by Unknown
We were outside now, and Bertie glanced at the sleuth questioningly. "I been wonderin' what the hearse be fer."
"Sober reminders of the prowess of the fastest gun in Baker Street."
I sighed in exasperation. Holmes picked strange moments for his clumsy witticisms, but he did seem to enjoy a private joke a bit more than most. Personally, I felt his reference to the corpses was black humor indeed.
Our departure for London was not inconvenienced in any way. The local constable was obviously awed by the presence of the master man-hunter and accepted Holmes' version of the incident without question. He did state that he would forward a written report to Inspector Hopkins at the Yard, and I sensed that he was relieved to be able to place the matter in the hands of others.
We rode in the last car of the late afternoon train and were its only occupants, so no rural inhabitants were panic-stricken by the presence of Tiny. I did note that the conductor, having performed his official duties, shunned our car like a plague. Tiny promptly fell asleep, his head on his brother's shoulder. Considering the way he had thrown rock out of the mine and then back in it, some rest seemed justified. Out of deference to the slumbering giant, I did not plague Holmes with questions, which was a good thing since I do believe the sleuth seized the opportunity for forty winks himself.
Back in the comfortable and welcome confines of Baker Street it was another matter, for now I would not be denied. However, the number of my queries had been reduced, having thought on the matter to the best of my ability.
"Look here, Holmes," I said as I placed a whiskey and soda on the candle table by his chair. "I understand now that the gold shipment on the B & N was bogus . . ."
"Something I should have deduced from the start," said my friend, and there was a bitter tone to his voice.
"I'll not swallow that, for you are always chiding yourself for not immediately seeing through the most intricate schemes."
"If I do, I am wrong," was his surprising response. "To be misled by cunning is no crime. But when a misdeed involves a glaring error and I do not seize upon it, that is another matter."
Holmes' conviction did not dent my assurance this time. "Hananish sent four hundred thousand pounds in gold to the Bank of England before the false shipment. Why that sum, by the way?"
"Because that's all there was. Hananish and Trelawney agreed to contribute one hundred thousand pounds to the consortium, which they never did because their reserve fund was elsewhere. The four hundred thousand was from the other banks of the combine."
"Neat, that. The conspirators had no financial involvement at all."
"Hananish told us there was no risk involved. I'll wager he had a silent chuckle in the telling."
"I take it the metal was delivered to Hananish by the west coast banks and sent from there to London."
"Correct. When the actual gold was safely tucked away in the Bank of England, Hananish sent the spurious boxes, suitably weighted, of course. Upon arrival in London, he had them transferred to the B & N Railroad and took out a policy for the listed worth of the shipment, five hundred thousand pounds, with Inter-Ocean. That's where he made his mistake."
"I fail to see it."
"Then, Watson, we were all fools together. Wasn't it suspicious that he didn't insure the shipment from Gloucester to London? There was just as much chance of a robbery during that trip as there was when the cargo went from London to Great Yarmouth."
I clasped my brow with my hands in anguish. "Of course."
"You are now mimicking my actions of this morning and thinking the same thoughts." This idea served to dispel Holmes' dark mood. "But come, the future is where our thoughts must lie."
"Half a mo'," I exclaimed. "The thieves took the crated brass from the boxcar and transferred it to the wagon. They maneuvered it into the mine and left it there."
"Blocking the entrance after doing so."
"What about the horses?"
"They turned them loose, stripped of their harness. You don't know your Essex farmer. Two unattended horses roaming about would go promptly into a barn. If someone came to claim them, there would be the oft-used story of buying them from traveling gypsies."
I threw up my hands in capitulation. Holmes had all the answers. After dinner that evening, it was Mrs. Hudson who announced the arrival of Claymore Frisbee, and I wondered if the sleuth had dispatched Billy on another mysterious errand.
