by Unknown
"You suspect that he had a concealed source of income?"
"Especially since I took the trouble to establish that he was not blessed with inherited wealth. Michael could well have been a member of a small and clandestine group known as expediters."
Holmes shot a quick glance at me but received a blank stare for his trouble, so he continued. "A necessary strut in the framework of illegal activities. A man who can grease the machinery and, on occasion, set up a certain situation."
"A go-between. As, for instance, one who arranges for the disposition of stolen property. Sometimes before the theft is committed," I added, my mind going back to the Bishopegate case and how Holmes had lectured the force upon it.
"Stout fellow," said Holmes approvingly.
"But now new vistas beckon," I stated with some excitement. "If Ramsey Michael had a shadowy background, his murder could well have stemmed from it. You did rather hold out on MacDonald, Holmes."
"Not at all," was his swift reply. "The matter of Cedric Folks has to be explored. If the former soldier turned artist is indeed the culprit, my thought does not pass muster."
Holmes seemed about to continue and then his lips compressed in a thin line and his eyes reverted to the fireplace, taking on an opaque look they sometimes did when his mind was churning with a new thought.
"That is an interesting statement I just made," he continued after a moment.
Of a sudden, I felt in tune with his thinking. "Ledger is a former soldier," I exclaimed.
"So was Trelawney," said the sleuth, as though talking to himself. "Though of much older vintage. It crosses my mind that the late Ramsey Michael was reputed to have served in the Crimea as well."
"Ah hah. You have established a possible connection between Michael and Ezariah Trelawney."
Holmes' predatory features swiveled in my direction. "Michael and Ezariah, you say, Watson? Not for the first time, you have come up with a seemingly commonplace remark that suggests fascinating overtones."
I was pleased to have been of help but completely at sea as to what he was thinking of.
"Shadrach," he murmured in a tone so soft that I was pressed to distinguish the single word.
Then Holmes was out of his chair making for the bookcase. "Research is called for, old fellow, and we have an excellent file on the train robbery as well as the material Mycroft so kindly placed at our disposal." Holmes took the M volume from the row of file volumes and had the wick of the desk lamp raised in but a moment. I assumed the late Ramsey Michael had first call on his attention and I noted that the material he had received from his brother was already on the desk surface.
Suddenly I ceased to exist as far as my intimate friend was concerned. He was leafing through pages and, from experience, I knew he would be referring to his commonplace book before too long. The walls of our familiar habitat and the intimates within had faded into a nothingness for Holmes, who, with rapid steps, was traversing the wonderland of his mental world and completely absorbed in his journey.
His abrupt preoccupation, not uncommon during our years together, was irritating nonetheless. But a moment before we had been discussing possibilities in a case that was certainly producing added complexities. Now I was shunted off, discarded, and this produced annoyance that led to a testy remark as I prepared to make my way upstairs to my waiting bed.
"I am reminded, Holmes, of your frequent cautionary statements about the premature acceptance of a theory. Do you not contend that it risks the adjusting of facts to fit it?"
My words produced no reaction from Holmes whatsoever. I had risen from my chair and extinguished my cigar before his noble head rose and he turned toward me.
"Good, loyal, Watson. I can only say, touché, old comrade. However, do recall that I have a kind of intuition based on special knowledge gathered through the years. But your warning does not go unrecorded."
I must say I felt considerably better as I made my way up the backstairs toward the waiting arms of Morpheus.
Chapter 9
To Fenley in Gloucester
IT WAS somewhat late the following morning when I literally staggered down to our sitting room and alerted Mrs. Hudson to my needs. The great silver coffee urn was suitably hot, and I made free of its contents in an effort to dissipate my torpid condition. When I heard Holmes' footfalls on the stairs outside, I shook my head vigorously in an effort to deny the lassitude that plagued me. Keeping up with the mercurial mind of my intimate friend was a losing game for my plodding intellect. This particular morning I felt as though the task would prove insurmountable.
