The Revenge of Sherlock Holmes

by Phil Growick

  “Sit,” said Masseria.

  Masseria was much overweight and slovenly. His tie and shirt were already soiled by some sauce earlier spilled. To Luciano’s polished esthetic, learned from Rothstein, Masseria resembled nothing more than a particularly repulsive pig.

  As Luciano sat, he handed over the satchel with the money.

  Masseria wiped his mouth with his right hand, then onto the table cloth.

  “I see you brought me a present and it ain’t even my boithday?” With this he laughed uproariously, as did the guards.

  “I bring this for you, Don Masseria, as a gesture of good will from me and my men.”

  “And why should you bring me such a present?” Masseria leaned over the table, as far as he could to be as close to Luciano as possible. Luciano knew that the next few words out of his mouth might be the most important he had ever spoken. Or might be his last.

  “Because, Don Masseria, with Mr. Rothstein gone, you or Don Maranzano will take over everything. And me and boys are bettin’ on you.”

  Masseria’s eyes betrayed a mild glint of acceptance of those words, but still bore into Luciano.

  “And why do you and your boys think that?”

  “Because of the way you took over Don Rasata’s territory; and we think you got bigger guns than Maranzano. You both want each other dead and we can help you make him dead. If you know anything about me and my boys you know plenty about what happened to Numbers Malone and his guys. And you know about Benny Siegel.”

  “That Bugsy of yours. Yeah, I know about that crazy Jew.”

  “Don Masseria, with all due respect, that crazy Jew is gonna kill Maranzano and keep you living. Nobody will know we’re working for you. So Ben and Meyer and them other Jew guys we got, will kill Maranzano and it will be the Jewish gang that did it. The heat’ll be off you. Then the whole thing will be yours.”

  “Yeah, how come you work with Jews? Our thing is Sicilian. I don’t like it that you work with Jews.”

  “Again, with all due respect, Don Masseria. You like money, right? What do you care where it comes from? Or who gets it for you?

  Masseria leaned back in his chair.

  Luciano then told him a story he knew Masseria would totally understand.

  “Don Masseria, I know you know of the Roman Emperor Vespasian,” and he paused.

  Masseria made a face as if to say, “Of course, I do.”

  Luciano continued, “Well, he gets in a bind for dough and he comes up with a real good idea. He puts a tax on the public toilets and the dough starts comin’ in.

  “Well, his advisors don’t like that. It ain’t proper t’collect money like that. So Vespasian, he calls over his top advisor guy, holds a coin under his nose and asks him if he smells anything?”

  It took Masseria a few moments to finally understand, but even though he’s smiling, he says, “I still don’t like it; but as long as nobody is gonna know they’re working for me, okay.” What he said next, however, really took Luciano aback.

  “Now the first thing I want you to do is go to Maranzano and tell him the same exact thing you just told me?

  “Say that again, Don Masseria?” asked Luciano.

  “You heard me. You ain’t deaf. Now move. And I don’t want to see you again until Maranzano is dead. Dead!” Masseria stood up now, shouting, “Dead! I want him dead!”

  Luciano stood, bowed his head crisply to Masseria, and walked out of the room. He still heard him shouting as he got to the front door of the restaurant where Lansky and Siegel were waiting. Siegel abruptly stopped walking in circles.

  All were given back their weapons, got into their auto and drove off.

  “So what was all that yelling about?” Lansky asked.

  “Nothing much. He just wants me to tell Maranzano what I just told him.”

  “Wait till Johnny hears about this,” Siegel said, laughing.

  Holmes Meets A Tourist In New York

  In Liverpool one day later, Reilly, still traveling as Roland Windsor, booked passage on RMS Olympic, the queen of the White Star Line and, at the time, the largest ocean liner in the world. She would leave the next day.

  Olympic had served nobly in the Great War as a troop ship, but was recently reconverted to her passenger grandeur; she was the swiftest way in which to reach New York, a leisurely five days. From there, Reilly had already booked passage on a ship to take him to the Bahamas, SS Brookland, an American cargo ship accepting a significant number of passengers, as well.

  As promised, a few hours passed five days, Reilly was in New York on August 9. Though he had been all over the world, he was not quite prepared for the sheer electric air of Manhattan.

  While London was the center of the Empire and the world, New York seemed to be the veritable center of dynamic energy. While London could boast historic architecture, nothing there could compare with the new “skyscrapers”, as they were being called. The Woolworth Building, the tallest of all, built in 1913, stood an incredible fifty-seven stories. At that time, one could get a nose bleed just thinking about the height.

  Reilly had two days to pass while he waited for the final stage of his journey to begin to the Bahamas. And it was early on his second day in Manhattan, while his head stretched upward, straining to look at the top of the Woolworth Building, as all tourists did, that he thought he heard a familiar voice speaking his name, but in a question, “Reilly?”

  Upon turning to see who would be addressing him so, he saw a tall, elderly man standing directly before him. The man was dressed in the mode of the day, expensively, too, Reilly noted. But immediately suspicious, Reilly reverted to SIS mode.

  “Are you addressing me, sir?”