The president of Inter-Ocean Trust was his urbane self when he entered our chambers and took a seat by the hearth fire, but there were lines of worry below the prominent cheekbones of his face. He was a good judge of moods, however; and Holmes' manner seemed to relax him. Perhaps the tot of quite superior brandy I secured for him helped. After all, he was our client.
"You suggested that I might toddle over 'round this time," Frisbee said after the exchange of customary pleasantries.
Holmes admitted to this. "Relative to the treasure train policy, you are . . . I believe the expression is 'off the hook.'"
Frisbee produced a heartfelt sigh of relief and allowed me to secure another brandy for him. "That's welcome news, for it's a sizeable sum and would have put us under some strain, I'll admit. Who stole the gold?"
"Let me tell you," responded Holmes.
And he did in his precise manner, with no extraneous words or thoughts either. At several points during the recounting Frisbee was hard-pressed to contain himself; and at the conclusion he did rather explode in amazement.
"You mean the B & N people and Scotland Yard have been running around looking every which way for the gold, and it was never on the train at all?"
"Comforting, wouldn't you say, since it is safely resting in the Bank of England."
"You're going to turn the matter over to Inspector Hopkins of the Yard?"
Holmes shook his head. "I haven't forgotten how they let Moriarty and Colonel Moran slip through their fingers, to say nothing of Lightfoot."
Frisbee registered puzzlement. "Lightfoot?"
"You wouldn't know him, and it's unimportant, though he may be mixed up in this. Only as a mercenary, however—a pawn."
"Albeit a dangerous one," I remonstrated.
Holmes waved this away. "There is some interest at Whitehall regarding this affair. I'm going to tackle Hananish tomorrow with the assistance of a special branch."
Holmes said a special branch. Frisbee thought he meant the special branch, just as my friend had intended him to.
"Well, if you're going to ring down the curtain yourself, I'm happy about it." Claymore Frisbee made to reach for his checkbook, but a gesture from the sleuth forestalled him.
"Let us settle accounts when we've written finis to this complex matter. There's a few jumps still to be taken."
"Regarding the insurance?" queried Frisbee with alarm.
"No, no!" You can pocket the premium and consider the matter at an end. But I've a wish to bring Hananish to heel. The grim reaper has dealt harshly with the ungodly, and there's a few left to testify for the Crown against him. In addition, I cannot stand in court and swear that the gold in the Bank of England came from the west coast banks, for I have no means of identifying the precious metal. However, I want to see Hananish show where it did come from, if not his fellow bankers."
"You've got him," stated Frisbee.
"I'll need your help." Holmes removed his gaze from the fire in front of him and regarded Frisbee keenly.
"You have but to ask," was the prompt answer.
"No news of the matter must leak out now. I wish to catch Hananish completely off guard, for it might unnerve him. In fact, let us spread a false trail. Let it be known that you are paying off the policy on the gold shipment. You could arrange an appointment for me to deliver the Inter-Ocean check to Alvidon Chasseur tomorrow, could you not?"
"What check?" sputtered Frisbee, again alarmed.
"There will not be one, but I have a little matter to settle with Mr. Chasseur. Relative to a disagreement between us as to who is the world's
leading detective."
Frisbee, who had heard enough about the meeting between Holmes and the railroad tycoon to know what was going on, readily agreed to Holmes' request and made ready to depart, looking considerably more relaxed than when he had arrived.
Secretly, I groaned. Here we go again, I thought. Holmes accused me of having a pawkish humor, but he was not above a prank or two himself on occasion. I still shudder when I recall the hoax he perpetrated on Lord Cantlemere relative to the great yellow Crown diamond. The aged peer, who became one of Holmes' staunchest supporters, still contends that my friend's sense of humor was perverted.*
*Surely, in his later recording of this case, Watson became confused, for it is virtually certain that the Adventure of the Mazarin Stone took place after the turn of the century. It is obvious that this matter occurred somewhat before 1900.
I was helping Frisbee with his coat when Holmes posed a question. "Have you had any dealings of late with the Deutsche Bank?"
