by J. R. Trtek
My friend smiled and nodded. “Presumed superiority,” he amended.
“That still fails to explain why you did not ask me to write the story,” I said, as curiosity supplanted rage in fuelling my protestations.
“I did not wish to distract you,” Holmes replied. “It was not my wish to lure you from your war work with the demands of what may be a useless errand.”
“You said earlier that Doyle did not write the piece. Who did, then? And why is Doyle identified as the author?”
“I proposed the ploy to Mycroft and Bullivant some weeks ago,” Holmes replied. “When I told them I did not wish to trouble you with composing the tale, Sir Walter suggested we employ instead the fellow who had already penned those two fictions based on Hannay’s adventures.
“That man is well-practised, having been in the intelligence corps and before that the War Communications Office. Of course, it could not appear under his name, for he would then be publicly associated with me as well as Hannay, thus indirectly linking me with Hannay and suggesting I remain in the field as an active espionage agent for the government rather than a sedentary cryptographer. Thus, I asked Mycroft to approach Doyle about lending his name to the enterprise.”201
“An excellent choice,” I said with sarcasm, “since most people seem to think that Doyle writes my stories.”
“In that regard, Watson, there is one more delicate point that needs mentioning.”
I sat up straight in the basket chair and cast a beady eye at Holmes. “And what might that be?”
“It seems that Doyle has written a play about me,” Holmes said cautiously. “It is fiction, of course, and I doubt that you would approve of either the prose or the plot, but he asked—as his price for allowing the Von Bork story to be published under his name—that I give my blessing to the play’s production, and that I permit him to adapt the play into a short story, should he ever care to do so—and that Mycroft promise to convince The Strand to publish it.”
“The nerve of that man—Doyle, that is.”
“For King and Empire,” said Holmes wanly. “But in all seriousness, Watson, if you do not approve, I will withdraw my endorsement of Doyle’s play and prospective story.”202
“No,” I said wearily. “I will pose no objection. However, I insist on imposing two stipulations.”
“Name them.”
“First, you shall allow me to finally chronicle the Phillimore and Ferguson affairs. I understand your past resistance to my writing stories based upon those cases, but you will henceforth drop your objections altogether.”203
“Done.”
“Second, you shall, at some time in future, write one—no, two stories of your own,” I demanded.
“What?”
“Were you not listening? You will compose two stories based upon cases of your choice.”
“I heard you the first time, Watson. The difficulty I have is with understanding your motive. Why should you wish me to emulate your efforts in fabricating melodrama?”
“Perhaps you may then gain some appreciation for my efforts these past many years,” I said primly. “It is not an easy thing to distil your cases into literature. And do not take issue with the last word of my previous sentence.”
“I do not, old fellow,” said he, raising his hands in protest. “And I agree to your conditions, though it may take me some time to get around to fulfilling my obligations to you.”
“I am willing to be patient.”
“As am I, Watson, to wait and see if Von Bork is out there—and if he is spurred by my provocation.”204
Sherlock Holmes did not have long to wait for stronger evidence of renewed German activity in Britain, whether under the command of Heinrich von Bork or not, for two evenings later, we received a call from Inspector Magillivray.
“A man has been run down by a taxicab in Kings Cross,” I heard the man’s voice declare from the telephone. “He was holding a very interesting piece of paper that may have a bearing on your current pursuits, Mr. Holmes.”
“We will be there presently,” said my friend, looking at me as he spoke. “Just off Eversholt Street, you say? Colonel Watson and I will be there presently.”
Even before Holmes’s conversation was finished, I had fetched our waterproofs and hats and stood ready to present my companion with his garments.
“Perhaps this is the moment when your dam of frustration breaks,” I said.
“We shall see,” replied Holmes, accepting his coat and hat. “I do hope I am up to this, Watson, for I have not examined a dead body in more than three years. One loses one’s touch.”
A taxicab bore us through darkness to the site of the accident. Its victim lay upon a pavement near the kerb, evidently having been carried there following the collision that had claimed his life. The deceased’s own greatcoat shrouded the corpse, which was encircled by a group of constables, who separated it from a gathering of onlookers.
“I hope this is not another wild goose chase,” said Inspector Magillivray, stepping past the small crowd and into the ring of policemen as Holmes and I followed. “I fear you have suffered too many of those, sir,” the inspector added.
My friend’s smile was revealed as he turned his face toward a street lamp. “I suffer the chases gladly, knowing I will someday have the goose in hand.”
“Fortunately,” the man from Scotland Yard said, “the accident was reported rather quickly, and in view of what the fellow was clutching, word was quickly passed on to Sergeant Scaife and through him to me, and so I alerted you.”
Holmes knelt over the remains and lightly withdrew its covering garment. “It would be preferred the body had not been moved, but one cannot have everything.”
“He was still alive after the taxicab struck him,” Magillivray explained. “The chauffeur and three other men carried him off the street to this spot. A policeman was on foot at the far end of the lane and immediately ran to the scene. That is another reason I learnt so quickly about the incident.”
