“After that the good Inspector allowed me to see both Augustus’s and Bernard’s rooms. I found nothing at Augustus’s, but the disruption had been greater at Bernard Giltglider’s. Whoever had cleaned up had done a meticulous job, but I was able to obtain these hairs from the carpet.” He held up a glassine envelope containing several long black hairs.
“Bernard, being an identical triplet, has blond hair like his brothers, and he keeps no pets. His valet is on leave during his trip and his grey-haired charwoman cleaned his flat thoroughly against his arrival three days ago. I believe I will just dash down to the hospital’s laboratory and see what I can discover from these. At least, I can determine if they are human.” Before I could say a word, Holmes was gone.
Lestrade smiled at me. “Mr. Holmes’ energy is astonishing, Dr. Watson. You should have seen him, climbing over those black bits of wood and sticking his nose into dirty crevices with that everlasting magnifying glass of his at the warehouse. It was the same at the Giltgliders’ flats. He crawled over every square inch of those carpets like he was evaluating them for auction and as for the knick-knacks! You would have thought he was sounding them for secret compartments!”
Before I could point out that Holmes had found the hairs, a clue which had eluded the official police search, Bernard Giltglider’s doctor appeared and spent several minutes in the sickroom conferring with his brother Trey. After he left, Trey Giltglider came out into the hallway and carefully closed the door behind him.
“Bernard has awakened and is much better now,” said our client. “The doctor has told us that he can leave the hospital and stay at my house until he recovers. I will make arrangements for private nursing at home. All will be ready within the hour. You gentlemen and of course Mr. Holmes are welcome to stay at my place. Unlike my brothers, I invested in a big residence years ago and I have an excellent staff of servants. Believe me, it will be no trouble at all.”
We agreed to Mr. Giltglider’s plan and sent word to Holmes in the laboratory as to where we were going. A message came back that he had left the hospital but was expected to return.
Trey Giltglider hailed a four-wheeler. I retrieved our valises from the porter and we carefully conducted Bernard Giltglider to his brother’s house. That turned out to be a large four-storied mansion of red brick with a Mansard roof. Numerous porches and gables with dormer windows decorated every exterior wall. The roof was studded with chimney stacks. Contrasting sandstone trim outlined the windows and doors. The structure occupied a corner lot with stables and outbuildings dividing it from its neighbors. An elaborate wrought iron fence encircled the grounds. Up and down the wide street stood similar extravagant homes.
A solemn butler and two footmen emerged to assist the invalid up the impressive front steps and through a wide foyer. Broad carpeted stairs graced with a curving fumed oak balustrade led to the upper floors. Lestrade was left below as Trey Giltglider and I saw Bernard Giltglider safely to a richly-appointed guest room on the first floor, where one of Florence Nightingale’s best awaited him. We left him there and returned down the stairs, where Inspector Lestrade had been ushered into a tastefully decorated sitting room.
I stood in the center of the carpet and craned my neck to admire the furnishings. “Giltglider Construction must be doing well, sir,” I remarked, as Trey Giltglider gave directions to the butler.
Trey Giltglider smiled for the first time that day. “I look upon all this as an investment, Dr. Watson,” he replied. “I enjoy living in a comfortable fashion, but I also make sure I get value for my money. My brothers, now, have always preferred to live in flats and spend their incomes on pleasure and speculation. We are partners, but I have always saved and carefully invested my share of the business. I founded the brickworks, after all.”
Tea was soon served and the hours before dinner passed in pleasant fashion as I found Mr. Trey Giltglider to be a man of education, well-traveled and particularly well-versed in the pleasures of the table. At hourly intervals a footman would bring down progress reports from his brother’s sickroom. Lestrade ate and drank and listened to us, clearly in over his head but wise enough not to admit it. At one point he received a telegram reporting that the vanquished fire was now being investigated by the Reading police.
The butler, whom Mr. Giltglider addressed as Barrowby, finally appeared at the door to announce both Sherlock Holmes and dinner.
