Saying so, Helms seemed to arrive at some conclusion, pulled out a notepad, and jotted something very quickly.
“An inquiry for my brother,” he said by way of explanation, and he rose to step out of the room for a moment.
I was left to wonder at what question Helms was addressing to MH. I had no chance to ask him, as almost immediately upon Helms’ return, Lestrade came to escort us into the presence of Mr. Tesla himself.
We met in a dank brick chamber, ironically lit by one of Edison’s electric lamps set in the ceiling behind an iron cage. The lamp cast a grid of shadows across the whole room, enforcing an oppressive atmosphere. Seated at a wood table, in the centre of the room, was Helms’ man Tesla.
Tesla was held in irons and flanked by worthy officers of the London constabulary. He was the absolute picture of dejection. He was clad in wrinkled, scuffed, and mud-spattered evening wear, and a massive bruise swelled the right side of his face, punctuated by a gruesome gash on his cheekbone. He did not look up at us as he spoke; instead he stared at his delicately manicured hands.
“It appears that I must relate my crime again to you.” Tesla’s voice was heavily flavored by the tongue of the Slavs.
Helms drew a chair forward and sat upon the edge of the seat, perched like some great raptor about to erupt into flight. “It would bode well for you,” Helms said, “if you related every detail of last evening, precisely as you remember it.”
“There are few details to relate, if you understand my history with Mr. Edison—”
“I do.”
“Then you know that the man is in fact a thief and a scoundrel. He spoke at the conference of the electrification of Niagara, a project to power half a continent, based on my designs. I could no longer abide this, so late last night I called on Mr. Edison to demand satisfaction. He had me come in, only to tell me that I knew nothing of American business. He was in the employ of the most powerful empire in the world, and the American government would never allow some Slavic foreigner to profit from an American patent. He called me a fool—and worse. I . . . I defended my honor . . .”
“As any gentleman would,” Helms prompted.
“Yes, sir, you do understand then.”
“How then did you respond to this insult?”
Tesla nervously touched the side of his face, and his expression showed a pain at the memory that went far beyond his injury. “We came to blows. I remember little of our fight; I was too incensed, caught in the passion of the moment. One instant he was striking me, the next, I was standing over him with a gun in my hand.”
“How did you come by this gun?”
“It was Mr. Edison’s. I had thrown him toward a table where there was a valise. He pulled the weapon out of it, spilling papers everywhere. Before he brought it to bear, I knocked it out of his hands. At some point I managed to retrieve it from the floor . . .”
“And you shot him?”
Tesla nodded, he seemed on the verge of tears.
“I shan’t force you to answer but one more question.”
“Yes?”
“When you presented yourself to the police, confessing to this crime, did they accost you in any manner whatsoever?”
Lestrade and the two officers cast unkind glances at Helms, such a suggestion besmirching their own honor. Tesla himself looked up at Helms with an expression of puzzlement, “No one has been anything but civilized. I am the villain here.”
Helms nodded. “I did not expect otherwise, but I required your confirmation. I am finished here.”
When the officers escorted Tesla back into captivity, Lestrade confronted Helms, “I say, what possessed you to make such an inflammatory accusation, in the presence of junior officers and a murder suspect, no less.”
“My dear inspector,” Helms said. “It was not an accusation, it was a question. It might reassure you to know that his answer was the single truth in that tissue of lies he just regaled us with.”
Lestrade shook his head, “Helms, you must explain—”
Helms sprang up, almost overturning his chair in the process. “Now tell me, you have retrieved the murder weapon from the scene; a newer design, a small-caliber self-loading automatic pistol.”
“Helms,” Lestrade said, “in a prior century you would have been put to the stake as a warlock.”
“I would care to see that weapon, Inspector.”
Lestrade took us to a storeroom and had a sergeant remove a box from a high shelf. Helms donned a pair of white gloves and removed the gun from the box, intently examining the weapon.
As Helms predicted, the gun was of brand-new design with no cylinder, but a removable cartridge before the trigger guard. The barrel of the weapon received most of Helms’ attention.
During the examination, an officer came in, delivering a telegram to Helms. Helms replaced the gun, spent a moment reading, and then he smiled broadly. Before he pocketed the telegram I caught a glimpse of names, dates, and amounts. One of the names was familiar to me as a minor attaché at the French embassy.
“A last question, Inspector.” Helms turned to Lestrade. “The Americans have contacted you about this crime, have they not?”
“Of course, and I expect the American interference will only grow as time passes.”
“Have they yet begun to inquire about meetings Edison might have had? Have they asked about any papers or diagrams not in evidence in his hotel room?”
“The consulate has not inquired beyond the details of our current investigation, as of yet. They seemed satisfied with Tesla’s confession.”
Helms nodded. “They would wish that, upon their loss of Edison, their rivals be denied the genius of Tesla as well.” He stepped toward Lestrade. “I suspect that once their reason overcomes their hopes, they will shortly make such inquiries. For the time being, I believe it will be in our nation’s interest to forestall them by reiterating Tesla’s fiction. Do not allow them to see you doubt the veracity of his confession until we have assembled all the pieces of this inquiry.”
