A Study in Sherlock

by Laurie R. King

  All we could hear then was the white noise of London as amplified from inside the taxicab. And the very last we heard that day was the latest in the long line of Moran progeny humming tunelessly to himself. I couldn’t for the life of me make out what it was, but then a long, thin finger reached out across the desk and, with a double click of the mouse, the sounds from the Harman/Kardon SoundSticks, sited either side of the computer, were eclipsed.

  I turned to face the extraordinary man I’d known for what seemed several lifetimes, as his eyes flashed in triumph. “Know your enemies, my dear fellow. Know them with an exactness that renders them, their habits, their subterfuges, their weaknesses, and their strengths, as clearly as if they were life-sized pieces arrayed before you on a giant chessboard.”

  I nodded and reached for the sherry decanter as my closest-ever male companion and dearest friend reached for his violin case.

  “A good day’s work on your part, old friend,” he said. “Well done.”

  I raised my glass. “Yes, cheerio. But, as you’ve always said, the only possible place to hide a secret is in plain sight.”

  He paused before raising his beloved Stradivarius to his chin. “As Professor Moriarty is ever vigilant for our return, it behooves us to promote ourselves and our likenesses in any and every way possible. We needs must give continuous form, substance, and exercise to his worst imaginings; that we, his two most implacable foes, have risen, yet again, Lazarus-like, from the dead.”

  “Give a dog a bone, Holmes?”

  “Indeed, my dear Watson. And not just cupboards full of skeletons, but whole battalions, entire multitudes, if need be. All to ensure that Moriarty and his wretched gang simply cannot see the wood for the trees. For as elementary as the ruse undoubtedly is, the one indisputable fact in our case is that there truly is safety in numbers.”

  I raised my glass again and sat there—with not a single thought of putting pen to paper—and sipped at my sherry and listened contentedly as the notes of Mendelssohn’s “Lieder ohne Worte” once again worked their very particular magic upon me and brought the day’s work to a more than agreeable close.

  Tony Broadbent is the author of a series of mystery novels about a roguish Cockney cat burglar in postwar, austerity-ridden, black-market-riddled London who gets blackmailed into working for MI5 and is then trained by Ian Fleming. His first, The Smoke, received starred reviews. The follow-up, Spectres in the Smoke, was awarded the Bruce Alexander Historical Mystery Award in 2006 and was proclaimed by Booklist as one of the best spy novels of the year. The third, Shadows in the Smoke, is soon to be published. Broadbent was born in England, a short train ride away from Baker Street, and now lives in Mill Valley, California, with his beautiful American wife and a real cat burglar of a cat. He was introduced to the Sherlock Holmes Canon on the very Christmas Day he’d deduced for himself that Santa Claus was indeed his own father in disguise.

  THE MEN WITH THE TWISTED LIPS

  S. J. Rozan

  “The Lascar,” said Chan Ho, cradling his delicate porcelain teacup in his hands, “is a dangerous man.”

  Not a word of disagreement was uttered by any of the three guests gathered in Chan Ho’s carpeted upstairs parlor. The day being hot, the windows stood open, but even the afternoon Limehouse ruckus of creaking carts and hawkers’ shouts did not distract the men from the issue they had been brought together to consider. No more did the sweet scent of opium smoke rising faintly from below, to which all four men were inured; for Chan, and his guests also, as well as the Lascar whose transgressions were at issue, owned and managed houses for the enjoyment of that drug.

  Portly Wing Lin-Wei, leaning forward to pluck a second candied plum from the silver bowl, replied, “Indeed, Chan, his flagrant contempt for the authorities only grows. He appears to have no respect for the customs of the land in which we find ourselves, nor any understanding of his position here. His attitude, his actions, they endanger us all.”

  “In which he differs from you, Wing,” murmured Zhang Peng-Da, a skeletally thin and sour man who had not touched his tea. “You with your gifts of silver coin, your fawning attentions on the constabulary. Your pathetic attempts at spoken English! It is humiliating.”

  A tight smile creased Wing’s full cheeks. “Perhaps, Zhang, my willingness to make efforts to adjust to our new home accounts for the difference in our clientele.”

