The Secret Notebooks of Sherlock Holmes

by June Thomson

  ‘Mr ’Olmes!’ he cried out in delight as we entered, holding out both his hands in welcome. ‘You’ll forgive me, I’m sure, for not gettin’ up to greet you but the old pins ain’t what they used to be.’

  Having shaken hands vigorously with both of us, he waved us towards two chairs which we drew up on either side of him, so that the three of us formed a triangle with Charlie Peak at its apex like a benevolent genius presiding at a feast.

  After an exchange of tidings such as old friends indulge in after a long absence, Holmes came to the purpose of our visit.

  ‘Now, Charlie,’ said he. ‘As well as to have the pleasure of seeing you again, I am here to seek your expert advice.’

  ‘On locks, I suppose,’ the old man replied with a twinkle.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What sort of locks? Door? Cupboard? Chest? Safe?’

  ‘A metal container similar to a cash box in size, but very strong and fitted with, I believe, three separate locks, each requiring its own special key.’

  Charlie Peak’s face lit up.

  ‘Ah, a Medici13 casket!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘You have heard of it?’ Holmes asked eagerly.

  ‘I’ve done better than that, Mr ’Olmes. I’ve ’eld one ’ere in these very ’ands. It was as beautiful an example of the locksmith’s art as I’ve ever clapped eyes on. They’re made by Signor Valori of Florence, a direct descendant, so ’e says, of Luigi Valori, the locksmith ’oo worked for the Medici family. ’E ’as a little shop in a side street be’ind that big church with the fancy black and white stonework …’

  ‘The Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore?’ Holmes suggested.

  ‘Could be,’ Charlie Peak replied, shrugging his shoulders. ‘I didn’t ask.’

  ‘But you have met Signor Valori?’

  ‘Indeed I ’ave. I’d heard of ’is special caskets and ’ow they’re impossible to open unless you ’as the keys so, seein’ as I made my livin’ in those days by pickin’ locks, I wanted to find out about ’em. So I went to ’is shop and talked to ’im about ’em.’

  ‘How?’ Holmes asked with genuine curiosity. ‘Does Signor Valori speak English?’

  Charlie Peak gave a wheezy laugh.

  ‘No, Mr ’Olmes; no more’n I speak Eyetie. But when it comes to two men sittin’ down to talk about a subject they’re both in love with, if you follers me, they finds the means some’ow, whether its using the ’ands or drawin’ little pictures or actin’ it out. We managed it any’ow by one means or another. Signor Valori explained that he only makes them to order, usually for very rich people because they costs a great deal of money. In all ’is years, ’e’s only ever made four. They’re made of the strongest steel that no ordinary cracksman can cut through and, like you said, each is fitted with three locks, every one different and so crafted that even the most skilful screwsman can’t get ’em open unless ’e knows the secret.’

  ‘Secret?’ Holmes demanded.

  Charlie Peak winked and tapped the side of his nose.

  ‘’E wouldn’t tell me, Mr ’Olmes, nor ’oo ’e’s made ’em for, but as a very special favour to me, ’e showed me one ’e was workin’ on. It was a beauty! Black-japanned, it was, with a brass bird let into the lid.’

  Beside me, I felt Holmes’ whole body become alert as if an electric charge had suddenly been passed through it. But his voice and manner remained matter-of-fact.

  ‘What kind of bird?’ he asked, as if only mildly interested.

  ‘I wouldn’t like to say, Mr ’Olmes. Apart from sparrers and pigeons, I can’t tell one from t’other. All I can say is, it was a big bird with a bloomin’ great beak and it was ’olding a leaf in its claws.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Holmes said, apparently losing interest. ‘Pray continue, Charlie. You were describing the Medici casket Signor Valori showed you. Were you able to examine the locks?’

  ‘I wasn’t given the chance. I didn’t ’ave it in my ’ands for more than a minute before Signor Valori took it off of me.’

  ‘A pity!’ my old friend murmured. It was quite obvious he was bitterly disappointed.

