Thirty-Nine Steps from Baker Street

by J. R. Trtek

  While I stood some distance from the building, I observed the man pass a loafer near the main door, and as I watched, the loafer suddenly looked up and across the street. I turned my head quickly in the same direction and saw, framed by a first-floor window in the house opposite, the head of another man, his face obscured by a curtain. There was a nod from the person at the window, and the loafer gave a hand signal in reply as my moustached quarry entered the block of flats.

  I now fully understood that I had stepped into very deep waters. That Scudder’s building was being watched there could be no doubt, but by whom? The loafer and his partner could well be Magillivray’s men from Scotland Yard, or perhaps members of Bullivant’s Secret Service. John Blenkiron had admitted that American agents were present in London, and these might be two of his countrymen instead. Alternatively, I knew, they could be men in the pay of some other foreign power.

  In addition, I could not be certain what the apparent signals between the two individuals had signified. Perhaps the man had meant nothing to the pair, or possibly he was one they earnestly sought. When, after some time, the object of my pursuit did not emerge from the building, I concluded that he must reside there. And, since I had seen him the previous day coming from the first floor, I concluded that his flat was in that portion of the block.

  Accosting him alone in his rooms would expose my interest in him, I feared, and so I turned away, having decided that I should seek out assistance before proceeding.

  Sherlock Holmes, I recalled, had departed for Sussex that morning to rendezvous with the German spy leader Von Bork. John Blenkiron had seemed most friendly, but he was an American, and I knew not if he were still in London and—if he had remained in the metropolis—where he was quartered. I could attempt to contact him at Traill’s Bookshop, but I suspected I would be rebuffed without knowledge of some special password. That left Sir Walter Bullivant and Mycroft Holmes as my only sources of help. Given my previous experiences with both men, I knew which one to seek first.

  I hurried south toward Pall Mall, intent on determining if Mycroft Holmes might be biding his time at the Diogenes Club, the distinctive institution that he himself had helped found. A haven for the misanthropic, the club was established to benefit those having no wish for the company of their fellows, yet who could still appreciate the comfort of plush chairs and the latest in reading material.

  The Diogenes Club, in short, was famed for containing the most unsociable men in town.

  I passed the more venerable Carlton Club and quickly strode on to that plain door before which I had stood more than once in years past. After steadying my nerves, I rang. An attendant responded, and after presenting my card, I was led along the club’s unusual entrance corridor.

  We almost at once encountered the unique glass panelling that comprised the left-hand side of the hall, allowing me to see into the club’s large main room, where no member is permitted to take the least notice of any other one. The panelling, which separated the entry hall from the main room, served a dual purpose, however: while allowing a newcomer to view the inhabitants of the main room, it also gave members sitting there forewarning of incoming visitors.

  As I stared through the panes, searching for the rotund frame of Mycroft Holmes, I saw instead, sitting in an armchair reading a periodical, Sir Walter Bullivant. It seemed odd that the spymaster should, by coincidence, be a member of the Diogenes Club, but I thought not to question my good fortune. The attendant guided me to the right and into the Stranger’s Room, graced with but a single bow window looking out onto Pall Mall and the only room within the club where talking was permitted.

  The attendant asked whom I sought.

  “I came looking for Mycroft Holmes,” I told him quickly. “But I just espied Sir Walter Bullivant in the main room. May I please have a word with him?”

  The servant nodded and left me standing by the window. I fingered the brim of my hat and glanced outside as I waited for Bullivant, finding the interval was extending far longer than I should have expected.

  At length, the attendant returned.

  “Neither Mr. Holmes nor Sir Walter is present, sir,” he informed me.

  “But I saw the latter as I entered,” I once more asserted. “He was in a chair, reading.”

  “I’m afraid I did not come across him, sir,” was the man’s reply. “Perhaps we should both observe again from the hallway—silently, if you please?”

  I followed him from the Stranger’s Room into the corridor. Looking once more through the glass, I saw that the armchair which had held Bullivant was now empty.

