The Revenge of Sherlock Holmes

by Phil Growick

  Even through Holmes’ entreaties, Reilly would not lower his pistol. Nor would Lloyd George lower his.

  Then, suddenly, Reilly felt the cold barrel of a pistol stuck into the back of his own head. The other pistol was in the hand of Bugsy Siegel.

  Siegel looked at Holmes and said, “Hey, Johhny! I been followin’ ya since this mornin’. When all these other mugs showed up I figured I better get inside and protect my investment, right?”

  In retrospect, the vision of Siegel holding a gun on Reilly holding a gun on Lloyd George holding a gun on Holmes is quite amusing. And it would become even more so because Siegel had just called Holmes ‘Johnny’. You can imagine the confusion as pistols continued to be pointed:

  Reilly: ‘Johnny?’

  Lloyd George: ‘Who?’

  Siegel: ‘Johnny.’

  Reilly: “He’s Holmes!’

  Siegel: “Who?’

  Lloyd George: “Holmes.’

  Reilly: “Holmes.”

  Holmes, resignedly: “Holmes.”

  Siegel: ‘Holmes? I thought you were Clay. Who the hell is Holmes and then who the hell are these guys? What the...?’

  To be sure, they could have gone around like that for hours, but there were three pistols being wielded, one of which was aimed at Holmes. He finally ended this stalemate by imploring everyone to put their pistols down and to sit down so he could explain. They did, and he did. But with the three still holding their pistols at ready; though not at their chosen target.

  Holmes explained that against his strongest impulses and those of Reilly, Lloyd George must be set free for Watson’s sake. Holmes, must, of course, keep silent because he cannot do otherwise. To have Holmes suddenly reappear in the midst of London, too much would have to be explained and there was no telling how much might be exposed.

  Reilly was all for killing Lloyd George anyway and spiriting the entire Watson family to safety afterwards. And Siegel was for killing him on general principle though he hadn’t the faintest idea of what was going on.

  However, Holmes’ cooler head prevailed. All warily arose and put their pistols away.

  Lloyd George left immediately and went straight to his home because he had to be sure that his plan for Watson was still in place.

  With Lloyd George gone, and the butler still unconscious, but beginning to regain his senses, Holmes suggested that they all take a brief walk to a quiet pub where they could have a beverage and Ben and Reilly could become better acquainted. Especially later, when Siegel found out that Reilly was really Jewish.

  Holmes’ auto followed behind.

  Holmes And Reilly And Bugsy

  They repaired to The Bulldog’s Rump, Holmes explaining, when they were comfortably seated, that this had once figured prominently in one of his cases when he was a consulting detective. However, I had not written about this particular mystery, which is why The Bulldog’s Rump has not achieved, until now, any prominence.

  “Yeah, but you’re workin’ with us now, Johnny,” Siegel said after his first sip of ale which he almost spit all over the table.

  “Horse piss! What the hell’s with this horse piss?”

  “Ben, it’s ale. In England we drink it at room temperature.”

  “Hey buddy,” Siegel called to the bartender, “you got any cold American beer?”

  “Sure ‘nuff, mate. Comin’ up.”

  “How the hell dya drink that stuff? You drive on the wrong side of the road and ya drink horse piss. You limeys are nuts.”

  “After what happened tonight, Ben, I won’t argue the point,” Reilly said.

  The barkeep brought Siegel a cold beer which he immediately sipped with obvious relief.

  “Yeah, now let me get this straight,” Siegel asked Reilly, “just how the hell did a Jew get a mick name?”

  “That, my new-found friend is a story in itself,” Reilly answered. “Would you care to hear about my forebears?”

  “You got four bears? What the hell you doin’ with four bears?”

  “No, Ben, my mother and father.”

  “They got four bears?”

  “Precisely,” Reilly finally said, not wishing this to continue.

  “Yeah, well how about tellin’ me how you and Johnny hooked up while I drink my beer.”

