Sherlock Holmes and the Adler Papers

by John Hall

  I must say that the finished plate would have fooled me, though of course the print which von Gratz made from it gave the game away at once, and I reiterated my hope that the villains would not make a print from it to verify its authenticity. Holmes, as before, waved this aside.

  The actual process of posing for the photograph and its subsequent development took up much of the afternoon, so that when we emerged, blinking even in the watery sunlight after the darkness of studio and darkroom and the flash of the magnesium, the afternoon papers were out. Holmes eagerly attacked the nearest news vendor, and bought a copy of all the titles he had.

  ‘It is here!’ he cried. ‘ “Irene – meet Papa at the Café Florian at eight. Come alone”. The Café Florian?’ he asked von Gratz.

  ‘A low place with an unwholesome reputation, much frequented by the ladies of the town, by writers and similar scum. Oh, I beg your pardon, Doctor!’

  ‘Not at all,’ said I, being accustomed to that sort of thing. ‘And for disguises?’

  ‘Oh, if we are to be writers, any shabby and unfashionable old rags will do.’

  We had spoken to Mrs Norton earlier that day to tell her of our plans – indeed, it was one of her old dresses which Holmes had worn for the photograph. Needless to say, she had heard our news with delight, and was eager to do whatever she could to help. ‘Which is little enough,’ said Holmes, when we had sought her out again. ‘Simply to take the papers along, meet whoever turns up, and listen to what he or she has to say. Now, it may be that you will be told where to find your husband, or asked to go with the person who contacts you. In that case, you will say that you mistrust them, and need to bring two friends to ensure that there is no treachery. You understand that?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘But I do not think that is likely,’ Holmes went on. ‘The likelihood is that they will wish to check the papers first, before they release Mr Norton. In that event, they will take the papers and leave, telling you to wait for further instructions. I repeat, that is the most likely thing. If I am right, you will do nothing, do not attempt to follow, but merely return to your hotel.’

  Mrs Norton nodded. ‘I understand, Mr Holmes.’

  ‘Here are the papers,’ said Holmes, handing over a neat package. ‘The original letters, two photographic prints, genuine, one glass plate, not quite so genuine, but the villains will not know that.’

  I hoped he was right, but I did not voice my doubts a third time. Mrs Norton, brave woman though she was, should not be troubled just now, when we were relying upon her.

  We all dined together, Holmes, Mrs Norton, von Gratz, Markus and myself. We were a sombre enough party, for I think we all had a sense of how important was the task ahead of us, with a man’s life as the prize. Holmes, as usual, ate almost nothing, and for once I did not press him; he has his little ways, as do we all, and I did not want to make the gathering any gloomier than it already was.

  At last it was time for Holmes to set off. The plan was this: Holmes, suitably disguised as a lounger, was to go alone to the café twenty minutes before the appointed time. Then Mrs Norton and Markus, in a closed carriage with the blinds drawn down, would follow; the carriage being closed, and the presence of Markus, would, we trusted, discourage any attempt at recovering the package before they arrived at the café. As a further precaution, von Gratz would follow in a second carriage, under orders to prevent any attack on the first.

  Meantime I would be in yet a third carriage, a little way down the street from the café. Mrs Norton would get down alone from her carriage, and Markus would drive off, while von Gratz would also drive past the café quite innocently. They would leave their carriages when once they were out of sight, and attempt to rejoin me.

  The object of all this rigmarole was firstly to ensure that Mrs Norton was not waylaid and the plate stolen before Holmes could spot the person meeting Mrs Norton; and secondly that only Holmes did the actual following of that person, while the rest of us followed Holmes, at a safe distance. Holmes himself had insisted on this second point, saying that he could guarantee to remain unobserved himself, but could not answer for the rest of us. We let this slur pass, feeling that we might all of us in any event be glad of a carriage – should the villain take a cab, let us say, and there not be another handy.

  I was at my appointed station, far enough from the café to allay suspicion, five minutes before time. I studied the place, cramped and looking none too clean from where I sat, for some time before I recognized Holmes, and that despite the fact that I knew what he looked like in his disguise. In some mysterious way he could assume not merely the outward appearance, but the very nature of the person he sought to portray; I never saw a more perfect specimen of a drunken and aggressive ruffian in my life, and I noticed that the other customers, riff-raff though they were, took some pains to avoid him.

