Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #10

by Arthur Conan Doyle

  After sitting down in some plush, leather armchairs before Pierpont’s large, mahogany desk, Holmes asked the banker if he had been able to discover anything more about his murdered coworker.

  “I’m sorry, Mr Holmes, but in all of today’s chaos, I haven’t had time to talk to anyone about him. As soon as things settle down, I shall try to learn more.”

  “That is perfectly understandable given the circumstances. There is one point on which you can probably enlighten me, however. Would Owen have been in a position to discover your director’s embezzling?”

  “Well, Mr Holmes, without yet knowing the exact circumstances, it would be hard to say. Obviously, he, and I for that matter, have access to the records of every account, including those of the director. If funds were being misappropriated in such a way that it would be discoverable from those records, then he could conceivably have uncovered what was going on. I must say, however, that I would hope a bank’s director, even a crooked one, would be a little more clever.”

  “Thank you. If you find out more, please let us know. I shall be in touch.”

  * * * *

  As Holmes and I made our way back through the crowd in the echoing lobby, I attempted to sound him out.

  “Not very much to go on, is it?”

  “I shall certainly need more data. It is a capital mistake to theorize without data, and I doubt we shall be able to gather more until tomorrow. What do you say to dinner at Simpson’s?”

  That was as much about the case as I was able to get out of Holmes that evening, and after dinner, during which Holmes spoke at length about Vergil’s Georgics and the light that work shed upon the qualities of bees, we returned to Baker Street. I turned in early and awoke shortly after dawn but found that Holmes had already departed. I heard nothing from him that entire day until a telegram arrived in the early evening:

  “Come to the Diogenes Club at 6:30 if convenient. If inconvenient, come all the same.”

  Fortunately, I was available and so not overly annoyed at Holmes’s summons. I arrived at that curious club where members are forbidden to speak or to take the least notice of each other. I was then ushered by a servant into the Stranger’s Room, the only room in which guests and conversation were permitted. Holmes had already arrived and stood to greet me. Another man began to laboriously lift himself from his chair, and I recognized him even before he had turned around to greet me. Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes’s older brother, was of considerably greater girth than his sibling, but he possessed the same keen, steel-grey eyes as his brother. According to Holmes, Mycroft’s deductive and reasoning powers exceeded his own, and the specialism he provided his employer, the British government, was no less than “omniscience.” Mycroft was also a founding member of this peculiar club and, when not at his lodgings in Pall Mall, could invariably either be found here or in Whitehall. After we had all exchanged greetings, we sat down, and Holmes began to address us.

  “Your timing is excellent, Watson. I was just recounting the events of the past few days to brother Mycroft and just arrived at my breakthrough today at Somerset House. That is where I spent the entire day, going through the records of several of the government offices that are housed there. I was hoping there would be something—a will, an insurance policy, anything—that might shed some light on our missing banker.”

  “But Holmes, Owen isn’t really missing. He’s no doubt lying at the bottom of the Thames,” I argued.

  “No, Watson,” he said smiling, “even when we were at the docks yesterday, I had serious doubts that a murder had actually been committed. The whole scenario seemed too obviously staged. The appearance of the photograph and the woman, the way she contrived to get Pierpont to follow her, it reminded me of other such cases. You noticed yourself yesterday that Pierpont was being led. Why? Was he being led away from The City so that a crime could be perpetrated, just as Hall Pycroft was led away from Mawson & Williams or Jabez Wilson was led away from his pawnshop in the affair of the red-headed men? Or was it to lead him to somewhere, possibly to witness a crime, like John Scott Eccles when he visited Wisteria Lodge? The elaborate tableau at the scene of the crime and commitment of Owen to his part suggested the latter. Very few men would be willing to take a swim in the Thames at this time of year. Also, aside from the ongoing fraud of the director, who was already in the process of being apprehended, there was no evidence of any other crime.

  “But there was another detail, one of those trivialities which often proves infinitely important, that kept nagging at me as I leafed through page after page of records.”

  “That Peters had left unexpectedly?” queried Mycroft.

