by Unknown
"Reasonable, of course," he stated with an airy wave of one hand. "Old fellow, the shot was fired from a height. Note the point of entry through the window."
"I'll take your word for it."
"The bullet did not come from across the street or down the block, but from a more distant point. Despite the high-velocity weapon used, the marksman had to allow for a curvature of flight and yet he was able to hit the candle, a slight miscalculation on his part?"
"Miscalculation?" I echoed in an alarmed tone.
"He meant to hit the wick, you see. What a dramatic message that would have been."
"Message? Now see here, Holmes . . ."
"The bullet was just that, Watson, and delivered with more speed and, indeed, impact that a cable or letter. 'See here, Sherlock Holmes, you are but mortal and can be snuffed out as easily as this candle.'"
This gave me pause, for now I understood Holmes' line of thinking. Whilst I mused, the sleuth took the messages he had scrawled and went again to the landing to call Billy. More cables, I thought, and then another idea hit me. There was nothing on my friend's schedule at the moment save the matter of the treasure train. As near as I could figure, we had learned precious little about it up to this point. Yet someone was sufficiently concerned about the investigation to indulge in a striking gesture indeed. I resolved to try and ferret out the missing pieces that Holmes must be privy to but I was not.
Upon his return, I took a stern stand. "See here, Holmes, I can find no flaw in your reasoning."
"I'm relieved about that," was his dry reply. There was a twinkle in his eyes, but I did not allow it to deter me.
"You must have learned something today and I'm blessed if I can see what it was."
"Because of the warning, you mean. Good thinking."
The sleuth's eyes wandered to the window again and back to the floor from which he had extracted the spent slug. "We must instigate some repairs, Watson, without Mrs. Hudson's knowledge. If the matter of the shot in the night ever becomes known to the dear woman, I fear her sleep will be disturbed for weeks to come."
"The case, Holmes!" I sputtered with exasperation.
"Ledger showed us the special freight this morning. Did something strike you?"
I shook my head.
"It did me, but then I was looking for corroborative evidence for a theory I had already evolved. Let us accept two basic assumptions and progress from there. First, Ledger was not lying to us. Since we can so easily check his words, it would not seem reasonable for him to fabricate. Therefore, the robbers did not gain access to the train in the freight yards. Two, the guards on the freight were trustworthy. We shall certainly confirm this, but if they were involved in the theft, no mystery exists."
As Holmes secured his clay pipe from the mantel, I muttered that his assumptions seemed, almost certainly, correct.
"All right," he continued. "The robbery occurred during the trip, in the area of the village of Brent. Considering the speed of the freight and the position of the riflemen guarding it, there was no way the thieves could have gotten on the train save from above."
Holmes' careful investigation of the bridge outside of Brent had alerted me to this and I merely nodded.
"A simple arithmetic calculation proves it. We secured the distance from the parapet of the bridge to the top of the freight car."
"You estimated that at twelve feet."
Holmes continued through a cloud of smoke. "Let us assume two men dropped from the bridge to the train top. It was a moving target and they had to land at just the right spot to shove the smoke bombs into the armored cubicle before the guards recovered their wits and started shooting. They couldn't just jump at the spot they hoped to land. They had to lead their target, as the expression goes."
I must have been regarding Holmes blankly, for he explained further.
"Consider the shot just fired through the window, Watson. The marksman didn't aim at the candle, but above it—to allow for the effect of gravity on the bullet. In a similar manner, the train robbers had to anticipate their leap to the moving freight car."
"A moment," I said with a sudden thought. "The white paint on the forward part of the railroad car."
Holmes exhibited that small-boy look of delight that was reserved for those moments when I chimed in with his thinking. "Exactly. Now we have a formula. The distance they dropped, the rate of descent of a falling object, the speed of the train. I paced off the distance from the paint mark to the rear of the freight car with due consideration for where I thought the robbers landed. My calculations are rough, but I am satisfied that the white line was their signal to leap from the bridge."
