Thirty-Nine Steps from Baker Street

by J. R. Trtek

  “Colonel Watson, there is an American soldier here to see you,” she said with an odd look in her eye.

  I set down my pen and gave our housekeeper an expression of puzzlement.

  “I have no idea why the Americans should wish to contact me,” I said, rising from my writing desk. “No one has mentioned any sort of coordination with them. And why their messenger should call for me here—well, I can only suppose it is a matter both sudden and urgent,” I said. “For why else would they seek me here in Queen Anne Street?”

  I gently strode past our housekeeper and on down the hall, saying, “He must be received, then.”

  “The young man is still outside the door,” Martha declared with a chuckle as I passed her at the sitting room door and marched down the hallway. “I thought perhaps you should see to him yourself.”

  “Yes, I shall deal with the visitor,” I replied over my shoulder, smiling. “You may stand down, madam.”

  I opened the door of my residence and saw before me a boyish fellow in the dress of an American private, hands thrust into the pockets of his open coat, worn over a wool khaki uniform. The man, barely over twenty years of age, wore leggings and trench shoes, with a smart overseas cap set rakishly upon his blond head. His eyes bore a look of familiarity, yet I could not place him until he uttered his first words to me.

  “Halloa, Dr. Watson,” the soldier said.

  “Jack James! Halloa, my boy!” I cried. “I confess that at first I did not grasp that it was you.”

  “Well,” he said, stepping into the house after a vigorous handshake, “I suppose the clothes do make the man—and change him—at least some of the time.” He looked briefly around as I took his coat and cap. “This place is a bit like I remember it. But also rather different in some ways. I suppose that’s because you’re now under different management here?”

  “Well, there is a new housekeeper since you last visited,” I explained as we walked to the sitting room. “We are now under the wing of Martha, who—“

  “Was Mr. Holmes’s keeper, as well as his spy lodged with old Von Bork. Yes, I recognised her and reintroduced myself, asking that she not let on to you who I was.”

  I turned and saw the housekeeper standing some feet away, a look of innocence on her elderly face.

  “I did remember the young man,” she confessed.

  I nodded forgiveness, and the woman bowed slightly before disappearing down the hall.

  “I take it that the great one himself lives here now,” the young man said as I guided him down the corridor.

  “He has been residing in Queen Anne Street since just after the war began.”

  “Well, he did not mention that in his letter. It’s just begun for us over on the other side of the Atlantic, of course—the war, that is,” the American said with a wistful smile.

  “I received one letter from Mr. Holmes after I’d returned home on one of your country’s destroyers back in 1914, but nothing since then,” he declared as we entered the sitting room and beheld it in all its chaotic glory. “However, I can sure sense Mr. Holmes’s presence in here,” he added. “Without a doubt. I take it he’s not around at the moment, though?”

  “He is out,” I replied, “but he should return at any time. You are in the American Army now,” I said while ringing for Martha.

  “Yes, as you are in the British one—or, at least, the medical corps, it appears,” he said, gesturing to my uniform, which I had already donned in anticipation of leaving for the RAMC office.

  I nodded and suggested James warm himself before the fire.

  “I spent two years as an instructor in Aldershot,” I told him, “and then a portion of a year as head of a hospital in the Cotswolds. Most recently, I have fought the war from behind a desk here in London, but I am soon to be transferred to a local military hospital, which I anticipate with satisfaction.”

  “I congratulate you, Colonel Watson,” replied James, rubbing his hands as he stood before the coals.

  Martha entered, and I asked her to prepare some small plate of nourishment for us.

  “And do you ever join Mr. Holmes again to play cat and mouse with German spies?” the American asked me as the housekeeper vanished beyond the sitting room door.

  I opened my mouth and then hesitated, wondering whether I should provide him with details.

  “I shouldn’t have asked,” said the young man, at once sensing my awkwardness. “Don’t feel the need to enlighten me, Dr. Watson. I’m no longer part of that game, after all. True, I’m here to fight Germans again, but this time with a larger gun,” James added puckishly, and I grimly nodded, wishing that the young man might never realise that ambition.

