The Veiled Detective

by David Stuart Davies

  “Blimey,” cried Lestrade in surprise, “he must be a blooming genius then!”

  “He was certain that I would arrange to rob the bank for Abercrombie. That was an essential part of the plan.”

  “Brand.”

  “Yes. Thus, we have the rather nice arrangement where the detective carries out the work of the thieves for them. A wonderful irony. Or at least that was how it would have been if the plan had worked.”

  “Ah, but you got the better of them, Mr Holmes.”

  “Did I?”

  Lestrade frowned. “Of course you did.”

  Abstractly, Holmes examined the glowing end of his cigarette. “Some aspects of the scheme were very clever, but there were too many weak elements.”

  “Such as?”

  “Did they never think I would check if Abercrombie really was the manager of the Portland Street branch of the City Bank, and if he had a daughter called Amelia whom he took to Carlo’s restaurant for lunch? Or that I would visit his supposed address in Clapham?”

  “Did you?”

  Holmes gave an irritated sigh. “Of course I did. One of the elementary rules of detective work is to check your sources of information to make sure that what you are being told is the truth. I had a very pleasant afternoon at the Portland Street branch of the City Bank, disguised as an old colonial. Not only did I manage to observe the real manager, but, as luck would have it, I also saw how the gang worked it so that they were able to get hold of the keys to the bank.”

  Lestrade sat up. “How’s that?”

  “Another set of performances was involved. One character pretends to be the rich client intent on opening a very large account. He’s ushered into the manager’s office. It is my experience that bank managers are very obsequious where wealthy men are concerned. The ‘client’ is there long enough to take stock of the chamber and the strongroom. Then there is a commotion in the lobby of the bank, and the manager is called for...”

  “Leaving our fellow behind in his office.”

  “Precisely. Long enough for him to take all the details he needs and maybe even make some wax impressions of keys left behind by the flustered manager. Left alone for a short time, any experienced cracksman could easily acquire all the necessaries to carry out a job.”

  “Very clever indeed.”

  “Yes, and that’s what leads me to my dilemma. What I cannot understand is how the brain who conceived that part of the plan allowed the other loopholes to exist. They were stupid weaknesses which could easily have been remedied. Of course, such elements also muddied the waters somewhat. So, as I say, it is as though I was being put through some test to see how clever I am.”

  “Well, if that is the case, you passed with flying colours.”

  “Not quite. Two of the accomplices escaped, and I have a rather nasty trophy.” He indicated his wound.

  “Sometimes, Mr Holmes, you appear to me to be more baffling than the crimes you investigate. It seems to me as a humble, practical, professional policeman, you have managed to scupper a very clever bank robbery where you, being used as a dupe, were supposed to do the job for the thieves. The rest is some weird concoction of your own making. I ask you seriously, Mr Holmes, who on earth would want to test you, as you call it, and give you a sort of exam to see how good a ’tec you are?”

  “That is what I would really like to know.”

  Professor James Moriarty stared at the carpet bag, a faint smile touching his lips.

  “I’m disappointed in Mr Sherlock Holmes,” he said softly. “I never thought he’d let us get our hands on this.”

  “He was bright enough to see through Brand’s performance,” observed Colonel Sebastian Moran.

  Moriarty gave a derisive chuckle. “So, he has the talents of a second-rate drama critic. No, no, my dear Moran, I expected so much more of Mr Holmes. I expected incandescence. Still, it has been an interesting exercise.”

  “Forgive me, Professor, but I cannot understand your interest in this man.”