"You were looking for something like that since you'd already decided that they had come from above." I made haste to add what was for me a rather inspired bit of reasoning. "Oft-times you have noted that whenever all else proves impossible, what remains must be true. They had to come from above, no other direction being possible."
"Watson, you never fail to amaze me." He was joshing, of course, but I was so enthused that I did not let it faze me until a second thought cast doubts, as second thoughts so often do.
"Your recreation is up to your highest standards, Holmes, but dashed if I see where it has been revealing."
"Don't you? Give it a try, old fellow."
I certainly did and suddenly, somewhat to my surprise, a thought struck me. "Why, of course. Whoever robbed the train had to have access to the freight cars well in advance."
"Right, Watson. Ledger said that Alvidon Chasseur was responsible for the paint mark and, in the rush, it was not completely removed. I inspected it rather closely and don't choose to agree with him."
"One moment," I exclaimed, trying to sort out my mixed up thoughts. "Chasseur had a rectangle painted as a guide to the construction of the armored cubicle . . . then it was decided to alter its position and the mark was partially painted out."
"That's what Ledger said. However, I scraped off some of the white paint. I think the marking was completely painted out."
"Then someone renewed that particular portion to serve as an eye marker for the robbers," I said breathlessly.
My friend nodded. "Again we have evidence of meticulous planning. However, I dwell on the obvious. The robbery succeeded, which speaks well for the ingenuity of its architect if not for his moral code."
Holmes rose from his armchair and walked toward the windows, his chin on his chest. He must have noted my instinctive reaction of alarm, for he reversed his direction and paced in a circle around the center of the room. He had once told me that a coffin would make a superior place to lie in silence and solitude and wrestle with a problem. That was but his mood of the moment, for I knew that many times he liked to think on his feet.
Events did not allow him to wear a furrow in our carpet as he pondered, nor did I expect them to. My friend, no doubt to calm my panic, had made light of our leaden intruder that had come at us from the darkness of the night, but I knew he took it as a personal affront. The thought of counterattack had to be in his mind and I was not surprised when there was the sound of footsteps on the seventeen steps leading to the landing and Billy ushered in the wise-eyed Slim Gilligan, select member of what I chose to call the inside group.
A cloth cap was at a jaunty angle on his head, and an unlit cigarette was tucked behind one ear. A heavy black sweater served as his coat, no surprise since Slim eschewed clothing of a bulky nature because getting in and out of places was his greatest talent. His attire always had a streamlined look, devoid of anything that might catch on a projection or slow him down. His movements had an oily grace and he never seemed rushed, though I knew of only one man who could, when necessary, move faster and that man was not Holmes.
"Evenin', guv. What's on the slate tonight?"
Holmes gestured toward the particles of glass still on the rug by the window. Slim's lips pursed for a brief moment. From him, that was akin to a broad gesture of astonishment from someone else. He cat-foo
ted his way to the window, peering at the shattered pane briefly from the side of the drape as though he knew what he'd find. When he turned back, there was a tightening of his jaw muscles.
"Fired from a distance. Judging from the shards of glass, a smallish bullet, I'd say."
Holmes retrieved the lead slug from the desktop and tossed it to the cracksman, whose unusually long hand swallowed it in midair. He stood turning the lead pellet between his talented fingers for a moment. "Not my line, guv, but I'd say it's foreign make."
"Mauser is my guess," replied Holmes. Those were the first words he'd spoken since the former safecracker had entered the room. With Slim, Holmes seldom had to explain much.
The man's large brown eyes were now on me. "Glad to see you is tip-top, Doc." His jaunty smile was momentary and from habit. His features had a grim quality as he regarded my friend again.
"We can't 'ave this, you know." It was the first time I had actually seen Gilligan angry and one had to look closely to come to that conclusion. He seemed to consider the shot fired at the sacred confines of our dwelling as a personal insult.
"It was a warning, Slim, relative to a matter I'm now involved in," said Holmes soothingly.