  “If there is an advantage in having the cost of an opium pipe borne by a duke rather than a dustman, I do not see it,” Zhang sneered. “In fact, if dustmen, not dukes, were our only patrons, perhaps there would be no need of this discussion.”

  “Zhang is correct.” Chan spoke in mild rebuke to Wing, who was both the younger man and the more recent arrival to London. “If we accommodated only those whose habits did not draw the attention of the newspapers, not to speak of that of the ladies’ groups, it is possible we would have none of these difficulties. Yet we are hardly in a position to inquire into our customers’ social standing or employment before we render our service, or, for that matter, to turn any away. Nor have we ever needed to, as long as we take pains to be discreet. The smoking of opium is in England a legal pastime, the efforts of some civic groups to the contrary notwithstanding. May I remind you all, that is why we came here.”

  Chan paused and looked about him at the men seated on the heavy wooden armchairs. Zhang wore his usual sneer and Lu Yang, the youngest of them, radiated impatience. Only Wing sat placidly, with the patience of an egret waiting to stab a fish. Chan sighed. Had the choice not been dictated by the requirements of the scheme as he set them out to himself, he might have selected other confederates to join him in accomplishing his ends. Restraining the more flamboyant activities of the Lascar proprietor of the Bar of Gold would be to the advantage of every man who owned an opium establishment in Limehouse, and Chan might easily have found more compatible allies. However, as things stood, each of these men brought with him an element indispensible to the successful prosecution of Chan’s idea.

  “Our profession is not thought respectable,” Chan went on, “but we are largely ignored by those with whom we have no traffic. We all”—he emphasized the word, to remind the men of their common interests and of the necessity to put aside rivalries and work together on the task before them—“depend upon this relative obscurity to allow us to prosper.” Satisfied that he had made his point, Chan allowed himself a sip of tea. “Our ability to carry on our commerce in peace is threatened of late, however, by the scandalous behavior of this Lascar. His haughty disregard of the need for discretion, especially in his more questionable activities, has brought undesirable notice to the Bar of Gold. Thus unwanted attention has recently been directed at the Limehouse district, more than once. You especially, Zhang, as your establishment abuts his, are, I am sure, particularly concerned.”

  Zhang glared but did not contradict.

  “The current situation involving Mr. Neville St. Clair,” Chan came to the point, “is, I think you will all agree, untenable. What we have discovered, the authorities will eventually discover also. There will be an outcry against the Lascar that will encompass the entire district. It will be opium that is blamed, it will be our business establishments that are held up to scrutiny, it will be we who pay the price. Zhang’s concern that high-society patrons of our establishments draw excessive notice will be borne out with full force, when Mr. Neville St. Clair is discovered to be perpetrating this outrageous fraud from his quarters at the Lascar’s, here in Limehouse.”

  “Mr. Neville St. Clair does not smoke opium,” Wing stated mildly, licking syrup from the end of his thumb.

  “Nevertheless!” Zhang snapped. “Chan is correct. Mr. Neville St. Clair’s begging, in the person of the repulsive Hugh Boone, for which he has already been taken up a dozen times, is dependent on his rooms in our streets. His discovery will have repercussions here; worse still will be the shock when his identity is revealed to the citizens of Lee, where he lives his respectable life.”

&n
bsp; Chan could not miss the disdain with which Zhang said “respectable,” but he let it pass. “My point exactly,” he confirmed. “That Mr. Neville St. Clair is perpetrating this fraud upon not only the kindhearted gentlemen of the City, who feel moved by his seeming plight to give him alms, but also upon his own wife, his children, his neighbors, will be too much for many people. Some will use the disgust of the moment to point the finger of accusation at us all. I believe in English the phrase is ‘tarring with the same brush.’ ” This was addressed as mollification to Wing, who nodded, acknowledging the honor. “Also, may I remind you, this is not the Lascar’s first offense against the calm order of the Limehouse district. It is time he is taught a lesson.”

  “I do not understand, really I do not!” This outburst, finally, came from Lu Yang, who had not yet spoken. Chan knew Lu to be hot-blooded—the result of unbalanced qi—and was impressed that, from respect for his elders, the young man had managed to keep himself in check this long. “This Lascar has been a thorn in our sides since I came to London.”

  Zhang snorted.

