by Raymond John
Eyes closed, I held up two fingers.
Holmes noticed my expression. “What is it, Wiggins?”
I first saw a fleeting glimpse of Sheriff Peabody at the Bradford Farm, but it passed quickly. Then a much stronger memory took over. I watched Margery at the front door to answer the bell. Then I envisioned the officers filing in one at a time and removing their shoes.
Why should I remember that?
I gathered up the scene again, this time concentrating on watching Margery’s movements, especially her hands.
Then I remembered! She had unlocked the door from the inside with a key! Unless Becker had a key to the front door, which he clearly didn’t when he first arrived, he couldn’t have left that way. The only alternative possibility was so remote it wasn’t worth consideration. Lucille was too obviously unnerved when we confronted to have omitted telling us she had given him hers.
“He’s still within our grasp,” I said. “There are only two ways out of the house. Margery had to open the front door with a key, so he couldn’t have left that way. And, as you recall, the back door was locked when we came down the fire escape to enter the basement.”
Holmes’s eyes lit. “Brilliant, Wiggins.”
“I know,” I said, enjoying a rare victory. “And not only that, I’m willing to give substantial odds that the back door can be and Herr Becker is somewhere in the back yard.”
“Then I suggest we find something for our feet. My toes are still trying to thaw from our last trek across the tundra.”
We settled on wrapping them in underwear from the bottom of the chauffeur’s wardrobe.
“To the siege,” Holmes said.
I hadn’t seen him move as quickly since we were together at Baker Street, as he darted up the stairway. And I was a mere step behind all the way.
At the top of the stairs, we both stopped in our tracks at the sounds of voices—clear and very close. I quickly sorted them out as belonging to Sir Arthur, Margery, and Violet chatting merrily away. Realizing we hadn’t been discovered, Holmes gallantly stood aside to let me turn the latch on the back door.
Spirits soared as the door moved outward when I pushed on it. Bending low, we slunk out into the yard. The bright moonlight easily showed there was no one in sight.
My first glance showed a tranquil snow-covered arc from the right side of the house to the gate in the distance. As Holmes closed the back door, I whispered, “I’ll check the gate.”
An owl hooted somewhere in the distance, and some tiny land creature scurried away from me as I dashed forward, but everything returned to dead silence as I reached the gate. A thin layer of undisturbed snow on the path meant no one had come in or left for some time. Even so, I still felt a jolt of pleasure when I turned the handle and found the portal locked.
Waving a thumb in the air, I rushed back and whispered a victorious shout. “He’s here somewhere!”
Instead of a show of pleasure, Holmes seized my shoulders and roughly shook me. “Then calm yourself, Wiggins. Your blood is running high, so we must proceed with extreme caution. We already know he’s highly dangerous, and we have no idea what else he may have found in Dr. Croydon’s room.”
Euphoria ended with a thud. “Quite so. Why would he have bolted from the chauffeur’s room?”
“I expect he heard the commotion upstairs when the police arrived and decided he needed to find a new hiding place. He may not even have realized there was a back gate when he left the house.”
I freed myself from Holmes’s grip to survey the lay of the land. Unless Becker had taken our route through the coal chute and trapped himself in the coal bin by so doing, the only direction he could have moved was to the left of the house. Since the front of the building was connected to the adjoining houses, there was little out of eyeshot from where we were standing. The only impediment preventing a clear view was a large coniferous bush next to the house some ten feet away.
I pointed to it, and Holmes nodded. “Gather up your bludgeon,” he said. “I have a strong suspicion we’re going to need it.”
Snow squeaked under our bundled feet as I led us forward in a knee-torturing crouch. When we reached the bush, we halted.
Holmes surprised me by dropping to his hands and knees. Brushing the snow away with bare fingers and breath, he looked up at me with a Cheshire cat grin. An unmistakable shoe print disturbed the snow.
I saluted him with two upraised fists.
