by Unknown
"It was his manner, you see."
"Capital, Watson. It prompted you to suspect that the deadly marksman is an imposter and not Richard Ledger, formerly of the army of India, at all."
The froth of my manner was, frostbitten by reality. Confound it, I could never get ahead of the man. As I lowered myself into the cane-bottom Restoration chair, my sudden despondency had to be apparent and Holmes seized upon it.
"Come now, my stab at the truth was ill-conceived, for I do not know that for a fact and suspect that you do. Relate the path that your investigation followed."
I made a weary gesture with one hand. "What use? You already know."
"Suspect. A far cry from know. A report, good Watson, if you please."
I knew that I was not being twitted. Holmes' expression was as contrite as an erring schoolboy's, so I rallied some enthusiasm and plunged into my tale.
"The man's style led me to the conclusion that rifles were not his métier."
Holmes registered enthusiasm. "Here your superior knowledge of firearms comes into play."
Remembering his identification of the Beals rifle, I did not choose to accept this remark in whole but continued. "Recall how the chap moved while shooting, not choosing to stay positioned as the other marksmen did?"
There were wrinkles on Holmes' broad brow. "It was unusual, though I drew no conclusions from it."
"He's used to shooting at moving targets."
"Since the target was stationary, he moved to compensate. How clever of you."
I regarded him warily. "You were already suspicious of the man. Holmes, if you are leading me on . . ."
"I assure you that is furthest from my mind. I did not take note of the point you are making." Holmes paused as though wondering why, then concluded. "Possibly for reasons I will relate in a moment. Tell all, good chap."
"Ledger, for want of a better name, is really a small-arms expert. Gunfighter is the word that comes to mind."
"American, then?"
"Oh yes," I replied airily. "The speed with which he fired, his frequent shooting from the hip, his use of the Beals revolving rifle, which is constructed like a handgun—it all smacked of one from the American West. Southwest, I would guess."
"How so?" Perhaps he was just trying to encourage me, but Holmes seemed captivated.
"I spoke with the man."
My friend nodded. "That I assumed."
"He made use of the word lagniappe." Since Holmes was regarding me with a questioning look, I continued, not without some pride I might add. "It's a colloquialism of the southern part of the United States. Refers to a gratuitous additive, like baker's dozen."
"Excellent, excellent."
"In his dressing room at the club I noted some tools, and upon questioning, the chap told me he intended to use half loads for some handgun exhibitions."
Holmes merely shook his head, and I might have detected an expression of amazement in his eyes. Or was it pride?
"Another American innovation. Trick-shooting with a handgun seldom requires range; and the targets are small, so there is little need for great force at impact. Professionals reduce the powder charge in the bullets, which in turn lessens the recoil at firing and increases the accuracy of the man behind the gun."
Holmes burst out in a peal of laughter, most unusual for him. "Beekeeping on the Sussex Downs moves ever closer in my future plans as you talk, old friend. Will you allow me to take Mrs. Hudson with me?"
"Be serious."
He suppressed his merriment. "You've done a splendid job. Now we but need conclusive proof."
"We have it." I must say his reaction to my coup-de-maître was most gratifying. "I've spent a good part of the afternoon with our former client General Sternways. While, out of courtesy, consuming more of his port than I fancy, I learned that the general knew of Ledger. He commented that the man was indeed a splendid shot despite the fact that a boyhood accident had cost him the third and fourth fingers of his left hand."
"That's it, then!" Holmes sprang from his chair and began pacing the room, unconsciously following the path that I knew so well. "As to the whereabouts of the true Richard Ledger, we know not; but this chap is a proven imposter," he stated in that removed tone as though speaking to himself. "We can assume that the fellow is an American, though I must say he passes himself off quite well as British. Therefore, I deduce that he's spent some time in England or knew the real Ledger well. But how does this aid us? To use an expression of the western United States that you are so well versed in, Watson, we've cast a wide loop in this case. It is time we began to tighten the noose."
