The Sherlock Holmes Stories of Edward D. Hoch

by Edward D. Hoch

  We reached them just as Emma’s brother had risen to fend off the valet’s attack. Carlyle was startled by our sudden appearance and grabbed Kananda’s arm to restrain him.

  “What brings you here, Holmes?” he asked.

  It was Emma Lakeside who answered. “I asked for his protection. I expected you’d try to stop me the way you stopped Dr. Addleton.”

  “I had nothing to do with Addleton’s murder,” Carlyle insisted. “I came here to prevent you from looting this site of any Druidic treasures the man might have uncovered before he died.”

  But Holmes paid little attention to Carlyle’s words. At that moment, he seemed much more interested in Cecil Lakeside’s knapsack, which was noticeably heavier than when they arrived.

  “What have we here?” he asked, yanking the sack from Cecil’s hands.

  “Don’t…” the man almost shouted, but it was too late. Holmes let the knapsack fall away, revealing a smaller bundle, wrapped in heavy cloth and tied with twine. He brushed the dirt from it, and when Cecil made a lunge to grab it, I drew my revolver.

  And then Holmes had it unwrapped for all to see. It was a small golden statue of a striding tiger, dotted with diamonds.

  “I’ll venture a guess there are fifty of them,” Holmes said, indicating the gems, “and I expect Queen Victoria will be pleased to receive this, even though it is seven years late for her Golden Jubilee.”

  Later, after we had turned Cecil and Emma Lakeside over to the authorities, Emma agreed to make a statement. Holmes and I were present as Lestrade questioned her.

  “The jeweled tiger was one of several jubilee gifts from India, in honor of Victoria’s Golden Jubilee seven years ago,” she began. “My brother was working at the docks then, and would occasionally steal a small parcel off a ship from some distant port. Cecil had no idea what he was stealing that day and, when he opened it, he came to me at once for help. We imagined there would be a huge uproar over the theft of such a valuable object, but both the press and the government were silent. Apparently, it had been decided to say nothing, in hopes that the jeweled tiger would reappear when the thief attempted to sell it. Of course, I told Cecil at once that he could do no such thing. I argued for its return while he convinced me it would be safer to hide it away for a lengthy period.”

  “And you chose to bury it at the Salisbury barrow,” Holmes said.

  She nodded. “Cecil was something of an amateur archaeologist and I knew that barrow held no great interest to the profession. It seemed a safe enough place to bury his treasure until we could agree on what to do with it. Then, out of the blue, after all these years, Dr. Addleton announced at our dinner that he was excavating at the barrow and, in fact, had uncovered a fossilized serpent’s egg. When I told Cecil, he was frantic. If the gold tiger was uncovered, it could be traced back to us, because we’d obtained permission from Mr. Chubb to dig on his property during the month of the Queen’s Jubilee.”

  “Which of you killed Dr. Addleton?” Lestrade asked.

  She hesitated, and then said, “That was Cecil. He went to his flat to threaten him but, after his experience with Carlyle’s valet, Addleton would accept no more threats. They tussled and Cecil hit him with a bookend. When he realized Addleton was dead, he set fire to the body with some kerosene from a lamp. I knew somehow we had to get back to the barrow and retrieve the statue before someone else found it, so I announced we’d continue Addleton’s digging as a tribute to him. I made certain Carlyle knew our plans and then came to you for protection. I assumed correctly that Carlyle and his valet would appear at the barrow and, in the commotion, Cecil would be able to hide our treasure in his knapsack.”

  She turned to Holmes. “May I ask how you knew it was there?”

  “It was elementary, Miss Lakeside. When you asked for my protection, you remarked that you did not want your head bashed in, like Dr. Addleton, but the police had not yet released the cause of death. The fact that you and your brother had dug previously at the barrow raised the possibility that your purpose might have been to bury something, rather than dig it up. Since your dig was the very month of the Queen’s Jubilee, I naturally wondered if there might be some connection. As it transpired, there was indeed a connection.”

