Each of the two cards was identical, bearing nothing but a simple drawing of a circle within a triangle. Drimba led me first to the table of the prime minister of the G’daak Hegemony. In a language I could not follow, save for my name and Holmes’s, Drimba introduced me, and I presented one of the cards Holmes had given to me. He took it with a clawlike hand and held it to his hooded face. He said a few words to Drimba, who replied and led us away.
“It is meaningless to him,” said Drimba.
The prime minister of the Shalanic Commonwealth was clad entirely in black, which provided a sharp contrast to the white fur of his face and hands. Drimba repeated his introduction, but even as I presented the card, the prime minister drew away sharply and emitted a high, keening cry that set my teeth on edge.
A gesture from Drimba brought uniformed guards of his own race to the Shalanic prime minister’s table, which they immediately encircled. As Drimba spoke to his guards, all the lights in the great hall blinked and a siren was heard, together with a booming voice. The Filgi raced from the hall in a group, but the others in the hall seemed unconcerned. This was plainly the alarm Holmes had mentioned.
“Only the Filgi have duties in an emergency drill,” said Drimba. “I am afraid the others regard them as no more than a nuisance. Mr. Holmes and I arranged it before his departure.”
We arrived at the boat dock to find the Filgi clad in their vacuum suits and standing at attention. As he had promised, Holmes was there, as well. “Mr. Drimba,” he said, “please have guards at the ready.”
Within a minute, one of the Filgi began to stagger. He ripped his suit open and attempted to flee, but Drimba’s guards seized and held him.
“Your assassin,” said Holmes. “And your eyeglasses. They proved quite useful aboard Altor Benn’s ship.”
Drimba took the eyeglasses from Holmes. “I am completely at sea,” he said.
“Let us start with the most obvious point,” began Holmes. “The murderer could not have left before you arrived at Altor Benn’s ship; therefore he was still aboard when you arrived.”
“Impossible!” cried Drimba.
“No. Nor even improbable. You yourself indicated uncertainty as to the number of Filgi in your rescue party. How simple it must have been, then, for a vacuum-suited Filgi to emerge from a closet in the dark and blend into the group which had just come aboard. That much was evident from the marks on the deck. All radiated from the entry hatch throughout the vessel, save one pair, which emerged from the vacuum suit closet into the main cabin. After murdering Benn, he activated the distress signal, put on his vacuum suit, which he had brought with him, emptied the air from the vessel, and calmly waited for you to pick him up.
“If the Filgi are mercenaries, as you indicated, it is only reasonable to assume within the society the existence of an assassin cult, rather like our own dacoits. Your excellent Mycroft confirmed my assumption, although the current opinion has it that the Filgi assassin cult is myth and folklore. I, however, assumed otherwise, and used the resources of your Mycroft to compare the past assignments of individual Filgi with the travels of Altor Benn. There was but one correlation. Nine months ago, one of your Filgi company and Altor Benn were on the same world, Beta Draconis IV, I believe it is called.”
“That world is now in chaos,” said Drimba. “A mysterious explosion destroyed the houses of government, and a dictatorship has taken hold.”
“Perhaps not so mysterious,” said Holmes. “Altor Benn escaped the blast by moments; there is every probability he saw the Filgi agent responsible escaping by a similar route. Benn was undoubtedly recognized by that same agent at yesterday’s reception, and fearing discovery, he stowed away aboard Benn’s ship and murdered him.
“There is a symbol used by the Filgi assassins to mark their victims for death. It is both a warning and a proof—the circle within a triangle I sketched on those two cards. You may tell me later which of the two prime ministers was marked for assassination; keep him safe at all costs. I traveled back to Benn’s ship to examine the discoloration around the wound, and with the aid of Mr. Drimba’s converting eyeglasses the discoloration resolved itself into that same symbol rendered in ultraviolet ink.