  Charlie Peak watched him without speaking for a moment or two, his head on one side and his face alive with amusement. Then he said, ‘But I can do better than tell you about them, Mr ’Olmes. I can show you! See that cabinet over there? Open the bottom drawer and you’ll find a box. If you bring it to me, I’ll let you see ’ow far I got in findin’ out Signor Valori’s little secret.’

  Holmes did as he was requested and produced a plain deal box about ten inches square from the bottom drawer of the cabinet, which he carried over to Charlie Peak. It was apparently heavy and, rather than place it on the old man’s knees, he set it down on a small table which stood by Charlie’s side.

  ‘Open it up!’ Charlie ordered. He was clearly enjoying the situation hugely.

  Inside was a jumble of locks of various shapes and sizes, each one identified by a luggage label. Several of these locks which lay on top, as if of more recent construction, were joined together in pairs or, in some case, in threes. On the very top lay a small bundle about six inches long wrapped in black felt.

  ‘Take that one out!’ Charlie Peak instructed Holmes, pointing a gnarled index finger at one particular lock of the triple variety.

  As Holmes lifted it out, its label dangled free and it was possible to see the inscription on it, which read in capital letters: ‘Medici Number Ten’.

  ‘Number Ten?’ Holmes murmured, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘My tenth and last try at making a copy of the lock to the Medici casket. That’s what all them locks are, Mr ’Olmes – copies or originals of every lock in the land that I’d be likely to run up against in a day’s, or rather a night’s, work. It took a lifetime to build up that collection and years to break the Medici combination. Give it ’ere, sir.’

  Holmes silently obliged but I could tell from the look of admiration on his face and the almost reverent manner in which he handled the lock that he was deeply impressed by the old man’s skill.

  ‘And them picklocks,’ Charlie added, pointing to the little felt bundle.

  It contained, as we discovered when Charlie unrolled it, about a dozen slender steel rods of various widths and lengths.

  ‘A superb set of “bettys”,’14 Holmes remarked approvingly.

  ‘I ’ad ’em specially made,’ Charlie Peak replied, looking pleased at Holmes’ compliment. ‘Now, gentlemen, if you cares to gather close, I’ll show you how to work the trick. And I’ll tell you ’ow I found out about it.

  ‘I didn’t let on to Signor Valori that I was a screwsman. I let ’im think I was just an ordinary locksmith, sittin’ like a little kid at the feet of an expert, oohin’ and aahin’ at ’is skill. ’E was flattered, just as I meant ’im to be. So, as a great ’onour, ’e gets out three little keys and opens up the casket for me. Now, I’ve got a good memory for the look of a key. It’s part of my trade, like you with footprints,15 Mr ’Olmes. So as soon as I left the shop, I drew pictures of the keys and ’ad ’em made up as picklocks when I got ’ome. If you look ’ere, you’ll see each one’s marked at the end with their own sign. This one’s got a little cross on it. That’s the one you use to open the centre lock first.’

  As he spoke, he inserted the narrow metal rod into the central apperture before continuing with his explanation.

  ‘Then you twists it about to and fro until you ’ears the wards give way. But I don’t need to tell you that, do I, sir? By all accounts you’re an expert screwsman yourself. Now what follers is the first part of the trick. You leaves that “betty” in place and puts in the second, the one with the two little cuts on it, into the keyhole on the left. But don’t take that “betty” or the first one out, for it keeps them locks open. Then you moves on to the third keyhole. You get my meanin’, Mr ’Olmes?’

  ‘Indeed I do, Charlie,’ Holmes said.

  ‘Now watch this,’ the old man continued, ‘’cos ’ere comes the best part o
f the trick. Once you’ve opened the third lock, the other two locks close. So you ’ave to go back to the first and second lock and open ’em again. Clever, ain’t it?’

  ‘Yes; but not as clever as you in working out the trick. I take my hat off to you, Charlie. That is expertise at its very best.’

  The old man, his cheeks flushed an even brighter pink, looked pleased as well as embarrassed by the compliment.

  ‘All in a day’s work, Mr ’Olmes,’ he said gruffly and, to cover up his self-consciousness, began to busy himself with replacing the set of ‘bettys’ in the box, leaving aside the three he had used to open the Medici lock as well as the lock itself.

  ‘If you like, you can borrer those,’ he told Holmes.