  “I surmise my disguise has once again gotten the best of you. Just something I’m toying with at the moment.”

  Holmes was dressed in the usual gentleman’s apparel, but with his new facial hair and color it would have been quite impossible to recognise him at hurried glance.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. Now good day, sir.” But as Reilly turned to leave, the man gently, but firmly, grabbed his arm, turning Reilly back to face him.

  “Oh, come, come Colonel Relinsky, don’t you recognise me?” And Holmes winked at Reilly.

  One closer look and, “What the devil? Holmes?”

  “Your hearing is, at least, as good as ever,” said Holmes. “But come with me where we can sit and quietly speak without this incessant New York noise.”

  Reilly said nothing, but continued to examine Holmes as he led them into a corner café directly opposite the Woolworth Building. Holmes chose a table towards the rear and they sat.

  Though each shared the exceptional privilege of an incalculably keen mind, it seemed that neither could entirely digest the simple circumstance of the other’s existence at that particular moment.

  “This is unbelievable, Holmes. Quite unbelievable. The world thinks you’re dead at the hands of the Huns. At least, most of the world.”

  “And so I shall remain, Reilly, so I shall remain. But you’re wrong about this being unbelievable. The odds that you and I should meet like this here, now, are nothing short of astronomical.”

  “No, Holmes, you don’t understand. I saw Dr. Watson at his home before I left for New York. What he told me was so incredible that I’m still sorting through it. But it concerned information of life and death for you. Perhaps you’ll understand and be able to make sense of it.”

  He then told Holmes everything I had told him. And now Holmes knew, or thought he knew, who was responsible for his attempted murder; Lloyd George. Holmes would now be able to devise an appropriate revenge.

  Reilly continued.

  “Holmes, Watson is sick with worry about you.

  “Poor Watson.”

  “I’ve got to let him kn
ow you’re alive.”

  Holmes cut him short with a stringent command, “No. Under no circumstances must he know that.”

  “But Holmes, that’s inhuman. The man loves you like a brother and should be told.”

  “Surely, Reilly, I don’t have to explain why he cannot be made aware.”

  Reilly understood after a moment’s thought and nodded acquiescence.

  “Agreed,” Reilly said, “though I’ll feel that I’ve betrayed the trust of a man who deserves better.“

  “Well, I am equally sure that this is an experience not unknown to you.” The remark was biting and cut to Reilly’s very being.

  For a long moment Reilly stared hard into the impassive face of the Holmes that sat before him, but realized the words were true.

  “Yes,” he said quietly, then abruptly changed the subject to an immediate matter.

  “Holmes, what did happen to you and why this disguise?”

  “I will explain presently, but what about you?” Holmes’ demeanor now shifted to the guise of old friend, though Reilly saw through it to its harsh marrow.

  “My word, it is so good to see you alive, as well. What happened to you after you left us? What devilish plot had SIS devised for you back then?”

  “I propose a truce,” said Reilly. “I’ll tell you my tale once you’ve told me yours.”

  Large pots of tea and pastry were ordered, and with much tea downed between them, each told of all that had happened subsequent to their last time together; with Holmes’ account of his hopes for a criminal alliance disturbing Reilly greatly. Since Reilly was fully aware of Holmes’ penchant for disguise in certain circumstances, Holmes did not need to explain further.

  “How,” asked Reilly, “do you propose Watson chronicle what we’ve just told each other? If ever he’s able.”

  “Precisely,” said Holmes. “For the tale to be truly told, I must succeed in what I must do.”

  Reilly leaned in closer. “Holmes, this criminal business of yours; I don’t quite understand why you’ve not only allied with these murderers, but are giving them the blessing of your intellect.”

  “I will need them when I return to London. Clay’s men there are hard, but there is a steel-hard malignancy among these American thugs that cannot be duplicated. I will need that.

  “And besides, if one group of criminals do away with another group of criminals, so much less the tasks for the police here and in England. And I shall always be many steps ahead of them all, wherever they may be.”

  The words and Holmes’ demeanor unsettled Reilly greatly. Holmes’ whole being had darkened, even without his latest disguise.

  “Holmes, you don’t need those men. I can help you. Men I know and trust can help you. But you must wait till after I’ve returned.”

  “Reilly, I don’t know when you’ll return, of if you’ll return and my business here will be concluded shortly. I most probably will be back in London while you’re still in Eleuthera. I will need these men.” He said this emphatically and with finality.

  “I cannot steer you from this course?”

  “Not Jove, himself.”

  “Then I can only wish you luck and my hand. You know that if our paths cross again, and I hope they do, I’ll aid in any way I’m able.”

  “I trust that you will. Good luck to you. Please give my regards to Tatiana and her family. As to your baby, I wish him a long, happy life.”

  But to Reilly, these words seemed nothing more than perfunctory. Any sincerity to be detected in the eyes of someone saying those words was not there. All that showed was a cold, blank stare.

  With that, Reilly left Holmes sitting at the table and walked out of the cafe. Once outside, he stopped as if to return, then stopped himself from doing so. As much as he would have wanted to aid Holmes, he wanted to see his wife and baby even more. He also had the unsettling feeling that the man inside did not seem to be Holmes anymore. So he continued his tour of Manhattan.