“But before I left, I examined the oxygen gauges of all of the Filgi vacuum suits. You indicated, sir, that all were fully charged before the rescue mission. Yet if my train of logic was correct, one suit should be noticeably less full than the others, for its occupant had worn it for at least a half hour longer. That was indeed the case, and I took the liberty of completely exhausting its oxygen supply.”
“So when the vacuum drill alarm was sounded ...” I said. ‘The assassin stood revealed by suffocation,” said Holmes with grim satisfaction. “I hope you will pardon the dramatic liberty.”
“But what of the second scarf?” asked Drimba. “Elementary, sir. The Filgi cannot see far below the ultraviolet, and Altor Benn kept his robes and scarves in separate places. Green, orange ... both appear as black to the Filgi. Altor Benn had already removed his scarf when the assassin struck, and his misguided attempt to restore his victim’s appearance merely certified his identity.”
A phalanx of guards had appeared to lead the assassin away.
“I trust more conventional methods will reveal those ultimately responsible, Mr. Drimba. And I should inquire more deeply into the background of my staff if I were you. But I assume that this arrest should allay the suspicions of the participants sufficiently to conclude a treaty.”
“I cannot be more grateful,” said Drimba.
“If your gratitude could take the form of a cigar,” said Holmes, “it is I who will be grateful to you.”
THE PHANTOM OF THE BARBARY COAST by Frank M. Robinson
In all the years that I had known Sherlock Holmes, there were only five times when he admitted failure, when he confessed that others had gotten the better of him. The public is aware of four of them, but until recently I thought it best to keep silent about the fifth, that it was safe to relate it only when those involved were dead or could no longer be damaged by the revelations.
But though Holmes thought it necessary to admit failure to the personage who had employed him, the fact was he hadn’t failed—at least, not completely.
It began one Friday afternoon in late Autumn of 1895 when I was between marriages and had once again taken up lodgings with my friend at 221B Baker Street. All week Holmes had been restless, pacing back and forth in the living room and then over to the bow window to look out at one of those execrable days that plague London in the autumn and winter, when the temperature has dropped and a million coal fireplaces contribute their fumes to the fog rolling off the Thames. The result is a choking, yellowish, poisonous substance that flows through the streets and laps against the buildings like tidewater against a levee. Streetlights are reduced to orange halos in the gloom, while those poor souls condemned to be out in the murk disappear completely once they’re five paces in front of you. Even the fast clop of a horse’s hooves on the cobblestones is reduced to a tentative clatter while the cab driver’s “halloos” warn pedestrians and other carriages of his approach.
Understandably enough, crime falls to a low point for the year, thieves and footpads no more anxious to be out in the chilly dusk than are law-abiding citizens. As a consequence, there had been little of note in the daily papers to intrigue Holmes and no abused citizen at the door to plead for his help. Of all the ways there were to die, Holmes had once told me, to die of inactivity is perhaps the worst. Predictably, as the week wore on, he became increasingly morose, sleeping far later than usual, ignoring my questions of concern and staring into space at nothing at all when he tired of pacing to and fro on the carpet.
Imagine my surprise when on Friday I returned from my morning rounds to find Holmes in his customary chair by the window, smoking a pipe of shag and looking more cheerful than he had all week.
“Something in the papers has caught your attention,” I said, half in jest. “The theft of a
valuable jewel, no doubt, or some outlandish murder.”
“My dear Watson, you read the papers as well as I,” he reprimanded. “If there had been anything of the sort, you would have called it to my attention as soon as you entered.” He handed me a square of blue paper. “It may be something better than a jewelry theft or a murder. This came by messenger this morning.”
From the initials “M. H.” at the top, I knew immediately who had sent it. The words were brief and to the point.
“Expect me at Friday, four p.m. Important matter but of no great urgency. Mycroft. “
“What on earth!” I protested. “Apparently of great importance but ‘not urgent’!”
Holmes refilled his pipe, then glanced up at me with a thoughtful expression.
