The Revenge of Sherlock Holmes

by Phil Growick

  She had already told him that her parents were deceased and that she had no siblings. And as far as Siegel could determine, even with some of his lawyers trying to glean information on her, nothing untoward surfaced. They reported that she was wealthy, British, and, “Ben, have a good time.”

  It looked like Katherine Kasey would soon become Katherine Siegel.

  In that regard, Tatiana received a wire from Olga, which she read to Reilly after decoding.

  “Tatiana. I have finally met and fallen in love with someone. I assure you, though, I have told him nothing of us.

  “This is a man of mystery. A powerful man. A feared man. A man who will protect me and care for me and love me.”

  Reilly, smiling at the happy news, and holding both Sidney and Alix, asked innocently, “And who is this American paragon?”

  Tatiana said, “She says his name is Siegel. Benjamin Siegel.”

  Reilly put the children down, told Tatiana that he would explain presently, ran to find Funny Oscar and then went to make arrangements, as soon as possible, to go to New York.

  Not wanting to worry Tatiana, nor the Tsar, he told them that his reason for leaving so precipitously was that he knew this Benjamin Siegel and that while a fine, upstanding man, there had been some unfortunate history with his family and he felt it best to speak with Olga as soon as possible to personally try to dissuade her from this relationship.

  The Tsar seemed to accept the explanation without question, but Tatiana knew her husband too well.

  “Sidney, there’s more to this than you’re telling us, isn’t there?”

  “Tatiana, please believe me, I think only I can prevent a marriage and it needs to be prevented.”

  “Is it that bad?” Tatiana asked.

  Still trying to mitigate her fear, he said, “Well, not that bad, but enough to cause us all a headache we most certainly don’t need.”

  Tatiana finally accepted that and the next day, once more stood on the dock waving off her husband. This time with Alix accompanying little Sidney in bawling their unhappiness.

  The Meaning Of The Gift

  When Marie regained her senses through smelling salts immediately administered by William, he asked, “Mary, what happened? Are you all right?”

  He had carried her into the drawing room and sat beside her on a comfortable divan. Now that she was revived, he gestured for the concerned domestics to leave them alone and close the door; which they did.

  “William, the gift to you...”

  “What of it? Did this little gold wrist chain cause you to faint?”

  “Yes, William. Don’t you know what that is?”

  “I haven’t the faintest clue in the world.”

  She spoke haltingly, frightened.

  “William, just before Holmes left us on Eleuthera and joined you on the ship, my father took that off his wrist and gave it to Holmes in thanks. It had been given to my father by his mother and it was the last thing of any personal value he had to give.”

  William looked confused.

  “It means, William, that Holmes is alive and he’s given you that gift in the same spirit as my father had.”

  William then understood. But he couldn’t say anything to her about Holmes. So he asked Marie, still sobbing softly, to put the delicate gold chain on his right wrist.

  She did this gently, happily, and felt that her father was now with her, as well.

  Revenge

  Holmes’ psyche had been slowly gnawed at in his incarnation as Clay. It had always razor-thin and fragile, even in the best of times, but now it had reached a level of danger.

  Since he could not, as yet, exact revenge on Lloyd George and had to let him live, he was feeling claustrophobic. Even his criminal kingdom stretching from the United Kingdom to the United States and beyond, was now too small of a palette on which his mind could paint.

  If Lloyd George must live, Holmes needed one magnificent, grandiose offence against him that would, simultaneously, give Holmes the identities of the men tasked to do me harm and cause Lloyd George such horrific embarrassment and shame from which he might never recover.

  But that was not all. Holmes wanted this crime committed so that no one would even know that a crime had been committed. Only that could placate his mind and soul and psyche; and his revenge would be sadistically satisfied

  His statement to Lloyd George, “God, as devil incarnate, has devised more than one way to blot out the sun,” gave him the answer; and he devised his plan.

  He would blot out the sun by becoming the sun. Using his disguise skills nonpareil, he would become Lloyd George.

  Holmes had long studied his routines, his personal matters, he knew of his club, his solicitor, his bank, his accountant; in short, everything he would need to exact a revenge different than originally sought. But one, perhaps, much more mollifying.

  On the night of August 29, 1923, Lloyd George stepped to the curb outside his home and signaled for his auto, got in, then realized something was wrong. His driver was not his driver. It was a stranger; in reality, one of Holmes’ men. Others jumped in and blindfolded him. He was then driven to an abandoned house not far from Holmes’ headquarters in Whitechapel. They then dragged him out, brought him into a room and left.

  Inside this hovel, in a room with two wooden chairs and one table with a glass of water on it, Holmes sat on one of the chairs; but with a grotesque Renaissance mask covering his features as Mr. Stash, since Lloyd George had already seen him.

  At first, Lloyd George was screaming and indignant. He demanded of this bizarre apparition before him if he knew who he was. Holmes said nothing.

  Then he demanded to know what was wanted of him. Holmes said nothing.

  Finally, after pacing and puffing and pulling at the locked door, and screaming and demanding, his energy waned and he sat in the other chair and sipped the water.

  Finally, Holmes spoke; but with a non-descript accent.

