“Are you that worried for your safety?” I asked her as I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat in the armchair opposite Holmes.
“I’m not worried for my safety. I just like my privacy. There is no harm in that,” she said.
I quickly ate and drank, so that within an hour Holmes and I were wandering the streets of Manhattan, making our way towards Norton’s office at 82 Park Place Ave.
“Surely any useful evidence will have been taken by the local authorities?” I questioned.
“I’m not looking for anything that they found. If I feel the need to consult them after we have had a chance to look around, I will,” said Holmes.
“Ah, we’re here,” said I as we turned the corner.
82 Park Place was an eleven-story building constructed from tan coloured bricks. We passed through an arched entrance and into the main lobby. It was a fine establishment, brightly lit with marble floors and fine wood trimmings. We made our way to the firm’s floor, and were greeted by a tall man with a round face and thick white sideburns.
“Hello, there!” said the man with a southern draw as he offered us his hand. “I am Giles Penny.”
“I am Mr Sherlock Holmes of London, and this is my colleague Doctor John Watson,” said Holmes as we shook Mr Penny’s hand. “We are here per request of Mrs Irene Norton to have a look through Mr Godfrey Norton’s offices before they are cleared.”
“Oh my, yes. She was very keen for us to leave the office as it was until you got here. The police have already done their business, so there’s not much left to see,” said Mr Penny. “Still she paid us handsomely for us to leave it.”
“Then let us not waste that penny. Where is Norton’s office?” asked Holmes.
“Right this way,” and we followed the American.
“Did you know Mr Norton well?” I enquired.
“He was a good man and damn good lawyer. A sturdy fellow,” Penny replied. “Still, though, it’s not uncommon for people to buckle under this job.”
“Was he working on any particularly high-pressure cases at the time?” Holmes asked.
“No, not really, a bunch of minor things. Still, it seems the stress got to him. I suppose looking back it was clear, but what can you do?” said Penny.
“You saw signs?” I asked.
“Quite right, little things they were. The week leading up to his death he’d been running late, getting sloppy with work, a bit forgetful, always looking like his mind was elsewhere. I thought he was having a bad week,” Mr Penny informed us.
“Interesting,” said Holmes.
Mr Penny pulled out a key and unlocked a door. “This is his office,” said he.
“Leave us to look around. We’ll call for you if we need any more information,” commanded Holmes.
“Very well. I’ll be at the end of the hall here.”
Penny gone, Holmes walked around the room with his hands behind his back. As I followed him, I noticed immediately to the right was a desk. It was large and made of oak. There were still markings on the floor from where the pistol had fallen and lain. Wrapping around the three other walls were cabinets filled with files. There was a window on the right wall that Holmes inspected carefully. I noticed that the floors in the offices were not marble but polished wood.
“The room looks clean,” I said glancing this way and that as Holmes began examining Norton’s desk.
“It is far from clean, Watson,” said Holmes as he took a seat in Norton’s chair.
“Care to explain?” I asked.
“Several things I’ve noticed. Do you see there, this cabinet which was hit by the bullet which pieced Norton’s head?” said Holmes, and pointed out a chip in the wood.
“I see it,” said I.
“What does that tell you?” he asked.
“Other than the bullet passed through his skull and hit the wall–nothing,” I returned.
“You are wrong, Watson,” said Holmes. “You are missing the most vital about the bullet.”
“Which is?”
“Where it hit!” he cried. “Here, Watson, if I were to put a gun to my head and fire it with my left hand, the barrel of the gun would be pointed like so.” Holmes demonstrated. “If I fired said gun, the bullet would pass through my skull at an upward angle, therefore hitting the wall either level with my head or closer to the ceiling! The shot fired was angled down and hit closer to the floor.”
“What if he held the gun at the top of his head?”
“How many self-inflicted gunshot wounds to the head aim the barrel downward?”
“I can think of a few cases…”
“Very few, Watson.” Holmes interjected. “I have studied many self-inflicted gunshot wounds, and the angle is wrong. Further, having met Norton before and knowing how tall he is, I am certain he did not pull that trigger.”
“So Miss Adler was correct.”
“Did you expect anything less of her?” Holmes began to tinker with the desk drawers, which had been left open, as they were when Miss Adler found Norton. The desk had three drawers on each side, and Holmes pulled the top left one. He would open it ever so slightly, and then close it. He repeated this motion several times before doing it with his head level with the top of the desk.