  ‘May I? Then I am eternally in your debt, Charlie. What can I do for you in return?’

  ‘Nuffin’ except to come and tell me if the trick worked for you, that’s all.’

  ‘I will certainly do that when I return the “bettys” and the lock,’ Holmes assured him, putting these objects into his pocket before taking leave of his friend.

  ‘A remarkable old fellow,’ Holmes added when, having hailed a cab in Sydenham High Street, we drove back to our lodgings, a journey which he enlivened for me with accounts of the more colourful exploits of Charlie’s career.

  ‘I wish I had half his skill,’ he concluded.

  ‘But surely not his criminal record?’ I asked dryly.

  Holmes looked sideways at me and grinned broadly.

  ‘Touché, Watson!’ he declared. ‘But I do sincerely believe that had my interests leant towards committing crime rather than solving it, I could have been the most successful burglar in the business.’16

  Our little excursion had evidently stimulated my old friend into renewed action, for hardly had we returned to Baker Street than he was off again, bustling out of the sitting-room and down the stairs, pausing only to call back at me, ‘By the way, be a good fellow and make sure you have a pair of light boots with rubber soles and heels!’

  ‘Why, Holmes?’ I called back, much mystified.

  But he had gone. All I heard in reply was the slam of the street door as he hurried out to whistle for a hansom.17

  He was back about an hour after my own return from my bootmaker’s with the prescribed footwear, bearing the fruits of a shopping spree of his own, which consisted of a small valise and a coil of strong cord which he placed inside the valise, together with a selection of implements from his burglar’s kit.18 He had also bought, as I discovered later, the components of disguises for both of us.

  ‘And you have the rubber-soled boots I recommended?’ he asked me.

  ‘Indeed, I have,’ I assured him. ‘But why should I need them?’

  ‘You will find that out tomorrow night, my dear fellow, when Baron Kleist attends the opera and we shall scale the heights of the Hotel Imperial,’ was his enigmatic reply.

  Before I could question him further, he had disappeared inside his bedroom, taking Charlie Peak’s picklocks and his copy of the Medici lock with him where, I assumed, he spent the next few hours practising opening the lock, a task which continued to occupy him for most of the following day as well.

  IV

  We had decided to set out for the hotel at seven o’clock and before we left we put on our disguises, simple ones on this occasion, although Holmes is an expert in changing his appearance and had, at various times, taken on the identity, among others, of an elderly Italian priest, a French workman and an old woman.19

  For himself, he had chosen a dark waxed moustache which gave him the air of a stylish man-about-town. Mine was a brown wig en brosse and a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. Thus disguised, we set off by cab for the Hotel Imperial, where we were to make use of the suite of rooms adjacent to Baron Kleist’s where Nils and Oscar, the King of Scandinavia’s agents, were already installed.

  Oscar, who opened the door to us, seemed already acquainted with Holmes and I assumed that part of Holmes’ expedition on the previous day was to inspect the lie of the land, as he expressed it, from the closer quarters of the interior of the hotel suite. Oscar was a tall, very blond young man, too conspicuous to be seen in public, whose role seemed to be to keep watch on the Baron’s rooms. The small, dark agent, Nils, whom we had already seen the day before, sitting downstairs in the lounge, was not present. Presumably he was following the Baron as he spent the evening with the actress at the opera and dining at Claridge’s.

  Oscar showed us into the drawing room of the suite and from there into an adjoining bedchamber, the master bedroom, I assumed, judging by the opulence of its furnishings, including a huge mahogany wardrobe which occupied almost the whole of one wall. Holmes examined the lock on its doors in an almost negligent manner.

  ‘That will be easy enough to pick,’ he remarked with a shrug. ‘Now I understand the servant’s room where the Baron’s bodyguard will be keeping watch is next door to the Baron’s bedroom.’

  ‘That is so, sir,’ Oscar replied in almost perfect English. ‘The one opens into the other. I can show you quite easily how the rooms are arranged, for this suite is like a mirror-image of the Baron’s.’

  Opening a door in the far wall, he led us into a much smaller and more simply-furnished bedroom containing a single bed where presumably an attendant valet or lady’s maid would sleep.

