“I fear that I am still a little at sea.”
Holmes snatched up his hat and coat. “All will soon be made clear, Watson. For now, I must leave you for a short while. Pray inform Mrs. Hudson that we will be taking an early lunch.”
With that he was gone, and from the window I saw him hail a passing hansom. I busied myself with a perusal of the remainder of the newspapers, and then with turning this affair over in my mind. I had just concluded that, while I understood some of the recent events that had surrounded us, I was unable to perceive the entire situation, when I heard the front door slam before Holmes bounded up the stairs.
“It is all arranged,” he said at once. “I have sent telegrams to Mycroft and to Lestrade. We must be outside the National Gallery by one o’clock, to witness Signor Caruso’s arrival.”
By the time he sat down, I had many questions to ask, but he would not be drawn. Until our lunch was served, he talked of Ancient Greek architecture and the noticeable rise of Germany as a military power between long silences as we ate.
We finished our meal and left our rooms before Mrs. Hudson could clear away. For the second time that day, Holmes was quick to secure a hansom, and we found ourselves in Trafalgar Square soon after.
“There seems to be a surfeit of constables,” I observed, “and the steps of the Gallery are quite crowded with onlookers.”
“The exhibition has proved popular. Ah! I see that Lestrade is already in charge.”
We joined the little detective at the base of the steps.
“Your telegram explained that this is a matter of some urgency, Mr. Holmes,” he said after greeting us, “and before I know it, I have at my disposal thirty constables. Normally I would have trouble getting more than two or three. It is all most curious.”
“Such is the influence of Mycroft,” Holmes murmured to me.
“I have read that there are important talks in progress, between ourselves and the Italians,” I said to Lestrade, “concerning some sort of alliance. Clearly, the government wishes to ensure that nothing occurs to threaten the outcome.”
“That sort of thing is far above my head, Doctor,” he replied.
Holmes’s keen eyes swept the crowd, and I saw him grow suddenly tense.
“How many constables did you say, Lestrade?”
“I was allowed thirty, some of them from other divisions.”
“So you are not familiar with all of them?”
The inspector looked at Holmes curiously. “Why do you ask?”
“Can you select three of their number, men that you already know, to join us here?”
“I can, but to what purpose?”
“The prevention of an assassination attempt on Signor Caruso. If you will instruct these men to obey my orders absolutely, I think I can promise that you will be arresting a criminal of some notoriety very soon.”
Lestrade stared at Holmes for what seemed to me to be a long time. I had begun to fear that the old distrust of my friend’s methods had resurfaced in the inspector’s mind when he turned abruptly and walked across to the line of constables at the edge of the crowd. I heard him call three names and beckon, and the four made their way back to us.
“This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he explained to them. “I want you to obey his instructions in this business as you would mine.” He turned to my friend. “Mr. Holmes, these are constables O’Rourke, Patterson, and Denley. I have known them since I was myself in uniform.”
“Capital!” Holmes retorted. “Gentlemen, there is a dangerous criminal concealed here, but I believe I can expose him. I propose to search among the crowd lining the steps until I find the man I want. When I point him out I want you to restrain him immediately, one man to each arm and one to apply handcuffs. At my signal do not hesitate, no matter who I indicate. Is that understood?”
The three assented in unison.
While Lestrade and I looked on in a rather bewildered fashion, my friend and the three officers approached the crowd. Holmes at once produced his lens and, bending at the waist, appeared to be examining the steps, one by one, as they progressed upward along the line. They had not climbed further than the waiting constables when his arm shot out suddenly. “Good afternoon, Signor Atillio Parvetti.”
To my surprise, it was one of the other uniformed officers that he indicated. Lestrade’s three men instantly fell upon him, searched him, and led him away, struggling and cursing, to a waiting police wagon.
“You are sure of this, Mr. Holmes?” Lestrade said rather cautiously.