  “I know who you are, Prime Minister. But I’ve been retained by an anonymous gentleman to take care of this needlessly messy business.”

  “Who is this so-called gentleman?” Lloyd George demanded.

  Mr. Stash flashed anger.

  “It is not for you to be asking a question of me. It is for you to answer a question from me. And it is a simple one.

  “I have been asked to give you a choice. You may choose a swift and painless death if you give me the information I want, or so thoroughly a disagreeable one that I shiver to think of it, should you not.”

  “Who are you?” demanded Lloyd George, again.

  Mr. Stash became enraged.

  “I said you do not ask any questions. You anger me and it causes me grief.”

  By now, Lloyd George did not know what to make of this mad man but decided it might be best to give him the information he wanted as long as it was not most secret.

  “All right. What information do you want?”

  Mr. Stash immediately became more tranquil and even the tone of his voice became soothing.

  “Just this: who is the person, or persons, you have told to kill Dr. John H. Watson should any harm befall you?”

  “Holmes! I knew it! That blackguard!”

  Mr. Stash now kicked the chair violently; but not Lloyd George.

  “Are you deaf? Do you not understand? I shall not ask you again. Who is the person, or persons, you have given that special command to?”

  With great reluctance, Lloyd George gave Holmes the code names of two men in a special branch; one which caused Holmes to cry out, “Fool! Damned fool that I am.”

  His men ran in in alarm thinking Mr. Stash had gone mad but Holmes made gestures to bring these events to a swift conclusion. Holmes took possession of Lloyd George’s identification papers and he and his men left th
e room. Lloyd George remained locked in that room overnight. But unharmed.

  The first code name he gave Holmes was Andrew.

  The other was Yrjö.

  Holmes then sent two of his men to bring Andrew to him. In short order, they had done so. Andrew was calm, having no idea what Holmes wanted.

  “So, Andrew,” said Holmes, mask removed and again Mr. Stash, “you’ve been keeping secrets from me.”

  “I don’ know wha’ ya mean, Mr. Stash,” Andrew said in his guttural rasp.

  “I see, well perhaps this might refresh your retrograde memory.” Holmes showed him an identification paper of Lloyd George’s. Andrew knew he was trapped but sought to bargain his way out of death.

  “All right, Mr. Stash, you’ve found me out.” He was speaking perfectly now.

  “But what have I found out exactly, Andrew.”

  “Mr. Stash, I’ve work for a special branch of intelligence since Lloyd George was Prime Minister. I was assigned special tasks by him then which would carry over even after he left office. That’s the way special orders work in special branches.”

  “Yes, but what brings you to my employ?” Holmes asked wanting more answers more quickly.

  “Well, that’s easy enough. The Yanks asked us to help stop the flow of alcohol to them because of their Prohibition. I was assigned to help do that. We knew that Clay was behind the shipments, but since nobody sees him anymore, it devolved upon you as the focal point of my investigation.”

  “And what have you learned, Andrew?”

  “Everything you’re doing, Mr. Stash. I can’t hide that fact. But the funny thing is, no matter what I reported, nobody ever gave the order to bring down the hammer on you. Pretty curious.”

  “Not so, when one may have special friends in the special branch.”

  Andrew’s eyes grew wide in sudden understanding. He fumbled as other words came out.

  “Uh, uh, Mr. Stash, one other thing. That night that I drove you away from that house with that other man. I think I know who he is. I worked with him once, but I thought he was dead. I could tell you all about him.”

  Holmes stopped this immediately by asking one all-important question.

  “Tell me, Andrew, those special orders you had, one about eliminating a certain Dr. Watson, was there anyone else under such orders?”

  “Now, how the hell did you know about that?” Andrew asked.

  “Special friends...”

  “Yes, I see. No, I don’t know of anyone else under that order. I really don’t.” “Andrew, you will be permitted to live, but that is all.”

  He gave a signal to the men who had brought him in and as they took hold of him,

  Holmes said “You know where to bring him. Do it, but don’t harm him. Just bind him and leave him there.” This they did.

  As they left him alone, Holmes wondered if he truly was now more Clay than Holmes; and shuddered. But he still had much to do that night. The best part of his plan was about to unfold.

  First, he shaved all his facial hair and disguised himself as Lloyd George. He knew that if Lloyd George did not return home or spend the night at his club, the National Liberal Club, his domestics would become alarmed and suspicious. Therefore, he checked into the club and had word sent to his home that he would be spending the night there and would return the next day.

  As Mr. Stash, Holmes knew many members of the club from surreptitious and unsavory business arrangements; but he was now Lloyd George.

  Having whiskeys with these fellow club members individually, he let it be known very quietly to those he thought would be most amenable, that he might be able to arrange knighthoods, and, in some instances, even a peerage or two, for a proper consideration.

  Some of these gullibles immediately gave cheques to Holmes while others pledged funds to be deposited in his accounts by the morrow. But he had also made overtures to men he knew to be above reproach and who would, when the time was right, make these offers publicly known.