  Crossing to the window, Oscar raised the lower sash and then stood back to allow Holmes and me to inspect the route we would have to take in order to gain access to Baron Kleist’s quarters.

  It was the first time I had seen it and I confess my heart sank at the sight of it. It would be a dangerous approach indeed and I understood Holmes’ remark about scaling the heights of the Hotel Imperial and also the need for rubber soled boots. No other footwear would have given one the necessary purchase on the route Holmes apparently intended we should take.

  Unlike the front of the hotel, which was stuccoed, the rear façade was built of brick ornamented with stone cornices running horizontally across it, broadening out at regular intervals to form the sills of the windows which extended in tiers across the whole of the back of the building. Above each window was a triangular stone pediment which also jutted out a few inches from the brickwork, thus becoming part of a general geometric pattern of straight lines and angles.

  The cornice was no more than three inches wide and the only visible hand-holds were those stone pediments above the windows. But, unlike the cornice, they were not continuous and between them there was a terrifyingly barren stretch of brickwork, offering no hand-holds whatsoever. Immediately below lay a sheer drop of two storeys, terminating in the glass and iron-work dome of the Winter Garden, for which the Hotel Imperial was famous. Lights shone up through the panes and I thought I could faintly discern the moving shapes of waiters and hear the sound of voices and violins rising up from among the potted palm trees.

  If we fell, I thought, with a sudden rush of mingled terror and hysteria, we would crash spectacularly down among the wine glasses and the starched napery to the sound of a Viennese waltz. I dared not think of the injuries we might cause both to ourselves and to others, nor of the headlines in the morning newspapers.

  Holmes seemed unperturbed by such considerations. He was calmly unpacking the small valise he had brought with him and distributing the picklocks and other burgling devices about his person, including a small jemmy should he need to force open the window of the Baron’s bedroom. The blue and gold leather case containing the copy of the Gustaffson Stone was placed in his inside pocket, which he then fastened with a large pin.

  Catching my eye, he said with a smile, ‘It would be a complete disaster if I dropped the whole object of our little excursion, would it not, my dear fellow?’

  My mouth was so dry with fear at the thought of our ‘little excursion’ that I could only nod my head in agreement.

  Lastly, Holmes took out the coil of strong rope and, passing one end round his waist and across his left shoulder, he handed the other to
Oscar, who tied it securely to the foot rail of the bed. Then he softly slid the lower sash of the window upwards and climbed nimbly over the sill.

  It was several seconds before I dared approach the window to look out. When I did so, I had to force myself not to look down but to glance to the right where Holmes was balanced on the narrow cornice, his body pressed against the rear wall of the hotel and his arms spread-eagled as with one hand he supported himself by clinging to the stone architrave above the window, while his other hand crept inch by inch across the brickwork, straining to reach the similar pediment above the adjoining window which I realised, from Oscar’s account of the arrangement of the hotel rooms, was the bedchamber belonging to the Baron’s bodyguard, Igor.

  For a few seconds, Holmes stood there motionless, his heels projecting over the edge of the cornice, his arms stretched out wide like a victim subjected to some hideous medieval torture. I thought he would never move. Then with a massive contortion of his shoulder muscles, which I could actually see taking place beneath the taut fabric of his coat, the fingers of his right hand touched and then tightened over the projecting border of the architrave above the adjacent window and, little by little, he was able to loosen the grip of his left hand and to inch his feet along the cornice ledge, the rope crawling along behind him.

  Its presence should have been a comfort, but watching as it slowly dragged its way from the bed, across the floor to the window and from there out into the night, it seemed far too flimsy to support Holmes’ weight should he lose his balance.

  After what seemed an eternity, Holmes reached the comparative safety of the adjacent windowsill, where he stood for several long moments flexing his fingers which must have been aching with the strain of clutching the pediment. His face was pressed close to the glass and I had the impression that he was using this pause not just as a respite but as a chance to peer inside the room. Seconds later, his head turned in my direction and I saw him raise two fingers of his left hand to his lips as a warning gesture for silence. Then his head turned away and he again began the same laborious effort of stretching out for the architrave above the neighbouring window which offered the next hand-hold.