by David Marcum
“What? Holmes, really!”
“The little boy, however, may yet save the day.”
“And how on earth do you deduce all this?”
“Watson, please, it is obvious.” Holmes lowered his voice and leaned in to me, to speak softly. “No woman would allow her husband such a public display of bad taste - note the hair - and childish antics if she cared for him. The boy is remarkably observant, and loves the old man who is likely his grandfather - note the similarity of the ears. He’s kept the elderly gentleman from spilling his water twice, and retrieved his lost napkin. Now, did that entertain you? Yes? Good. Pray let us eat in silence, as I need to think.”
Suddenly irritated, I threw down my napkin. “Well, I need a walk to clear my head,” said I.
“Leave a few shillings, please. And by all means, do try to clear your mind,” said Holmes, in a tone which implied this would be an impossible task.
I departed in some pique to leave my companion to his thoughts, and relieve my own by a walk along the promenade. A half-an-hour later, spirits suitably brightened by the fresh sea air and bright sunshine, I returned to our room to find a note on my bed. It read:
“The expected case has appeared, Watson. I am summoned by Dulac to the lobby. Join if you wish.”
I descended there in search of Holmes and found him in intimate conversation with a stocky, animated Frenchman with dark hair, inverted “V’” shaped eyebrows, and the stooped posture of a praying mantis.
“Ah, Watson, glad you are here. May I present the house detective, Monsieur Henri Dulac? We have worked together before. It seems there has been a major jewel theft within the hour.”
“Only you, Mr. Holmes, s’il vous plaît!” cried Dulac. “Discretion-”
“Watson is my friend and colleague. It is both or none.”
Dulac was taken aback but pressed on bravely. “Very well. But the lady is a Countess,” he was saying. “This must be handled with the utmost delicacy. She will not speak to you directly.”
“Well, that will not do,” said Holmes. “Where is she just now?”
“She has retired to her suite.”
“You have suites?” I exclaimed.
Holmes frowned. “When were her diamonds discovered missing?”
“An hour ago.”
“And whom does she suspect?”
Dulac next related that evidence pointed to the Countess’ private maid, but the girl swore she did not steal the jewels. The maid was found asleep in an adjacent room, and difficult to rouse. They were still plying her with coffee and brandy, hoping to get more from her. All that they had learned thus far was that she was never allowed to touch the jewelry box and claimed not to have done so.
“Two of my men are with the girl now, but the diamonds are nowhere to be found,” said Dulac. “They cannot have gone far.”
“If she had stolen them, might she not have run away instead of taken a nap?” said Holmes dryly.
“Everything points to the girl. The evidence does not lie.”
“Ah, at last you arrive at the facts. What evidence?”
“Her fingerprints are clearly on the box that contained them,” said Dulac.
“That is quick work indeed,” said Holmes. “You are absolutely certain they are hers?”
“I took an impression from her hands, and another from the jewelry case. I have made a comparison.” Dulac pulled out a large magnifying glass from his brown coat and grinned at us. “You see, it is not only the famous English detective who carries with him the magnifying glass. In France, we know the fingerprint well.”
“I am aware of that.”
“We have this method before you in England, I believe,” said Dulac, who took delight in this fact.
From across the lobby, I suddenly glimpsed the rotund, bejeweled lady I had observed at lunch, attempting to hide her enormous girth behind a large potted fern. She peered at us through the leaves like a lion in the jungle. When her fierce eye chanced upon mine, she looked quickly away. The boy peeked brazenly around the fronds and was suddenly jerked back. I thought I caught a glimpse of the younger man with them as well.
“Holmes,” I murmured, nodding in their direction.
“Yes, I know,” said he. “Monsieur Dulac, I presume your victim is the rather ample brunette married to Count Marne LeCroix, of the unusual hair and impaired judgment? And is that not she, standing behind that palm over there with the little boy, and also that younger gentleman, her paramour?”
Dulac gasped. I, too, was taken aback. Paramour?
“Yes, that is she. And yes, her husband, the red-haired man, is the Count. But you are mistaken about the other. He is her nephew’s tutor, not her, er, how do you say?”
“Don’t be so delicate. ‘Paramour’ is a French word, and you understood me perfectly.”
M. Dulac shrugged and looked away. “That is not for me to say.”
“Let us continue with the case,” said Holmes. “In what kind of container was this necklace stored that would make you so very sure of the fingerprints?”
“An ebony box.”
“Excellent. May I see it, please?”
“No one but the Countess may touch it. It is her rule. The box travels in a velvet bag which she herself carries in her luggage. It was found by her bed where she left it.”
“Yes, but you have touched it. Let me see it now. Is it not there, in the bag by your feet?”
Dulac looked uncomfortable. He glanced back at the Countess who hid again behind the palm.
“All right, then.” He lifted up a carpetbag that rested on the floor next to him. From it he removed a velvet bag, and from this an ebony box. Clearly visible near the lock were several oily fingerprints.
Holmes snapped open his magnifying glass and examined them carefully, and then bent in to smell the surface. He smiled.
“I can assure you that these are the maid’s fingerprints,” said Dulac. “We will arrest her. I think we can make her tell us.”