After an excellent meal, which Holmes merely picked at, we regrouped again in the sitting room. Lamps were lit against the gathering darkness and cigars and port were offered and accepted. Sherlock Holmes silently paced back and forth across Trey Giltglider’s Persian carpet for several minutes as we continued the conversation started during the meal but then motioned Lestrade out into the hall. After a quarter of an hour he returned and called to Mr. Giltglider to join him. I got up to follow, but Holmes waved me back to my chair. I began to wonder what was going on. Why would Holmes consult with others and not me? It was obvious he was laying some sort of trap for the attacker.
Soon after I finished my cigar the door opened again and Sherlock Holmes entered. To my surprise he was carrying our hats and held a stout oak stick in one hand. He spoke softly as he handed me my hat.
“I expect an attack on Mr. Trey Giltglider and his brother tonight, Watson. Our opponent has failed in his original design and I fear he will now resort to pure vengeance. We must stop him. Follow me.”
I tried to ask a question, but he held his finger to his lips. We left the sitting room ablaze in lights. Quietly we entered the back regions of the mansion, walking through a baize-covered door into the offices of the staff. The area was deserted. Holmes led the way up a narrow, uncarpeted staircase past several landings to a trap door that opened onto the roof.
I climbed out onto a confusing maze of leads, asphalt and brickwork. Darkened skylights ran down the center of the leads, irregular surfaces thrust up everywhere and iron railings and wooden steps led from one section of the irregular flat roof to another. Tall chimney stacks were spotted over the surface in clumps. In the darkness I found it hard to determine just where we were.
Sherlock Holmes had no such trouble, however. Holding my elbow, he guided me over the leads as if it were broad daylight. After a few minutes he paused in the shadow of a low parapet and pointed to a thick chimney stack topped with molded pots on the edge of the roof. Beyond it I could see the leaves of a tall tree and the glow of street lights below.
“That chimney serves the sitting room we just left, Watson. I believe it will be the focus of his attack. Is your revolver loaded? Have you your whistle? Good. I have my pistol and this stick. Lestrade knows what to do. Giltglider has taken all the occupants of the house to rooms at the other end. Now we wait.”
I crouched beside him and murmured, “What are we waiting for, Holmes?”
The detective’s voice was low and vibrant. He could not conceal the excitement he felt at this moment of the chase. “Death.”
The only sounds were night birds and the rumble of distant traffic. The moon was only a sliver and darkness picked out by the wheeling constellations filled the night. A slight breeze slipped past us and I could hear Holmes breathing beside me. I don’t know how long we were huddled there in the shadows, but gradually I became conscious of a soft shuffling sound.
Advancing and pausing, advancing and then pausing again, footsteps approached our position. I strained to see in the blackness. It seemed hours until the sounds passed us and approached the chimney stack we were watching. After they stopped I could make out by the distant street lights an indistinct figure bending over something. A spark flared and then grew into a tiny flame. Something began to sputter and burn and the figure rose with it in one hand. I felt Sherlock Holmes coming to his feet and I followed.
Holmes ran ahead of me, his stick raised against the stars. I heard the crack of wood on bone and saw the sputtering package fall
at my feet. The oak stick went flying and Holmes and the shapeless intruder grappled on the flat apex of the roof leads. I reached down to the sparking light and picked up what proved to be a bundle of paper-covered cylinders tied together and sporting a lit fuse less than ten inches long. In horrid fascination I watched as another inch quickly burned away.
A pistol skittered away across the leads. “Watson! Watson!” I heard Holmes yell and then his voice sank into incoherent gurgling. I didn’t think to throw away the bomb. In the back of my mind I was conscious of the presence of hundreds of people in the houses around us. No place I could lob it seemed safe enough. Instead, I grasped the burning fuse in my left hand and tried to tug it free of the bundle. The sparks burned into my palm. Involuntarily, I cried out in pain and dropped the infernal device. It landed on the leads and bounced a few feet away. I leapt for it and desperately stamped out the lit fuse. When the last spark was crushed into oblivion beneath my heel I turned to look for my friend.
I saw Holmes flat on his back beneath the hulking form of his attacker. Strong fingers were clamped around his throat and his struggles were weakening.