Lestrade shook his head. “What is this about, Helms?”
“Something whose value would compel someone to cast aside two of the most important inventive geniuses of the century without concern for posterity.” Helms peeled off his gloves. “I am finished here, Inspector. I will contact you when I have this matter fully in hand. Come Wilson, the details are falling into place.”
I rode with him from Scotland Yard. Helms made the cab stop at a bank while I waited, and then I will swear up and down that we stopped at the offices of every newspaper on Fleet Street. He would order the driver to stop, and with an admonition to wait, he would burst forth and run into the building to remain, perhaps fifteen minutes. He would emerge and would order the driver on to the next publishing establishment. It was after nightfall when we finally returned to our lodgings on Baker Street.
While I took time to have a late supper, Helms was engrossed deeply in a notebook, which contained, I presume, notes he had taken at each newspaper we had stopped at. Occasionally, he would get up to rummage in his intricate filing system where he retained news clippings, magazine articles, and biographies.
I had settled down with a cigar and a glass of port before retiring for the evening when Helms was gripped by an epiphany. “Aha!” He cried, casting aside pages of his jottings. “Wilson, I have it! And time now is of the essence if justice is to be done and full advantage taken of these developments.” He wrote down a message as he waved me forward. “You must contact Inspector Lestrade. He keeps late habits and should be at his office for another ten minutes. Use the police call box at the corner. Give him this message.”
“But—”
“Fly, Wilson. If you talk to anyone else at the Special Branch you will waste precious time explaining our case. I must busy myself to be ready, and you only have nine minutes. Go!”
Without further delay I ran out the door, down Baker Street toward one of the newer police boxes that had begun to dot the major street corners
of London. I had been one of many who had derided the appearance of these massive wooden cabinets as defiling the more picturesque charms of London neighborhoods, but with Helms’ urgency motivating me I was suddenly glad to have one available.
I pushed inside the wooden cabinet, which was lit inside by another Edison lamp. I picked up the black metal earpiece and started shouting at the conical device mounted in the wall before me. “Hello! Hello!”
“Sir,” spoke a weak voice in the ear-piece, “You may speak normally. Do you need police assistance?”
“I need to talk to Inspector Lestrade of the Special Branch.”
“Sir, this is for emergencies and official police business . . .”
“This is an emergency! I am Dr. Wilson calling on behalf of the Secret Service. Please let me talk to Inspector Lestrade.”
I managed to convince the phantom voice of my urgency, and soon I was talking to Inspector Lestrade. “Dr. Wilson?”
“Inspector, I have a message from Helms.” For the first time I glanced at the paper Helms had given me. “He says that Mr. Edison’s true assassin will be present at the vacant Desmond Imports warehouse at one AM tonight, most likely accompanied by several men of interest, and in possession of documents of national importance.” I read Lestrade an address on Wapping High Street in the East End, bordering the Thames. “He is especially emphatic that only officers of the Special Branch be present.”
“One AM tonight? Helms does not waste time.”
“I will meet you there.”
“What about Helms?”
I remembered what Helms had said about busying himself to be ready. He quite obviously had set himself on a course different from my own. “Just me. Helms has different business to attend to.”
By the time I returned to our flat, Helms was gone, leaving only the clothing he had been wearing, tossed unceremoniously to the side upon the settee, covering the papers that piled upon it.
I decided to change my outfit as well, for the purpose of the night’s intrigue. I selected a suit of dark brown color, with a black topcoat that would help conceal my form in the darkness. Once dressed, I took the precaution of pocketing my service revolver and retrieved my stoutest walking stick, one with a head of solid brass that could deliver a quite satisfying blow should the need arise.
Thus equipped, I hailed a cab and traveled to the outer edge of the East End of London. I intended to walk through the slums of Whitechapel toward the docks and the warehouse Helms had indicated. My purpose had been to avoid the men at the warehouse taking note of the cab. However, during my short walk, a number of disreputable Whitechapel residents decided to take note of me, including several women, some no more than girls, who were offering me services for the evening.
I took an circuitous route, but even if my memory of the streets of London was not as exact as Helms’, the odor of sewage and rotting fish brought me to Wapping High Street about a quarter hour in advance of Lestrade’s men. I took the precaution of staying in a darkened alley across the street from the warehouse to await their arrival.
Even from a vantage removed by a hundred yards, and past gaslights whose glare made the night’s shadows that much more impenetrable, I could see that the warehouse in question was not vacant this night. Through windows smudged with grease and dust, I could see the flicker of gaslight and the shadows of men moving about. As I watched, I could see a late arrival walk down the street, cast suspicious glances around, and enter the warehouse.
I had a few moments to wonder at how Helms had uncovered this meeting when a Cockney voice announced itself behind me. “Well, now, what’ve we here?”
In retrospect, I had suffered a patch of ill luck. I had carefully chosen an unobserved corner of the alley to station myself. However, that alley was only unobserved because the rogue who had been assigned guard duties had taken an opportunity to relieve himself around the corner.