  We sat down beside the hearth and reminisced for several minutes about Holmes as Altamount, as well as recalling Von Bork and the taxicab in which James had chauffeured the detective and me about London and beyond.

  “I wonder where the old gal is now. The taxi, I mean,” he added. “Do you and Mr. Holmes ever go back to Baker Street, together or alone? I remember how he used to have me drive him there. And you did once, as I recall.”

  “Yes,” I answered simply. “I remember that evening. To be honest, the nostalgic impulse has not welled up in me of late. As for Holmes,” I said, “I cannot speak for him in that regard. His comings and goings are often his own.”

  “I understand.”

  What was for me an uncertain moment ended abruptly as I heard the house door open and close.

  “I believe we will share one of those arrivals now,” I said.

  The dim voices of Martha and Holmes echoed down the hallway, and then the figure of my friend appeared at the sitting room door.

  “James!” the detective exclaimed at once. “What a surprise! It is a pleasure to see you again!”

  “I can earnestly say the same,” replied the young man, rising to shake the other’s hand. “I suppose it’s a minor victory to have surprised the likes of you, sir. You know, the Murtaugh brothers in Chicago are still looking for you as Mr. Altamount.”

  Holmes smiled as he invited Jack James to sit down again. Glancing at me, he added, “I am afraid that all they will ever have of me is my jackknife, if that.”

  “Yes,” James said with a sudden note of embarrassment in his voice. “I sometimes think about—”

  “But let us not dwell upon what has gone before,” said Holmes, briefly taking our visitor by the shoulder. “Past necessity remains past necessity, and we should turn our gaze toward the future, should we not?”

  With raised brows, I sat in the basket chair as Holmes invited James to take to the armchair.

  Just then, I noticed that our housekeeper was standing in the doorway.

  “This is all I could assemble on such short notice, sirs,” the woman said. “I do hope that oxo254 and biscuits will suffice for the moment.”

  “That sounds pretty fine to me,” James declared with a smile.

  I nodded agreement, and Holmes gently took the tray from the elderly woman, who once more disappeared down the hall.

  “You look older, especially in uniform,” Holmes remarked to our visitor while setting the tray upon the breakfast table.

  “Perhaps, but I’m afraid I’m likely none the wiser.”

  “We have often wondered if you would return to London in this manner,” said the detective, reaching for his clay pipe and shag while silently encouraging the American to take something from the tray. “Our speculations have obviously come true.”

  “Yes, I couldn’t very well refuse Uncle Sam,” replied James as he rose from the armchair and approached the breakfast table. “It’s been nothing but training and travelling so far, but at least the conditions have been getting better.”

  “Oh?” I said, knowing that, for the young man, that trend would soon reverse.

  “Yes, London is nothing like the training camp back home,” the American replied before taking a bite of biscuit. “Over there, we slept six to a tent. We were told the food was pork or
beef, but I had my doubts, though you could always depend on the bread and potatoes. We had to do our personal duties in a pit, but at least we were able to shower regularly, and the linen was kept clean. Still, it was nothing compared to over here. These biscuits are very good, by the way.”

  “Have you any idea when you will be going to France?” asked Holmes as he leaned against the mantel.

  “No. Word is that we’re going to be doing even more training before we’re sent over.”

  Holmes nodded as he finished filling his pipe and reached for a vesta. “Perhaps,” he said, “you might…consider the possibility of being…seconded, as it were, to the colonel and myself in the interim.”

  “What, sir?”

  Holmes tossed the vesta onto the coals. “Perhaps we could arrange for you to assist me in my present work, much as you did earlier, Jack.”

  “It is tempting,” young James replied, consuming the rest of the biscuit. “Those were fun days. But I’d feel I was shirking if—”

  “I understand,” Holmes said. “Perhaps, though, you would consider it? A face unknown to most in London, coupled with a most capable mind practised in the trade, would be of great value to our endeavour.”