  The matter of the gold tiger was never brought out at the trial that followed but, some weeks later, Holmes received a brief handwritten note from Queen Victoria, thanking him for the part he played in recovering the stolen gift. He gave the note a position of honor in his commonplace book.

  THE ADVENTURE OF THE DOMINO CLUB

  IT WAS A FROSTY Monday evening in January, and I was staring out our Baker Street window at the falling rain that threatened to change to wet snow at any moment.

  “A terrible night, Holmes,” I said with a shudder. “I would hate to be that poor soul I see walking in it.”

  “Come warm yourself by the fire, Watson,” my friend urged.

  “I do believe the chap is turning in here! Are you expecting a visitor at this time of night?”

  Holmes put down his pipe and brushed some loose tobacco from his dressing gown. “Obviously not, but if he is coming here, we must appear respectable. Pick up those copies of the Times, will you, Watson?”

  I had barely done as he instructed when we heard Mrs. Hudson’s familiar tread upon the stairs and a knock came at the door. “A gentleman caller to see Mr. Holmes,” she announced, barely hiding her displeasure at the lateness of the hour.

  “Send him up, by all means,” Holmes said. “Certainly anyone who would brave this rain deserves a hearing.”

  Our visitor arrived moments later, having shed his coat and hat in the downstairs hall. He was a tall, slender man with sideburns and he offered a card upon which I read the name Darrell Z. Foster, Esq.

  “Which of you is Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” he asked.

  “I am that gentleman,” Holmes replied. “You find me in my dressing gown due to the lateness of the hour.”

  “And I apologize for that, sir,” our visitor said. “When you hear my story, you will understand the necessity for such urgency.”

  “Take a seat here by the fire,” Holmes told him. “This is Dr. Watson, my trusted companion. You may be completely open with him.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Seated now beside Holmes, I could see that he was a relatively young man. The bottoms of his pants were still wet from the rain and he stood near the fire to dry them before seating himself.

  “I note that you have come here directly from the Rose and Crown in the next block,” my friend remarked.

  “What?” The young man was taken aback by the words. “How could you know that?”

  “There is a scent of beer on your breath, and the Rose and Crown is the only pub within walking distance. Surely on such a night you would have taken a hansom if you were coming from a greater distance.”

  “You are correct, of course,” Darrell Foster admitted. “I needed a bit of courage before coming here for your help.”

  “And how may we provide that?”

  “Have you ever heard of the Domino Club?” he asked.

  I saw a frown cross my friend’s face. “There have been rumors of such a place, with an unsavory reputation. I understand it some sort of gambling club.”

  “Exactly,” our visitor confirmed. “It is over in Soho, in a rough neighborhood, though it attracts some of the wealthiest men in London. I learned of it through my position as a barrister’s assistant. It is especially popular, since the club’s clients are masked. They wear dominos, loose hoods with a mask for the upper part of the face. Barristers, judges, bankers, government clerks, even members of the royal family are said to go there and gamble in complete anonymity. The stakes are high and fortunes are sometimes won or lost on the turn of a card or the spin of a wheel. When I expressed interest in visiting the establishment, my employer arranged it, purchasing entrance passes for myself and a friend.”

  Holmes waved that aside. “If you wish me to somehow expunge your
gambling debts, you have come to the wrong place. I do not deal with such matters.”

  “I fear it is worse than a gambling debt, Mr. Holmes. I did a foolish thing. I allowed a young woman of my acquaintance, Miss Sarah Rutherford, to accompany me to the Domino Club, dressed in men’s clothing. Wearing the hood and mask, no one could see she was a woman, and she thought it would be great sport to observe these men of fame and wealth at their leisure.”

  “She is obviously a foolhardy person,” Holmes remarked with some distaste.

  “She is indeed. Using an admittance card she received on her first visit, she has returned to the Domino Club without me. I fear she is in danger if her masquerade is discovered.”

  “Why would she return there alone?” I asked.

  “She achieved some small winnings on our first visit, and has gone back for more. She told me once that her father was a compulsive gambler, and I fear the same fate for her.”