  “Whatever you’d like, Ben. Holmes, or rather, Johnny, here, and I met when we went to save the Tsar and his family from being executed by the Bolsheviks. And we succeeded, too. And Johnny, here, along with the Royal Navy, brought them to a beautiful island in the Caribbean and they all lived happily ever after.”

  “You crappin’ me, right?”

  “Ben, it’s the absolute truth, so help me, Adonai,” Reilly said.

  Siegel just looked at him, then Holmes, who shook his head that this was, in fact true.

  “You’re both nuts. You expect me to believe crap like that? Like I believe in Santa Claus and the tooth fairy and the Easter bunny and I got a nice bridge in Brooklyn I can sell you two.”

  Siegel and Reilly laughed, but Holmes just watched. He knew that Reilly would not have returned to London without a very compelling reason, and he was anxious to find out what it was. But he wanted Siegel and Reilly to become better acquainted. He had an idea that had come to him while the three sat there in The Bulldog’s Rump, and he wanted to see how these men got on.

  Two hours passed, personal histories were exchanged, but who could tell what was truth or tall tale while cold beer and warm ale continued to arrive with merry regularity.

  “Now, this is the god’s honest truth,” Siegel said as he unfolded, very proudly, how he had dispatched two men with one bullet. It demonstrated perfectly how he acquired his nickname and just how dangerous an adversary he could be.

  “When Meyer and me had our gang, before Meyer decided it was best to hook up with Charlie and his gang, we had some dagos who was cuttin’ in on our gamblin’ activities. This was way before Numbers Malone and his boys tried the same thing.

  “Now, Meyer may be short, but he’s as tough as they come. There ain’tnothin’ that scares Meyer. Not even Charlie. So Meyer figures that we wait for these guys at one of the bookie joints what takes the bets and gives us our cuts.

  “So in comes Rico Abato and Marco Pavese and they tell the bookie t’ fork over the dough. The bookie is dumpin’ bricks because he’s between two tough dagos with guns and two tough Jews with guns.

  “Meyer comes walkin’ in from the back with a bottle of beer, all calm like and asks the dagos what they want. Well right away, they tell Meyer t’ get the hell out or they’ll kill him; and they call him a mockey midget.

  “Meyer slams the bottle against the face of Rico, who falls back into Marco and they both fall on the floor and Rico is screaming and Marco is tryin’ t’ get out from under Rico.

  “Then I come out from the back, push Rico back so his head is right in front of Marco’s and I put one bullet through both their heads at the same time. Like Buffalo Bill. Pretty nice, huh?”

  Reilly and Holmes marveled at Siegel’s unbridled pride in murder; but for quite different reasons. While Holmes had spent a good portion of his life helping the police capture such homicidal maniacs, and was ill at ease with the sheer brutality of Siegel’s act, Reilly, with a professional view, admired it. And he, more than Holmes, understood completely.

  Perhaps it was because of his darker persona that so closely mirrored Sigel’s, but Reilly felt compelled to tell his own story.

  “Gentlemen, “Reilly said, savoring the moment, “what I’m about to disclose, no one has ever heard of before. No one.”

  “Holy crap, this must really be somethin’,” Siegel said, sipping his beer excitedly. Holmes already knew Reilly’s capabilities in divergent directions, but was still taken aback at what he was about to hear.

 
; “Who I was working for at the time doesn’t matter. What matters is that the person I was assigned to dispatch was a high clergyman of a religion I need not name.

  “It seems that this paradigm of virtue was selling, yes, I said ‘selling’, young boys and girls to the Ottomans to do with as they pleased. Even had the authorities been alerted, with such an exalted personage, it seemed nothing would’ve been done.

  “But there was no error. I was shown proof and I believed what I saw. So one night, as our paradigm slept, I gained access to his room, my feet and shoes in Wellingtons, my hands in rubber gloves, I put one extra thin blanket over him and dispatched him with one dagger thrust deep into his heart. I then sliced open his chest at that point.

  “I next severed his male appendage and put it where his heart was and left as I had come; first putting the Wellingtons and the gloves into a sack, then tossing them into a safe disposal point far from where I had been.”