To my disgust, Holmes came through our outer door in a smart tweed suit looking for all the world like he had slept the clock around. I knew it was quite possible that he had not been to bed at all, since one could never tell by his appearance. Especially when he felt the need to bustle about and view things with his own eyes. Surely he was nearing the zenith of his career and his sources of information were enormous. But, as in those early days when he was making his name known throughout the civilized world, nothing pleased him more than to be on the move and doing things directly. With a cheery good morning, he hung his Inverness on a peg behind our door and deposited his tweed flapped cap in a convenient chair.
"Delighted to see that you are with us, old fellow. The early morning has proven profitable and we'd best get to Liverpool Station straightaway. If you care to pursue this matter further with me?" he added quickly.
His final remark had been so much twaddle as I well knew and Holmes knew I knew it. The thought of my abandoning a matter involving the robbery of the treasure train and possibly two murders as well was inconceivable.
"Where are we off to?" I asked, disposing of a final rasher of bacon.
"The city of Fenley," he responded. "You do recall that certain west coast banks were involved with the missing gold shipment."
"Then the matter of Ramsey Michael is abandoned?"
"Scotland Yard, in the person of MacDonald, can follow up on that for the moment. The half-million pounds' worth of gold is our principal concern."
I became somewhat nettled and posed my next question more abruptly than usual. "All right. What in Gloucester relates to the gold shipment?"
"Burton Hananish, financier, lives there."
"The name means nothing to me."
"It would had you gone through the dossier Mycroft placed at our disposal. Hananish was instrumental in creating the cartel that gathered the gold. He has had considerable dealings in the international world of finance. The original idea of the loan to the Credit Lyonnais might have been his."
"I thought Ezariah Trelawney was the key man there."
"Actually, I rather fancy another man completely."
"Michael? The idea man."
"Correct, old fellow," he said, accepting the cup of coffee I had poured for him. A few moments with Holmes and my morning fogginess had evaporated. I had a sudden thought. "A number of bankers must have been involved. What made you settle on this Hananish chap?"
"He's the only one who is a veteran of the Crimea campaign."
That was all I could get out of Holmes for a while. Fenley was a modest-sized city in Gloucester, north of Bristol on the Severn River. We were able to travel a through train of the Bristol and Western Railroad, a convenience on our considerable journey. During the trip, Holmes seemed intent on avoiding discussion of the matter that took us toward the west coast. Rather, he spent a lengthy period of time with his long legs stretched out in our first-class compartment, his chin on his chest and his hat lowered over his forehead. I could not tell whether his eyes were closed or not. He might have been sleeping or possibly idly regarding the toes of his shoes with his mind elsewhere. We were approaching Swindon when he roused himself and relieved my boredom with reminiscences regarding the matter of the Netherlands-Sumatra Company and the colossal schemes of Baron Maupertuis. I thought at first that the sleuth was merely whiling away the time in a manner calculated to keep me from posing ins
ane questions. But then the thought of the involvement of the Credit Lyonnais in the Netherlands-Sumatra scandal came to mind. Holmes contended that there was a strong family resemblance about misdeeds. Certainly his knowledge of the history of crime was unequaled, for he had the details of a thousand cases at his fingertips. Was there something in common between the Netherlands-Sumatra matter and the stolen gold? I listened with added attention to his recapitulation and even posed some questions relative to points still unclear in my mind. Since I hope to present a complete account of this matter in a future publication, I shall not dwell further on our discussion, which lasted until our arrival in Fenley.