  “Precisely! That Peters, the employee whom Owen had succeeded, had left the bank unexpectedly. I have often expounded upon the importance of imagination to detection, and it was as I was wading through that paperwork and thinking about Peters, that a real possibility began to emerge. What if Peters was coerced or bribed into leaving so that Owen could take his place? It would just be possible if the timing was right, if a word was spoken in the right ear, if there was a director present who was already compromised. This is all simple enough. But why had Owen been planted? What could he have been after? If investigators had been closely watching the bank and building a case against the director, it would have been difficult for Owen to have stolen any money, and recent events seem to indicate a greater sophistication. As I opened yet another manila folder, I had an epiphany. What if it wasn’t the actual money or even individual transactions, but about this aggregation of their surrogates, the records and ledgers themselves? One could learn a great deal about people from their financial records: their whereabouts, their travels, their contacts, employers, associations. A criminal or espionage organization could do much with such information. At the moment, I know of no such criminal enterprise that would be up to such a scheme, not since Moriarty fell to his death at the Reichenbach Falls. But Mycroft, I was wondering if perhaps your people had any dealings with the Imperial Bank?”

  “Oh, Sherlock, this time you have outdone yourself. Obviously, this is not to leave this room without my consent, but we do have…agents that could possibly be tracked, given this scenario you have constructed. And Adolph Meyer, a particularly slippery German agent, matches Pierpont’s description of the eyebrowless, long-mouthed assailant and is known to be in London. I shall see if I can discover his exact whereabouts.”

  “Excellent. I have already begun a search for Owen and will contact you tomorrow to inform you of its progress.”

  * * * *

  As we emerged from the Diogenes Club and made our way back into the evening’s fog, though it was as yet unknown to me, Holmes’s search was already proceeding, as countless street arabs, the neglected children of London, crept from alley to alley and from rooftop to rooftop in the murky, gas-lit gloom, in search of the banker, Owen. Holmes had provided Wiggins, the leader of this ragtag legion, which Holmes had dubbed the “Baker Street Irregulars,” with the photograph he had borrowed from the bank and offered a reward to the boy who could find Owen first.

  While this unseen manhunt continued, Holmes and I returned to Baker Street so that he could root through the agony columns of recent newspapers in search of some communications between the spies. Though Holmes had frequently been rewarded in the past by such sources, he was destined to be frustrated that night. By the early hours of the morning, he must have given up, for I heard from my chamber the discordant tones of his violin below.

  By morning, the fog of acrid tobacco smoke in our sitting room rivaled that of the city without. Refusing breakfast, Holmes paced nervously and continued to consume pipe after pipe of shag. Finally, at a little after ten o’clock, a district messenger arrived with word from Mycroft. Much to Holmes annoyance, he unfortunately had been unable to track down Meyer’s whereabouts. But just as the young messenger opened the door to leave the house, a raggedly dressed and dirty adolescent squeezed past him and bounded up the stairs to pound rapidly on our door
.

  “Ah, Wiggins! I see that for once you have followed my instructions to leave the rest of the lads outside,” said Holmes, as he opened the door. “We don’t want to upset Mrs Hudson. Now, quickly, have you run our prey to ground?”

  “Stinson saw him on his way back to his flat after lunch. He lives at 110 Vine Street in Aldgate, flat number two. He only just told me about it, so Owen should still be there. Stinson posted Buckley to stand watch, just in case, though.”

  “Excellent, Wiggins! Please give this and my thanks to Stinson and take this for yourself. Also, please go and take this note to Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard.”

  * * * *

  When he had finished writing, he handed the note to Wiggins who bounded back down the stairs with it. At Holmes suggestion, I retrieved my service revolver and we made our way by cab without delay to Aldgate. We stopped just around the corner from Vine Street and walked to a nearby pub to await Lestrade. We didn’t have long to wait, and within half an hour, we had brought Lestrade up to speed over a pint. Having agreed upon a course of action, we departed the pub and walked around the corner into Vine Street. Number 110 was a small, but nondescript house in the centre of the block. In the entrance hall, a small, greasy-haired boy was playing cards, but on seeing Holmes, he gathered up the deck and approached us.