  Holmes stirred himself from his chair. “Is she there tonight?”

  “No, they are shuttered on Monday. But I fear she will return again tomorrow. I have tried to reason with her, to no avail.”

  “If you cannot dissuade her, I know of nothing that Watson and I can do. Could you not report the premises to the police if such gambling is illegal?”

  “My employer says that high police officials are among the regular visitors there. But perhaps you could come with me tomorrow and help dissuade her from the foolhardy course she is following.”

  “How would we gain entrance without masks?” Holmes asked.

  “My employer has given me more admission slips. I could supply you with a hood and mask, and Dr. Watson, too, if he cares to accompany us. I feel sure I will recognize her and we can lure her away from that place.”

  I was surprised when Holmes seemed to agree to the offer. He had often helped women in distress, but it seemed to me that Sarah Rutherford had chosen her own path to destruction. However, young Foster agreed to return to our lodgings the following evening with the necessary hoods and masks. When he had gone, I asked Holmes if he was serious about donning a mask to visit this Soho gambling club.

  “Certainly, Watson, and you should come, too. It is sometimes necessary that we investigate the underside of London life. As for wearing a mask, that is nothing. You may remember a client once, a representative of a foreign government, who came to us masked.”

  I did indeed remember, and I hoped this venture would prove as successful.

  The rain had stopped by morning, and there was even a hint of the sun in the city’s wintry sky. Holmes spent much of the day checking his newspaper files for some unstated purpose. By evening, he seemed satisfied with what he had found, though he said no more about it. Shortly after dinner, Foster returned, carrying a box that he soon opened to reveal hoods and masks for the three of us. All were black, and the loose-fitting hoods were more like cowls such as monks might wear. The mask itself covered only the upper part of the face. “We can don these in the carriage,” he explained. “It stops right at the door of the club.”

  We did as he suggested and, by the time our carriage had deposited us in a dimly lit alley off Frith Street, the three of us were cloaked and masked. Holmes and I followed Darrell Foster up the worn stone steps to a solid oak door that opened as if by magic as we reached it. A man in a black tie and mask had seen our approach through a peephole.

  “Welcome to the Domino Club,” he said with a smile that accented a dimple in his chin. “We are masked because we are all equals here, and what happens here goes no further.”

  Foster presented the admission passes for Holmes and me. “These are my guests. It is their first visit.”

  “But not their last, I trust,” the doorkeeper said, standing by a small counter that offered cigars, snuffboxes and casino chips, all monogrammed with an intertwined “DC”.

  “Let me take your coats. Then you may exchange your pounds sterling for chips here or at any of our gambling tables. Good luck to you, gentlemen.”

  We entered the main room, a space so large that I judged the place to have been built originally as a warehouse or stable. Electric lights illuminated a dozen or more gaming tables, with roulette and chemin de fer attracting the most players. A few card games were in progress toward the back, and I could see a lounge and bar in an adjoining room. There must have been close to a hundred men at the various tables, most wearing evening clothes, with every head covered by a hood and mask. Though a low murmur ran through the room, it was surprisingly quiet for such a large group. “Holmes! This is unbelievable! All this in the center of London!”

  “It is what I came to see, Watson. The anonymity afforded by these masks could shelter all manner of nefarious activity.”

  We drifted over to one of the roulette tables, where Holmes wagered a few pounds and quickly lost it. We went on to the card tables before Holmes turned to our client and asked, “Mr. Foster, how is it possible for you to identity your friend in such a setting? Surely these gamblers are all male, or at least appear to be male.”

  “I feel certain she is here tonight,” Foster assured us. He lowered his voice. “Miss Rutherford took an immediate liking to chemin de fer on our first visit. If she is here, she may be at one of those tables.” We followed him as he scanned the cloaked and masked gamblers. “She is tall and slender,” he told us. “And because her voice might give her away, she no doubt will remain as silent as possible.”

  After a quarter-hour of searching, scanning the masked faces of the gamblers, it was Holmes who spotted her, seated at one of the chemin de fer tables, accepting a card from the dealer’s wooden palette.