  “Of course not,” he sneered. “You wouldn’t. It’s to do with the brain, Moran. There are individuals who, for one reason or another, are trapped in isolation in their lives. The poet, the pauper and the thinker — the genius, if you like. I am not being immodest when I think of myself as a genius — after all, I am someone who has a supreme talent to conceive and organise a vast criminal establishment. I have the special intellectual abilities for this most refined and specialised of callings. There is no one like me. But it is a lonely position — when there is no one equal to you. No one on the same intellectual plane.” Moriarty turned to face Moran. “That is no insult to you, my dear fellow. Insults are emotional barbs. What I am talking about here are cold facts. Imagine, then, when I perceived in this fellow Sherlock Holmes not only someone who was potentially on the same intellectual level as myself, but also someone whose pursuit was diametrically opposed to mine. How delicious! He was an opponent on a grand chessboard of law and order. What stimulating times I could have, working out plans and stratagems to challenge, confuse and beat this man. It would raise the game and give me that much-needed frisson that so often seems lacking in my life.”

  “But he failed your first test.”

  Moriarty threw his arm out towards the carpet bag. “Indeed, he did. He let us have the spoils.”

  “Well, at least all your efforts were not in vain. We have t£10,000.”

  The Professor did not respond. Moran would never understand. What was a paltry £10,000 against the opportunity to indulge in a battle of wits with an equal?

  Moran opened the bag and dug his hand inside. “Wait a minute!” he cried, his voice full of alarm and apprehension.

  The Professor’s eyes sparked with interest. “What is it?”

  Quickly, without a word, Moran turned the bag upside-down, tipping the contents on to the Professor’s desk. Sheets of blank white paper spilled out — blank, that is, except for a single sheet that appeared to have writing on it. Deftly, Moriarty extracted this from the pile. Holding it close to the lamp on his desk, he read the sheet out loud: “Sorry. SH.”

  The Professor folded the sheet neatly and burst out laughing.

  Four

  FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN WALKER

  Alexander Reed was the most charming and persuasive of companions, and by the time we were on to our third brandy I had not only told him the story of my life, but also had described in detail the battle of Maiwand and the terrible aftermath which had not only ended my military career, but, as I saw it, had blighted the rest of my life as well. He made little comment as I talked, merely nodding his head sympathetically from time to time and sometimes repeating facts so that he was sure that he understood them. Why he was so interested in my story I had no idea — then — but it was a wonderful tonic for me to be able to unburden myself, to unleash the misery and despair I had kept within me. In medical terms, I suppose it was a kind of therapy. Whatever it was, I felt somehow better when I had finished.

  Reed remained silent for a while when I reached the end of my narrative, and stared meditatively into his drink. I wondered if I had made a fool of myself, and was on the brink of excusing myself in order to go to my cabin, when he turned to me with a sigh.

  “You’ve certainly had a rough time, and I reckon you have been treated very unfairly. It can be a tough old world at times. Still, nil desperandum, as my old pater used to say when my school was being thrashed at cricket. You see, I think I can help you — or, to put it more precisely, I have friends who may be of assistance to you. Help you get on your feet again.”

  “That’s awfully kind, Reed, but I couldn’t possibly accept any handouts.”

  Reed laughed. “My, what a noble fellow you are! Your principles would not allow it, eh?”

  I nodded sheepishly. “Something like that.”

  “Well, then, you’ll be pleased to hear that I was suggesting nothing of the sort. These friends... they may be able to offer you some kind of work.”

&nbs
p; “What kind of work? As a doctor?”

  My companion shrugged. “I’m not sure. I can’t be certain of anything exactly, but I expect that if I put a good word in for you, they could fix you up with something that would suit the both of you. It’s a probability rather than a possibility, anyway. I do a little recruiting for them from time to time. Are you interested?”

  It sounded very mysterious, and under normal circumstances I would have had strong reservations about accepting such a vague offer, but these were not normal circumstances. I had long forgotten what normal circumstances were. I was a drowning man and here was the proverbial straw. I clutched at it.

  “I should be delighted if they could help.”

  Reed beamed. “Splendid. I’m being met off the boat by one of the friends I have just mentioned, a gentleman named Scoular. I shall introduce you to him and act as your sponsor. Then we shall take it from there, eh?”

  “I don’t know how I can thank you enough.”

  Reed winked and raised his empty glass. “Well, for a start, you could fill this little blighter up, eh?”