Adjusting his muffler, Frisbee regarded the sleuth with surprise. "Strange you should ask that."
"How so?"
"They are solvent, all right. Their national economy is booming. Most of the pottery you buy now comes from German kilns, you know."
"Most of the waiters in our restaurants are German, for that matter," commented Holmes, for what reason I could not fathom.
"That so? One of the P.M.'s aides had a little talk with the banking commission recently about the size of German investments over here. They've been getting their fingers in a lot of things. Couple of steel firms in Birmingham were in need of financing but a while ago. The Deutsche Bank made overtures and the government had to step on the negotiations, diplomatically, of course."
Standing next to our visitor, my confusion must have been apparent. Holmes chided me for having a mirror-like face as regards my inner feelings. Frisbee took pity on me.
"It's been a spell since we were allied with the Prussians and ever since Bismarck unified the German states, their empire has been gaining in strength. If Kaiser Wilhelm ever calls back the Iron Chancellor from Friedrichsruh and reinstates him, we could really be in trouble."*
*Proof that this case predates 1900, since Otto von Bismarck died in 1898—unless Watson got mixed up with dates, which he did tend to do on occasion.
Frisbee pondered for a moment on his words, then turned toward the door, only to turn around again toward Holmes. "You know, we do have a number of Germans over here. A bit of a sticky thing if there's ever a war. Matter of intelligence, you know."
Holmes knew and so did I. As I let Claymore Frisbee out of our sitting room with a farewell, I thought of what he didn't know. Namely that Holmes' brother headed up the espionage department of the British government and was the second most powerful man in England. Holmes had never told me point-blank of his brother's real function; but ever since I had first met Mycroft Holmes in connection with that Greek interpreter matter in '88, I had realized that he did not just audit books in some of the government departments. I knew what special branch Holmes had in mind relative to Hananish in Gloucester.
Fatigue prompted me to sponge such thoughts from my mind. With the departure of our relieved client, I decided to retire for the night. The prospect of a return trip to Gloucester caused me to mouth a somewhat peevish complaint before doing so. "Most of our time on this case has been spent in train travel, Holmes. It will be a relief to stay in London for a change."
My friend was staring into the fireplace, his mind I knew not where, but he responded. "It all started with a train robbery, you know."
I could summon no retort to this and made my way to the upper story.
Chapter 17
The Return to Fenley
THE BELLS of St. Mary-le-Bow were striking the hour when I suddenly sat upright in my bed. The room was pitch-black and from the state of my bolster I knew that my sleep had been fretful. Something had been prodding at my subconscious, something I should tell Holmes. Then it came to me. The three men on the hill who had fallen before the American's flaming gun were unfamiliar to me. On that morning, not long ago, when I had been spirited away from the entrance to the Red Grouse Inn, I gained but a fleeting impression of the two men who had taken me so neatly and then, by intent, had left a broad trail behind them. But I knew they were not of the trio that had met their fate in Essex and were now being shipped to the morgue in London. This meant that Hananish had other bully boys at his beck and call.
The thought that had plagued me did not seem of importance when viewed with cold logic. Though my logic had acquired no fame, the room was cold—that I could state firmly. I knew that if I huddled under my blankets, sleep would prove the coquette indeed and but flirt with me through the remaining dark hours. Rather than waste my blandishments on the fickle mistress of the night, I searched with inquisitive toes for my slippers. Grateful for their fleece lining, I rose with a creak and a groan and trembled my way to the backless stool and my robe that rested on it. There was that silence that breathed at one, like a tangible thing rather than a total absence. A chill ran across the back of my shoulders, and I clutched my robe around me, stumbling in the darkness toward the door of my bedchamber. Down the back stairs I went with the thought that the dying embers of the hearth fire would be a welcome comfort. There was a dullish glow within the ashes of the back log that I stirred with the poker and then searched out the wood box for a length of birch. The bark of the soft wood was cooperative and soon there was a small but merry flame, which did little to offset the chill of the room but did raise my spirits slightly.