  In the morning, once Lloyd George’s bank was open, Holmes left the club, went to the bank and had the bank manager deposit the collected cheques in Lloyd George’s account; taking special care to engage him in a lively conversation which the manager would must certainly remember and recount to investigative authorities.

  Holmes also knew that the other men who had promised monies to Lloyd George would also be round to deposit those funds with the aid of the bank manager.

  Then, still disguised as Lloyd George, he walked into the room where they had placed Andrew the night before.

  Andrew jumped up at the sight of his old P.M.

  “What are you doing here, sir?” Andrew asked as he offered “Lloyd George” his chair.

  “Andrew, though I am no longer Prime Minister, I am not without special assignments from Mr. Baldwin. In this instance, it may have to do with a certain investigation concerning illegal shipments of alcohol.”

  “Of course, sir; I understand fully.”

  “And that’s the point, Andrew. The investigation is over and you shan’t speak of it again.”

  “I understand, sir. I was wondering why nothing had happened after my reports were filed.”

  “Let’s just say that this particular group of men have a particular use for us. And we do not want that use disturbed.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Oh, and one other thing before I leave and you’re set free. That order I had given a few years ago concerning Dr. Watson...”

  “Yes?”

  “That order is rescinded. He is not to be harmed in any manner. Understood?”

  “Of course, sir, of course.”

  “Good, good. You’re free to leave now, Andrew. And Andrew, I promise to put in a very good word to your direct superior. Good luck.”

  With that, Andrew left, never to return. But what intrigued Holmes was how easily Andrew accepted the fact that David Lloyd George had even visited him in that room.

  In preparation for this encounter, Holmes, as Mr. Stash, had sent word to Andrew’s superior to be sure Andrew would be assigned something farther away from London; perhaps somewhere in the Punjab. The superior was just another in a long line of civil servants with whom Mr. Stash had become, shall we say, friendly.

  Holmes now doffed Lloyd George, carefully replaced false facial hair to match what he had shaved, and as Mr. Stashonce again, returned to Lloyd George.

  “You will forgive me, sir, for any discomfort. But you are now free to go. However, while no physical harm has come to you because you cooperated, I cannot guarantee what might happen if you discuss last night. Although as you are aware, it is best that you remain healthy and safe. Do we have an understanding?”

  “Yes, yes, we have an understanding. Now how will I leave?

  “I’m terribly sorry, but you must be blindfolded again. You’ll be driven safely to within a very short distance of your home. I wish you good luck.”

  Lloyd George was home presently and still safe in the knowledge that no harm would come to him, thereby insuring my safety. But totally unaware of what would soon befall him.

  But Holmes, as yet, did not know who Yrjö was.

  Reilly And Bugsy

  On the morning of August 29, 1923, Bugsy Siegel walked alone out of Lindy’s on Broadway in Manhattan, one of the most popular meeting places for anyone who was anyone, no matter how you got to be anyone, and he stopped short. There, in front of him, leaning against a cab, was Reilly.

  “What the...? Jesus you got some way of poppin’ up. What the hell you doin’ here, Moo?” Moo was that nickname Siegel had given Reilly in London. “How the hell did ya find me?”

  “Why, Ben. Who in New York doesn’t know about Mr. Benjamin Siegel? And that he visits Lindy’s every morning for breakfast?”

  Si
egel extended his hand, “Yeah, you’re right on the money.”

  Reilly opened the cab door and gestured for Siegel to get in.

  “Yatryin’ t’ take me for a ride?” Siegel laughed, as he got into the cab.

  Once seated in the rear, Reilly spoke.

  “Exactly, Ben, but not in the way you mean. What I have to discuss with you could very well cost Katherine and her family their lives.”

  “What family? She told me they were croaked.”

  “To a degree, that’s correct. Ben, where can we go where it’s private and we can talk. Just tell the driver.”

  “Take us to 725 Seventh, it’s only a few blocks down,” Siegel said to the driver. “I got an office up there,” he said to Reilly.

  It took only five minutes to arrive at the building and Siegel and Reilly rode up to the seventh floor where Siegel proudly showed Reilly the front door of his office, which was nothing more than frosted glass on the top, wood on the bottom. But there were gold letters on the frosted glass. The first line read: “Mr. Benjamin J. Siegel”. Directly underneath: “Proprietor”.

  Siegel stood there with Reilly for a moment, just looking at the gold letters, as Reilly saw the pride in Siegel’s face.

  “Very, very nice, Ben. But proprietor of what, precisely?”

  “What ever the hell I want,” Siegel answered as the unlocked the door and the men went in.

  The room was completely bare except for one small desk, one chair in front, one in back, a table to the rear of the desk, on which various forms of alcohol were placed, with glasses to the side. There was also a Murphy bed.

  Siegel saw the puzzled look on Reilly’s face as he looked around and said, “Yeah, it ain’t much, but I call it home. That Murphy bed gets a hell of a lot a use.

  “This ain’t got nothin’ t’ do with Meyer or Charlie or any of the guys. Sometimes I need to be alone. And sometimes I need to be alone with a dame. So siddown and tell me what the hell is so secret, Moo,” Siegel said as he sat behind the desk with Reilly in front. They both leaned towards each other.