"Just a moment, Holmes. Before we dwell on other matters, what was it that alerted you to the possibility of a masquerader? Also, you fall very easily into the assumption—unproven—that he is American."
Holmes ceased his pacing to stand by the bookshelf, his left hand outstretched to finger, unconsciously, the golden statue on the fourth shelf that was a memento of a previous case.
"The plan to defend the treasure train. It was good, but decidedly un-British."
"You know I can't follow that."
"Space is the clue. From London to Great Yarmouth, a train passes through a stream of stations and steams by countless habitations. In the American West, the rails stretch for hundreds of miles without encountering a village or inhabitant, for that matter, save grazing bison.* The best means of guarding the gold here in England would have been to place some stout lads, well armed, within the boxcar, for surely they could defend it until the sound of a battle brought reinforcements. In America, or at least the western part, it is a different story. Once the robbers gain control of the train, they have adequate time to force entry, for aid is far removed and the noise of a conflict is wasted on the desert air."
*It is interesting to note that Holmes professed but a vague knowledge of western America yet, quite correctly did not refer to buffalo.
"Of course," I exclaimed. "The armored guardhouse being designed to protect the engine as well as the cargo. To keep the train moving."
Satisfied on this point, I fell silent and allowed Holmes to resume his thoughtful pacing. After a period, he came to a standstill by the mantle and reached for his cherrywood but thought the better of it. Instead, he went to the coal skuttle and removed a cigar from that most singular humidor.
"All right, Watson, let us beat the wheat from the chaff, for it is nigh on to harvest time or better be." Through a cloud of aromatic smoke he became more specific. "Claymore Frisbee informed me today that there is pressure on Inter-Ocean to pay the insurance claim. Chasseur is off to Cornwall for a stockholders' meeting but wants to deal with the matter directly upon his return." He paused, considering a new question. "Why Cornwall? His principal backers are a cadre of Scottish financiers. No matter. A cable from our friend von Shalloway informs me that the Deutsche Bank is negotiating a deal regarding four hundred thousand pounds' worth of gold."
"How does that fit in?"
"Mehr Licht! More light. Goethe's last words are apropos to the fine art of deduction."
"Never mind Goethe. I'm confused."
"Fortunately, I am not. Mainly because of your fortuitous remark."
I grunted. "That's the second time you've made reference to something I said, Holmes, and I'm dashed if I know what it was."
"Your exact words were: 'You have established a possible connection between Michael and Ezariah Trelawney.'"
"Both Ramsey Michael and Ezariah Trelawney are dead, and I don't see what was revealing about my words."
"It was the sound. We have three principals in this plot at the moment, and there is something unusual about their names: Michael, Ezariah, and Hananish."
"The latter not only being alive but up to his neck in the affair."
"Exactly. Cast your mind back to Bible classes, Watson. Were there not three wise men in Babylon? Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego."
"Shadrach," I exclaimed. "The code word used by the man who killed Ramsey Michael
."
"Exactly. But the three ancients were brought to Babylon from the land of Israel, where their names were Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah."
I just stared at Holmes, wide-eyed.
"Ezariah Trelawney, Ramsey Michael, and Burton Hananish all served in the Crimea. They were in the same regiment and received honorable mention in dispatches from Balaklava and Sevastopol. Three men whose names are so close to three biblical figures had to strike up an acquaintance. I now deal in theory, but there is so much corroboration that it might as well be fact. I envision a close friendship, which continued into civilian life. A foray into the byways of the larcenous could have been suggested by the matter of the French gold, though I suspect they involved themselves in conspiracies prior to the treasure train. Remember that Michael had some hidden source of income. I think he uncovered the Credit Lyonnais matter, bringing it to the attention of his banking cohorts. They secured the gold, and Michael probably recruited the bully boys who did the deed."
"Who engineered it? Not three old men, surely?"