  In his unaccustomed role as tourist, Reilly failed to notice a man looking at him while he was looking at the buildings. It was the same man who had been watching him since that night in Helsinki.

  Luciano Gets The Once Over Twice

  Luciano’s meeting with Maranzano went according to plan. Maranzano seemed more polished than Masseria, but only barely. He certainly dressed better, in Luciano’s keen sartorial eye, but he had a perpetual look of disdain that just further raised Luciano’s ire.

  Maranzano seemed happy to have Luciano and his men come under his thumb. It would make it that much easier to do away with Masseria and become the capo di tutticapi, the boss of all bosses.

  But two days after that meeting, as Luciano strolled long his familiar streets of the lower east side of Manhattan alone, a large black motor car stopped at the curb beside him. Two men jumped out of the car and pushed Luciano into the rear, at pistol point; one on either side of him.

  “What’s with the gats, guys? I was just takin’ a walk.”

  The man to the right of Luciano had already removed Luciano’s revolver from his jacket and then quickly searched him for any other weapons that may have been hidden; but found none. He nodded to the other man that Luciano was “clean”.

  The man to the left, answered Luciano. “Nope, Charlie. We’re takin’ ya for a ride.” This, in American gangster slang meant they were going to kill him.

  What happened next was nothing less than inhuman. The men blindfolded Luciano and tied his hands. Though it seemed that they were driving for a long period of time, Luciano could not tell just how long. He further felt that the auto was on the water and thought, “Holy crap, they’re gonna kill me in Jersey and dump me out there somewhere.”

  Then he felt they were back on a road and when the auto stopped, he was pulled out of the auto and he heard what sounded like a warehouse door sliding open. He was walked inside, pushed down into a chair and tied to that chair.

  When the blindfold was removed, Luciano could see that he was, indeed, inside what looked like a bare warehouse. There were three big and beefy men looking at him as they removed their suit jackets. Luciano suspected what would happen next.

  The biggest of the men spoke first.

  “So, Charlie, how yadoin’?”

  Luciano gave a laugh-grunt. “Okay, guys, what do yawanna know?”

  “I don’t wanna know nothin’. You guys wanna know anythin’?” The two other men shook their heads.

  “Ya see, Charlie, we already know everythin’ we need t’ know. What we want you t’ know is this.” And with that, he punched Luciano hard in his right eye, which began to bleed profusely.

  The second man stepped forward. He had a knife in his hand. “And this.” He stabbed Luciano numerous times in the chest; but not deeply.

  The third man stepped forward. He had a tyre chain in his hand. “Oh, yeah, and this.” He hit Luciano across his shins. But Luciano was already unconscious.

  He regained his senses as water lapped at his battered head and body. He found himself on a beach. He was in excruciating pain and blind in his right eye. His bonds had been untied and all he could do was crawl a few inches.

  “Hey, mister, you okay?” Of all people, a police officer had found him.

  “Help me,” said Luciano. He could barely make the sound, but enough for the officer to hear and then to summon an ambulance to take him to the nearest hospital.

  Luciano was in Staten Island, the least populated borough of New York City, mostly still undeveloped and considered another planet by most other New Yorkers. So out of the way was its location, in fact, that the only way to reach Staten Island at this time was by ferry boat from the foot of Manhattan or by train.

  The police questioned him thoroughly, but for once, what he told the police was the absolute truth: he didn’t know who the men were w
ho beat him, where he had been taken, what they wanted, nor how he wound up on that beach in Staten Island. And since it was difficult for Luciano to speak, the police ceased their interrogation at the order of the physicians.

  Though professionally skeptical of any criminal’s statements, there wasn’t much they could do. There was no need to leave officers outside Luciano’s room, because if those men had wanted him dead, he would already be so. So the police left. It wasn’t long after the police had departed before Lansky, Siegel and a few of their men arrived. Luciano had asked the nurses to ring Lansky.

  When Lansky and Siegel entered Luciano’s room, the other men were posted outside, they couldn’t believe what lay before them. Most of Luciano was encased in bandages. But he was awake and aware. Lansky held back tears. Even Siegel was sickened at what he saw. Yet he still quipped, “Jesus Christ, Charlie, who turned you into a mummy?”

  Though it was difficult to speak, Luciano said, “Very funny, Ben.”

  It was Lansky who spoke next. “Enough. No more talkin’ for Charlie. He gotta get strong and rest. Charlie, we’re gonna take you home as soon as you’re okay, but I gotta ask, who did this. Don’t talk, just nod or somethin’.” Luciano shrugged his shoulders.

  “You really don’t know?” asked Lansky. Luciano very slowly shook his head “no”.

  It was Siegel’s turn. “One thing, the minute I find out who did this, they’re dead.”

  “We know that, Benny. Charlie, we had to come to see you just to be sure you’re okay. We’ll leave a couple of the guys outside just in case, but we’d never of heard from you again if those guys wanted you dead.” Luciano nodded assent.

  “Take it easy, Charlie. You look good,” laughed Siegel as they walked out.