“If you need confirmation, Lestrade, you have only to look in your own files at Scotland Yard. You will discover that the murders of Mr. Howard Sangster, the industrialist, and Mr. Thomas Vernon, the newspaper magnate, have remained unsolved until now. Atillio Parvetti is a professional assassin who has visited these shores before.”
“But how did you identify him?”
Holmes smiled. “It was not difficult when I realised that the number of constables in attendance was actually thirty-one, rather than the thirty that you stated. Probably Parvetti’s intention was to dispose of one of them to maintain the expected number, had the opportunity presented itself. Having established that, it was simply a matter of deciding which constable was an imposter, and that was simplicity itself.”
“I cannot see it,” Lestrade admitted.
“Parvetti had made some attempt to alter his physical appearance, and there can be no doubt that he obtained his disguise from a costumier, but it occurred to me that he may not have considered his shoes. As I pretended to examine the steps I scrutinized carefully the footwear of each constable, until I saw a pair that were not only different from service issue, but of a foreign make. The design and pattern are quite unmistakable.”
“Here is the coach containing Signor Caruso. You have undoubtedly saved his life today, Mr. Holmes.”
“Not I, Lestrade, but Doctor Watson, who threw light on the true nature of the man’s plight. You need not mention me in your report, but I would be grateful if you would permit me to be present when Parvetti is questioned.”
“In the circumstances, I have no doubt that it will be in order.”
“Thank you. Watson, I will see you back at Baker Street, presently.”
With that we watched the dignified figure of Signor Caruso ascend the steps and enter the building without further incident. I returned to our rooms alone and settled myself in an armchair to read. I must have fallen asleep, and it was almost time for dinner when my friend returned in good spirits.
“Parvetti has confessed!” he announced. “I do not see that he could lose anything by it, however, since he is certain to face the hangman to pay for his previous crimes. I was able to point out his connection to at least two unsolved murders, and Lestrade agrees with my conclusions.”
“Allow me to pour you a brandy before dinner,” I offered as he sat down.
“Thank you, Watson. I confess to feeling the beginning of hunger pangs, stimulated no doubt by the aroma of the roast chicken that Mrs. Hudson is preparing.”
He was very animated at the successful conclusion of the case, but spoke only of other things. When we sat down to smoke afterwards, I could contain myself no longer.
“Holmes, will you give me a full account of this affair?”
He gave me a knowing look. “So that you can exaggerate and over-dramatize it before committing it to your publisher? Well. Watson, you have been instrumental in bringing this case to its end, so I will tell you all. By listening to Parvetti’s admissions at Scotland Yard, I was able to connect the entire chain of events.”
“Kindly delay long enough for me to retrieve my notebook.”
He nodded, drawing on his clay pipe. When I resumed my seat, he closed his eyes and began: “This case has its true beginnings some months ago, when Signor Caruso bec
ame the Italian Minister of Justice. He had long held an ambition to bring to trial Mario Conti, the head of one of the old crime families who had, until then, evaded all retribution for his considerable wrongdoings. This was a man who had lived a life of vicious crime, and of initiating it in others. He achieved his position through ruthlessness, and maintained it with threats and bribery. Signor Caruso was the first to refuse to capitulate, and Conti was imprisoned for twenty years. He did not serve much of his sentence, however.
“It so happened that a minor member of a rival family was also a prisoner, and the order went out to dispose of Conti. His wife, Signora Stefano Conti, swore revenge, on both the other family and Signor Caruso. The war between the families persists to this day, and Atillio Parvetti was commissioned to accompany Signora Conti on a journey to England, where they knew Signor Caruso was soon to visit.”
“But they mistook Mr. Jackman for him,” I ventured.
“Not at first. Parvetti watched government buildings in Whitehall and elsewhere systematically for weeks, and he may well have seen Signor Caruso from a distance, but when he set eyes on Mr. Jackman, as he would have done since Mycroft’s office is close by, he became uncertain. I wondered at first why Parvetti did not murder Mr. Jackman regardless, as would be a routine precaution in his profession, but neither he nor Signora Conti wished to take the unnecessary risk of drawing attention to themselves. Parvetti, remember, was already wanted by Scotland Yard for at least two previous killings. So it was then that Parvetti became the shadow of Mr. Jackman, seeking confirmation of his identity on the Signora’s instructions.”