Then, instead of getting back to his feet, he turned and continued to follow the new-found spoor like an overly-long basset, belly dragging in the snow, nose millimeters from the ground, and paws burrowing away at the snow ahead of him as he went.
As I watched, I had to swallow hard to keep from laughing. It was a picture worth a thousand dollars to any newspaper or magazine in the world that could afford to buy it.
He disappeared for a moment. Then an arm appeared, gesturing for me to follow.
With a sigh, I shoved my broom handle in front of me and pushed forward with my knees.
I found Holmes standing erect in front of a closed wooden door. A root cellar or storage area for gardening tools, I expected.
“Treed,” I whispered. “Shall we call in the constabulary?”
Holmes shook his head violently and pulled me several feet away from the door before answering. “The obvious action, but I want an opportunity to question Herr Becker in private. Perhaps I’ll use a Spanish invention, the bastinado, far more effective than Chinese tortures. Your broom handle will work perfectly.”
I winced. When I had read Don Quixote, I didn’t think that having the bottoms of the feet repeatedly beaten sounded so frightening. Then I found out it could kill you.
“Assuming it’s possible he’s armed and will come out with guns blazing, how do you intend to collar our villain?”
“Ah, Wiggins. You’ve obviously forgotten my encounter with the venerable Mr. James Oldacre, in the case of the Norwood Builder. Never mind. I’m sure you will remember soon enough.”
The first task was to scour the yard, kicking away snow in search of leaves.
Easily uncovered, they were cold and stiff, but not sodden. Ten minutes labor yielded a knee-high pile beside the wooden door.
Holmes fished his box of Lucifers from his trouser pocket. Before he could remove one, I told him to wait. I remembered a small stack of newspapers sitting on a ledge just inside the back door of the house. They crumpled nicely and nestled among the leaves.
I stood over him as he crouched, shielding him from the wind. The match blazed, paper flared, and leaves quickly began to smolder.
He got to his feet and ran to the opposite edge of the yard. “Fire!”
The back door opened at his second call, and Margery came out. “Who are you? How did you get into our yard? What’s going on out here?”
“Nothing to be concerned about, dear lady,” Holmes said blithely. “Just go back into the house.”
“Mr. Holmes?”
“Yes. Now please go back in.”
She didn’t move. With a shrug, Holmes again shouted “Fire!”
Seemingly for the first time, Margery caught sight of the billowing cloud. “Good heavens!” she screamed, rushing back inside.
Holmes’s next call brought results. The door creaked forward and Albert Becker stepped out, coughing. He didn’t see me until the broom handle slammed against his right hand, sending a pistol flying to the ground.
He dropped to his knees, writhing in pain. I kicked the pistol away before he could reach for it. Holmes joined me, pulling the stunned miscreant to his feet. I immediately caught his right arm in the policeman’s elbow-breaker I had used on him at the Baker Estate. He hooted in pain, but made no resistance.
I glanced back toward the back door and saw Margery pointing in our direction. I was
sure the police would arrive in a matter of seconds.
Holmes opened the door. Instead of darkness, we found a railroad lantern burning brightly atop a bench inside the room.
Holmes pulled the iron latch down into the bracket to lock the door from the inside. “This won’t hold anyone out for very long, but certainly long enough. Everyone will need to put their shoes on before they leave the house. I’ll clear a space. We need to lay Herr Becker on the floor.”
“This is outrageous,” Becker cried. “What do you intend to do with me?”
Holmes answered in a quiet voice dripping with menace. “Nothing worse than what you would’ve done to me as your captive.”
At the words, Becker’s eyes opened wide. “Mein Gott!” he screamed. “Helf!”
“I fear only Satan can help you. And he only works when he can avoid blame. Drop to your knees.”
A little tug from me was all it took. Becker slowly knelt, fighting hard to stifle a panicked sob.