“Then why have you consulted me?”
Dulac looked uncomfortable. “Well, in case we cannot. Perhaps you can make her... or perhaps you can... find...”
Holmes grunted. “You don’t think she did it, do you?”
Dulac looked down at his feet. “I... something... does not... how do you say, feel right.” He paused. “Do you wish to see the room or question the chambermaid?” he asked finally.
“Does the chambermaid have a lover? Did you ask this?”
“Of course, I am not a fool! No, she does not. This is true, says the Countess, and her nephew confirms.”
“Ah, the little boy,” said Holmes.
“Yes. Robin. He is ten but mature for his years. He travels with the Countess and seems to be a very observant little boy.”
“Yes, he is. And no, I do not need to see the room or the chambermaid. I will speak to the Countess now. They are there, across the lobby.”
We all looked over and again the preposterous little dance was performed as the Countess hid herself. Holmes waved cheerily to them. The little boy waved back, and the Countess jerked him back, roughly.
Holmes started toward them. Dulac put a hand out to stop him. “Please,” said he. “She will not speak to me either. Only she will speak to the manager. Perhaps Monsieur Bertrand... ah here is Monsieur Bertrand now!”
Bertrand, a barrel-chested, self-important little rooster of a man, moved briskly toward us, waving the air in front of him as if to dispel peons. He spoke briefly to Dulac in French, then turned to Holmes.
“Monsieur Helms. We are grateful for your help. But we cannot have you mixing with-”
“The name is Holmes. You would like this solved?”
“Yes of course.”
“What is the name of that rather solicito
us tutor?”
“Mr. Richard Carrington. Welsh, I believe.”
“No, English,” said Holmes. Without a further word, Holmes strode across the lobby over to the threesome. I followed, fascinated. Before anyone could stop him he grasped the woman’s hand, bowed deeply, and kissed it with an old world flourish. “Countess!” he purred.
No less surprised than the rest of us, she yanked her hand back in alarm and Bertrand dashed between them. “Ach!” he cried. “Je vous en prie! Excusez-moi, chère Comtesse,” said he, fawning his apologies to the woman.
She sniffed, offended. “I have a sudden urge to visit the veranda, Robin,” she said to the boy. Her eyes rolled vaguely in that direction as though she had lost her way. The little boy, with a bemused glance at us, took her arm and began to lead her off.
Carrington started to follow but Holmes said “Mr. Carrington, would you be kind enough to stay a moment?”
He turned and lingered reluctantly. “Hadn’t you better address the issue of the missing jewels?” he said. “Leave me to my work.”
“If you will excuse me?” said Holmes, suddenly touching the man’s hair. Carrington reared back, offended.
Holmes smelled his own fingers then laughed. “Of course. It is the same oil on the jewelry box,” said Holmes, simply. “Violet Macassar, if I am not mistaken. This is your man.”
Carrington sputtered. “What? Why?”
“The maid’s fingerprints were on the box, Holmes, not his,” pointed out Dulac.
“Wrong clue,” said Holmes.
“How are you so stupid!” cried Carrington. “Her fingerprints on the jewelry case? That little strumpet ran her fingers through my hair not an hour ago. I rebuffed her and she was angry. Look, see how messy my hair remains now,” exclaimed the tutor, stepping forward and bending his head for us to see. It was true, his formerly patent leather hair was now roughed up in back. There is your proof!” he cried.
“Inventive,” remarked Holmes. “But it was the Countess who ran her fingers there. I smelled the same oil on them just now. That formula is highly perfumed. I wager the maid did not touch it willingly.”
Next to me I noticed the staunch Dulac smile appreciatively, his head nodding agreement. But the manager Bertrand was not convinced. He leaned in and whispered something to his detective.
Dulac waivered. “Oui, oui, d’accord. I will search the maid’s room again. Perhaps in a moment or two.” He sighed but did not depart.
Bertrand put a hand on Holmes’s arm. “Mr. Helms, we must not insult this gentleman-”
“Dulac,” said Holmes, “You do not need to search anyone’s room. You will not find the diamonds there.”
“But why - ?”
With a sudden lunge, Holmes reached into Carrington’s waistcoat pocket and pulled out a string of glittering diamonds.
“Because they are here.”
There were gasps all around.
Carrington looked poised to flee, but Holmes quickly collared him. Dulac withdrew a pair of handcuffs and instantly had the man under control.
“Thankfully I remained here,” Dulac remarked to the manager, one hand clamped on Carrington’s arm.
Holmes held the diamonds aloft where a shaft of late afternoon sunlight hit them and they shot rays of light into our eyes.
Bertrand stepped forward and took the jewels into a pristine handkerchief from his breast pocket. He held them out, sparkling against the white linen, then wrapped them and placed them in that same pocket. “I shall return these to the Countess. How did you know the jewels were there, Mr. Heinz?”
“Holmes!” said I.
“Two things,” said Holmes. “That Carrington is a thief is beyond question. I observed him at reception when we checked in, pickpocketing the elderly Russian gentleman who had been in line before him. The watch, I believe.”
Oh, no. How had I missed that?