  Mrs Norton’s carriage swept up to the café, as out of place there as an orchid in a cabbage patch, and even from where I sat I could hear a chorus of ribald comments as she descended; a chorus in which Holmes’s own voice joined loudly with a lack of shame and grammar alike.

  Mrs Norton ignored them all, and sat by herself at a tiny table. Her carriage rattled off, leaving her there, and another, that I knew contained von Gratz, also went past. Mrs Norton sat there, sipping a coffee, for some ten minutes, during which time both Markus and von Gratz joined me in my cab.

  ‘Anything?’ asked von Gratz, as he climbed in.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I see that all went well with you.’

  ‘H’mm,’ said von Gratz.

  ‘Did it not?’

  ‘Well, there was no attempt made upon us,’ said von Gratz, ‘but I could have sworn that someone followed us.’

  ‘Ah! Did you think so?’ I asked Markus.

  ‘Frankly, sir, I did not,’ said Markus, with a hint of embarrassment in his voice, which I read as meaning that he thought von Gratz was being fanciful, but dare not say as much before his superior officer. With palpable relief he tapped my arm and pointed. ‘That may be the fellow,’ he said.

  A lounger, very nearly as ill-dressed and dirty as Holmes himself, and that is saying a lot, had detached himself from the shadows and joined Mrs Norton at her table. There was a brief discussion, as it seemed, and then Mrs Norton handed over the little package, and the man stood up and left the café, heading for us in our cab.

  We studiously avoided looking at him as he passed us, but instead we engaged in some boisterously loud discussion of the latest play. I saw Holmes flit by, then I waited a moment before looking discreetly through the rear window. I saw our man halt at the end of the road and look back. He could not suspect us in the cab, we were so obviously pointed the wrong way; and there was not the slightest sign of Holmes, though I knew that he must be somewhere in my field of view.

  The man turned to the left, and vanished. I fancied that I saw Holmes follow, but I could not be sure. Then it was time to turn the cab round and start to follow on our own account.

  We went slowly back the way we had come, and turned left. I could just make out Holmes, dodging from shadow to shadow, and I told the driver to follow, but as slowly as may be. At the end of that road he turned right, and I told the driver to speed up to the turning. I spotted Holmes again, this time getting into a cab. ‘Follow that fiacre,’ I told our driver,’ and don’t lose him.’

  We rattled along at a smarter pace now, keeping Holmes’s cab just in view, slowing when he slowed in response to the quarry, though these pauses were infrequent – evidently our man did not suspect that he was being followed.

  Curiously enough, I did. Whether what von Gratz had said earlier had preyed upon my mind, or whether the cause was something entirely different, I cannot say. Yet I found myself turning round to look behind more than once; and, of course, there was nobody to be seen, nothing at all out of the way.

  At last Holmes’s cab stopped, and he got down, waved to us, and set off on foot at a fair speed. We move
d to close up with him, then the driver grunted something, and I looked to see Holmes making his way through a narrow court where the cab could not follow.

  ‘Stop here!’ I cried to the driver. And I told von Gratz and Markus, ‘I’ll follow on foot, and you do what you can.’

  Markus told us, ‘That alley leads to the Boulevard Vitosha, unless I am much mistaken.’

  ‘Then you take the cab there, and we shall try to meet shortly,’ I said, getting out of the cab. I hurried across the road and into the alley. As soon as I entered it, I spied Holmes at the further end, loitering and evidently watching to see where our quarry went.

  I hastened along the alley, and caught up with him. ‘Well?’

  ‘Ah, Watson. Our man has just crossed the street here, and dodged into a stately mansion.’

  ‘But he was dressed in a very down-at-heel manner, Holmes. I thought he must be an anarchist.’ I stared where Holmes pointed, to see what was indeed a ‘stately mansion’, set well back from the tree-lined boulevard in its own spacious and well-kept grounds. ‘Not exactly what I’d call an anarchists’ den, is it?’

