by J. R. Trtek
“I am so sorry to hear of the tragedy,” I remarked. “Tell me, was the trunk very heavy?”
“Oh, it were not a light load,” the man said with a smile. “And not well packed inside, you know, for whatever it was in there kept jiggling this way and that. The awful thing was that it wouldn’t quite fit within the lift, you see. Otherwise, we’d have just taken her up that way. But no, it was to the stairs with her, and all the effort that accompanied it. I tell you, I’d have preferred hauling a body up them steps instead of that trunk, if I’d had my choice.”
“I sympathise.”
“But at least I did not have to endure all that business with the police on Thursday,” the man declared. “Instead, Stephens was on duty. Spared me a heap of trouble, I can tell you, him being here when they found the corpse.”
He then regaled me with a most detailed description of that day’s events, obtained from his fellow porter. I listened patiently to the lengthy story, and then, as I contemplated my next step, an idea occurred to me.
“I wish to make a request,” I said, interrupting the man’s third version of the police removing the body from No. 15. “Have you paper and pen? I need to compose a short note.”
“Writing implements?” said the man. “Why, of course. You wait here—I’m afraid I never got your name, did I, sir?”
“Mr. Price,” I said upon a whim. “And you said you had paper and pen?”
“We do, indeed. Just a moment.”
While the man strode off to fetch the items I had requested, I made my way to a bench at the far end of the building lobby. Moments later, as I sat there, the porter returned.
“This will do, I hope,” he said. “I found several sheets of writing paper, but only a pencil.”
“Yes, this will suffice,” I replied, taking the items from him.
He then offered me a small box to place upon my lap as an impromptu writing desk, and I hastily composed a note on one sheet of the paper, which I then folded and addressed to “Sherlock or Mycroft Holmes, or Sir Walter Bullivant” before handing back the pencil and unused paper to the generous porter. I placed the note in my coat pocket, bade him farewell, and left the building.
Regaining the pavement outside, I glanced at the house across the street and saw that the window where I had noticed an observer the day before was still curtained. In addition, the loafer had not reappeared, but nonetheless I walked in an unassuming manner for several blocks before hailing a taxicab.
Several minutes later, I found myself yet again ringing the bell of Safety House to no result. I had recalled while at Portland Place, however, that the door of the house was fitted with a letterbox, a memory which had prompted my composing the note on borrowed paper. As no one came to open the door for me, I withdrew the folded page from my coat pocket, slipped it past the horizontal flap of the letterbox, and then left with the intention of visiting various government offices in Westminster, where I still held out some hope of locating either Mycroft Holmes or Sir Walter Bullivant.
That task, however, proved far more daunting that I had expected, for later, as I stood before the first official entrance I encountered, I realised that, despite my personal familiarity with Mycroft Holmes, I had never in all the years of our acquaintance learnt either his formal title or the specific ministry in which he was employed. Thus, I knew not where to search for him—and, indeed, my several attempts proved fruitless: No one to whom I spoke knew of the elder Holmes brother, and when one of my long chains of enquiry brought me back to the office at which I had started, I abandoned hope of quickly finding my friend’s sibling.
Meanwhile, I recalled Sherlock Holmes mentioning that Bullivant held a place of importance within the Secret Service, but when I asked for directions to that organisation’s offices, I was met with suspicion and obfuscation.19 As late afternoon began to wane, I found myself no closer to finding assistance than I had been upon arising from my bed some hours earlier.
I attempted to convince myself that I had done my best under the circumstances as I returned to Queen Anne Street, where it dawned on me that I had had no meal since breakfast. I ravenously devoured my supper and then waited anxiously for some reply to my note. The evening passed, however, without the ringing of either my house bell or my telephone, and for a second night I suffered lack of sleep.
The following morning, I rose later than my usual hour and was preparing to sit down to Sunday breakfast when I heard my housekeeper greet a caller at the house door.
It was Jack James, and his appearance gave me sudden relief.