  Silence. Even from Siegel who just stared. Holmes’ head was down.

  “Damn, even I ain’t never done nothin’ like that,” Siegel said, with a mixture of awe and revulsion.

  “That was then, Ben. We all do things when we’re young we may regret when we’re older. Isn’t that right, Holmes?”

  Holmes lifted his head, shaking it slightly. “Most assuredly.”

  It was the perfect time for Siegel to call it a night.

  “After what you just said, and nobody lettin’ me bump off that Lloyd George guy, I’ve come to the conclusion that you guys are all crazy here. Nobody kills nobody even when they need to get dead. Meyer and Lucky are never gonna believe all this crap!

  “I’m gonna go back to New York and give the guys one hell of a laugh about what’s goin’ on over here. Especially when they find out that Clay is really Holmes and I got a Jewish pal named Reilly. They’ll think I’m nuts; but then, everyone does anyway.

  “But don’t worry, Johnny, I’ll tell ‘em all the books are square and the booze is comin’ to nobody but Charlie and Meyer and me and we’ll all make a toast t’ you over here. Or maybe an English muffin instead o’ toast. Pretty good, huh? Toast, English muffin, get it?”

  He then extended his hand to Reilly.

  “From now on, your name is Moo.”

  “I don’t get it,” Reilly said, completely baffled as Siegel laughed.

  “It’s what ya get when ya cross a mick with a Jew. Ya get a Moo. You’re Moo.”

  Reilly laughed, too, and said, “Ben, if it makes you happy, I’m Moo,” and they shook hands.

  With that, Siegel left the pub, hailed a cab, went back to the Cumberland, and had a good night’s sleep before preparing for his departure to New York. But he still shook his head at the seeming insanity of no one killing anyone else.

  Holmes And Reilly

  Holmes sat with Reilly, still unsettled at his story. Reilly saw this and said, “Holmes, did you actually believe that tale I just told?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, as Ben said, I’ve got a bridge in Brooklyn I’d like to sell you.” And he laughed.

  Holmes was now left to wondering which was true; and to him, that was even more unsettling. But he and Reilly still had much to discuss and that could continue the next day.

  They walked to the curb, Holmes signaled and his auto pulled up, driven by Andrew. As Reilly and Holmes got into the rear and Holmes closed the glass partition, Andrews’s eyes, looking in his rearview mirror, suddenly opened wide.

  “Well, Holmes, I hadn’t expected to see you again.”

  “Nor I, you. At least, so soon.

  “It may be the ale talking, but just think, Holmes, of all I’ve been through since I left you in Russia.” He began counting them off in a most cavalierly manner.

  “I spent some leisurely time trying to foment a counter-revolution, becoming an ally of Trotsky, an enemy of a pig you never heard of, Stalin, being chased out of Russia and across Finland, back to London, then to Eleuthera, then back to this very spot.”

  “I am sure there are details you have omitted since we spoke in New York.”

  “Yes. Very unhappy details.” He told of the almost simultaneous deaths of Alexei and the Tsarina, which was the reason for his return for revenge against Lloyd George. However he thought it best to reveal nothing about the Grand Duchesses’ whereabouts and current identities.

  He then turned his body as much as possible to face Holmes. “Holmes, I know we spoke of this in New York, but what about Watson?”

  “Reilly, let me tell you what Lloyd George and I were discussing when you and he met, shall we say.” He then disclosed all.

  “If I made myself manifest by even the most meager method to Watson, what further danger might befall Watson?” Holmes asked.

  “With Lloyd George as Prime Minister, with all the power he had, and the “Black Faction” and the “invisible others” who so plagued our endeavors in Russia and thereafter, it is even too much for me to try to unravel. Especially on the heels of what he just disclosed. No, it is best that all is left as Watson believes.”

  Reilly sat pensively. “Yes, you’re right, I suppose. But Holmes, you’re a national hero. Sunk by the Huns. Did you swim back to London?”

  “There was no ship sunk. Captain Yardley saved my life. But I’ll retain that for another telling.”