“Hence the ‘accidental’ meeting at the hotel in Bath, and Parvetti’s pursuit of Mr. Jackman’s friendship.”
“Quite so. A rather inadequate photograph of Signor Caruso in their possession had proven to be of little use, and Parvetti was still undecided. Finally he devised the plan of luring Mr. Jackman to a lonely spot where Signora Conti could watch him closely, and then it would be decided if he should live or die. The confrontation occurred, of course, as he tried to gain entry to Canal Reach, and the spy-glass revealed that he had a missing finger. Knowing that this could not be Signor Caruso, despite the close resemblance, they then left the area at once. It occurred to me to wonder why Parvetti had not come to this conclusion earlier, but you will recall that Mr. Jackman was reluctant to take off his gloves and that his disfigurement was a source of some embarrassment to him. Evidently he had lost the glove containing the false finger by the time the Signora saw him.”
“The remainder of the story is not difficult to anticipate,” I said. “Parvetti and Signora Conti must have seen the same picture and notification of Signor Caruso’s visit to the National Gallery as ourselves, and the assassination attempt was arranged as a result.”
“Indeed, Watson. The rest you know, since you were present. I do hope that Lestrade will see fit not to mention my trifling involvement in this affair in his report. To claim this as one of his successes will undoubtedly enhance his career somewhat.”
A Simple Case of Abduction
by Mike Hogan
In the final two weeks of eighteen-ninety-six, after many years of mostly standing at Sherlock Holmes’s right hand as an observer while he pitted his wits against the felonious fraternity, I found myself at the very centre of the web of a criminal mastermind whose exploits shook the foundations of the Bank of England. I was for a time incommunicado and unable to take notes as events unfolded, but I have assembled sufficient material from Holmes’s recollections, and from interviews with the other participants (at least those unhanged) to put together a narrative of events, and I have been able to re-enact certain conversations from their memories. I hope the following will be accepted as an accurate reconstruction of a singular episode, and a counter to the highly-coloured accounts that appeared in the penny newspapers.
* * *
The affair started innocuously enough, as so many of my friend’s cases did, in our sitting room at 221b Baker Street. I blotted the final sentence of my manuscript, sat back, and contemplated the short stack of foolscap on my desk with a certain amount of satisfaction. Despite Holmes’s injunction that I publish no more of his case notes until after his retirement, I had persuaded him to allow an account of the quite extraordinary case of Wilson the canary trainer to appear in The Strand Magazine. The generous fee our agent had negotiated would go a long way to repairing our tattered finances, and I had hopes of adding more stories if my friend could be brought around. I flattered myself that I had compiled the facts of the case into a compact, yet thrilling, read, and I had done so exactly to my schedule. My slot in the next edition of The Strand depended on the manuscript being on the desk of the editor by noon of the following day, and for once, perhaps truth to tell for the first time, I was comfortably within my deadline without being chivvied nor yet scolded by the editor.
I slipped the sheaf of papers into an envelope and printed the address of the magazine in capitals on the front. Then I rummaged in my desk for a postage stamp, but found only empty stamp-books. I considered employing our local messenger to deliver the manuscript, but thought better of it when I recalled the low ebb to which my and my co-lodger’s finances had fallen in the previous week or so. My attempts to impose fiscal restraint on Holmes during a quiet period of his detective practice had not prospered, and his insistence on dining at the Criterion the evening before to celebrate the successful conclusion of the matter of the veiled lodger had drained our resources to the dregs and a little beyond. I had been obliged to borrow from the house “float” to pay our cab fare home, and I had endured a supercilious smirk from the coal merchant’s agent in the morning when I requested he return for payment in the New Year.