On descending from our train in the small Gloucester town, I anticipated that we would locate Burton Hananish, the man who had captured Holmes' attention, but this was not the case. We made for the local inn, but a block from the railroad station on a pleasant tree-lined street. It was called the Red Grouse and I judged the management had held tenure for some time and was of a diligent nature. The spigots in the barroom and the rail as well were highly polished while the plank flooring had that sheen that came from oil applied with muscle grease. There was the not-unpleasant aroma of malted liquids and a fair sprinkling of customers at the bar consuming same. Holmes not only unerringly walked to the establishment but, without pause, led me to a table in the place that was already occupied. This did not surprise me. My friend had spent a considerable part of the previous twenty-four hours involved in his own pursuits and I suspected that he had established a liaison in Fenley, for he seemed capable of reaching people in almost every locale. We were greeted by a youngish chap, faultlessly dressed, with a low-keyed though hearty voice.
"Gentlemen," he said, indicating the two vacant chairs available.
"Watson, this is Wally," said Sherlock Holmes.
As I took the proffered seat, I reflected that our greetings were both limited and unusual. Holmes did not refer to people by their first names, but he did not choose to elaborate. Wally evidently knew of us both, though his face was not familiar to me. His hair was sandy and cut short and his cheeks glowed from a very close shave. There was an aroma of toilet water about him and I judged it to be expensive. He was close to six feet, slim, and certainly would be judged handsome by the fairer sex. His manner was even more pleasing. I realized that while we had just met and barely that, there was a feeling that we were on the threshold of a pleasant association. I could not explain this aura other than that it emanated from Wally like the aftershave I had noted.
There were no preambles to the conversation, and it took no genius to realize that the youngish fellow was present for a purpose with which he was already well acquainted. I got the feeling that Wally and the sleuth did not know each other, though their words did not indicate this.
"How goes it?" asked Holmes.
"Up and up so far, Mr. Holmes. The man in question has a reputation that you might call . . . like Gibraltar." His searching for a phrase jogged me into the realization that his speech pattern was non-revealing. He sounded like a university man, though I could not guess which one and, indeed, would have been hard-pressed to figure out his point of origin. I assumed he was British, but there was no revealing patois or accent.
"Hananish has an international reputation as well," said Holmes. "I'm rather interested in that aspect of his career."
The barman appeared at this moment and we all ordered stout.
"It is a mite early in the game," continued Holmes, "but do you anticipate problems?"
"No, sir," replied Wally. "With the assistance you've made available, I can get a surface check in a short while. As to how deep I can dig . . ." He let a shrug complete his sentence.
"It would be better if I had something specific for you to look for," said the sleuth. "Perhaps I can come up with something."
"You're going to see him?"
Holmes nodded.
"He's got a rather spiffy estate on the river road. Bit of the local baronet, though without title."
"I know," said Holmes. "Have we learned anything particular about him? Personal life, I mean."
"His raft of servants seem to walk in dread of the old boy. There's a similar feeling among his bank employees, I judge. Cripple, you know."
"I didn't," admitted Holmes.
"Riding accident some time back. He's limited to a wheelchair, which is handled by a brute of a fellow of local origin who is a mute."
"Little to be learned from him." There was a period of silence and then Holmes shoved his half-consumed tankard to one side. "We will use the regular contact, and if that is not convenient, the post office will do. Sorry to have to put you on to this with such short notice."
"Yours to command, Mr. Holmes. I'm much convenienced by your associate being on the scene."
I thought this was a very sporty remark for Wally to make and wondered how I was of assistance to him. It was when we left the barroom of the Red Grouse that it occurred to me that I might not be the associate the young man referred to.
Holmes secured a carriage near the depot and we traveled but a short distance down the river road to the home of Burton Hananish. It was an Elizabethan mansion and as we drew up in front of the hall door, I noted the gleaming waters of the Severn on our right. Our coming had been observed and servants were already waiting. No doubt one of Holmes' innumerable cables had been sent to the establishment, which was obviously forewarned of our arrival.
A staid and proper butler greeted us at the main entry and accepted Holmes' card, though he scarcely glanced at it. Securing our outer apparel, he led us to a spacious and lofty room and the presence of his master.