I pulled out my revolver and crashed it on the back of the figure’s head. He swung his snarling face around to look at me as if I was just an annoying fly. I cocked the weapon and placed it at his temple. “Release him now or by God I swear I will shoot!” I cried. He must have seen the determination in my eyes for he released his prey and fell back to slump on the roof at Holmes’ side.
I pulled the police whistle from my waistcoat pocket with my wounded hand and blew it urgently. Scrambling footsteps pounded across the rooftop toward us and Lestrade and others ran out of the darkness to clamp handcuffs on my prisoner. A long wicked-looking knife was pulled out from inside his coat. Uniformed men took him in charge as I bent over the motionless figure of my friend.
For a moment I thought I had been too slow and my finger tightened on the trigger of the revolver that was still pointed at his attacker. Then Holmes’s eyes opened and he coughed, his fingers feeling for his throat. I disarmed my weapon and thrust it back in my pocket. Wordlessly I lifted him to his feet and slowly we helped each other across the leads in the darkness toward the light coming from the hatchway in the roof.
Thirty minutes later I sat in one of Mr. Trey Giltglider’s armchairs in his sitting room, my bandaged left hand throbbing in pain. The private nurse for Bernard Giltglider had tended to it, but the burns from the dynamite fuse had bitten deep into my flesh. I had accepted a painkiller by the police surgeon before he left, but now fought back its effects. I wanted to stay alert to see after Holmes, who was lying on a sitting room sofa, his face white in the lamplight, with irregular dull red blotches around his neck.
Trey Giltglider and his brother Bernard were seated on another sofa across from us. They had come down from their hiding place after our struggles on the roof. Inspector Lestrade loomed over his prisoner, who had been shoved to his knees on the floor in the middle of the room. Several husky Reading policemen stood just a few feet away. The butler Barrowby had stationed himself by the door to the hall.
Lestrade’s prisoner glared at us all through a thicket of tangled black hair. He was a burly man, over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and large writhing hands, dressed in a rough coat, tattered shirt and old trousers, with heavy worn boots upon his feet. The Scotland Yard inspector had given him the official warning but the man appeared unmoved. Lestrade prodded him with Holmes’ revolver and demanded, “Tell me your name!” but all he got back was a snarl through bright, sharp teeth.
Holmes raised his hand. “Watson, help me up,” he whispered. I hastened to do so, propping him up with cushions, and then sat near him with my finger on his pulse.
“Try not to talk too much, Holmes,” I murmured, knowing that my advice would be ignored. Sherlock Holmes looked long and hard at the man on the carpet and then addressed Inspector Lestrade.
His voice was weak and raspy, kept at a low volume by the pain in his throat. In the next few minutes, he stopped frequently for sips of water from a glass that sat at his elbow. Except for growling sounds from the man on the floor, the room was silent as we all strained to hear the detective.
“His name is Wolfgang Novak,” said the detective. “He was born in Lambeth of Slavic parents, but got his education at a council school in Southwark. He began as a laborer and then learned fine carpentry. He has been employed by several Reading construction firms in the last three years. A deeper examination of his background will no doubt turn up a career of thievery and assault. He holds anarchistic views but has not yet given up his dreams of wealth. He wrote the notes Augustus Giltglider received, set both warehouse fires and, I regret to say, killed Augustus Giltglider and, given his nature, probably disposed of the body in a particularly nasty way.” Holmes coughed and sipped water.
His last words caused a sensation. The two surviving Giltgliders looked at each other and tears swelled in their eyes. Lestrade stared from his prisoner to Holmes. The squad of policemen behind Lestrade muttered amongst themselves and seemed to lean even more menacingly over the prisoner. The man on the floor grimaced as Holmes’ began talking, but by the time my friend had finished he was giving the detective the same amazed look I had frequently seen on clients’ faces in the sitting room in Baker Street.
Wolfgang Novak stirred under Lestrade’s restraining hand. “Who told you, Mr. Meddler? Who peached on me, you snoop? I’ll kill him!”