Throughout those untold generations before the wheel, the candle, the coming of the mechanical age, man had sought the healing balm of the unconscious when the sun departed from the western sky, sallying forth from caves when it reappeared in the East. Artificial light and a work cycle that could be altered to suit individual taste had turned night into day; but it was the memory of the genes, the schedule established through the evolutionary curve, that dropped one's metabolism to its lowest ebb during these eerie hours of early morning and prompted disjointed thoughts and errant wisps of vague memory as though from another life. A gleam caught my eye and I noted, in a sudden flaming of birch sap, the chambers and handle of the Colt gun shining at me from its leather holster on the bookshelf where I had placed it. For no reason I found myself composing a clumsy chanty and, more ridiculous yet, I sang it standing bent over the fire like a cackling Scrooge who had gone daft.
Five shots near the mountain,
They did the deed well.
Five shots near the mountain,
Three men went to hell.
Enough of this, I thought, crossing to the sideboard. The great silver urn felt warm to my hand and I poured a cup of coffee almost with anger. Here I was, by training a savior of life and, because of that meeting long ago, now embroiled in the danger and violence that was kith and kin to the profession of my most intimate friend.
In times past those twin footpads, blood and death, that tiptoed behind the world's only consulting detective had been shriveled in my mind's eye by the blinding light of my boundless admiration for Holmes' uncanny ability at observation and analysis, surely equal to the fabled tales of mythological necromancers. Now, had not the inroads of time, advance guard for the grim reaper my friend had mentioned to Frisbee, taken their toll? Fat and short-winded, could I now stand firm on the deck of that police boat roaring down the Thames in pursuit of the launch Aurora—firing my service revolver at that bestial native of the Andaman Islands and his master, the one-legged Jonathan Small? Could I now press the muzzle of a pistol to the head of one such as Patrick Cairns and force him to surrender? My self-doubts had me dizzy with recriminations, and the cup began to shake in my hand. Might I not be placing Holmes in danger? That one moment when he depended on his companion of the years, might I not let him down?
But then, the memory of my old regiment came to me. You're spooked, Watson, I thought, and mouthing ineffable twaddle to
yourself. Three men died today. More than three hundred spilled blood in the fatal battle of Maiwand, yours among it. More than three thousand went down in the second Afghan war. The cup stopped shaking, and I laced my coffee with a spot of Irish to mask its acrid taste.
It was then that I heard, in the complete silence, the downstairs door open. My first thought was Lightfoot, the late Moriarty's number one executioner. My second was my Smith-Webley upstairs. But then only Holmes and I, along with Mrs. Hudson, had keys to the street door; and the cunning dead-bolt lock had been set tonight, for I did it myself. But Holmes was asleep in his chamber, or was he? I had not seen him go to bed. Nonetheless, my eyes went to the Colt pistol that I had acquired under such strange circumstances on this day; but there was naught but spent cartridges in it.
I quickly ignited the lamp beside me, raising the wick, and then crossed to the fireplace to stand by the poker.
There was no sound on the seventeen steps leading upward to our first floor chambers, but the cat-footed Holmes wouldn't make any. I spoke out, and my voice had a slight tremor to it.
"Holmes?"
There was the sudden sound of key in lock and the door swept open to reveal my hawk-like friend, who was chuckling.
"The lamplight put me on the alert, Watson, for I noted it under the crack of our door. I was standing without, pondering my next move, when I heard the welcome sound of your voice."
Suddenly his expression changed, and he regarded me anxiously. "Is something amiss, for this is an unusual hour for you."
"I could not sleep," I said, having no intention of telling Holmes of the defeatist tentacles that had menaced me with their debilitating embrace before I beat them back.
"Well then, since you're awake and I have not tried to sleep, let us be off."
I suppressed a groan at this, determined to be as staunch a companion as I had ever been. "Where were you, by the way?" I said, crossing toward the stairs.