  “The shirt is tight across the chest,” he noted. “She has difficulty hiding her feminine figure in a man’s evening wear.”

  “That’s Sarah,” Foster agreed. “Now, how do we get her away from that table?”

  “We wait,” Holmes said. “And watch.”

  I could see that the player they’d identified as Sarah Rutherford seemed to be winning. Unlike baccarat, where the casino provides a proper croupier, the role of banker rotates among players in chemin de fer. Just two hands are dealt, a bank hand and a non-bank hand, and bets can only be placed against the bank. Miss Rutherford, if that was indeed she, was locked in battle with a stocky man whose grey goatee showed beneath the domino mask. He seemed to be glaring at her across the table. From time to time, he puffed on a thick cigar and a half-empty glass stood near his right elbow. Presently she won the hand and the deal passed to the next player.

  “Now!” Holmes said. “She’s leaving the table.”

  They followed her into a rear corridor leading to the bar and lounge. Foster placed his hand on her shoulder and she whirled around.

  “Darrell! I told you to stay away!” Her words were angry, but her voice was soft, almost a whisper.

  “Sarah, I have brought Mr. Sherlock Holmes here to try talking some sense to you. This gambling obsession must stop.”

  “Let us sit down,” said Holmes, “and discuss this matter. I believe there is another explanation for Miss Rutherford’s obsession.”

  “What could that be?” the young man asked.

  We sat at one of the small, round tables opposite the ornate bar. A hooded waiter offered us drinks, but Holmes waved him away. Then he spoke directly to the masked woman. “Miss Rutherford, Mr. Foster here is genuinely concerned about you.”

  She met my friend’s gaze. “I am sorry he felt the necessity of bringing you into this. I assure you I have no gambling problem.”

  “And I believe you. In explaining your apparent obsession with gambling, he mentioned that your father had been the victim of a similar obsession. I remembered something about a Colonel Rutherford, accused of cheating at cards some ten years ago, and I found an account of it in my newspaper files. The accusation, plus his staggering gambling losses, drove him to take his own life. I believe Colonel Rutherford was your father.”

  “That is correct,” she answered grimly. “I
have no reason to hide the fact.”

  Watching her, listening to her words, I tried to picture what she must look like without the hood and mask. Her lips were pale, but attractive, and I could sense some of the charm that must have attracted Darrell Foster to her.

  “And when you persuaded Mr. Foster to bring you to this club, you had something more in mind than mere gambling. The newspaper account states that your father lost a great deal of money to an Argentine gambler named Antonio Juarez.”

  “Yes,” she readily admitted. “He ruined my father, then accused him of cheating at cards. If anyone cheated, it was Juarez, but the blemish on my father’s reputation drove him to suicide. I knew that Juarez returned often to London and, when I came here that first time, I recognized him at once. He always smoked thick Cuban cigars and he still wore that familiar grey goatee, which was visible beneath his mask.”

  I remembered the man with the goatee whom she’d defeated at chemin de fer. At the time, I also noticed the thick cigar he was smoking.

  “So you returned here in your hood and mask,” Holmes said, “intent on avenging your father at the gaming table. Chemin de fer was the perfect game to do it with, because it pits player against player, rather than roulette, where everyone plays against the house.”

  “It was the only revenge I could take. My father taught me everything he knew about gambling.”

  “And tonight you won,” Foster said. “You’ve had your revenge.”

  There was a sudden commotion from the casino room. Voices were raised and one of the masked waiters ran to the bar. “A patron has been stricken. We need a doctor.”

  I rose quickly to my feet. “I am a doctor. Where is he?”

  I followed the waiter back to the main room, not waiting for Holmes and the others. My medical bag was back at our Baker Street flat and I would have to manage the best I could without it. I was led to the chemin de fer table, where we had been earlier and, suddenly, I knew what I would find there. The man with the goatee and the cigar was on the floor by his overturned chair. They had removed his mask and hood in an attempt to revive him, but after an instant’s examination, I knew it was hopeless.