“By Jove, I think I found something!” Holmes made similar motions with the other top desk drawer and laid his head level again. “Yes, there is something here.” He stood and began tapping the top of the desk and then the bottom. He walked around the front, and stuck his head underneath. Standing upright, he looked at me with a smile. “Do you have your pocket knife on you?”
I pulled it from my jacket pocket. Holmes unfolded the longest blade and ran it down a thin crack on either side of the drawers. Every couple of inches, the blade would get caught and every time Holmes’ smile grew wider.
“That brass statue behind you, Watson, might you hand it over to me?” I handed him the heavy statue of a horse. “The drawers were open and yet nothing was taken,” said Holmes as he took another seat in Norton’s chair. “I know why.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
With a sudden loud crash Holmes slammed the brass statue upwards so it connected with the lip of the desk. I jolted at the sound and took a few steps back. Holmes repeated this several more times before, on the fourth try, the middle section of the desk lifted up and flung open on a latch.
“Good heavens, Holmes!” I cried. I could hear the sound of someone approaching. I turned to see Mr Penny barreling down the hall. I looked back at Holmes, who was stuffing something into his pocket.
“What is that racket?” shouted Mr Penny. “What in the world have you done?”
“That which was necessary, Mr Penny,” said Holmes.
“You’ve done gone and ruined the desk!” The man was red as a berry with anger. His hand held his head as he huffed.
“It was a needful action,” said Holmes in a rather blasé tone. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we must be off at once.”
“Pardon!” he shouted. “You can’t just go, not after this. Who is going to clean up this mess?” Mr Penny huffed some more.
“Mrs Norton paid you a shiny penny to keep the office intact, now you can pay a shiny penny to clean it up, and the world will carry on,” said Holmes.
Holmes and I hailed a cab, and instructed the driver to take us back to Adler’s brownstone.
“What did you find, Holmes?” I asked as we made our way down the busy Manhattan streets.
“The reason nothing was taken from the drawers is because nothing valuable was in them,” Holmes began. „The desk was specially made so that when the drawers are opened in a certain pattern, a secret compartment opens. In this case, I didn’t have the time to work it out, so using the brass statue, I broke in. While you were watching Mr Penny, I was able to snatch these.” He pulled out a small brown journal, and a grey satin woman’s glove with a crimson S stitched onto the sleeve. “It was best not to share our findings with Mr Penny and speak with Miss Adler first.
”
“A sentimental object Norton kept with him,” said I. “What can the S stand for… another woman?”
“Possibly. The glove is certainly for a woman, but look at it. It is in perfect condition. Not worn by anyone. No stretch marks, no fading, nothing. Also the glove is perhaps a size and a half too small for Miss Adler. She is by no means a large woman, but she is a woman. This is meant for a much younger girl. This is something else entirely,” said Holmes.
“And the journal?” I asked. Holmes began flicking through the pages and let out a curious grown.
“Notes regarding clients and cases. Dates and names as well. Might be useless, but still worth holding on to. The dates seem to lead up till just a few days before his death. The most curious piece of it is this,” and Holmes, showed me a little slip of paper with a black circle in the centre.
“Curious,” said I. “Hopefully, Miss Adler will be able to enlighten us on some of this.”
“Precisely, Watson!”
***
Upon arrival, we found Miss Adler pacing back and forth in her study. She had grown impatient in her wait, and was excited to see us return.
“What did you find?” she asked.
“Two things,” said I as we sat. Holmes quickly recalled the events that had taken place in the office, and his speculation regarding the cause of Norton’s death. There was look of surprise upon Irene Adler’s face when she was told of the secret chamber inside the desk.
“Norton was a clever man,” she admitted. “I shouldn’t find it that surprising. Though I am surprised that he never told me about this.” She paused, as if her mind was taking her elsewhere. “Nevertheless,” she continued, “did you find anything useful?”
“Well, I am certain, even more so than ever, that he was being threatened before his life was claimed,” said Holmes. He handed Miss Adler the little slip of paper with the black circle.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“A pirate’s warning of death. A black spot,” Holmes said. “I believe someone gave this to him for a reason yet to be determined, and he chose to hide out in his office. The killer arrived, smoked, leaving the ash you found, put the gun to Norton’s head, firing downwards, and left the gold doubloon as a symbol. Of course, in our modern age, who thinks of the old Pirate codes and warnings? This was a vital clue left unnoticed. Finally, the gun was then left to make it appear that Norton did it, again shielding the doubloon as nothing more than a piece of history. That Norton wanted to get into the secret compartment means that something inside was important.”
“How do we know it was Norton?” I asked.