Holmes nodded as he studied the dead man. “There has not yet been an examination of his person or garments?”
“Not a thorough examination, no.”
“But the slip of paper was removed before being replaced in his hand, I see,” the detective declared.
“Yes, sir. As I said, the man was still alive at the time. He did not speak, other than to groan most horribly, I am told, and he held the paper tightly in his hand, refusing to surrender it, until he expired.”
“And death came swiftly?”
“Within five minutes of his being struck by the taxi, according to the policeman’s estimate.”
“There is no apparent connection between the chauffeur and our corpse?”
“As I am sure you would tell me, Mr. Holmes, there is always the possibility of such a relationship, but I think it doubtful. According to all witnesses, the man here was in a great hurry and dashed into the street without looking to either side. The taxi came rumbling swiftly round the corner quite by chance and, though the chauffeur made a mighty effort to stop in time, the vehicle ploughed straight into the fellow. He is being held at the nearest station and is beside himself with grief—the chauffeur, that is.”
“I understand,” said Holmes, who reached for the small piece of folded paper that lay in the corpse’s hand.
“It was the constable at the scene who pulled it from him,” said Magillivray. “And it was what was written upon it that suggested the incident might be of importance to you. He placed it back into the dead man’s fist.”
I bent down behind Holmes as he unfolded the paper and brushed several flakes of dark reddish grit from it. Upon the small sheet were scrawled, in ink, but two words: Wolfram Schwefel.
“That’s about as German a name as I can think of,” said Magillivray. “Do you believe we should attempt to search for such a man?”
Holmes ignored the inspector’s question as he slid the paper into the pocket of his jacket and began carefully searching within th
e victim’s clothing. That exploration yielded only five items: a penknife, two unsmoked cigars, a matchbook, and a metal ring bearing several keys, all of which the detective placed in his coat pocket after a cursory examination of each.
Holmes turned back the collar of the man’s jacket and also picked up the greatcoat to examine its inner lining. “There is nothing to identify him,” my friend said, brushing more bits of grime that adhered to the outer garment down one side and along the corresponding inner arm.
“Do you believe that he himself was Wolfram Schwefel?” asked Magillivray. “Perhaps that note was by another hand, meant to identify him to a third party.”
Holmes once more failed to respond to the inspector’s comment. Instead, he rose to his full height and said, “From which direction was the man running?”
“From there,” answered one of the constables, pointing past the small crowd of onlookers and out across the street. “According to those who saw the accident, he emerged from that alley and rushed into the lane, where he was struck by the taxicab.”
“Let us survey that area between the two buildings,” said Holmes, who led Magillivray, me, and another of the constables across the street and toward the alley opposite.
“Will we be looking for something in particular?” asked the inspector as we passed the alley entrance.
“Yes,” said Holmes in an abstracted voice as he withdrew an electric torch from his coat pocket. My friend took a moment to cast light on both brick walls that lined the corridor and then said, “On this side, I should think,” as he pointed to the left. “We will, all of us, reach above shoulder height and search for any loose brick that moves. Here,” he directed, “and if you stagger yourselves along the length of the alley, we will complete the task that much sooner. Do not bother at first with areas below shoulder height.”
Thus directed, the four of us each took a section of wall and slowly progressed along our respective portions, reaching up and pulling on one brick after another. Holmes completed his segment first and then moved past me to continue searching. A moment later, however, the hunt ended.
“Halloa!” cried Magillivray. “I have found one that moves.”
Holmes motioned for me and the constable to remain at our stations as he approached the inspector. Reaching up, my friend grasped the loose brick found by Magillivray and pulled it free of the wall. Then Holmes stuck the fingers of his free hand into the resulting cavity before withdrawing and examining them.
“The slip of paper was contained behind the brick?” I suggested. “Our deceased stranger retrieved it from there?”
“Yes,” said Holmes, indicating that I and the policeman might now join him and Magillivray at their end of the alley. “The paper had a dark reddish grime on its surface, as I assume you noticed,” he said. “Similar material adhered to the right side of the dead man’s greatcoat, as well as along most of the length of the coat’s inner right arm. This alley has no outlet, and of the two brick walls, the one on this side has a coloration more closely matching that found on the paper and coat.”
“And so the man leaned against the alley wall to reach up, pull out the brick and extract the piece of paper,” said Magillivray.
“Yes,” Holmes answered. “That appears obvious at this point. There is no ledge here upon which to hide the paper, and such a manner of deposit would risk discovery, in any event.”
“And the loose brick was high enough so that a passer-by might not accidentally dislodge it and discover the message within,” I added.
Holmes nodded.
“The message must have been most urgent, for it sent him quickly running from the alley,” the constable asserted before putting a hand to his mouth, for fear he had been too bold.
“Yes, just so,” said Holmes with a kindly smile as he withdrew from his pocket the paper found in the dead man’s hand and reached upward to deposit it in the wall cavity.
“You are leaving that note in place?” asked Magillivray.