  “Since long before that, Lu,” said Chan.

  “Yes, I know that! So why do we hesitate? I can send a man to eliminate our difficulties as soon as night falls. The Lascar will not trouble us again.” Lu sat back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. Unlike the three elder men, who wore long blue silk merchant’s robes as they had in their hometowns in China, Lu had adopted the wool trousers, jacket, and collared shirt of his new city. Chan wondered idly what such clothing felt like; perhaps he should try it.

  “No, Lu,” Chan said. “Your man might eliminate the Lascar—”

  “Might? He will, without question!”

  “He will not, as skilled as he may be, because you will not send him. The Lascar has men also. We are attempting to lessen the amount of attention paid to Limehouse, Lu, not to increase it. A blood feud declared upon any of us by the Lascar’s men will have to be answered by all of us. The ensuing mayhem will bring a storm upon our heads. No, this situation must be handled with discretion. The Lascar must be spoken to in language only he will understand.”

  Lu fixed his eyes on Chan, then relaxed and smiled. “Are you proposing we eliminate Mr. Neville St. Clair? That is an excellent idea! The Lascar will feel our displeasure—”

  “Absolutely not!” Chan could see the young hothead would bear watching. “Or,” he allowed himself a smile, also, “in a way, I suppose I am. We must cause Mr. Neville St. Clair to vanish from our midst permanently, yes, but without violence. If we proceed as I am recommending, the Lascar, having lost the income he receives from his lodger, will also be required to fend off a certain amount of attention from the constabulary. Once this occurs, a discreet visit from one or more of us will be all that is needed to open the Lascar’s eyes to our displeasure with his behavior. We will have shown the lengths to which we are willing to go—to which we are capable of going—to protect our livelihoods. This will be a simple warning. Not particularly costly, to be sure, but the only one of its type. He will understand.”

  “And if he does not?” Wing asked.

  “He will also understand that there are further steps we can take.” Chan nodded pointedly at Lu, who returned both smile and nod.

  “I think,” said Zhang, whose tea had by now grown cold from inattention, “we are all prepared to hear your scheme, Chan. We will decide how to proceed after the particulars have been explained.”

  As senior man after Chan himself, it was Zhang’s privilege to speak for the others. “Very well,” Chan assented. He poured more tea for those who had drunk, refilling his own cup also. Lifting it, he said, “We must rid ourselves of the threat posed by the presence of Mr. Neville St. Clair by exposing his fraudulent practice, in a way so subtle as to cause him—healthily whole—to disappear, never to return. We must also, by this same stroke, lead the Lascar to understand he remains under the most vigilant watch. Although it is essential the authorities be involved, they must be restrained. Agreed?”

  “Just how do you intend to achieve all of this, Chan?” Zhang inquired testily.

  “There is one man in London capable of accomplishing our purposes with as much zeal as discretion.” Chan looked about him once again. “I propose we employ Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Oh, really!” Zhang snapped. “Have you had resort to your own pipes? We, the men of Limehouse, will hire London’s great consulting detective—this is your grand plan?”

  “I have not said,” Chan responded, smiling, “that we will hire him. I am merely suggesting we employ him.”

  As Chan explained his scheme to them all, the edge of hostility in his parlor gradually melted into the nodding of heads and the tranquillity of considered discussion.

  “I had discreet inquiries made,” Chan told the men, “into not only Mr. Neville St. Clair, but others in his circle. I searched not specifically for further evildoing, but only to find something we might use to our advantage in this affair. I was, therefore, open to all information that came my way, not only that which might be obviously valuable at first glance.” He doubted if any man there would take a lesson from this; still, it was his duty to instruct. “After some time, a most interesting fact was presented to one of my agents, by a clerk at the Aberdeen Shipping Company.”

  “They with offices in Fresno Street?” inquired Zhang.

  “Precisely. Mrs. Neville St. Clair, I am told, awaits a parcel, to arrive on the SS Harding on Thursday next. The unloading of the ship’s cargo will be concluded by the Saturday evening. The following day being the Christian Sabbath, Mrs. Neville St. Clair will be notified by telegram on the Monday morning of the safe arrival of her parcel. She will be invited to gather it from the Aberdeen offices.”

  “Will she come herself?” Lu asked with calculation in his voice.