  ‘Indeed not, Watson. I fear we must abandon that particular theory.’

  ‘In favour of the premise that Moriarty is behind the abduction of Mr Norton?’

  ‘I still do not rule out that possibility,’ said Holmes calmly. ‘Ah, here are our allies,’ and he nodded to where the cab had just come round the corner and into the street.

  We crossed to the cab as it pulled up, and climbed inside. Holmes nodded to the house, saying, ‘Our man has just gone in there. We must find out the identity of the owner, and as soon as possible.’

  Von Gratz laughed. ‘That is easily done,’ he told us. ‘That is the town house of Count Maurice von Ormstein.’

  TEN

  ‘I see,’ said Holmes, drumming his fingers on the window of the carriage.

  I was just about to ask who this Maurice von Ormstein might be, when I recollected that I had heard the name before. ‘The king’s cousin?’ I said. ‘And not Professor Moriarty, then?’ I added in an undertone.

  Holmes clicked his tongue impatiently, for he hates to be proved wrong.

  ‘A distant cousin,’ said von Gratz, referring to Maurice. ‘A soldier, like us, and very popular with the army, much of which would support him in any struggle for power.’

  ‘But,’ added Markus, ‘his claim to the throne is so tenuous, his line is so distant from that of the king, that there would be trouble if Maurice tried to take power.’

  ‘It is true,’ said von Gratz. ‘I have said that much of the army would support him; but only if the present king were not on the throne, for the first allegiance of the army is to Wilhelm. And even if Wilhelm died, or abdicated, by no means all the army would support Maurice. And that is not to speak of Gottfried’s own party! We may have spiked Gottfried’s guns as far as the papers and the photograph are concerned, but he would undoubtedly cast his hat into the ring if the throne were to become vacant. And Gottfried’s claim, so far as birth and ancestry go, is far stronger than that of Maurice.’ He frowned. ‘I must confess that I have met Maurice once or twice, and I never detected any sort of overweening ambition in the man.’

  Markus said, ‘Forgive me, Colonel, but I cannot entirely agree.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I recall one occasion, when we – some of the junior officers, that is to say – were making merry, and the champagne flowed freely, this Maurice let slip some hint that he would not be entirely averse to the notion of high office, perhaps even to a crown. At the time, of course, I thought it was merely the wine talking. And then he is a nobleman, with a distant connection to the royal house. So all in all, it was the sort of thing anyone might say under the circumstances. Now, though, I wonder if perhaps the mask had not slipped just a little?’

  ‘Or perhaps,’ I suggested, with a sidelong glance at Holmes, ‘perhaps he has been put up to it by some outside agency?’

  Von Gratz and Markus looked puzzled, but Holmes laughed. ‘I do not rule out the possibility,’ he told me. ‘However, the immediate question is just this – what is our next action to be?’

  ‘A direct attack,’ said von Gratz at once. ‘We are acquaintances of his, Markus and I, so why cannot we simply knock on his door, say we were passing and decided to look in?’

  ‘He is hardly likely to greet us with the news that he is holding Mr Norton prisoner!’ said Markus.

  ‘True, but then we shall observe how he reacts to seeing us upon his doorstep,’ said von Gratz. ‘If he gives a guilty start, if he fails to ask us in – would that not be a pointer?’

  ‘You may be right,’ said Holmes. ‘Watson and I will remain here, for we do not wish to show our hand too soon. Your involvement in this matter is not yet known, gentlemen, or not to anyone save Gottfried and Karl, and if this Maurice is their rival we may assume that they have not informed him! So we rely upon you to play the part of good comrades who have called upon him quite by accident.’

  Von Gratz and Markus undertook to play their part, got down from the cab and strolled to the door. We could just make out the liveried footman who opened it to them, then they went inside.

  ‘And who ever heard of a young soldier employing a footman?’ I mused.

  ‘I suppose some of the great men of the past,’ said Holmes. ‘Wellington, probably? Napoleon?’

  ‘Exactly. Men with ambition, Holmes! I think we may be on the right track now.’