Gilligan's manner remained hostile toward persons unknown. "I know you got some ideas, Mr. 'Olmes, but why don't you let Slim take a pass at this?"
Oh dear, I thought, if Holmes allows his number-one lieutenant in the underworld to go unchecked, Limehouse and Soho are due for an uncomfortable time.
"Let's play a different tune, Slim," said the sleuth. "I'll not tolerate Mrs. Hudson or Billy being placed in jeopardy, so Bertie and Tiny are on their way here now."
The muscles in Gilligan's jaw relaxed. The great detective's remark was not the non sequitur it might seem at first glance. He never displayed the slightest concern about his personal safety, but any thought of harm befalling our kindly landlady or loyal page boy filled him with alarm.
Holmes continued. "You might have a word with the boys about what to do and arrange a backup for them."
Gilligan nodded, and I knew the reason for the sudden humor in his eyes. With Burlington Bertie and his brother Tiny on the job, the Coldstream Guards would have a difficult time forcing their way into our domicile.
"Then," said Holmes, "you could take a look around, Slim. It rather had to be a rooftop. The bird has long since flown, but there might be something to find."
"I'll know where to look, guv," was the cracksman's brief reply.
"We want our ears to the ground, and the whisper is gold. Half a million pounds' worth."
Gilligan nodded. "The bullion heist. There's naught in the streets 'bout it save a lot of envious boyos who's wishin' they'd pulled the caper."
"See what you can learn. We'll use the usual contact."
"Righto, guv. Rest easy. Slim's on ta job."
Gilligan was gone. The imagination plays one tricks and mine was stimulated by Slim's reputation as the greatest cracksman of his day, but he never seemed to arrive and depart like normal folk. Rather, he materialized and then vanished in true genie fashion. Whatever his peculiarities, I knew I could enjoy a night's rest without worry. Slim and the boys from Limehouse would throw a net around 221 B Baker Street. Even as exacting a tactician as our former client General Sternways would have been forced to concede that the command post was secure.
Chapter 8
A Message from Shadrach
THE FOLLOWING morning I descended to our sitting room somewhat earlier than usual, spurred no doubt by the new problem that faced the master man-hunter. I had left my friend the night before musing while writing cables that would be sent via Billy the page boy. I doubted that the sleuth had spent the entire night on the matter at hand since, at this point, he had so little to work with.
Holmes was absent, which meant that he had breakfasted early and gone about certain investigations that he wished to pursue alone. Mrs. Hudson informed me that he had left no message, so I decided to brave the outside world myself, there being some matters relative to my practice that required attention.
Visits to the offices of Vernier and Goodbody resulted in certain patient calls that involved more time than I had anticipated. Darkness had fallen when I returned to 221 B Baker Street. A storm was brewing over the great city. Low scud clouds, like celestial dragon boats of ghostly Viking raiders, sailed majestically overhead. Riding in the teeth of a high wind that blew from the direction of Scapa Flow, they were ponderously bypassing London to, no doubt, disgorge their contents on the Cornish coast and Land's End. The air was thick with moisture and I assumed the great metropolis was due for a washing down before the night was over. As I climbed to the door of our first-floor sitting room, it crossed my mind that it was a splendid night to sit by the fire and work on a recent bit of research. It related to the possibility of genetic information being passed from one generation to the next. While the idea had come to me relative to a participant in the Sacred Sword matter, I had clung to it as a possible explanation for some of the amazing abilities of Sherlock Holmes.
When I opened our hall door, I found the fire crackling merrily in the hearth. Holmes was seated at the desk, blowing smoke rings at the ceiling. "Ah, Watson, you precede the rain to our chambers."
"Good thing, too," I muttered, placing my medical bag beside the cane rack and shrugging myself out of my greatcoat. "The night gives every indication of being a rouser."
"A good time to be within." Holmes indicated a cable open on the desk. "Especially with material on hand to feed that ravenous mechanism called the mind."