Holmes took another drink of water. “You told me yourself, Novak. Your speech betrayed your origins, your handwriting showed your education and the calluses on your hands told of your occupation. Those stains upon your coat could only come from expensive varnish used in fine woodworking. The odor, though faint, is distinctive. The notes you sent Augustus Giltglider were made by the broad, flat lead of a carpenter’s pencil, a marker made so it would not roll away after being put down. Search his pockets, Lestrade, and you may find it. Ah, just so.
“Armed with your physical description built up from the clues I gathered from Mr. Bernard Giltglider and those hairs I found at his flat, I visited several Reading construction firms this afternoon. I found out about all your employments, although the name was never the same twice. You used your own name, Wolfgang Novak, three years ago when you first came to Reading. After you thought of this scheme, Novak disappeared, and a man of many names but with your appearance and skills took his place. The thievery and assault were just speculation, given your personal proclivities. Your bomb is constructed on the common pattern known to the authorities of those used by anarchist groups in England. You must have been a member of such a group to be given instructions on how to build one. You chose to persecute the Giltgliders because they are among the richest men in Reading. Yet you formed a plan to gain control of their business, showing that you still sought wealth.
“The grit on your clothing matches the dirt on the notes. The burns on your hands come from two recent fires, as can be determined by the rate of healing of each. By the way, that was really rather clumsy of you. As for Augustus Giltglider… oh, my, he just didn’t believe you were serious, did he?”
“He laughed at me,” the prisoner growled. “He said my contract was worthless. I tried to make him understand I was going to kill him if he didn’t sign, but he kept laughing right up to the moment I wrapped my hands around his fat throat.”
Trey Giltglider leapt to his feet. “What did you with him?” he cried. He stood, quivering with emotion, before the kneeling figure on his sitting room carpet.
“One of the men I worked with before had a sister in the country with a job on a farm.” Wolfgang Novak looked up at Mr. Giltglider, his eyes hard and sneering. His voice was bitter and defiant. “I got a cart and put his body in it by the light of the flames that Saturday night. I covered it with some apples and drove it out to the farm. There I dumped the whole load in the pigpen. By the time th
ose animals were finished there was nothing left but bits of bones and apple cores. I collected up as many bones as I could find and buried them in the woods behind the farmer’s house. All rich men are pigs. I figured it was a fitting end. It made me laugh, I’ll tell you.”
Trey Giltglider, his face a mask of horror, staggered away from Novak and sank down beside his brother, who buried his face in his bandaged hands.
“That is enough, man,” said Sherlock Holmes, disgusted. “Take away your prisoner, Lestrade, and may you have joy of him.”
“Not much chance of that, Mr. Holmes, but we’ll have a good hanging out of him, at least.” Several officers yanked the prisoner to his feet and Lestrade followed him from the room as Barrowby held the door.
I poured out more water for Holmes and at his gesture, added some brandy. Holmes looked at Trey and Bernard Giltglider and sighed. “I regret having to bring you gentlemen such bad news, but the truth cannot be changed. Wolfgang Novak was one of the most dangerous men I ever faced, and I think we can all count ourselves lucky that we escaped with our lives.”
“Poor, poor Augustus,” mourned Trey Giltglider. “I always told him he should be more serious, but the one time it counted he still saw nothing but a joke. My brother and I thank you both and you will see that we are most grateful. It is not yet midnight. You are both welcome to stay here until your injuries are healed.”
“No, thank you, we will leave in the morning,” Sherlock Holmes declared, rising to his feet. He coughed again and rubbed the bruises on his throat. “A period of convalescence is called for, and cool ocean breezes are in the prescription. Come, Watson. We shall face the new day as the poet Henley wrote, ‘Bloody, but unbowed’. Good night, gentlemen.”
The Case of the Wobbly Watcher
Sherlock Holmes stood on the cobblestones of the street, his head sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped behind his back. Around him bustled members of Scotland Yard, holding back the crowds and conferring with each other. Down the street several newsmen were clamoring to approach, waving their notebooks and shouting questions. The streetlamps had been lit and the glow of the nearest one threw Holmes’ shadow up against the rough brick wall on his right. I stood near him, my medical bag in hand, my eyes searching for something else to look at except the broken body at our feet.
Sherlock Holmes and The Folk Tale Mysteries Page 8