  ‘And you would not bet that Moriarty is not inside that house?’ he asked with a smile.

  ‘I would bet –’ and I paused. ‘No, Holmes. I shall not take your money!’

  He laughed again. ‘Perhaps I do see Moriarty everywhere, Watson. One day I shall have to tackle him, and soon, I think. I am accumulating my proofs, my evidence. But this Maurice, with his grand house and his servants, does indeed seem the man we seek for the present, without looking further.’

  ‘Or one of the men, for if this Karl and Gottfried discover our imposition, they may turn nasty.’

  ‘H’mm. I see little immediate danger there, Watson. They cannot now hope to secure the throne for themselves, so there remains only revenge for our spoiling their sport.’

  ‘Revenge is a powerful engine, Holmes. Drives men to all sorts of nastiness.’

  ‘We shall keep a watchful eye open,’ said Holmes. And he glanced at his watch. ‘But for the present, we can only hope that our friends keep their eyes open.’

  As I have said earlier, Holmes can be somewhat fidgety when he is waiting for things to happen, especially when it is a question of relying upon others to accomplish the desired object. On this occasion, though, he sank back in deep thought, and it was I who began, after an hour or so, to wonder just when the other two would return with news of some sort or other. Another half hour, and the strain began to be well-nigh intolerable; when two hours were up, I felt that I could stand it no longer. I had almost decided to get down and stretch my legs, if I could do nothing else, when the front door of the house opened and von Gratz and Markus emerged, to stand at the door deep in conversation with a third man whom I did not recognize, but took to be Maurice von Ormstein. He was some twenty years of age, tall, not unlike the king himself to look at, as I could see by the light that came from inside the house.

  ‘At last!’ muttered Holmes, at my side.

  ‘I thought you were asleep.’

  He laughed. ‘Merely possessing my soul in what patience I could muster, Watson. That, and trying to work out just how the various characters fit into our little drama. Mrs Norton, her husband, Gottfried, Karl, and now this fellow Maurice, whom we had not hitherto even considered.’

  I could not refrain from asking, ‘And Professor Moriarty?’

  Holmes laughed. ‘Well, perhaps we may eliminate him from our enquiries for the time being. But the relations, or possible relations, between the others are interesting.’

  ‘I don’t see why,’ I said. Surely Mrs Norton is only invo
lved because her husband has been kidnapped? And Mr Norton’s part is even simpler!’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, suppose that Godfrey Norton is indeed a “guest” of this fellow Maurice. He need not be an unwilling guest, need he?’

  ‘You mean the two of them could be in it together?’

  ‘You put the argument succinctly, Watson, and with that command of literary fluency which marks you as a writer. Yes, my boy, the two of them could indeed be in it together, the abduction might have been as fake as the photograph we have just passed to Maurice’s agent.’

  ‘But why on earth should Norton fake his own kidnapping?’ I asked. ‘After all, if he wanted to acquire the papers, he could simply take them from wherever his wife had put them.’

  ‘Could he, though? Perhaps Mrs Norton did not reveal her choice of hiding place even to her husband? Or perhaps he thought that they were safe enough, but then this Karl stole them, and Norton had to get them back?’

  ‘Doesn’t make sense, Holmes! Assuming that Norton did – for whatever reason – want the papers back after Karl had stolen them, why should he not simply put the matter to Mrs Norton, ask her to ask you to help?’

  ‘Perhaps he dare not do so?’ said Holmes. ‘Did you never have the least suspicion of Norton back in London, a year or so ago, when the king first consulted me?’

  ‘I did think the Nortons’ wedding was a touch odd,’ I replied. ‘Hastily arranged, that sort of thing.’

  ‘My first suspicion was that Norton was himself a paid agent, hired to ensure that the papers were never used against the king, or perhaps to acquire the papers for some third party.’

  ‘Moriarty?’

  ‘I did not say so.’

  ‘You know what occurred to me, Holmes?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The coincidence of names. Godfrey; Gottfried. Wondered if it might be the same man? No, I suppose not. Mrs Norton knew Gottfried. Or did she? I can’t recall if she said, and anyway she told us so many lies that we just couldn’t be certain.’