“I’m always delighted to see Mycroft, Watson. As you know, our paths don’t cross that often—I’m frequently busy and he seldom has the energy to leave the Diogenes Club or his Pall Mall lodgings except on government business.” “Then this is undoubtedly government business,” I said. “No wonder you’re anticipating his visit.”
He hesitated. “I’m not so sure, though naturally I am curious. It is highly secret since otherwise he would have asked me to meet him at the club rather than venture out himself. As to government business, I do not think so. All government business to which he has called my attention in the past has been both important and urgent. Since he does not characterize this particular endeavor as urgent, I am forced to assume that there are personal aspects involved but no particular villainy.” A wry look crossed his face. “Lacking that, I’m afraid I may not be the man he wants.”
There was the sound of the bell downstairs, the faint murmur of Mrs. Hudson’s greeting, and a moment later the pad of heavy footsteps on the stairs.
“We shall know the mystery soon enough,” I murmured. Barely had I said it when Mrs. Hudson opened the door and Mycroft Holmes filled the doorway. His girth had increased considerably since last I had seen him, and the walk up the stairs had set him to wheezing. But the steel-gray, deepset eyes in his massive head were as alert as ever, sweeping the room to note any changes that had been made and alighting on me with a faint glare of disapproval.
Holmes noticed the look with some annoyance. “You know I trust Watson with my life, Mycroft. I’m sure we both can trust him with whatever you have to tell me. Pray sit down. Some brandy? Your doctor has warned you against exertion, and your climb up the stairs was faster than usual.” “Only to get out of the chill, I assure you.”
Mycroft settled himself with a sigh into the chair opposite Holmes. I stood by the breakfast table, giving them a modicum of privacy but still within the conversational circle.
Holmes studied his brother a moment. “Important but not urgent?”
“I am not here on government business,” Mycroft said curtly. “You must have deduced that by now, Sherlock. I come on a matter of some personal delicacy.”
“Personal?” Holmes didn’t bother to hide his surprise. Though there was an affection between them, they seldom traded on it.
Mycroft looked irritated by the assumption. “It concerns someone else, not me. I will try to be brief. There is a lady who has disappeared. Her family would like her found. They approached a high-placed friend, who in turn approached me and as you can see, I have approached you. It was not my suggestion, it was his.”
“Your high-placed friend?”
Mycroft turned his attention to his glass of brandy, avoiding Holmes’ eyes.
“I would have preferred to spare you.”
Again, the hint of some sort of personal relationship. I knew of no other relatives that Holmes had, aside from Mycroft, and though he was not without friends, they were few in number and, I don’t hesitate to say, I chief among them. In short, I knew of no relationship from which Holmes needed to be spared.
“The papers have reported no lady of note missing during the last few weeks,” Holmes objected dryly. “I can’t imagine they would have refrained from printing it if there had been.”
“She didn’t disappear in London, Sherlock. For that matter, she didn’t disappear in England. She disappeared in America. A cessation of correspondence. No replies to either letters or wires. Inquiries to the local authorities have produced no information as to her whereabouts.”
Holmes raised an eyebrow. “An abrupt cessation may suggest foul play or possible kidnapping.”
Mycroft held out his glass for more brandy. “Not necessarily. Over time her letters became less and less frequent and finally, about a year ago, they just stopped.”
“And where was she last heard from?”
“San Francisco. Apparently she had been living there for quite some time.”
“By herself? No husband, no companion?”
“I don’t believe so.”
Holmes stared at his brother in surprise. “And the family wishes me to go to San Francisco to find her, is that it?” Mycroft shrugged, as if the inconvenience to Holmes was of no importance. “You have no current cases, am I correct? And you have never seen the States.”
“I’ve liked most Americans I’ve met, but that does not mean I wish to visit their country.” Holmes stalked over to the window, his hands clasped behind his back, then suddenly turned. “I see no necessity for me to go; certainly the local authorities can handle it.”