  “But he was there,” I said, indicating where Sir Walter had been.

  “Pointing is no more allowed than speaking, sir,” whispered the attendant.

  Contritely, I dropped my arm and hid the forefinger and then led the attendant back to the Stranger’s Room.

  “But he was there,” I said softly but urgently, once we had returned. “Sir Walter was in the main room, in an armchair, calmly reading.”

  “I believe we both observed, sir, that he is not occupying any chair at present. Indeed, I surveyed the entire main room and found that he is not present at all.”

  I nodded reluctant agreement. “And Mycroft Holmes is not about, either?” I asked.

  “As you had mentioned Mr. Holmes initially, I did keep an eye for him also, but to no avail.”

  “May I leave a note for either gentleman?”

  “I am afraid that is not allowed anymore, sir. Indeed,” the attendant added, “many of our members come here to evade such intrusions.”

  “Well then,” I muttered, turning toward the entrance corridor, “I may as well depart.”

  We both marched back down the hallway, and the attendant opened the door so that I might leave the building. Standing for a moment on the pavement, gazing at the bow window from which I had but minutes before stared toward my present location, I considered going on to various government offices in Westminster in search of Mycroft Holmes. By now, however, the afternoon had begun to advance toward evening, and I decided those offices would be closing to the public.

  It was then that I thought to undertake a pilgrimage to the Safety House, believing that whomever I might find there would be able to direct me to one of the men I sought. And so, flagging down a taxicab—this time, one not operated by Jack James—I proceeded in that direction.

  Employing caution, as I was certain Sherlock Holmes would have advised, I instructed the chauffeur to take me a slight distance away from the house itself and then walked in a roundabout manner to the front door I had confronted the day before. I stared at the letterbox and then squarely at the small peephole, which I should never have noticed had I not already been aware of its existence. Then, after a deep breath, I rang in the pattern I had been told previously.

  There was no response. Again I rang, once more to no effect.

  It was quite possible that the house was empty at this time, but I began to fear that, perhaps instead, the appropriate pattern of ringing was changed each day, so that my signal would naturally be ignored.

  Stepping back from the entrance, I began to slowly walk away, pondering what further action I might take. Eventually, having trod several blocks at random, I found I had no answer to my question, and so in a disheartened state, I found a second taxicab to deliver me home, where I spent a restless and anxious night.

  * * *

  7 Von Bork is Holmes’s antagonist in “His Last Bow,” a story that does not reveal the German’s given name. In that same tale, there is mention of a cousin of Von Bork named Heinrich, but that does not preclude the possibility that both men had the same first name, or that the author of the short story confused Von Bork with his cousin.

  8 Whitehall is a road in central London lined with administrative buildings, so that the name is often used as a synonym for the British government itself. Meanwhile, in The Thirty-Nine Steps, Scudder is portrayed as a freelance agent. Watson’s narrative makes clear that he w
as actually operating under the command of Washington, which apparently had directed him to cooperate with British Intelligence.

  9 An area of central London and the location of the aforementioned Whitehall Road, Westminster has been the home of the British government for centuries.

  10 Almost twenty years earlier, in 1895, Holmes and Watson had been involved in a case involving the theft of military secrets.

  11 It is possible that Mycroft Holmes’s coinage may be the source of the term “safe house,” which did not come into general use within the espionage community until later in the century.

  12 This is a fictional name, for no such automobile appears to have existed.

  13 Watson again uses a fictitious manufacturer’s name, for Blenkiron is undoubtedly referring to the Ford Model-T.

  14 A batman is the personal servant of a British military officer.

  15 In Greek and Roman legend, Cerberus was a multi-headed hellhound that guarded the gates of Hades, preventing its inhabitants from escaping.

  16 William Burke and William Hare killed a number of people in Edinburgh during 1828, selling the corpses as subjects for dissection in anatomy classes, at a time when cadavers for medical research and training were difficult to come by.