  * * *

  I slept well that night. The first time in many months. I convinced myself that it wasn’t just the alcohol that lulled me into deep, untroubled sleep, but rather a new feeling of hope that had been engendered within me by meeting Alexander Reed. In a few short hours he had convinced me that my life was not at an end — that somehow I could have a successful and happy future. And not only that, he had held out his hand in friendship in order to help me achieve what previously I had thought was impossible — to seal the past behind me and create a new life. A new life— that phrase bobbed like flotsam on the sea of sleep before it finally engulfed me.

  Grey morning brought with it doubts. On reviewing my conversation with Reed in the cold light of day, I felt certain that my revived spirits had more to do with the effects of the brandy than any vague offer that my new acquaintance had made. My doubts increased when I failed to see Reed anywhere on board the ship. I searched all the decks, dining rooms and bars, but to no avail. I even enquired of the purser for his cabin number, but was told there was no one of that name on board the Orontes. I was dumbfounded. Thinking back to the previous evening, I began to see the occasion as possessing a dreamlike quality. Maybe I had imagined it. The whole episode had an element of wish fulfilment about it: I had been given a kind sympathetic ear, friendship and the offer of employment. Perhaps I was going mad.

  By early evening we were sailing up the Thames and I was packing my scant possessions in readiness to disembark. The pendulum of my spirits had swung back into the dark zone and I felt thoroughly depressed. Disconsolately, I joined the throng of passengers on deck to view some of the familiar landmarks of London, all silhouettes now, merging into the darkening sky.

  “Ah, there you are. Been looking for you,” said a voice at my side. I turned, and to my surprise I saw Reed’s smiling face. He was dressed in an expensive black coat with an astrakhan collar and was wearing an opera hat.

  “And I’ve been looking for you.” My response was automatic and unreasonably indignant.

  Reed ignored my rudeness. “Looks like we’ve both been playing hide-and-seek, then. Well, journey’s end in lovers’ meeting, eh? Now, you’re to leave the boat with me. My friend Scoular will be waiting, and then the three of us can repair to my club for a pork chop or two and discuss the future. What do you say?”

  His charm and easy manner quickly dispelled my anger frustration and despair within seconds. I grinned. “I should be delighted to go along with your plans.”

  “Good man.”

  Out across the city, the melancholy chimes of Big Ben could be heard signalling the hour as though in welcome to the weary travellers about to set foot once more on their native soil.

  Accompanied by a raucous cheer from the crowd waiting on the dockside, the gangplanks were lowered. People waved and cried, babies and infants were held aloft, and the air seemed to crackle with the heightened excitement of anticipated reunion. As I gazed down on those eager, smiling faces, I felt a pang of jealousy. There were no hugs, kisses or firm handshakes waiting for me. There was no one waiting to greet and welcome me back home.

  “Stick close, old boy,” said Reed, grabbing my sleeve. “There’ll be an almighty rush once they lift the barriers.”

  He was right. The crush of passengers desperate to escape the confines of the ship surged forward, squeezing down the narrow lanes of the gangways. It was like being caught up with a fierce river current and being swept away against one’s will. Reed and I were carried along, tossed and buffeted like driftwood.

  “I rate myself a lover of my fellow man,” whispered my companion in my ear as we were jostled nearer the gangway, “but I ain’t so sure I like them this close.”

  Within five minutes, somewhat breathless and dishevelled, we found ourselves standing on the dockside.

  “Well, here we are, Walker. The old country. Breathe in that damp, tainted air. Grand, eh?”

  I smiled. Reed seemed to find amusement and enjoyment in most things. Nothing seemed to ruffle his even temperament or throw a cloud across his sanguine outlook on life. I found myself liking and admiring my new acquaintance more and more. I did take in a lungful of air. Tainted as it was with myriad vapours and smells, so different from the dry, dusty air of Afghanistan, it tasted good to me.