  “Well, I suppose there might be times when I could—”

  “Then let us consider it possible,” declared Holmes. “Give me the name of your commanding officer. We have an American friend you may recall—a Mr. Blenkiron?—I believe he would be able to arrange matters with ease.”

  “As long as my pals don’t ship out to France without me. I won’t let them down.”

  Holmes smiled grimly. “I promise you will not be left behind,” he said.

  “Well then,” replied our guest, “in that case, you can certainly talk to Mr. Blenkiron, for I’d jump at the chance to gad about again with you two gents.”

  “Consider it done,” murmured Holmes.

  Our reunion with Jack James continued for the better part of the next hour, and then the young American departed.

  As he closed the house door, Sherlock Holmes said, “It is a fortuitous return, Watson.”

  “You wish to entangle him in the dangerous sport of hooking Von Bork?” I asked cautiously.

  “I should think you would applaud my efforts, old fellow, since it removes him, at least temporarily, from even more dangerous prospects on the Western Front. And I suppose his addition will make up for your impending absence.”

  “I will still reside here in Queen Anne Street.”

  “Yes, but you will be less available than before, will you not?”

  I opened my mouth but found I had no words with which to reply.

  “But that is how it should be,” Holmes declared in an abstracted tone. “However, the previous state still obtains, and I wish to haul you to Safety House on short notice—and perhaps for one last time.”

  “What has arisen?”

  Holmes pulled a telegram from his coat pocket and placed it on the breakfast table as we re-entered the sitting room.

  “Tatty Evans has observed the Nemesis change its mooring point,” said the detective. “It is now docked closer to the City, just east of the London Docks proper, in the area of the old Hartwell Fish Market.255 Master Evans noticed the craft absent from its former anchorage, but then espied the craft at the new location early yesterday. He notified me by means of that telegram and is prepared to take us round for a look. I have suggested tomorrow afternoon. Would you accompany me, if that suits?”

  “It does.”

  “That is not the principal reason for visiting Safety House, however,” Holmes said. “Bullivant apparently has something to pass on to me as and is expecting us, along with my brother, in slightly more than an hour.”

  “I suppose I should fetch our hats and coats, then.”

  “Inspector Magillivray has received a second message from our friend Dieter Baumann,” said Sir Walter Bullivant. “He asked me to pass it on to you.”

  The spymaster glanced with satisfaction at Mycroft Holmes, who leaned back in the sofa of Safety House and looked thoughtfully at his brother.

  Sir Walter pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and unfolded it before offering it to Sherlock Holmes, who read the note before handing it to me. The words were in much the same vein as those in the first, received the night of the raid on the mustard gas warehouse:

  Time is short. To free myself and save London from more gas, to someone I must talk. Can it be the retired detective Holmes? He saved a friend once. Answer in the newspaper. God Save the King.

  “Should Magillivray place another reply in the Times?” Sir Walter asked. “Perhaps one proposing a meeting?”

  “And you say Inspector Magillivray received this note?” asked Sherlock Holmes without responding to the spymaster’s comment.

  “Yes,” replied Bullivant. “Addressed to Magillivray, it was given to a constable just outside the Cannon Row Station.”

  “And who was the person who delivered it?”

  “An ordinary clerk on his way to work, I believe,” replied Sir Walter. “The man said he had been handed both the note, in a sealed envelope, and a gold sovereign by a stranger in return for giving the former to the first policeman he saw.”

  “What did the stranger look like?”

  “The constable did not ask that question.”

  “Did the constable at least obtain the clerk’s name?” sighed Holmes. “He did neither, I fear.”

  The detective nodded glumly.

  “At least we have another message from Herr Baumann,” said Bullivant. “And its handwriting is identical to that in the first note. I say,” he asked the detective, “did Baumann have a friend who was a client of yours at one time?”

  “I very much doubt it,” replied Holmes.