  17 “The City” here refers to the historic heart of London, encompassing only that part inhabited through the Middle Ages and not the greater metropolis as a whole.

  CHAPTER THREE: THE MAN WHO FLED

  While rising the next day, I realised I had overlooked the possibility of seeking Inspector Magillivray’s assistance. However, as I sat upon the edge of my bed in early morning light and contemplated a visit to Scotland Yard, arguments against that choice rapidly came to mind.

  Sherlock Holmes had indicated that the inspector was Bullivant’s man, to be sure, but he had also explained that Magillivray was not privy to all portions of the spymaster’s plans and intentions. Indeed, though I had been granted at least a momentary seat at the inner circle in Safety House, the inspector was not yet deemed worthy of such inclusion, and I found it difficult to conceive how I might impress upon Magillivray the possible importance of the moustached man without revealing too much of what I knew of Scudder’s mission, knowledge which Bullivant might not desire the inspector to have.

  It also occurred to me that, once I had engaged Magillivray at length, it would be all too obvious to him that I knew even less of Bullivant and his operations than did he, and that such ignorance might, in turn, cause the inspector to become suspicious of my own position, intentions and loyalties, since I had earlier claimed familiarity with the spymaster.

  Thus, as I prepared to make my toilet,18 I had already weighed all arguments and decided that it was best to exclude the inspector from my current problem. I resolved instead to return to Portland Place and there conduct my own investigation as best I might. At the very least, it seemed, I might learn the identity of the man whom I had twice encountered and thus attach a name to the tanned face and drooping moustache.

  So it was that, almost forty-eight hours after first entering that block of flats where Scudder had roomed, I approached the building a third time. Recalling my last experience, I sought out the loafer I had seen the day before, but he was nowhere in view. In like manner, the window across the street, to which he had signalled, was vacant—indeed, it was now completely curtained shut.

  Feeling somewhat more assured by this apparent absence of observers, I entered the building and strode casually across the lobby toward the porter, who was not the same individual I had earlier seen serving in that capacity. This man sat reading the previous day’s Evening Standard, but he put it down upon noticing me.

  “How may I help you, sir?” the porter asked, getting to his feet.

  I paused, suddenly unsure of myself, for though I had practised my opening remarks many times on the way to Portland Place, I was now gripped by fear that the other man might become suspicious if I appeared to be seeking my quarry too earnestly. The expectant look in the eyes of the porter only heightened that anxiety, and finding myself years out of practice in the arts of such ruses, I found myself immediately frozen and speechless.

  I cleared my throat, creating an interlude which allowed me to do the same for my mind, and then said idly, “There is a gentleman residing here I wish to see. He has recently arrived, I believe, from India.”

  This last remark I added with trepidation, for I had no assurance that the subcontinent had been the man’s previous residence—I thought Afghanistan an unlikely choice, but South Africa or, I supposed, the Levant could not be excluded. I silently hoped I had made the correct choice as I waited for the porter to respond.

  “Ah, I suppose you must mean that Captain Digby who’s taken to lodging with Mr. Hannay up on the first floor,” he said after a moment.

  “Indeed,” I said with a sigh of relief. “It is Captain Digby, though I must confess,” I added with a nervous smile, “that I am but a casual acquaintance and can never recall the man’s given name.”

  “It is Theophilus, I’ve been told,” replied the man with a curious tone. “Don’t quite see how a man could forget that name, though I reckon the captain himself may wish he could, eh?” he added with a chuckle.

  I was at once alarmed by my apparent faux pas, but fortunately, the porter mistook my expression of concern for one of offense instead.

  “Oh, not that I was making light of a fine soldier such as he must be,” the man said anxiously, stepping closer. “No, please forgive me if I seemed disrespectful, for I would never intend that.