I swivelled my chair and regarded my friend with an indulgent smile. Holmes lay draped across our sofa in his dressing gown, dozing before a merry (and unpaid for) fire. One of his endearing characteristics (the fewer the more cherished) was his indifference to money. He was as happy championing a distressed waitress from a bar on the underground railway for a half-crown fee, or none as he was being consulted on an affair of state by a duke of the realm, with the reward of a cheque for thousands. I sniffed. In fact, he was more likely to receive timely payment from the girl than from His Grace, and unexplained delays in fee payment from several aristocratic and politically exalted clients was the immediate cause of the low ebb of our finances.
It was not yet three in the afternoon, but the shortest day of the year was almost upon us, and the room was already in twilight. I stood, lit the gas lights and set them to a low flame, a soft glow that illuminated the bright Christmas colours of Mrs. Hudson’s holly boughs and the paper decorations that festooned our sitting room, but unfortunately disclosed the reproachful pile of unsigned Christmas cards that lay upon my desk, with their unstamped envelopes beside them. Holmes dozed on.
I picked up the manuscript in its envelope, took my hat and stick from the sideboard, slipped quietly out of the sitting room, and treaded softly down the stairs. As I put on my coat and scarf in the hall, I informed our page that I had decided to walk to the Strand to deliver a package and do a little shopping. The exercise, I suggested, would clear my head, fuddled by cigar smoke and fumes from Holmes’s chemical experiments in our sitting room. Billy gave me an impudent, knowing look that I ignored.
In fact, the walk did clear my head, and I set myself a steady pace southeast across London, avoiding the main shopping thoroughfares until I passed Piccadilly Circus just as the street lamps were being lit. I crossed Trafalgar Square, slipped through heavy traffic to the south side of the Strand, and stopped at my usual tobacconist, hard by Charing Cross Station, where I stocked up with cigars and tobacco. I tucked my manuscript envelope under my arm as I bought a box of matches from a boy, and I paused under a lamppost, with a stream of pedestrians flowing past me on either side, shook a cigar from my new packet, and lit it, blowing a stream of smok
e up into the cold, late-afternoon air. In the dying light I saw dark clouds massing above me, and I wished I had brought my umbrella.
* * *
Holmes added a few drops of clear liquid to the contents of a test tube, and he smiled in satisfaction as the mixture turned bright vermillion. He noted the result on a scrap of paper, placed a flask atop a Bunsen burner, and lit the flame. The doorbell rang downstairs, he heard heavy footsteps on the stairs and the sitting-room door opened.
“Watson,” he cried, “you are just in time to-”
“Mr. Ballantyne,” Billy said, and he ushered a stocky gentleman in an elegant frock coat into the room, then fled, coughing. The man frowned, took out his handkerchief, and put it over his mouth and nose.
Holmes turned off the Bunsen and flapped at the smoke and fumes from his experiments with the sleeve of his dressing gown. “I do apologise. A small matter of domestic poisoning. I will open the window.”
“Don’t mind me,” the visitor spluttered.
Holmes dragged up the sash window and indicated the sofa with a wide gesture. The gentleman put his lucent silk hat, stick, and gloves on the sideboard and sat, breathing shallowly.
“Mr. Ballantyne, I have read of your exploits.” Holmes said, turning up the gas lamps and giving the fire a sharp poke with one of the fire irons before slumping into his usual chair.
The visitor sighed. “You are thinking of my brother, Horace. He is the adventurer in the family. While he discovers new rivers, lakes, and waterfalls on the Dark Continent, his younger brothers pursue more sedentary careers in the law, or in my case, medicine. I am Doctor Henry Ballantyne.” He passed Holmes his calling card.
“Of course,” said Holmes. “I do apologise, Sir Henry. A doctor friend lent me your work on sucking chest wounds, and I read it with the very greatest interest. You are the country’s leading authority on military trauma, particularly bullet wounds.”
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part X Page 11