Later, the glib, debonair nobleman, content with a full stomach, strode onto the balcony and paused briefly to breathe in the salty wind, to admire his environment. He took special joy from thoughts of his not having a care in the world, the riches that awaited him, and his golden touch. He then stepped back from his view of the Mediterranean and went into the large dining area again.
With indifference, he broke the seal on the letter and began to read. At first, panic set in, then rage. He violently swept his forearm across the table, knocking the plate, the teacup, and the utensils onto the floor as he sank into the chair.
“How dare this meddlesome busybody spoil my plans! I shall eliminate him also!” he bellowed, causing the manservant to enter to see what caused the disruption of a quiet afternoon. “Leave me alone!” the baron shrieked, banging his fist against his cranium. “I need time to think!”
The noise in the room also aroused the baron’s two bodyguards in their adjoining quarters, and they burst inside with their weapons drawn.
“Not to worry, I am alright,” their leader assured them. “Come back in thirty minutes after I have had sufficient time to consider the details of your next assignment.”
* * * *
Four days hence, in London, a messenger brought Sherlock Holmes word from a married couple concerned that their investment in the spice enterprise of Baron Maupertuis was a costly mistake. The husband, Sir Gideon Armstrong, wrote in the message that he had heard through the grapevine Holmes was asking questions in the financial sector of the city about the baron and his activities.
“My wife and I will call upon you, if it is not inconvenient, at five o’clock to discuss the representations made to us and our heretofore unrealised expectations,” the message concluded.
“Ominous, Watson,” said Holmes, without expounding.
“This could be the break you have been looking for—finally someone to complain to Scotland Yard about being defrauded,” I offered. “What is so ominous about it?”
“The name Armstrong,” Holmes cryptically answered. “It is unfamiliar to me.”
“But, Holmes—“ I started to say.
“But nothing, Watson,” Holmes interrupted. “These are the killers of Lord Pritchard and his servants. And they intend to add me to their list of victims. We have only a few hours to prepare, so go fetch Lestrade and tell him I will deliver the pair to him here with all the evidence he needs.”
I rushed out, wondering how I would convince the incredulous inspector that Holmes hadn’t taken leave of his senses.
While I was gone, Holmes re-arranged the furniture so that the settee and armchairs faced the doorway. He pulled the drapes across the two broad windows in the sitting-room, which put the furniture practically in the dark. Holmes then placed two oil lamps near the door, one on the small portmanteau and the other on the mantle, so that anyone entering would have difficulty seeing clearly into the sitting-room, yet they themselves would be illuminated brightly.
He next climbed the steps to his bedroom, took up his five-shot revolver from the drawer of the dresser, placed the weapon in the right-hand pocket of his gabardine jacket, then went back downstairs to await my arrival with Lestrade. It was nearly four o’clock when we crossed the threshold, and we both commented on the changes in the apartment.
“These are professional assassins, and I want every advantage over them,” Holmes explained. “Here, take positions in the armchairs. Watson, your service revolver—have it at hand.”
I went upstairs and brought it down while Lestrade quizzed Holmes in the usual disbelieving way. “Your unconventional methods have sometimes produced results,” the official police agent reluctantly admitted, “but this situation takes the cake. What brought you to this ridiculous point?”
Holmes precisely disclosed the measures he had taken in the investigation, emphasizing the fact that the name Armstrong did not appear on the invitation list for the party at the French ambassador’s mansion. He also described in detail the letter he had written out on his notepad for Madame Baudin to copy, in particular the paragraph where she suggested Holmes knew Baron Maupertuis was behind the murders at Lord Pritchard’s home. Most importantly, Holmes revealed the response he had received from his telegram to the sheriff at Dodge City, Kansas.
“I was aware of the names of the two bodyguards from my conversation with the manservant in Amsterdam, and I sent that information, along with their descriptions, to Sheriff Mosteller,” Holmes related. “I also reported that the taller of the two, Artimus Bender, had boasted of gunfights in Dodge City from which he emerged victorious. Sheriff Mosteller wrote back that Bender, alias Kid Bonsal, had killed six men and wounded several others whom he had goaded into drawing their guns first, making the contests matters of self-defence.