I barely had time to turn around before the man brought something hard and heavy down on my head, stunning me.
I had a dim memory of being dragged into the warehouse, shoved into a chair, and having my hands roughly bound behind me. The smell of spoiled fish nearly choked me together with mildew and soot from an improperly vented stove. My eyes focused and I could see my Cockney assailant showing my service revolver to a cluster of men.
“He’s a copper I tell you.”
The man at the head of the group frowned. He was tall and pale, with oiled hair and a thin continental mustache. “That is an army revolver.”
Everyone turned to face me. The last time I had felt so completely helpless was when a bullet had taken me in the shoulder during my service in the Afghan War. Even so, I could not help but notice that on the table these men had congregated around were papers of the sort used by draftsmen in their plans.
The tall man approached me, taking my gun from the Cockney. “What interest do you have with me?” He asked.
I feigned disorientation, but my captor would have little of that. He grabbed my collar and pulled me almost bodily out of my chair. “Who are you? Did the French send you?”
In my position there was little need for deception. “No, the French did not send me. My name is Dr. Wilson, and I am quite British.”
At my answer he lowered me back to the chair. “Now tell me what you are doing here.”
I nodded. “Certainly—if you would please answer me one question.”
He chuckled and kept the gun aimed at me. “What question, Dr. Wilson?”
“What time is it?”
He opened his mouth to answer, and the gas jets that had been illuminating the room flickered out. Suddenly, the only light was a ruddy glow from the stove in the corner.
The shadow with the Cockney accent said, “Cripes, this guy was a diversion.” That man rushed for the door and a sudden panic gripped the others. I was forgotten in the mass exodus, as every occupant of the warehouse dashed for whatever egress made itself available. During the scramble, the tall man grabbed the papers from the table and fed them into the belly of the stove.
I struggled in vain against my bonds. My stomach sank as I realized that these papers were the heart of the matter, and I could not move to prevent their destruction.
Around us were the sounds of chaos, men shouting, gunshots, people jumping into the Thames. Through it all, the tall man cast the papers in the fire. When the pages flared, I could see the strains of panic in the tall man’s face.
Just as he cast the last page into the stove, the door burst open letting in the men of the Special Branch. The tall man offered no resistance. He stood, hands raised, watching the last page curl, blacken, and disintegrate.
Lestrade’s men freed me, and the Inspector himself escorted me around the scene of the secret conclave with a jovial manner I could not share. “Helms has not disappointed me.” He told me. “Seven men, all of known and dubious reputation, some of whom have been wanted for years.”
The men who had been in attendance here were first and second lieutenants of criminal gangs well known in Britain and on the Continent. Present in the warehouse were satchels of gold and currency, the amount of which was still being counted.
None of the prisoners had been forthcoming, but it was obvious that the congregation had assembled to bid on the documents. The fact that the Special Branch had entered the warehouse too late to salvage the papers was a minor point to Lestrade, as every person at the meeting had a long list of crimes with which they could be charged.
I returned to Baker Street feeling dismal, certain that we had failed in Helms’ intent. I knew that what had been cast into the stove had been of vital importance.
I opened the doors to our rooms in the predawn hours and saw a figure I did not recognize immediately as Helms. In fact, if he had not spoken as I entered, I might have drawn my revolver at his presence.
“Wilson, you’ve had quite an adventure, I take it?”
“Helms,” I said as I shook my head. Even though I knew him to have pe
rfected many elements of disguise and misdirection in his work for the Secret Service, it was still disconcerting for me to hear Helms’ voice come from the garish fop in front of me. Helms had applied whiskers in the French style, delicate glasses, and had donned evening wear of a quite expensive style. From top hat and bottle-green topcoat to gleaming white spats, I had never known him to look less like the Bohemian gentleman with whom I had worked these past seven years.
“How went things with Lestrade?”
I dropped into a chair and related my sorry tale. Helms listened intently, and fortunately for my state of mind, gave no indication of the displeasure he must have felt at my performance.
“Quite a disaster.” I concluded.
Helms shook his head. “Not at all, in fact. I am quite glad that the episode cost you only a knock on the head.”
I smiled. “It seems that while I entertained the dregs of society, you had time to attend some event of social importance.”
Helms smiled, reached up and removed the whiskers. “Not a social function. I merely had to assume the manner and habit of a certain diplomat of the French Consulate, one who will regain consciousness shortly. Tell me now, did they capture the architect of the auction?”
“Yes,” I said quietly, unable to keep disappointment out of my voice.
“Wonderful news, Wilson.”
I shook my head, unable to share my friend’s excitement. “But Helms, the documents were destroyed.”
“Not quite.” He reached into a valise that bore French diplomatic markings and withdrew a cylinder of paper, the kind used by draftsmen and engineers. He tossed it to me.
“What?” I looked down at the tube of paper. “This cannot be—”
“These were the plans our villain planned to auction off to whatever criminal element would answer his summons; the root of our crime; and something of great interest for the Secret Service.”
“Helms, you have dumbfounded me.”
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