  “I’ve observed the man but once, and that was enough to make clear that I was in the presence of a professional fighting man, all right. He possesses a superb military bearing, even out of uniform. And that voice! So commanding, it is. And he’s obviously quite disciplined in the personal sense, too, you understand: very well groomed, with hair parted precisely in the middle and his face shaved perfectly clean. Even sports a monocle, to finish the portrait.”

  My heart sank at the porter’s extended description of Captain Digby, for it made obvious to me that he was not the man I sought. Yet, I believed, there was still a chance that success might be salvaged, and I reached for it.

  “You said he is residing with someone here?” I ventured.

  “With Mr. Hannay—Richard Hannay, the South African chap,” the porter replied, and upon hearing those last three words, I felt hope return in sudden fullness.

  “Ah, yes,” I said boldly. “Mr. Hannay, with the drooping moustache and tanned face.”

  “That’s right, sir. You plainly know him.”

  “Indeed, I do. It is through him that I made my acquaintance with Captain Digby, you see.”

  “Well, you’ve accomplished more than any of us here have, I can tell you. The captain’s been here just a very short time, but he seems to keep to himself in Mr. Hannay’s flat pretty much round the clock, day and night. I’ve seen the man but once, as I just told you. Bit of a reclusive, he is—that’s the medical term for it, I believe.”

  “I see.”

  “Mr. Hannay, on the other hand, is about as friendly as possible, as you must know, being of his acquaintance. Has he ever done any of his little Scottish pantomimes for you?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, you must ask him to perform one for you some time. Just last week, he was regaling me and the lift operator with his impersonation of a sheep herder whose dog was going—”

  “Do you know if Mr. Hannay is in?” I asked abruptly.

  “In fact,” said the porter, taking no offense at my interruption, “he’s out most of the time, including the present—I saw him leave less than an hour ago.”

  “Oh.”

  “But then, it is Captain Digby you’ve come to visit, I believe you said, and he never goes out. Shall I step up to the first floor and see if he’s accepting callers? I would just be doing my job. Here, let me—”

  “No, thank you,” I replied, fumbling for an explanation. “The
fact is, Mr. Hannay’s presence will be required also,” I added on impulse and then, with sudden inspiration, patted the chest of my coat as if the pocket held a document.

  “There are some personal legal issues involving the captain that require settling,” I said. “Papers to be signed, and Mr. Hannay had agreed to act as witness. Nothing can proceed unless he is present as well.”

  “Oh,” said the porter in a very deferential tone. “Yes, indeed, I see. Very personal legal business it is, then.”

  “I will return later, I think.”

  “And should I mention your enquiry to Captain Digby or Mr. Hannay?”

  “No,” I replied as I turned to go. “I would, in fact, very much appreciate it if you would not. Extreme discretion must attend this matter, I am afraid.”

  “Oh well, then mum shall be my word,” the porter told me, winking. “Discreet business and mum it shall be, yes.”

  I nodded and then strode back across the lobby, confident that I had identified my moustached man. Then, a few feet from the door, I paused and turned, having half-consciously contemplated the fact of Theophilus Digby’s presence in the meanwhile.

  “Excuse me,” I called to the porter. “I realise that you told me earlier, but when did the captain take up residence here?”

  “Two days ago,” the man replied. He scratched his head, tilting his cap slightly. “Yes, it must have been Thursday, for Paddock—that’s Mr. Hannay’s valet—he first made mention of the captain that very morning. You see, it was the same day as they found poor Mr. Scudder’s body up on the top floor.”

  “Oh? A body?” I said, feigning lack of knowledge concerning the tragedy. I stepped closer to the porter, who, Evening Standard once more in hand, approached to meet me halfway.

  “Yes, nasty business that was,” he told me as if confiding in a very close friend. “Have you not heard of it?” He began to leaf through his newspaper. “I should think there must be details in this edition. Well, in any case,” he said, lowering the paper from his face, “the gent was an American, you see. Shot himself clean through the jaw while in his nightclothes—terrible, most terrible it was. And I had helped the poor soul get his trunk up top but the day before.”