  “Should I still have Magillivray place a reply in the Times?” asked Sir Walter, his expression puzzled.

  The two Holmes brothers cast wary glances at one another, and then Mycroft said, “Yes, Sir Walter. And you shall use prudence, Sherlock.”

  “Of course,” said the detective quickly. “Now, Sir Walter, word the reply as follows: ‘God Save the King, you will be free. Let us meet. SH.’”

  Mycroft set an elbow upon the armrest of the sofa and let his chin rest on his open palm as he stared down at the carpet.

  “Very well,” declared Bullivant. “I will make certain that Magillivray places it today. Meanwhile, you said that your man Evans had discovered the German motor launch is now docked in another place along the river?”

  “Yes,” said Holmes. “It is now somewhat farther west than before. The colonel and I will go on board the Belisama tomorrow to make our own observation of the launch at its new anchorage.”

  “I see,” muttered Sir Walter. “The German craft’s previous mooring was close to the building where the first store of mustard gas was initially placed. Perhaps this new location lies in the vicinity of the additional stockpile of gas mentioned by our friend Baumann.”

  “Perhaps,” replied Holmes as his brother looked on in silence.

  “Well, I expect you will put your men onto it, including Sandy Arbuthnot,” the spymaster said as he rose to leave.

  “If possible,” the detective interjected, “I wish to add to that complement. The young American who assisted me before the war, Jack James, has returned to Britain as part of his nation’s army, and he has agreed to become available to us.”

  “Do you wish him temporarily relieved of his soldierly obligations?” asked Mycroft. “I can talk to John Blenkiron.”

  “That would be most appreciated,” replied his brother.

  “Good,” said Bullivant, rising. “And I will go to Magillivray in order to get our reply to Baumann placed in the Times.”

  “Thank you, Sir Walter,” declared Mycroft Holmes as he struggled to get to his feet as well. “I wish to further discuss that matter of the Nemesis with my brother and the colonel, and will ring you up later in the day. You wish an escort to the door?”


  “As always, Mycroft, I am able to see myself out. Until later, gentlemen.”

  Holmes and I rose as Sir Walter departed. When the house door closed, Mycroft sat down and cast an appraising look at his brother.

  “As you chose not to make him reconsider his perspective, I thought not to intervene,” said the elder Holmes.

  “And I thank you for that, Mycroft,” replied his brother. “I appreciate your granting me some initiative from time to time.”

  “You would take it from under my nose in any event, dear boy.”

  “I beg pardon?” I interjected.

  Both men looked at me with kindly expressions.

  “Are there facts that I have missed?” I asked.

  Mycroft motioned as if to defer to his brother.

  “The entreaties we assume to come from Dietrich Baumann are most likely false ones,” declared Sherlock Holmes.

  “What? They are not from Baumann?”

  “Oh, I am certain that Dieter Baumann is the messenger,” said my friend. “The messages themselves, however, are undoubtedly from Heinrich von Bork.”

  I glanced back and forth between the two brothers.

  “The circumstances of the first note were somewhat suspicious,” said Sherlock Holmes. “Why should the message be passed directly on to Magillivray at the very location of the warehouse? By doing so, Baumann risked capture by Scotland Yard or observation by his fellow Germans. He could instead have sent a boy from another neighbourhood to a police station.”

  “And why direct the note to Magillivray in particular?” added Mycroft. “I am inclined to believe it is because the Germans know of the inspector’s special connection to Bullivant. And to you,” he told his brother.

  “That is possible,” agreed Sherlock Holmes. “Then too, there is the wording of these notes. They are phrased awkwardly, yet Frank Farrar has testified that Dietrich Baumann now is able to pass as English in his speech. No, I believe that Baumann wrote notes that were dictated to him by Von Bork.”

  “You will be cautious, brother?”

  Holmes smiled at his older sibling.

  “And you shall accept my advice and assistance,” Mycroft declared. “I utter that not as a question.”