“I am,” replied Holmes as he restored the brick in the alley wall. “I have taken from it all that I can, and failing to replace it would inform our adversaries that the message was seen by others in one manner or the other. Fortunately, the paper has not been badly crumpled and will appear intact when they choose to retrieve it.”
“Certainly, they will learn of their man’s death soon enough,” I said.
“Hopefully, not so soon that they are already here to observe us at present,” remarked Holmes. “It is my wish that they believe he died by accident as he approached the alley to retrieve the message. Come,” he said, guiding us back toward the street. “You and I must depart this locale at once, Watson.”
“Well,” said Magillivray, following Holmes toward the alley entrance, “I suppose that all makes sense, though I wish to know when you desire that we begin searching for the individual named on that piece of paper.”
“Oh, you should not trouble yourself by seeking a man called Wolfram Schwefel,” replied Sherlock Holmes.
“Why?” asked the inspector as we left the alley. “Do you think the body across the street is that of Herr Schwefel?”
“No. The slip of paper does not refer to a person.”
“What?” said Magillivray, stopping in his tracks.
“Wolfram is the German term for the element tungsten,” said Holmes abstractedly as he continued walking, “and schwefel is that language’s word for sulphur.”
“In some sense, are you not more removed from your goal than before?” I asked later that night, as I sat across from Holmes while, for the first time, he more carefully examined the items taken from the dead man.
“There are now additional conundrums blocking your path,” I said. “You have ‘tungsten’ and ‘sulphur’ to contemplate, in addition to Frank Farrar’s elusive Dietrich Baumann and his activities near the gasworks, not to mention the matter of the Nemesis. And there is no certainty that any of those items are related to the enigma of Cerebus.”
Holmes smiled. “As a great philosopher has said, the journey of a thousand miles begins with one step. What is sometimes not mentioned in that well-worn adage, however, is that many of the succeeding steps may lead sideways, or even backward. Nonetheless, I am confident we will arrive at our goal in time.”
“In time to foil whatever the Germans have in mind, you mean?”
“Yes.” He held up the collection of keys that had been found on the body of the dead man. “We do know a little more about how this presumed new spy cell functions, whether or not Von Bork is associated with it.”
“Oh?”
Holmes tossed the keys down upon the table beside him. “The business of hiding cryptic notes behind alley bricks is a revealing practice. A rather clumsy method of communication, it tells us nonetheless that some of the underlings are not instructed in person by their superiors.”
“And what is the reason for that arrangement?”
“Perhaps it is meant to prevent the underlings from identifying those superiors or unconsciously leading our agents back to them,” my friend replied as he picked up the penknife that had also been found on the man run over near Eversholt Street. “That may in turn suggest that our deceased friend was an Englishman who had unknowingly hired on with German spies. Or, alternatively, that the Germans do not trust their own people.” He held the knife, contemplating it.
“But as you say,” I said, “the note the man had picked up was hardly explanatory. There were but two words in it, yet seemingly he knew what to do. He must have earlier received detailed instructions from someone.”
“At a previous time, yes,” said Holmes, unfolding the blade. He delicately ran a finger along its length. “Before suddenly being called to action, perhaps.”
“Do you believe that everyone in this third branch of Cerberus has received his instructions already and is waiting merely for the passwords or gestures that will set those directives into motion?”
“That is the view toward which I presently
lean,” admitted Holmes, bringing the knife closer to his eye.
“You glean something from that object?”
“There is tar on the blade. Nothing more.”
“And the keys you tossed down a moment ago?”
“They appear associated with padlocks. There is no identification of any sort, however. Still, they are well worn, though of recent make.”
“And do you expect the dead man to remain anonymous?”
“Yes, perhaps even after the rest of our puzzle is solved,” replied Holmes. “There was nothing by which his nationality could be ascertained and no personal markings of any kind. If this incident represents our first definitive encounter with the supposed sleeping cell, then it suggests that they are not only awake but also very alert and cautious, leaving very little by which we might detect and trace their actions.”
“Is the alley where the message was left being watched?”
“No, though Magillivray kept expressing a desire to keep it under constant surveillance. Of course, that effort could result in disaster, for if our German friends realised the area was being guarded, they would suspect we knew of the message. Fortunately, the inspector soon came round to my point of view. Now Von Bork will be none the wiser.”
As my friend set down the penknife, I decided not to contest the assumption that his former foe was indeed a participant in this shadowy drama.
“That leaves us with nothing but an unidentified corpse, some keys, and a blade stained with tar,” Holmes went on. “And a matchbook and two cigars.” He examined both of the latter minutely before setting them aside.
“Are they useful?” I asked.
“The cigars? No, and they are a common variety, not even worth burning for the purpose of cataloguing their ash.”
I watched my friend pick up the last item recovered from the dead man: a matchbook. Holmes looked at the cover and then opened it.
“You are spending more time in a study of that final item than all the others combined,” I observed after a while. “It is an object of interest?”
“Certainly, it is sparking my curiosity,” said he, holding up the matchbook.