“Now face down on the floor. I want you to be able to speak. If you choose not to, well, I’ve heard it takes but two minutes to suffocate if you can’t inhale. Survivors say it’s the longest two minutes of their lives.”
“That’s murder!” Becker panted. “You’ll never get away with it.”
“No one will ever be able to prove it isn’t myocardial infarct. Sources tell me you have a weak heart.”
Holmes was making even me squirm.
“We don’t have much time. Either you answer me, or you’ll choke on your own saliva. Did you order the poisoning of Harry Houdini?”
“No,” Becker grunted. “You fool, everyone knows he died from a ruptured appendix.”
“We know otherwise. You pursued him for more than a year, poisoning him with thallium and making his hair fall out. The fatal dose was administered in Schenectady by your henchman Jurgen Schmidt, when Mr. Houdini was eating at the Stockade Inn. He’s admitted to it, and when the police get the autopsy report, they’ll have confirmation. We have your briefcase and the newspaper clippings. You will be arrested and tried for murder. You can either be executed, or cooperate with the police. Did Dr. Croydon furnish you with the thallium?”
Becker coughed, but didn’t answer. I watched in amazement as Holmes sat on Becker’s back. “Well?”
“Can’t breathe,” Becker gasped.
“Last chance,” Holmes said. “Tell the truth or die.”
Worried as I was at Holmes’s cruelty, I nearly passed out at the loud hammering on the door, and O’Neal’s threatening voice.
Becker gurgled, then went silent.
My heart thumped crazily. “I think you killed him!” I said in a normal voice.
The hammering on the door became louder as Holmes arose to a crouch and reached down to feel Becker’s carotid. “Yes. It appears you are correct.”
“But why? This was entirely senseless. Even if Becker was brought into court, he couldn’t be convicted on a forced confession. Certainly Croydon would never even stand trial.”
He answered in a detached voice. “That’s exactly why I did it. I can’t explain now. Open the door.”
Hand shaking, I moved the latch. O’Neal and Dr. Croydon stood outside, O’Neal with gun in hand. I stood aside, and he inched in around Becker’s body. Croydon and another officer stepped in and shut the door.
“What’s going on?” O’Neal asked.
“Mr. Becker was hiding in here, and we surprised him,” Mr. Holmes said. “He had a gun and we had to subdue him. Apparently the shock was too much for his heart.”
O’Neal glared. “If you knew he was here, why didn’t you find me? You had no right to interfere.”
“We didn’t know he was here until he tried to escape.”
O’Neal snorted. “You were certain enough to build a fire.”
“True. But I also knew Albert Becker undoubtedly was only at mid-level in the conspiracy to murder Harry Houdini. I wanted a chance to find out who the others were.”
O’Neal stared down at Albert Becker’s body. “Even if that were true, we have no way to find out now. I’m sure you must already know the trouble you’ve caused. And if I didn’t know what you went through when you were abducted, I’d arrest you for obstruction of justice. Under the circumstances, I won’t treat this any differently than an accidental natural death. You say he had a gun?”
Holmes led him to where it lay partially covered in snow.
“That’s my three-forty-eight Beretta,” Croydon said. “I keep it in my bedroom. I’m astonished Albert would steal it.”
O’Neal turned to stare at him. “That’s only one of the questions I want answered before I leave. I especially want to hear more from you about why he came here in the first place and how he managed to make his way out of the house to here.”
“Surely you can’t . . .”
“But surely I can. Ed, will you take the Wigginses and Dr. Claybrooks to their hotel. I’ll need to talk to them again in the morning.”
Chapter 41
Violet threw me questioning looks all the way back to the hotel, but a very awkward silence prevailed. Officer Ed escorted us into the hotel and to the elevators. “Officer O’Neal will be calling you in the morning,” he said with a nod. Everyone in the hotel lobby watched him leave.
All the while, the engine in Violet’s imagination furiously took on coal. It finally exploded when the elevator arrived and we stepped inside. “Now! Will someone please tell me what has happened?”