“I told you it was of some delicacy,” Mycroft said testily. “Even more so if—although I don’t think so—there was foul play of any kind and the papers got hold of it.”
Holmes stared at him for a moment, then asked abruptly: “Your high-placed friend. Who is it?”
“The Prince of Wales. The family asked him as a personal favor. And he asked me to ask you.”
“And why did he presume I would be interested?” Holmes’ voice was sharp, not hiding his irritation.
Mycroft glanced uneasily at me, then decided he had no choice but to trust to my discretion.
“Some years back, despite his marriage to the Princess Alexandra, the Prince had a liaison with another woman. If it had become known, it would have been a scandal to rival that of his affair with the Irish actress in ‘61. But the lady withdrew and was unusually discreet, especially considering her age at the time. She was twenty-two, he thirty-nine. He loved her then and loves her memory still, though breaking off the affair was relatively easy for her. She was just starting her career as an opera singer and La Scala had beckoned. I believe you met her some time later—Irene Adler. The missing woman is her sister, Leona.”
Holmes’s face had suddenly gone gray. “I apologize for my slowness. The moment you said you wanted to spare me, I should have known. But I was not aware that Irene Adler had a sister.”
“You knew very little about her,” Mycroft said, a note of pity in his voice. He sounded, I thought with surprise, like any older brother might under similar circumstances.
It was Holmes’s turn to fill a glass with a splash of brandy. “Your sympathy is noted but not really necessary, Mycroft. Tell me about the sister.”
“Leona was two years younger than Irene but in all other respects, they were very much alike. They were both beauties, they were both highly sought after, and they both were interested in careers in music. Unfortunately, there the similarities end. Irene had a great deal of talent. Leona had a pleasant voice but nothing more, though her ambition was just as great. Irene left New Jersey for fie Continent to make a name for herself. Leona journeyed to the western states, where she anticipated the audiences would be appreciative but the reviewers less critical than those in New York and its environs. She never returned. Over the years her letters became shorter and more somber and as I have told you, a year ago they ceased completely.”
“Then it is obvious she wished to break off relations, that she had become estranged from her family.”
“Perhaps. But the family still wants her found and to ascertain her well-being.”
“She never asked them to send her money?”
“It
would have done no good, they have little.”
Holmes was lost in thought for a moment.
“You have her letters?”
Mycroft patted a leather case by his side. “I have taken the liberty of glancing through them. They’re remarkable in their lack of particulars. There is one mention of a possible marriage and then she says no more about it.”
There was a sudden gleam in Holmes’s eyes.
“Had she an inheritance?”
Mycroft shook his head. “As I have said, the Adler family is not wealthy. Their only good fortune in life was their two daughters.” He pushed to his feet. “I have an appointment with the Prince this evening. What should I say to him?” “That I am not enthused.”
“But you will look into it?” Holmes hesitated, then nodded. At the door, Mycroft said: “All your expenses will be covered, and you will be well rewarded despite whatever you discover. There is an American packet, the New Hebrides, leaving for Boston, Tuesday next. With their fast transcontinental railroads, it shouldn’t take you more than another week to reach San Francisco. Nor should the trip be all that onerous. I understand the new sleeping cars are quite comfortable.” He paused in the doorway. “The Prince will be very appreciative, Sherlock.”
Holmes raised his glass. “For God, country and good Prince Edward,” he murmured.
And the memory of Irene Adler, I thought.
After Mycroft had left, Holmes sat quietly for a long moment staring at the fog outside the window, I knew that Mycroft had opened a wound both of us thought had healed long ago. I poured myself a small tumbler of brandy and sat opposite him, respecting his silence.
He suddenly drained his glass and turned to me with a slight smile on his face. “As I recall, Watson, you spent some time in America and in that very city. 1883, wasn’t it? Or was it 1884?”
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