"All with military experience, remember." I sensed that Holmes did not find this too palatable, but another thought then came to my mind.
"When the assassin went to Michael's house and used the name Shadrach to gain admittance . . ."
"The art critic assumed he carried a message from Hananish. In the Bible, Hananiah became Shadrach."
"Then Hananish hired this Lightfoot chap to kill off his partners."
"The cripple is the only one of the trio still alive, so that statement seems to have merit," replied Holmes dryly.
"But if they were close friends? . . ."
"I mentioned but recently that thieves fall out. Possibly Hananish felt that his co-conspirators had served their purpose and were best out of the way. Or, and I rather fancy this idea, Hananish is going for even bigger game and wants to clear his back trail."
I was incapable of following this line of reasoning and did not question Holmes about it, since there was an interruption in our discussion. A tap on the door and Billy presented himself with an envelope, which he handed to Holmes, along with some news.
"A gentleman's below askin' fer you, Mr. 'Olmes. Ledger by name."
A quick look flashed between the sleuth and myself as he signaled for Billy to show the gun expert up. "Quick dividends on your investigation, Watson."
"I hope so."
Then Ledger was at our door. It was Holmes who ushered him in. After disposing of his coat, the youthful-looking chap came to the point with a promptness that must have sat well with my friend.
"Dr. Watson told me about a shot fired at you, sir," he said.
"More in the general vicinity, I think," responded the sleuth.
"Could you show me roughly the path of the bullet?" he asked.
Holmes indicated the windowpane through which the missile had passed. He then showed Ledger where the spent bullet had lodged itself in our floorboards. The man plotted the flight of the slug much as Holmes had done, and then gazed out at the night scene. After letting his eyes wander for a moment, he indicated a building, standing tall in the next block, to Holmes and myself, who were now beside him at the bow window.
"What might that be?" he inquired.
"The warehouse of Spears and Henry, the well-known liquor firm. The answer to your next question is yes. A man could have gained the roof without much difficulty and escaped from the area rapidly as well."
"That's the spot," stated Ledger. "It's a goodly distance, but a Sharps rifle could have made it."
Another quick glance passed between Holmes and myself. The sleuth knew that the Sharps was an American make, and he promptly proved it.
"It was a small bullet that I extracted from the floorboards."
"A Mauser, then," said Ledger. "The Germans are manufacturing them in quantity. A long-range high-velocity small-bore rifle using smokeless powder. Selling them to the Boers in Africa. There'll be some trouble down there one of these days."* Noting surprise on both our faces, he explained. "Mercenaries are rather tuned to such matters, you see."
*The masquerader called the turn here, far the Boer War broke out in 1899, and the British cavalry was decimated by the very weapon he described in the hands of master marksmen.
"I do," replied Holmes. "What is your thought regarding the shot? I'd better tell you that I think it was fired at a candle that was on the desk there." He indicated the spot he was referring to.
"Did he hit the candle?" asked Ledger quickly.
At Holmes's nod, a sigh escaped the man. "That helps, sir, for there's just so many that good."
"Could you have done it?" inquired Holmes.
For a split second there was a flashing smile of almost boyish bravado on our visitor's face. "If the other light in the room was dim, the candle would have stood out nicely. I think I could have hit the wick."
"So do I," replied Holmes, "and that's what I think our unknown shootist was aiming at."
It was obvious that Ledger appreciated the word unknown.
"It gives me an idea of where to look. The doctor here said you thought some of the hired sharpshooters were involved."
"You might consider the name of Ramsey Michael."
"That art critic chap who was murdered?"
"I'd be interested to know if any of the marksmen were ever approached by him."
"All right, Mr. Holmes." The pseudo-Ledger was no waster of words and took his departure at this point.
I was regarding Holmes with some concern. "What if the chap was involved in the robbery?"
"A possibility."
"Aren't you rather setting yourself up as a target?"
"We've been that for some time, Watson—both of us, if you will recall."