"Quid novi?" I asked, making for the bottles on our sideboard.
Holmes' eyebrows elevated at my root language query. "The news is considerable," he replied. "With our lines in the water, some pedestrian investigation was called for, hence my early departure this morning. I've interviewed two of the railroad guards on the bullion train. Their statements confirmed our thoughts on the matter. They both recall sounds that alerted them."
"The robbers alighting on the boxcar roof."
"Exactly. But before they could make note of anything, the smoke bombs were inside their vantage point and their recollections ceased to be of any use."
"Could the smoke have had a narcotic effect?" I asked suddenly.
Holmes shook his head. "Doubtful. Last night I was attempting to discover what chemical combination might have been used. To no avail, I might add."
"Something else happened then, for you seem well pleased."
"Have I become obvious through the years?" The sleuth indicated the cable I had noted. "A considerable report from our friend John Bennett, constable of Shaw, on the late Ezariah Trelawney."
"Quid pro quo," I said without meaning to.
"My, you are of a scholarly turn this evening," commented Holmes. "A working arrangement between elements of law and order is beneficial, as I'm sure you agree. Bennett has unearthed interesting possibilities." He indicated the letter again. "I'm trying to decipher quid hoc sibi vult." There was a twinkle in his eye and I wished that I had never resorted to the few scraps of Latin patient instructors had pounded into me.
"What does that mean?" I asked registering defeat.
"'What does this mean' is the exact translation, old chap. Bennett's report might mean a lot. When we investigated the death of Ezariah Trelawney, all we knew about his background was his trade, banking."
"Along with the blood feud that played such an important part in the matter."
"Agreed. You do recall that Trelawney's association with the bullion matter decided me on accepting the case?"
"I've wondered about that."
Holmes took a cigarette from the desk container. "I am too much of a pragmatist to dwell on thoughts of a predetermined destiny. However, oft-times fate does enter the picture and I chose to follow its beckoning finger this time."
I placed a whiskey and water on the desk for Holmes and retreated with my own to the armchair beside the fire, my brain awhirl. Despite our
long association, I had seldom been able to anticipate his unerring logic, but the years had made me conscious of certain signposts that occasionally pointed me down the right path.
"You think that Trelawney's death is tied up with the bullion matter." I took a sip and then rejected this idea. "But we solved the banker's murder."
"Did we?" questioned Holmes. "We discovered that Vincent Staley attempted to plant the Trelawney murder weapon on Horace Ledbetter. He then attacked Ledbetter and was killed by him. Because of the circumstances, we assumed Staley killed the banker, but that fact was never proven."
"I doubt if it can be now."
"I'm forced to agree with that, Watson. However, Ezariah Trelawney was involved in the shipment of gold to the Credit Lyonnais, so I had Constable Bennett instigate additional inquiries. Trelawney was miserly. As a young man he was with the army in the Crimea." Suddenly the sleuth's keen gaze shifted to the door. Then I heard footfalls on the landing.
"Come in, Billy," said Holmes as there was a gentle knock.
"'Tis Inspector MacDonald, sir," said the page boy from the half-open door.
"Show him up, by all means," replied the detective.
I was amazed at this turn of events. The anticipated storm had broken while Holmes and I had talked and the wind was blowing at near-gale proportions. Wailing gusts served as an eerie chorus for the timpani of rain spattering against the glass of our Baker Street windows.
It was a wet and disheveled Inspector Alec MacDonald who entered our sitting room. As I helped him out of his coat, Holmes stirred up the hearth fire so that it radiated a welcome warmth for the dour Scot. A comfortable chair and an extra tumbler from the sideboard erased MacDonald's scowl, but there was still considerable dissatisfaction on his rough-hewn face as he toasted us both and took a sizeable draft.
Holmes' eyes twinkled as he regarded our visitor. "If we've driven the chill from your bones, old fellow, possibly we can also relieve your inner stress. It is obvious your coming tonight was no idle whim. A troublesome case, perhaps?"