  “He’s still there, Mr Holmes.”

  “Thank you, Buckley. If you could do just one more thing for me, there’s a shilling in it for you. My friends and I are going to quietly go upstairs and stand by the door of number two. Once we are in position, I want you to come upstairs, bang on the door of the flat, and announce that you have a message for a Mr Owen from a Mr Pierpont. Here, take this in case he can see you from within,” said Holmes as he handed the eager boy a blank piece of paper and his shilling.

  We made our way silently up the stairs. The apartment was to our left on the second floor, and Holmes moved to the left of the door, while Lestrade and I stood to the right with our revolvers drawn. We were no sooner in place than we heard Buckley come bounding up the stairs. He ran over and stopped before the door.

  “Delivery! I have a message for a Mr Owen!” he cried as he knocked on the door. A muffled voice responded from within.

  “What? You must be mistaken…There’s no one here by that name.”

  “It says it’s for Mr Owen of number two from a Mr Pierpont!”

  “But that’s not…”

  Suddenly, there was the sound of a bolt being drawn, and the door cautiously opened. Behind it was the man I had seen identified in the photograph at the bank, Mr Lester Owen. The guns Lestrade and I pointed at him were the first things he saw, and he froze as Holmes stepped into the open.

  “Hello, Mr Owen. I am Sherlock Holmes, and these are my friends and colleagues, Dr Watson and Inspector Lestrade. Please be so good as to let us in and keep your hands where we can see them.”

  Owen backed nervously into the one-room flat and took a seat upon the bed as Holmes motioned for him to do. The suitcase that lay open upon it indicated what he had been doing before our arrival.

  “Watson, please keep him covered,” Holmes requested as Lestrade cuffed Owen’s hands together.

  “Now, Mr Owen, we can talk, and indeed, it will do you no good to keep silent. We know about your information gathering at the bank, we know about your passing this information on to the German spy, Adolph Meyer, and we know about your attempt to fake your own death so that you could escape punishment for your treason and perhaps go on to repeat it at another establishment.”

  “Wait! Treason? I’m not sure how, but you seem to know even more of this matter than I.”

  “Your contact was a known German agent,” interjected Lestrade. “And I’m sure you know the penalty for treason.”

  “If you can explain to us, it might not go as heavily with you,” resumed Holmes.

  “But what you say can be used against you,” added Lestrade.

  “I understand, but truly I am no traitor. He called himself Lang, and I did not know he was a spy…or even German, for that matter. He said he only wanted some occasional information—to find out if an account existed for a particular person, if certain transactions were occurring in certain cities, if certain people were conducting business. He wouldn’t tell me why, but he offered me enough money that I hardly cared. Of course, I knew it was unethical, but we never stole anything or tampered with any records. Although, now that you have made this accusation, I can see how such information could have been used. But I swear that, at the time, I didn’t know!”

  “If you are really still at all loyal to your country, I may be able to furnish you with a chance to prove it. But first, what happened to Peters, the man you replaced at the bank?”

  “I was going through a rough patch, having just got the sack from a position at an insurance company that was about to go under, when I met Lang at Nicholson’s Pub. As we spoke, he became more familiar with me and said a position was about to open at the Imperial Bank. He said that if I was to apply, he was sure they would find me to be the right man for the job. He winked and promised to make a considerable investment in me in order to insure it. I knew it wasn’t all above board, but I would’ve grasped at anything in my sorry state.”

  “Why choose such an elaborate method of disappearing?”

  “Lang, or Meyer, was one of those types who thought himself clever. He said he had concocted an ingenious way for me to disappear so that I might be able to work for him elsewhere without a hint of suspicion. He asked me if there was someone at work who knew me and whose testimony would never be questioned. Pierpont seemed perfect. I wasn’t exactly thrilled with the prospect of diving into the Thames, but I’m a strong swimmer, and it wasn’t as awful as I thought it was going to be. In that dense fog, all I had to do was paddle away a short distance. Meyer then helped to lift me out after pretending to chase Pierpont.”