Perhaps it was my imagination but there seemed to be an unusual silence about the place, as though everyone walked on tiptoe and in fear and trembling. Certainly Hananish, seated in the wheelchair we had been told of, was not an awe-inspiring figure. His aquiline face was kindly, nay quite beautiful, though touched by the inevitable ravages of time. I judged the results of his accident to be in his legs, which were concealed by a rug drawn closely across his waist. The man's hair was completely white, his complexion parchment-like, pallid, entirely colorless. His features were so finely cut and chiseled that they resembled a piece of statuary. As the butler announced us and then disappeared and we walked slowly toward him, Hananish smiled in a welcoming fashion that was marred by the bloodless quality of his lips. There was in the twist of his mouth a touch of the spider-to-the-fly quality that destroyed the classic perfection of his features, revealing a tinge of the sadist. I could well imagine him as a backcountry despot.
Beautifully shaped hands maneuvered his wheelchair closer to a desk of fruitwood and he indicated adjacent chairs with delicate fingers.
"Do be seated, Mr. Holmes . . . Dr. Watson. I am honored by your presence." As we mumbled suitable greetings, a gentle bewilderment segued into his tone. "Knowing of the busy and active life you gentlemen lead, I'm at a loss as to how I can assist you. However, there must be something I can do which will become most apparent after Mr. Holmes explains it." His mask-like elderly face, singularly devoid of wrinkles, favored me with another tight smile. "I rather lean on your words, Dr. Watson, for you frequently write that all is clear after one of your friend's explanations."
There was a suggestion of Oriental exaggeration in Hananish's loquaciousness, which Holmes chose to cut through. "I must disappoint you," he said. "Regarding the policy issued by Inter-Ocean on the missing gold shipment, there are some quite ordinary formalities. You know I am investigating the matter for the insurance group."
Hananish nodded. "We are—and I speak for the other financial institutions involved as well as myself—grateful for the policy with Inter-Ocean."
"In what way?"
One white eyebrow, so perfect it might have been plucked, rose questioningly and Holmes continued. "The gold was turned over to the Birmingham and Northern by your people and was their responsibility until it was delivered to the French."
"Until it was deli
vered to the French vessel in Great Yarmouth harbor," responded the financier.
There was the suggestion of a "tut-tut" in his voice, which Holmes chose to ignore.
"My point being that if the stolen gold shipment had not been covered by insurance, the railroad would have been responsible."
"It still is. I'm being overly technical, of course. Our banks are to be reimbursed for the worth of the gold by the Birmingham and Northern. If the gold is not found, they will secure the face value of their insurance policy and transfer the money to us. In effect, the money might just as well come to us from Inter-Ocean."
Holmes had been nodding through this rather detailed explanation and I sensed impatience in his manner. "I am interested in the mechanics of this financial transaction. 'If you would learn, consult the expert' is a worthwhile philosophy," my friend added.
Hananish acknowledged this diplomatic quote with another tight smile that did not reach his eyes. He's a self-styled Caesar, I thought, and it will become common knowledge how he instructed the famous Sherlock Holmes on finance. At least that was how I read the situation then. I learned later I was wrong, no new experience.
"You know of the gold bonds of the Credit Lyonnais?" asked Hananish.
Holmes' expression had a yes-and-no quality, and the banker explained with a gusto surprising from one so frail.
"To facilitate their rapid sale, the French incorporated a proviso that the bonds could be redeemed two years after their issuance in gold. That's pure mumbo-jumbo. Having the bonds redeemable prior to expiration date might just as well have specified francs, but gold is the lure to the investor. Whenever a currency is troubled people run to gold, which is the ultimate currency."
The man's face had strayed my way and he must have noted a puzzlement for he chose to elaborate on his last sentence. "You have in your wallet, Doctor, a pound note. Of itself it is valueless, being naught but engraved paper. The fact that it is a medium of exchange for so much gold is what gives it value. The pound sterling is the most stable currency in the world, so it is of no difference whether you have your pound note or its equivalent in gold."