Holmes had taken the lamp from the small Duncan Phyfe table near the bow window and passed it across the panes of glass once. Replacing it, he caught me regarding him with amazement.
"I don't want Ledger detained by Burlington Bertie or Tiny, you see. The American just might be able to do us a considerable service."
Of course, I thought. He's got the premises staked out. Probably with arrangements to follow visitors if need be, which means the involvement of Slippery Styles, the human shadow. No wonder Holmes was so casual about a possible attempt on us.
Though unseen, the boys from Limehouse were on duty.
As I dwelled on this comforting fact, Holmes had seated himself at the desk and opened the message delivered by Billy at the time that the American had arrived. Now his eyes rose from the single sheet of foolscap.
"Most interesting. I sent Billy to the Diogenes Club with some questions for Mycroft. He provided a record of recent gold transactions for us, you recall."
The sleuth's thin and dexterous fingers indicated the message before him. "My brother assures me that Burton Hananish has not been involved in the sale of precious metal up to this time."
"You suspected that he had been?"
"When something works, there is a natural inclination to repeat it. With two bankers involved, I had a thought that the treasure train matter might be a sequel to a previous manipulation, sporting new trappings, of course."
"But, Holmes, there have been no big bullion robberies in recent years. I read the papers, too."
"Granted. But some family plate, old coins purloined from a collection, some dentures, and given the necessary equipment and expertise, it can all be melted down. Remove the alloy and you have pure gold, which can be poured into molds and—presto—gold bullion, as valuable as that taken from the treasure train."
Here was a new thought, and my mind raced to grasp it. "You picture a large-scale fencing operation to dispose of stolen gold by converting objects into metal."
"With the necessary purification. Gold is quite unique, Watson. Say you have a medallion of twenty-four-carat gold . . ."
"I wouldn't mind, really."
"Alas, we deal but in fantasy. Your medallion is beautifully engraved and valuable, but it is stolen. Bein
g identifiable, the thief would be well advised to melt it down, for without its engraving and shaping, the object is still of value for it is pure gold."
"Your point being that my medallion could completely lose its identity without losing all its value."
"Which is more than can be said for precious jewels or rare paintings. But we wander far afield. I am dropping the fence idea and am now considering another more to the point."
Again Holmes tapped the letter on the desk. "My brother touches on a matter relative to the cable from von Shalloway."
"I wondered when you would bring that up. What has the esteemed chief of the Berlin police to do with this case?"
"He is our fastest and most accurate contact in mid-Europe. There are many twists and turns to this matter, Watson, but one fact stands out. We went to Gloucester to approach Hananish. I wished to see the man and size him up. In our interview, little was said that was not old hat. Yet shortly thereafter a dirty tricks brigade attempted to spirit you away with the idea of laying me by the heels as well. If Hananish was behind it, something must have been said that got his hackles up. I believe it was his inadvertent reference to the Deutsche Bank."
"That's why you contacted von Shalloway in Berlin."
"With good results. But let us deal with this in a step progression. One: the gold bonds of the Credit Lyonnais can be redeemed by the investors in two weeks, two: the five hundred thousand pounds' worth of gold on the treasure train has been stolen and, as of this moment, not recovered; three: according to von Shalloway, the Deutsche Bank has made an arrangement with the Bank of England . . ."
"Bank of England! What have they to do with this?"
Holmes admonished me with a waving forefinger. "Hear me out, Watson. The Deutsche Bank has arranged an option whereby they can purchase within the next ten days four hundred thousand pounds' worth of gold bullion now in the vaults of the Bank of England. The gold is registered in the name of Burton Hananish."
"I have it now," I exclaimed. "The Bank of England is acting as a clearing house for Hananish."
"Correct."
"And the Credit Lyonnais is, in effect, taking out insurance. In case Scotland Yard or Sherlock Holmes doesn't locate the stolen gold, they've made a deal with the Deutsche Bank to fulfill their needs."