“The sheriff additionally apprised me that Bender had been drummed out of a cavalry regiment for executing three Comanche tribesmen who were not in the least hostile. Bender roamed the prairies with a female partner, Abigail Hartley, the widow of a British infantry lieutenant, and together they wreaked havoc in Western towns until one day they simply disappeared from sight.”
“What makes you so certain the couple coming today are the same two?” Lestrade wanted to know.
“The descriptions of the two bodyguards match those of the bogus butler and housekeeper who invaded Lord Pritchard’s dwelling, and the baron always uses henchmen to do his dirty work,” Holmes replied. “I have deduced that we shall soon be visited by his substitutes, for he wishes to silence me, as he did his lordship.”
“It’s a stretch, Mr Holmes, but I am willing to stay to see what happens,” said Lestrade, scratching his pointy chin. “I have a few constables hiding in the shadows, just in case you are right this time.”
* * * *
Promptly at five o’clock, a carriage pulled up at our address, and Holmes, peeking through the drapes, recognized the man and woman instantly when they alighted from the vehicle, although they were dressed differently than the man and woman who pretended to be Lord Pritchard’s servants.
“It is they alright,” Holmes whispered to us as he joined us in sitting after he lighted the lamps. He had instructed Mrs Hudson not to escort them up, but instead to direct them to our rooms.
“You are expected, so there is no need for me to announce you,” she told them after answering the bell.
“Come in, please, Mr and Mrs Armstrong,” Holmes said in a raised voice when there was a knock at the door.
They both shaded their eyes as they entered and were surprised to notice three darkened figures at the far side of the sitting-room.
“I thought we would have more privacy. Which of you is Mr Holmes?” the male spoke up.
“I am he,” Holmes replied and moved to the settee without taking his eyes off them. “With me is Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard and my colleague, Dr Watson. I always request a police presence whenever I feel threatened by two murderers.”
“What!” came an expression of exasperation from the woman.
“Oh, come now, Abigail, don’t be alarmed, merely because there are three pistols trained on you both,” Holmes said calmly. “Take off your outer garments, slowly, and show us you too are armed.”
“He knows, Abigail, somehow he knows,” Bender mumbled as he peeled back his waistcoat to unveil a .45-calibre Colt in a belt holster. His partner unbuttoned her embroidered, hooded jacket and revealed a .476-calibre Enfield revolver with a long barrel in a shoulder holster. Lestrade rose and collected the weapons, still aiming his own at their mid-sections.
“We shall test fire these tomorrow and find out if the striations on the bullets are similar to the ones recovered from the scene of the crime,” he growled. To Bender he said: “Now, Kid Bonsal, save yourself from the gallows alone and tell us who ordered the death of Lord Pritchard.”
“I’m a killer for sure, but not a snitch,” snapped the Kid.
“I’ll tell you, if it spares his life,” Abigail broke in.
>
“I must hear it from both of you or there is no deal,” Lestrade shot back.
“It was our cheap employer, Baron Maupertuis,” said Abigail boldly. “Now let me and the Kid by ourselves in a room, and I’ll get him to spill the beans if it’s the last thing I do.”
“There will be plenty of time for that when we get to headquarters,” Lestrade stated. “I’ll call for reinforcements to speed you there.”
Lestrade went outdoors to round up the constables while Holmes and I kept the reprobates covered.
“How did you know it was us, Mr Holmes?” Abigail inquired. “You sure are smarter than the baron reckoned.”
“It’s a long story, Abigail, one that I may tell you in due course. But for the moment, perhaps you would tell me—where is Baron Maupertuis now?”
“He’s waiting for us to return to Barcelona, at the Casa Garcia hotel where we left him,” she imparted. “We were supposed to send him a wire when the job was done, when you were dead.”