“Mr. Holmes has read the note you left, sir, and says you have performed magnificently,” the young man declared before I could utter a single word. “But he doesn’t wish to delay in taking advantage of your achievement. Can you leave here immediately, Dr. Watson?”
“Sixty seconds will suffice,” was my reply, and, after apologetically suggesting to my housekeeper that she enjoy the fruits of the cook’s labour instead of me, I finished donning my jacket only as I reached the kerb, where Jack James sat at the ready, behind the wheel of that same taxicab he had driven three days before. Holmes occupied half of the passenger compartment, head bowed so as to obscure his face.
“Off we go again, gentlemen,” said the young American as I stepped into the vehicle and closed the door.
“Portland Place is within walking distance, of course, but every minute may count in this instance,” said Holmes as we roared off. Lifting his face toward mine, he added, “Stop at least a block short, Jack, if you will.”
“Right,” said our chauffeur.
“We returned from Von Bork’s headquarters in Essex less than an hour ago,” my friend told me. “Fortunately, I decided to stop at Safety House rather than return to the flat that I maintain as Altamount south of the river. Your note, which I took to have been put through the letterbox slot, had been left by someone in Mycroft’s mailbox within Safety House, apparently unread, but I routinely scour my brother’s letters, as he no doubt peruses mine. At least it stays within the family,” he remarked with a wan smile. “You have uncovered items of a most interesting nature, Watson, and I expect they will prove vital to our cause. And so you believe Scudder has been sharing the flat of this fellow Hannay the past few days?”
“Yes, under the assumed identity of Captain Theophilus Digby.”
“Hum. By your brief written report, Hannay was at the inquest, resides at Portland Place, and obtained a fellow lodger at the very time that Scudder disappeared from his own flat.” Holmes smiled. “It is a confluence that is quite suggestive, I admit, and Mycroft and Sir Walter will be most appreciative.”
As the remark left his mouth, I felt a satisfying if somewhat grim sense of accomplishment. “My conclusion may be false, however,” I said modestly.
“Rather, I suspect it is my own opinion concerning Scudder’s movements that will prove incorrect. The man, in this instance, appears to have gone against his usual habit and sought assistance—and from an apparent stranger, at that.” Holmes shrugged. “Mais nous verons.”20
I gave him a more complete description of my questioning of the porter at Hannay’s building, mentioning my pose as Mr. Price and the invention of legal documents to be witnessed. Then, two blocks from the block of flats where I believed Scudder still resided, Jack James stopped our taxicab.
Holmes jumped from the vehicle.
“I will this time exercise my skills with locks at the rear of the building and meet you inside on the ground floor,” the detective said. Then, pausing for a moment, he added to Jack James, “Once the doctor has left the cab, scurry to Scotland Yard and try to get in touch with Inspector Magillivray. Have him come to Portland Place at once. Tell him it is most urgent.”
“Yes, sir,” said James as Holmes closed the door of the taxicab.
“Tell him it concerns Scudder,” the detective added as he departed, “but be most discreet about it.”
“I will, Mr. Holmes.”
“Onward, Jac
k,” I said, and we sped off for another three blocks before stopping once more. I left the cab, wished the young man good luck on his search for Inspector Magillivray, and strode briskly back toward Portland Place, taking a side street along a bit of vacant ground, where I passed a hoarding,21 behind which I casually noticed discarded milk cans and an overall.
I then rounded one more corner and caught sight of the block of flats itself, and as a church clock struck eight, I entered the building to find Holmes being confronted by the same porter with whom I had spoken before. As the lift operator watched, cowering from within his cage, the porter turned toward me upon hearing the door close, as if pleading for assistance.
“Ah, it’s you again, sir!” the man cried. “Not a moment too soon! Please help me with this intruder!” He once again faced Holmes. “You’re in with the murderer, aren’t you?”
“Murderer?” said the detective cautiously.
“Help me, Mr. Price!” the porter bellowed again.
“This man is in my employ,” I said sharply, approaching the pair.