  “According to the clerk, a sharp-eyed young man, past experience indicates that she will. Thus, gentlemen, we will have a rare opportunity on the day she chooses to come to London. I propose we use it thus.”

  The men being, after discussion and debate, in agreement with the plan as Chan Ho elucidated it, each was dispatched to his assigned task.

  Zhang would designate three men to remain in the doorway of his own establishment, hard by the street-facing window of the rooms Mr. Neville St. Clair took at the Lascar’s. These men would be given a simple task, the successful accomplishment of which would demand much patience, but little effort.

  “My men’s duties being successfully performed,” Zhang said skeptically, “I still see no guarantee we will achieve the result we desire.”

  “We will achieve it,” Chan responded. “I have set a watch upon Mr. Neville St. Clair these few weeks past. He is a man of punctilious habits, to be depended upon. Taking leave of Hugh Boone, Mr. Neville St. Clair spends a quarter of an hour at the open window, reliably each day. Perhaps, to make the transition, he requires the fresh air.” The men all laughed, for, with the wharves, the gutters, and the opium houses, the air of Upper Swandam Lane was generally agreed to be the worst in all London.

  Zhang having been satisfied as to that point, Wing prepared to go off to speak to his friends among the constabulary—Chan noted a small, superior smile in Zhang’s direction when he made this promise—to get their agreement to be in place at the required moment. Wing also would be instructing the officers as to advice to be given to Mrs. Neville St. Clair at the proper time.

  Lu, the most audacious of them, was known by Chan (but not, until that afternoon, by the others) to have a man of his own in service at the Lascar’s. “A Dane,” Lu told them, “a young and ambitious man, more loyal to my gold than to his master.” This man would be charged with preventing the admission of Mrs. Neville St. Clair to the Lascar’s establishment, if possible.

  “If he cannot?” inquired Wing. “If, perhaps, the Lascar is prepared to allow the lady access to the rooms upstairs rather than suffer officers of the law to invade his establishment?”

  “From our
point of view, that would not be ideal,” Chan admitted, “but it would not be disastrous, either. Possibly, the hideous aspect of the beggar Hugh Boone will so startle her that she will inquire no further. If so, we can continue as planned. If, in the event, Mr. Neville St. Clair, having already dispensed for the day with Hugh Boone, cannot recover him fast enough, his duplicity will be revealed to his wife. This, as I say, is not ideal, for if her horror of the situation is sufficient she might be inclined to make it public, exactly the circumstance we are attempting to avoid. I rather think not, however. I believe we can depend upon Mrs. Neville St. Clair’s discretion, if not for the sake of her husband, whom by all accounts she holds very dear, then for that of her young children.”

  The role of Chan himself in the scheme was to give instructions to the clerk at the Aberdeen offices through his agent, and then to keep abreast of developments there, so that the four men would be able to identify the precise moment at which to set their plan into motion.

  As the men were departing, each to play his part, Wing spoke in sudden afterthought. “I have heard,” he said, “from my friends among the constabulary”—Chan heard Zhang softly snort, but Wing continued, unperturbed—“that the brilliance of Mr. Sherlock Holmes shines even more brightly in the company of his chronicler, Dr. John Watson. If Mr. Sherlock Holmes is consulted by Mrs. Neville St. Clair upon this matter, will it be possible to ensure Dr. John Watson’s involvement as well?”

  Chan smiled. “It will, Wing. That, too, has been arranged.”

  The moment for which the men had been waiting came the Monday following the docking of the SS Harding. The telegram alerting Mrs. Neville St. Clair to the arrival of her parcel was dispatched by the sharp-eyed clerk early that morning, requesting the lady to inform the shipping line concerning her intentions to collect it. Mrs. Neville St. Clair replied by return telegram that she would come that very afternoon. The train schedule from Lee to London having been carefully studied by Chan, it was ascertained that should Mrs. Neville St. Clair hurry directly to the Aberdeen offices it would be a simple matter to delay her departure from them—mislaid paperwork, a fee to be paid—until a time convenient for the men’s scheme. As it happened, however, the lady went about some errands, and presented herself in the shipping offices at a perfect hour. Her parcel was delivered into her hands by the sharp-eyed clerk.