmarks by your bed over there, reveal without a doubt your hypochondria.’
‘Sir!’
‘There is more. Your humidor is nowhere near your smoking paraphernalia – but instead sits next to your collection of biscuits and teas. And wrappings from several horehound candies I recognize by their distinctive red stripes are visible in this small bin nearby, and two more under the bed, there. Also, there is no indication of any cigar smoking nor odour of it, either. Why, then, a humidor? Your consumption of sweets explains the minute holes in the waist of the trousers you are wearing, which indicates they have been let out, and very recently, as several threads are still hanging from the last hole.’
‘That is simple observation, not mind-reading!’
‘This can hardly surprise you.’
‘But what of the two young ladies, Holmes?’ I asked. ‘If I may be so indiscreet?’
Holmes turned to me with a smile. ‘There is a dressing gown, I have noted: pink, in Mr Colangelo’s closet there, Watson. And it is of petite proportions – you really should be careful to close your cabinet doors, Mr Colangelo. I also note a hairbrush, over here, which I suppose could be yours, except for the long blonde hair entangled in it.’
‘I have already told you I am seeing a young lady!’
‘But two?’ I persisted.
‘Well, Watson, at this very moment, a tall brunette young lady is pacing across the street, staring at these windows in considerable pique.’
Colangelo ran to the window and peered carefully through the narrowest of openings in the sheer curtains. ‘Clara!’ he cried. ‘Damnation!’
‘So, two young ladies, then,’ said Holmes.
Colangelo turned from the window, quivering with rage. ‘Get out!’
‘Mr Colangelo, I have no doubt that your new trade is not really so very different from my own. Fear not, I have no intention of revealing your secrets. Before we go,
let me simply examine the device which caused your accident.’
‘No!’
‘You still have it, I presume. Is that it on the table over there?’ At the magician’s hesitation, Holmes continued. ‘Do you not want to get to the bottom of this mystery? Surely you wish to know how this harm befell you?’
Holmes stood, retrieved the device, and sat back down, examining it.
‘Careful, Holmes,’ I said.
Colangelo hesitated, his face working to disguise his fury, and something else. Guilt, I thought.
‘Or perhaps you already know how it happened?’ said Holmes.
The magician looked down at his feet, ashamed.
Holmes said nothing, staring at the man. ‘You did it yourself.’
Colangelo looked around him as if imploring help from unseen beings. His eyes glistened. ‘I am not sure,’ he said. ‘I thought to improve the trick. Make faster. Make a loud sound. More dramatic. I try to adjust the mechanism.’
‘And Madame Borelli?’ prompted Holmes. ‘You accused her husband—’
A tear coursed down the man’s cheek which he wiped away quickly with his right hand. I got a glimpse of the ruined index finger, mangled and missing its tip. He thrust his hand into his pocket. ‘Honestly I do not know. Dario Borelli visited me the day before my accident. He picked up the guillotine. I think maybe he did something. Or maybe it was me. But if Madame thinks it was him, she might—’
‘—feel guilty and return to you? You love her still,’ said Holmes. ‘Understandable. She is a magnificent woman.’ He peered into the small device. ‘I take it you are unskilled with mechanical things.’
‘Yes. I have help when I can afford it. And Ilaria, she is very, very good.’
‘I believe you were not the person behind Borelli’s accident. But carry on, sir, I am sure you will profit by your “mind-reading”.’
Holmes set down the little guillotine, rose, and with a polite goodbye exited the room. I took my leave and followed, Colangelo right behind me. I caught a brief glimpse of the morose magician just before he closed the door with a click.
Out in the hallway I said, ‘Holmes, there is something I do not understand. Why on earth did he draw that silly conclusion about—?’
The Three Locks Page 13