“What?” The porter looked momentarily confused. “He’s with you? But he came in from the back, sir. Broke the lock, he did.”
“I never break locks,” Holmes asserted with annoyance. “Go, examine it for yourself, man. I have left the mechanism intact.”
Then, in a different voice, a gruff tone that was neither his own nor that of his creation Altamount, he continued. “It’s what he told me to do,” Holmes said, pointing at me. “I’m his investigator, like he said.” With a jaundiced eye, he added, “I’m an investigator for Mr. Price here.”
The porter appeared to stand down and cast a wary look in my direction, still appearing quite confused.
“Is that correct, sir?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied hurriedly, my eyes meeting those of Holmes before turning toward the other man. “I asked him to meet me here, but discreetly. Evidently,” I said, giving Holmes an amused smile, “my man took the request a bit too literally and gained unlawful entry through the rear of the building. I apologise for the trespass.”
“I’ll accept that, I suppose,” the porter said nervously. “Trespass is the least of my worries at the moment.”
“Yes,” said Holmes. “You mentioned murder.”
The porter looked at Holmes with continued suspicion before addressing me instead.
“It’s your Captain Digby, sir. He’s in the flat above, on his back, a knife though his chest.”
“Great God!” I exclaimed.
Holmes drew himself up and was about to speak when there was noise from above. Turning round, I saw three people watching from the staircase.
“There is nothing going on about here,” called the porter to the newcomers. “Get away! It is a trifle. One of the boarders and two manservants,” he said to me. “I suppose they heard the ruckus I was having with your fellow here.”
“May we see the body?” asked Holmes as the trio of observers slowly ascended the stair and out of view.
“But the police will be here presently, I expect,” the porter replied. “Paddock caught the killer red-handed, sitting right in the flat itself. Claimed to be the milkman, he did, but where’s his cans, eh? And I had seen the real milkman leave but a while earlier. Even had to tell him to stop his whistling in the building, he was so loud.”
“Who is Paddock?” asked Holmes.
“He’s Mr. Hannay’s valet. Always arrives at seven thirty, but he was a tad early today. Opens the door of Mr. Hannay’s flat with his latchkey and finds a strange gent in the sitting room, biding his time. The man gave some wild tale about being coaxed to part with his overall and milk cans—because he claimed to be the milkman, as I just told you. Said he gave them to some other fellow in the flat to use in a jest of his—or so the murderer said.”
I gave a start, remembering that I had seen those very items on my way to the building.
“Paddock went on into another room and there found Captain Digby, covered with a sheet,” the porter said. “Stabbed right through the heart, he was. Paddock took custody of the man and led him out in search of a policeman.”
“And this presumed murderer did not take flight or struggle?” asked Holmes, who was slowly walking toward the staircase.
“No,” said the porter, who instinctively followed my friend across the lobby. “A very docile killer, I suppose, but a killer nonetheless, eh?”
“The police will, no doubt, be returning in force,” Holmes said.
My friend glanced at the porter, whose eyes were fixed on him, and then said to me with an obsequious tone, “Perhaps, Mr. Price, you should enter the flat to look for those other legal documents you mentioned, seeing as how Captain Digby is now deceased.”
“Yes, I suppose you are correct,” I stammered in reply. Then, quickly regaining my confidence, I asked the porter, “Will you please take us to Mr. Hannay’s flat?”
“I’m not certain that I should,” the man replied.
After energetic coaxing on my part, however, he relented and hesitantly led us up the common staircase to the flat in question. The porter tried the door, finding it unlocked.
“I’d best stand guard, should I not?” he suggested.
“Indeed,” I said, stepping in front of him to be nearer the door, which was now ajar. “That is an excellent suggestion.”
Looking at Holmes discreetly for assurance, I continued. “Let me propose instead, however, that you stand outside at the building entrance. Watch for the police to arrive, and warn—or, rather, notify us of that at once.”