“But... how did you know the diamonds were here?”
“Carrington would have anticipated a thorough search of the rooms, but has had no time to go elsewhere. He gave it away by patting his pocket repeatedly since they entered the lobby.”
“This is outrageous,” said Carrington. “Those were planted on me. I am a respectable man.”
Bertrand cast a stern eye at my friend. “You had better be extremely sure of yourself, Hames,” said Bertrand.
“Ah, but I am,” said my friend.
“We cannot afford to offend our paying clientele.”
“I shall sue,” whined Carrington. “Sue!”
Holmes laughed. “I think not. There is more to this. Mr. Carrington and the Countess are involved romantically and - here I’ll admit I indulge in conjecture - I believe he harbours the deluded assumption that she may abandon the Count and run away with him.”
Carrington spluttered an objection.
“Oh come now,” said Holmes. “We have already determined that she ran her fingers through your hair. I observed you passing notes to your lady love at lunchtime, the both of you enjoying this subterfuge in front of her senile husband.”
“That is your word against mine,” said Carrington.
“Ah, but the little boy is well aware of your intentions, didn’t you notice?” Holmes said, and turned to Dulac. “Fetch the child over here and ask him, if you do not believe me.”
“Really? Well, how do you suppose I stole the jewels and left another person’s fingerprints on the case?” blustered the thief.
“Simple. You presumably drugged the maid. Tincture of opium would have been my choice. I’ll wager Monsieur Dulac will find the remains of that or something similar in your room or a nearby trash receptacle. Then you used your own hair oil to anoint her fingers and impress them on the case, an amateur’s move and one which gave you away.”
“Preposterous. I told you she attempted to seduce me not two hours ago! But I would have none of it! She was simply careless.”
“Naturally that is your story.”
“It is not a story! Why would I do such a thing? I am well paid, in a position of privilege. I am being framed!” exclaimed Carrington, holding up his cuffed hands in outrage.
“But how can stealing the Countess’ jewels endear him to her,” asked Dulac, needing one final nail in the coffin.
“Easily imagined, said Holmes. “He might play the hero by ‘finding’ them when others cannot, thus advancing his plans to win the bigger prize. The Countess will no doubt be a widow soon.”
Turning to Carrington, he asked, “Will little Robin and the sedative bottle confirm your guilt? Ah yes, I see it in your face. Give yourself up, Carrington, and you may escape the worst.”
“Mais oui. Better for you to confess,” said Dulac.
Carrington hesitated. The weight of the accusation settled over him, and in the way of the coward, he suddenly broke into tears. “Mercy. Please have mercy on me.”
“That is for the courts to decide,” said Holmes, “Take him away, gentlemen. You have your solution. And the jewels.”
Dulac signaled for assistance. Two men then escorted Carrington away. “Merci, Mr. Holmes,” said he, shaking my friend’s hand with enthusiasm. “We are greatly appreciative.”
Behind him Bertrand coughed discreetly. The manager then turned to go, indicating his detective should follow.
I cleared my throat. “Er... Monsieur Dulac?” I said. “In the question of remuneration...” I sensed my friend’s embarrassment at this but ignored it. Dulac and Bertrand exchanged a look which I did not quite understand. Bertrand waved a hand to dismiss the house detective. Dulac glanced at us with regret as he departed.
The manager stepped forward and addressed the following to me: “Mr. Winston, we are grateful for the solution. But Mr. Helms did not have to actually do anything to solve this crime - he did not even lea
ve this lobby! I do not feel obligated in any way. But out of generosity, please enjoy three days more in your room. Good day, gentlemen.”
He turned and left. There was a moment of silence, then Holmes snorted with laughter. “Well, once again, Winston, observation and deduction seem like child’s play when explained. Perhaps I should buy a cape and wand. In any case, do you think you can stand three more days in our garret?”
“Two, at most, Helms.” I said. “Now... what shall we do for supper?”
The Adventure of the Phantom Coachman
by Arthur Hall
There were occasions, during my long acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes, when a case would present itself indirectly, rather than by the usual means of a visiting client. Often, these would prove to be among the most curious, and therefore most attractive to him, to be undertaken by my friend.
One early April morning in that fateful year of 1891, I was temporarily staying in Baker Street. At breakfast, I saw that a dark mood threatened him, probably because no new cases had recently presented themselves.
“A walk in the fresh air of St. James’s Park will raise your spirits,” I suggested.
“But wait, I hear a coach near our door!” He sprang to his feet, abandoning his coffee for the view from the window. After a moment he shook his head and resumed his seat at the table.
“A married woman,” he explained, “who seeks the jeweller’s shop along the street.”
“And how,” I enquired mildly, “did you deduce from such a brief glance that she is married?”
“She carried a new born child.”
“And her destination?”
“She wore no wedding ring. Therefore she requires a replacement, or an adjustment to one that is ill-fitting.”
As he finished speaking the doorbell rang, repeatedly.
“A telegram,” I said. “The impatient fellow must be in a hurry.”
“Could it not be a new client?”
It was now my turn to explain. “The telegram boy’s ring is familiar to me, and he arrived on foot or by bicycle.”