  “Who was the woman Pierpont had been following?”

  “An associate of Meyer’s. I only knew her as Helena, and Meyer had instructed her in advance. Meyer would stand outside the bank and watch for my signal. When I saw Pierpont leaving for lunch, I placed a lamp in my office window with a mirror behind it to increase its illumination. Meyer, upon seeing it, would signal Helena so that she could get a head start. She was to lead Pierpont around through the alleys until we would be ready at the docks, exactly twenty minutes after the signal.”

  “I think that about answers my questions. Now I will offer you a chance to prevent any further damage resulting from this scheme. Are Meyer and his confederate still in London?”

  “I know nothing of her, Mr Holmes, but Meyer said I would be able to reach him until tomorrow if an emergency arose.”

  “And how would you reach him?”

  “There is an unoccupied flat two blocks down the street. It is unfurnished save for a table, a lamp, and a mirror. When I wish to meet with him, I go to the flat and give the same signal that I used at the bank. He then comes here, usually between nine and ten in the evening.”

  “Very good. Lestrade, Watson and I will go give the signal and notify my brother, Mycroft, that we may yet be able to apprehend Meyer. Meet us back here in an hour with some of your men. I want someone in this flat soon after that lamp is lit, regardless of the traditional meeting time.”

  “I’ll have the place surrounded before you return, Holmes.”

  * * * *

  I happen to have a similar build to Owen’s, so just in case Meyer was watching, Holmes thought it best that I go to the flat and give the signal and then meet Holmes and Lestrade back at Owen’s apartment. In the meantime, Holmes walked to a nearby post office to send a telegram to Mycroft. By three o’clock, Holmes, Lestrade, and I were together again in Owen’s flat, and Lestrade’s men were covering the exits of the building and occupying other floors. Even Mycroft Holmes, in an almost unthinkable deviation from his routine, joined us in our vigil. We sat for hours in the little room, Lestrade and Holmes standing
on either side of the door, and Mycroft and I sitting along the wall behind the bed, listening carefully to the other tenants going about their business.

  Finally, at a little after nine, we heard footsteps slowly ascend the stairs and begin walking along the hallway toward the apartment. Lestrade and I drew our guns while Holmes brandished the loaded riding crop that was his weapon of choice. The footsteps halted at our door and before our quarry was able to knock a second time, Lestrade had pulled the door open. Meyer, however, was already holding a revolver in his hand, and it was pointed squarely at my head as the door swung open. In an instant, the loaded butt of Holmes’s crop descended on the villain’s wrist with a sharp crack, no doubt fracturing it and releasing his grip upon the pistol. As Meyer howled in pain and frustrated rage, Lestrade pressed the barrel of his gun to the spy’s temple.

  “Don’t move, Meyer, as neither of my friends will hesitate to fire! Lestrade, is he alone?”

  “Yes, Holmes. Come along, lads, and help me get this blackguard downstairs!” yelled Lestrade as several detectives descended the stairs to Owen’s flat.

  As we followed Lestrade and his captive out of the building, Mycroft ruminated, “Excellent work, Sherlock. Even if we have only prevented him from transmitting his most recently obtained information, he will make an excellent trade for any of our operatives who may have been captured as a result of this scheme.”

  “But what about his mysterious accomplice?” I wondered aloud.

  “Yes, she may already be back on the continent,” replied Holmes, “but if she isn’t, we at least know what she looks like. And you have to admit, we did not do badly for three days’s work. Now, I propose we make our way over to Nicholson’s for a toast and a bite to eat, while Mycroft decides what we should tell Mr Pierpont.”

  THE PROBLEM OF THE THREE EDWARDIAN PENNIES, by Peter Cannon

  “I confess, Dr Watson,” said Mr Arthur Machen, “that I am not altogether an enthusiast for the profession of journalism. Yet as a newspaper reporter I have seen queer things and odd prospects which, otherwise, I should not have seen.”