“But should I not be in the rooms with you, as you do whatever it is you are going to do?” the porter asked nervously. “And what, if I may ask, will that be?”
“I am glad you agree,” I said, taking the man by the shoulders and leading him toward the staircase. “Go down and watch for the police, please. We will be but a few minutes.”
Holmes swept past me and into the flat, while the porter stepped to the railing and haltingly began his descent.
“Oh, it is all out of Conan Doyle, isn’t it?” he moaned.
“What do you mean by that?” I asked sharply.
“Well,” the porter said, pausing on the staircase, “there is this murder, with a body on the floor and a knife in it, as well as mysterious milkmen.”
“Yes, but why did you mention the name of—”
“Mr. Price!” called Holmes from within the flat. “I believe you’d best look at this, sir!”
I stared at the porter as he gazed up at me.
“Later,” I said brusquely before he continued on to the ground floor. I turned and entered the flat, closing the door behind me.
The abode of Richard Hannay was far more elegant than the simple digs that Franklin Scudder had occupied above. The sitting room was large and well-furnished, but I noticed at once that it was in profound disarray. Drawers had been pulled from chests, their contents rummaged, and books lay in confusion, many lying open upon chairs, shelves, and the carpet.
Holmes leading, we proceeded to what I took to be a smoking room. It, too, had been left in chaos, and in its centre, partially covered by a tablecloth, lay the body of a man in evening dress. Pulling back on the cloth, Holmes exposed the face.
Though he had shaved, altered his hair and brows, and applied stain to his skin to simulate weathering, the dead man was immediately recognizable to me. He bore a remarkably calm expression, despite the fact that a very long knife was embedded in his chest, as the porter had warned us.
“I take it that the deceased this time is actually Scudder?” said Holmes as he pulled the cloth back farther and began to search the pockets of the man’s jacket and trousers.
“Oh yes, it is Scudder.”
“There is nothing of significance on his person,” Holmes remarked. “Loose coins, a cigar holder. This pen knife and a bit of silver in the trousers. Ah, here’s something in the side pocket of the jacket…”
I bent down with anticipat
ion.
“Hum,” said my friend in disappointment. “It is just an old crocodile-skin cigar case, and an empty one at that.”
“Holmes,” I said as he put back the items, “what do you make of the fact that the rooms have been—”
“Ransacked? Yes, one could not miss that, could one? Let us determine the thoroughness of the search.”
A quick exploration revealed that, in addition to the disruption of the sitting and smoking rooms, cupboards and chests and boxes had been violently disturbed in every other reach of the flat. Even the pockets of clothing still hanging in wardrobes had been turned out.
“Not one small area has been left untouched,” observed Holmes as we stood in the bedroom. “And each time, the same rude, rapacious techniques have been employed. Whatever the intruders were seeking, the odds are that they did not find it.”
“Can you be certain?” I asked. “After all, the last place one looks is always where the quarry is found.”
“True enough, old fellow, but in this instance the entire flat was turned topsy-turvy. The probability is that, had the searchers found what they sought, it would have occurred with some part of these rooms still left to be searched, an area which would then remain intact. Yet no portion has escaped the rampage, do you not agree?”
I shrugged. “And what of the fellow whose flat this is? Mr. Richard Hannay, whom I followed after the inquest?”
Holmes cocked his head, swept his eyes around the room, and then gave a small smile. “Well, he does apparently hail from the African continent, judging by various mementos that lie scattered amid this rubble. I also fancy him to have had some military experience, given those regimental collar badges that have been mounted and framed there upon the wall. Do you recognise the device on them: crossed flags mounted on lances?”
“The image is unfamiliar to me. The Fighting Fifth22 wore St. George killing the dragon,” I mused.
“I expect these badges are from a South African unit—perhaps he fought against the Boers. In any event, he appears to have had a career as an engineer—most likely a mining engineer, given the titles of many of these books that have been strewn about the place. The most relevant fact about Mr. Hannay at present, however, is that he must be in flight for his life.”