Holmes’s mind raced forward. He would send the wire himself, pretending to be Abigail Hartley or Artimus Bender, and inform the baron that the mission had been accomplished. Then, Holmes would take a series of trains with Lestrade to Barcelona, where they would work in tandem with the local authorities to take the accused into custody. Holmes would surprise him by making him think that his alter ego had been resurrected from the grave. They would see to it that Baron Maupertuis was extradited to Britain to face the charges against him in court. A jury would convict him and a judge would sentence him to the ultimate punishment.
But, alas, the best laid plans often go awry.
* * * *
Finished with the gentleman’s magazine that the hotel management had made certain was delivered to his suite, Baron Maupertuis contemplated his agenda. He would time his movements so that he would arrive ten minutes tardy for his appointment with the bank’s treasurer, then walk to the swank Plaza del Rocco for an early dinner of fresh seafood. Afterward, he would stroll to the steamship Victory and book passage for three on its voyage to Rio de Janeiro, arriving there with his protectors for a holiday during carnival and festival season.
He stood, stretched, and ambled down to the front desk, instructing the woman on duty that if a telegram came, it was to be held until he returned. The baron entertained the idea that a wire would come that evening.
He retrieved the proceeds of his loan at the bank, stuffing the gold coins into a satchel that he carried, and enjoyed his meal immensely at the restaurant, which was but fifty or so paces from the financial institution. The weather was perfect. Consequently, he took a round-about route to the pier where the steamship was docked, through a park and along an isolated section of the waterfront.
“What’s in the satchel, Mr Crooked Nose?” came a voice in Spanish from close behind.
“None of your business,” the baron answered in the native tongue, now walking faster.
“I say it’s money, a lot of money,” said the young tough, who was joined by six others from out of the blue. “We watched you at the bank and then on the patio of the fancy cafe. Did you like the stuffed flounder?”
“Y-Yes,” said the frightened baron, finding himself surrounded.
“I tell you what,” barked the gang leader. “Give us the gold and we’ll let you live. Otherwise, we’ll pry it from your corpse.”
“No!” Baron Maupertuis screamed. “Police! Help! Police!”
They all produced daggers and repeatedly plunged them into the baron’s stomach, his chest, and his neck, stealing his gold and leaving him mortally injured on the gravel path.
Thus, my friend Sherlock Holmes concluded his campaign to unravel a colossal scheme, a case which began on a whim, ultimately depleting him physically and engaging him in a competition of mental acumen with Europe’s most accomplished swindler.
* * * *
Some months later, as Holmes and I sat in our armchairs, trying to cool ourselves during a late summer heat wave, he mentioned the sorry fates of the baron’s two bodyguards.
“Hanging was inevitable for a violent hooligan like Artimus Bender, and life in prison for Abigail Hartley was a merciful outcome,” Holmes commented nostalgically. “Still, I have many regrets for all that transpired. One is that the price of cinnamon remains sky high.”
YOU SEE BUT YOU DO NOT OBSERVE, by Robert J. Sawyer
I had been pulled into the future first, ahead of my companion. There was no sensation associated with the chronotransference, except for a popping of my ears which I was later told had to do with a change in air pressure. Once in the 21st century, my brain was scanned in order to produce from my memories a perfect reconstruction of our rooms at 221B Baker Street. Details that I could not consciously remember or articulate were nonetheless reproduced exactly: the flock-papered walls, the bearskin hearth rug, the basket chair and the armchair, the coal-scuttle, even the view through the window—all were correct to the smallest detail.
I was met in the future by a man who called himself Mycroft Holmes. He claimed, however, to be no relation to my companion, and protested that his name was mere coincidence, although he allowed that the fact of it was likely what had made a study of my partner’s methods his chief avocation. I asked him if he had a brother called Sherlock, but his reply made little sense to me: “My parents weren’t that cruel.”
In any event, this Mycroft Holmes—who was a small man with reddish hair, quite unlike the stout and dark ale of a fellow with the same name I had known two hundred years before—wanted all details to be correct before he whisked Holmes here from the past.