  We stood for some time on the dockside as passengers scurried past us and porters conveyed large trunks to waiting conveyances. It was dark now, and the area was illuminated by a series of gas lamps that bathed us in a soft yellow glow. Neither of us felt the need to talk: we were just taking time to acknowledge our new reality. After weeks bobbing on the waters in an artificial, enclosed environment, we were now back in England, our home. Back where we belonged. And I felt in my heart that, whatever unknown problems I now had to face, I would much prefer to face them here than anywhere else.

  As the crowd dissipated, a tall, imposing figure emerged from the gloom and stood for a moment under one of the gas lamps, watching us. He was well over six feet in height, a height that was exaggerated by the top hat he was wearing. Reed observed him and raised his hand in greeting. This prompted the stranger to approach us. He moved like a cat, with soft sinewy movements, his feet making no sound on the damp paving stones. As he drew closer, I saw that he was a black man, with a remarkably handsome face. He stopped some little distance from where we were standing and touched the brim of his hat with his silver-topped cane, acknowledging Reed’s greeting.

  Reed beamed. “Scoular, my old friend, how good to see you.” He stepped forward, grabbed the man’s hand and gave it a vigourous shake. There was no obvious response: no reciprocal smile or warm words. The fellow’s expression hardly altered. He looked beyond Reed at me, his eyes registering some interest at my presence. Reed noticed this, and his whole body stiffened awkwardly. He threw a nervous smile in my direction.

  “Excuse me, Walker, for a moment, while I have some private words with my old chum.”

  I nodded, feeling rather like a child left outside the headmaster’s study while one of the masters and the head decide on what punishment to administer.

  The two men moved some distance away, whereupon Reed spoke rapidly in an animated fashion. I could not hear what he was saying, but it was clear that he was telling the impassive stranger all about me. From time to time, both men glanced in my direction as though I were some item at an auction which was under discussion by two potential bidders. Obviously Reed had overestimated the welcome and help I would receive from his friends, and he was having to persuade the icy Scoular of my worth. I felt very uncomfortable and was tempted to leave, to walk away. What stopped me was the knowledge that I had nowhere to walk away to. In essence, I was trapped.

  When Reed had finished his recital, he waited nervously for Scoular to respond. The gentleman stood impassively for some time, and then he asked a few questions. In the growing quiet, I heard the dark, silky tone of his voic
e on the night air.

  And then suddenly, Scoular moved with the speed of a leopard and before I knew it, he was by my side, his gloved hand extended and a broad grin on that dark, handsome face of his. “Doctor Walker, I am so pleased to meet you. I am Lincoln Scoular.”

  Dumbly I took his hand and shook it. Like a gas mantle being turned down, the smile faded quickly.

  “I have a carriage waiting. We shall repair to Reed’s club for drink and refreshment, and to provide you with a night’s accommodation. Over our meal we shall discuss your future. I trust that these arrangements are in accordance with your wishes?”

  I nodded. “Indeed,” I said, unsure whether they were or not. I knew that in reality I had no other option. Once again, it was a decision that was to change my life for ever.

  “Where is he now?” Professor Moriarty handed his two visitors a glass of brandy each before seating himself behind his large desk.

  “At my club, snoring his head off no doubt,” grinned Reed, cradling the brandy glass in both hands. “We made sure he had plenty to eat and drink.”

  Moriarty nodded and turned to his other visitor. “Impressions?”

  Scoular pursed his lips. “There is steel and fire in his nature, I am sure. At present he is demoralised, but, given time, the phoenix will rise.”

  “With our help, eh, Professor?” Reed raised his glass in a mock toast.

  The Professor did not seem amused. “You are rarely wrong in finding the organisation effective recruits, Reed, but this time I must be absolutely certain about this man. I have a particular project in mind for him — if he is the right man.”

  “There is no doubt that all the biographical details are true. I read all about his case in the local press in Candahar and thought then that he might make a suitable candidate for recruitment. When I learned that he would be sailing on the same boat back here, I made it my business to find out all about him.”