“Mr. Becker is dead,” Holmes said.
“I wish I could say ‘poor man.’ How did he die?”
“Mr. Holmes killed him in cold blood,” I said. “Don’t look so surprised, dear, he said he has good reason. I’m anxious to hear what that might be myself.”
Holmes remained silent. Violet glared at him until the elevator stopped at our floor. With a strangely dispassionate face, Holmes strode to our door and knocked two times and then four.
Rose appeared. Noticing our expressions, she asked, “What’s wrong?” as she stood aside to let us in.
“We’ll let Mr. Holmes explain,” I said.
“I’ll be more than happy to do just that,” he said, fetching his pipe from his pocket.
With Violet and me steaming, and Rose frowning, he calmly took out his pouch of Latakia, filled the bowl and struck a match. “Where were we? Oh, yes. You wanted to know why it was necessary for me to end of the life of Mr. Albert Becker.”
After taking a big puff, he continued. “Please sit down everyone. I have much to tell you.”
Three frowning faces stared at him and found chairs. All wanted him to get to the crux of the matter quickly. I knew that wasn’t his style.
“Very good. To continue, as I’m sure you’re aware, murder is not my usual modus operandi. I view my investigations as scientific inquiries only, leaving rightful retribution to the judicial system. In fact, other than the well-deserved demise of Professor Moriarty, I’ve resorted to intentional homicide on only one other occasion before tonight. It was one of my unrecorded cases, and the deeds of the fiend I dispatched could never have been properly weighed in the scales of justice of Old Bailey. He undoubtedly never even would have been arrested. In some ways, there are many similarities between the three instances.”
I knew of Moriarty’s death at Reichenbach Falls, and remembered cases where Holmes or Dr. Watson had to act in defense of their own lives, but never even suspected another instance of Holmes committing an intentional murder. My journalistic ears could hardly wait.
“All three cases involved individuals who would eventually have found a way to kill me, had I not killed them first. All three executions involved issues far greater than the crimes they committed, and for that reason, all three were absolutely necessary.”
I fidgeted as I waited
for him to take another puff. Holmes’s carefully detailed scientific explanations made me glad the blessed Dr. John Watson was the raconteur of the famed adventures.
“None of you have ever heard of Sir Alistair Gordon of Carsworth Estates in Brighton, and it’s a very good thing you haven’t. Sir Alistair was a very handsome young widower who posted bills in that city advertising governess positions for his four-year-old daughter. There was nothing extraordinary about needing a governess, but his method of finding candidates certainly was. Nonetheless, he never was at a loss for applicants. And, with his fair looks, I’m sure all were more than happy to accept employment from him when offered.”
“I don’t like this already,” Violet steamed. “The poor girls.”
“You’re way too far ahead of me, my dear. But, unfortunately, you are quite correct. Had Sir Alistair used the normal channels to find his employees, his continual requirements for replacements would eventually have been noticed. Most of the unfortunates were working class females, and sworn to secrecy at their application for work. The advertisements he posted merely stated the position, a starting salary—a very generous one at that—and a place to meet to interview for employment. Each note invariably disappeared before the end of the day it was posted. Sir Alistair merely hired the first one who appeared at the interview point, and sent the others away. In a matter of weeks someone usually would file a missing person’s report, and after a brief investigation producing no clues, the matter was dropped.”
Violet snorted. “You’re making me angrier with every word. What was he doing to these poor creatures?”
“Yes,” Rose added in an equally testy voice. “I want to know, too.”
“Not what you might suspect, my dearests. Something far worse. But please try to control your feminine sensibilities long enough to let me relate my account at my own speed. As appropriate as your anger is, it makes the telling all the more difficult.”
Violet flung herself back against her chair with a loud sniff. Rose still sat forward, cradling her head on hands with elbows burrowing into her knees. “Hmph!”