  Holmes then related the events of his rescue by the Curtis family.

  “Curtis? Did you say Curtis?”

  Holmes was startled at the reaction. “Yes, the three men who rescued me.”

  “By any chance, would two of those men be named Louis and Martin?”

  “Now how could you possibly know that?”

  Reilly was laughing. “As I believe you’ve said from time to time, ‘elementary’.” And he laughed more loudly.

  Holmes was becoming annoyed at Reilly laughing at his expense. “All right, all right, how did you know?”

  “Holmes, remember that little town you were brought to when you were rescued?”

  “Port Royal.”

  “Then you know that Port Royal is the closest town to Parris Island, the east coast training ground for the United States Marine Corps. Many of the senior Marine Corps. officers live there. Some still on active duty, some retired.”

  “Yes, but how did you know about Lou and Martin Curtis?”

  “Lou and Martin were captains in the Corps. and were serving in G-2, their military intelligence.

  “Before the States got into the war, President Wilson and their top brass wanted to see how we might integrate our forces if they got into the war; so Lou and Martin were sent over with others to London surreptitiously.

  “I met them, oddly enough, at a cocktail party being hosted by Kitchener as War Minister. It wasn’t too long after the party that his cruiser hit a German mine and he drowned when the ship sank.”

  “Did you have dealings with them?”

  “All I can say is ‘yes’, I had dealings with them. But I can’t disclose them. What I can disclose is that you couldn’t want for two more steadfast friends or implacable foes. They’re best of the Yankee breed.”

  “But what of their father, Hank?”

  “I don’t know anything about him. But I wouldn’t be surprised that he had some special assignment during the war, too.”

  They had arrived at Holmes lair and Reilly had the usual astonishment at the building and the decay surrounding.

  “Welcome to my domain,” Holmes said, making a sweeping gesture with his arms indicating the area around. “Come with me.” Holmes pointed up, to where his office was.

  Reilly now felt that he had been correct in New York. This was not the Sherlock Holmes who had proved so brilliant in Russia. This was another man entirely. But he felt that he had no choice. He needed to learn all and so he follo
wed Holmes up those stairs.

  Once in Holmes’ office and long on into the night, Holmes told Reilly of his involvement with Siegel, Luciano, and Lansky and his international criminal network. But Reilly couldn’t understand why he was being told these things.

  And hours before, neither Holmes nor Reilly had noticed Andrew glancing back at them as he had driven them to Whitechapel.

  The Grand Duchess of New York

  Olga, now Katherine Kasey, had purchased a cooperative on the wealthy and thriving upper west side of Manhattan, right on Central Park West, at number 55, a classic Art Deco residential tower. Not too distant from the flat once owned by Capone.

  Olga was in love with New York as a whole, but with Manhattan, in particular. No city, to her mind, could possibly be more vibrant and alive than this. She was throwing off every inhibition and moral manacle, choosing a more merry and exuberant existence than she could have dreamed of in her former cloistered world.

  Manhattan was the epicenter of The Roaring Twenties; and please forgive the play on words, but Olga was in her twenties and roaring like a young lioness.

  Nightlife was utmost. And nightlife during Prohibition meant speakeasies. And speakeasies, at least the best ones, meant the underworld. And that meant that any beautiful and apparently rich young woman, such as Olga, would attract certain eyes. Certain big blue eyes. Big blue eyes that belonged to Bugsy Siegel.

  Reilly Says “Hello” And “Goodbye”

  It was the night after the Holmes-Lloyd George-Reilly-Siegel incident, that Reilly knocked on my door for the third time.

  It had been two years or so since last I saw him and he had much to tell; and, I surmised, much not to tell. But what he chose to tell was, he believed, that which would set my mind at rest.

  He told me that Holmes had indeed perished; not by the perfidious hand of his own government, but as a true hero of England. His ship, had, in fact, been sunk by the Germans. Reilly felt that this would give me surcease, which it did, and I thanked him for the information; at that time not knowing the true volume of this most magnanimous deception.