“Genius,” he said, “was but a step from madness.” And although I had taken to the future well, my companion might be quite rocked by the experience.
When Mycroft did bring Holmes forth, he did so with great stealth, transferring him precisely as he stepped through the front exterior door of the real 221B Baker Street and into the simulation that had been created here. I heard my good friend’s voice down the stairs, giving his usual glad tidings to a simulation of Mrs Hudson. His long legs, as they always did, brought him up to our humble quarters at a rapid pace.
I had expected a hearty greeting, consisting perhaps of an ebullient cry of “My Dear Watson,” and possibly even a firm clasping of hands or some other display of bonhomie. But there was none of that, of course. This was not like the time Holmes had returned after an absence of three years during which I had believed him to be dead. No, my companion, whose exploits it has been my honour to chronicle over the years, was unaware of just how long we had been separated, and so my reward for my vigil was nothing more than a distracted nodding of his drawn-out face.
He took a seat and settled in with the evening paper, but after a few moments, he slapped the newsprint sheets down. “Confound it, Watson! I have already read this edition. Have we not today’s paper?”
And, at that turn, there was nothing for it but for me to adopt the unfamiliar role that queer fate had dictated I must now take: our traditional positions were now reversed, and I would have to explain the truth to Holmes.
“Holmes, my good fellow, I am afraid they do not publish newspapers anymore.”
He pinched his long face into a scowl, and his clear, grey eyes glimmered. “I would have thought that any man who had spent as much time in Afghanistan as you had, Watson, would be immune to the ravages of the sun. I grant that today was unbearably hot, but surely your brain should not have addled so easily.”
“Not a bit of it, Holmes, I assure you,” said I. “What I say is true, although I confess my reaction was the same as yours when I was first told. There have not been any newspapers for seventy-five years now.”
“Seventy-five years? Watson, this copy of The Times is dated August the fourteenth, 1899—yesterday.”
“I am afraid that is not true, Holmes. Today is June the fifth, anno Domini two thousand and ninety-six.”
“Two thou—”
“It sounds preposterous, I know—”
“It is preposterous, Watson. I call you ‘old man’ now and again out of affection, but you are in fact nowhere near two hundred and fifty years of age.”
“Perhaps I am not the best man to explain all this,” I said.
“No,” said a voice from the doorway. “Allow me.”
Holmes surged to his feet. “And who are you?”
“My name is Mycroft Holmes.”
“Impostor!” declared my companion.
“I assure you that is not the case,” said Mycroft. “I grant I’m not your brother, nor a habitué of the Diogenes Club, but I do share his name. I am a scientist—and I have used certain scientific principles to pluck you from your past and bring you into my present.”
For the first time in all the years I had known him, I saw befuddlement on my companion’s face.
“It is quite true,” I said to him.
“But why?” said Holmes, spreading his long arms. “Assuming this mad fantasy is true—and I do not grant for an instant that it is—why would you thus kidnap myself and my good friend, Dr Watson?”
“Because, Holmes, the game, as you used to be so fond of saying, is afoot.”
“Murder, is it?” asked I, grateful at last to get to the reason for which we had been brought forward.
“More than simple murder,” said Mycroft. “Much more. Indeed, the biggest puzzle to have ever faced the human race. Not just one body is missing. Trillions are. Trillions.”
“Watson,” said Holmes, “surely you recognize the signs of madness in the man? Have you nothing in your bag that can help him? The whole population of the Earth is less than two thousand millions.”
“In your time, yes,” said Mycroft. “Today, it’s about eight thousand million. But I say again, there are trillions more who are missing.”
“Ah, I perceive at last,” said Holmes, a twinkle in his eye as he came to believe that reason was once again holding sway. “I have read in The Illustrated London News of these dinosauria, as Professor Owen called them—great creatures from the past, all now deceased. It is their demise you wish me to unravel.”
The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters Page 59