“Elementary! Had the killer known the compartment was there, they would have forced Norton to open it before killing him. The desk was in the process of being opened when he was killed.”
“What else did you find inside the compartment?” Miss Adler asked.
“This brown journal,” said Holmes showing the book, “of unknown importance, and this satin glove with a crimson ‘S’ on the sleeve.” Holmes handed both to Miss Adler, and she looked at them closely.
“Does it mean anything to you?” I asked.
“The journal, no,” said she, skimming the pages. “The glove, yes.” Holmes and I looked at her quickly.
“What does it mean?” I asked.
“It belongs to a relatively secret club here in the city,” she said.
“How do you know of it?” Holmes asked.
“I did say relatively secret. I met a man at an after-party once. He had had too much to drink and was talking to me about how thrilled he was to have gained access to ‘the society’. He then proceeded to show me a grey satin glove with a red ‘S’ just like this. What I cannot tell you is why Godfrey had this. I will find out!”
“We will find out, Miss Adler. The mystery deepens,” said Holmes. “Now, who was it who showed you this glove? Talking to him may prove useful.”
“His name is Roy Oaks. He’s the manager of Wilson Bank Co on 5th Avenue,” she replied. I could see something in her eyes. Her face did not express sadness or anger, rather by her expression I could not help think, for a moment, that she was planning something. Perhaps, like our first encounter, she was withholding information?
“Very well,” said Holmes. “I wish you to remain here while we speak with Mr Oaks. Once we do, we’ll return and set another course of action.”
***
Holmes’s plan for our coverstory was that we were seeking assistance in storing precious jewels. In order to do this, we needed to meet with Mr Oaks, the manager, to know we could leave it in capable hands.
At Wilson Bank Co. , Holmes spoke with a woman who stood behind a counter, and within a few moments she had gone to fetch Mr Oaks. We waited patiently before being called forward. The woman took us down a long hallway which was adorned with portraits of gentlemen who I assumed were the founding men of the bank. She stood before a door, and knocked gently. A voice called out for us to enter.
“Mr Holmes, is it?” said a man, rising from behind a desk. He was around my height, with a long face and pointy nose, bald and bespectacled. His dress was of the finest quality. “I am Roy Oaks.“ Holmes and I greeted him with a handshake before being offered a seat. “What can I do for you fine gentlemen?” he asked.
“I am the owner of a very fine stone, and while I am here in your fine city, I would like to store it in your bank,” said Holmes.
“That is certainly something we can do for you,” replied Oaks, leaning back in his chair with a smile.
“Before any agreement is made, I would like to see the security measures you would provide for my property,” Holmes stated.
“As you wish, but, might I have a look at the stone?” asked Oaks.
I paused, fearing that our game was up. Holmes, however, reached into his pocket and withdrew a cloth with something wrapped inside. He laid it upon the table and unfolded it slowly, revealing the emerald that Miss Adler had sent to Holmes back in London. Mr Oaks feasted his eyes upon the beautiful stone, and smiled widely.
“Oh, yes, that is lovely,” he said. “If you will excuse me, I will retrieve a safe for you to examine.” The man quickly left the room, and as the door shut, Holmes stood and looked around.
“What are you looking for?” I asked, rising to my feet. Holmes did not respond, but quickly went through the drawers in the desk.
“This will have to do,” said he. He withdrew the satin glove from his pocket that we had found in Norton’s office, and laid it upon the desk. “Watson, stand by the door. When he enters, close it quickly behind him.” I took the position while Holmes remained on the other side of the desk. Moments later, Mr Oaks walked in with a container. I closed the door behind him, and he halted in surprise.
“What’s going on?” Oaks demanded, setting the container on his desk. He caught sight of the satin glove lying exposed on the desk. “Where did you get that?” he roared, his gaze darting towards a small chest in the corner behind the desk.
“I have something for you,” said Holmes as he gestured to take Oaks’ hand. Reluctantly, Oaks extended his hand, and I saw Holmes slip a piece of paper into his palm. Oaks withdrew and looked at it. His face turned pale, and he began to sway. I raced over and caught the man as he fell. Holmes and I placed him in a seat, and I stood over while he recomposed himself. Holmes walked over to the chest and withdrew an identical satin glove.
“What are you doing to do?” said Oaks when he finally recovered.
“You know what this is?” said Holmes, pointing to the black spot. “You know exactly what happens when a member gets this.”
“What did I do? I thought I was loyal,” he whimpered.
“We’ll see how far your loyalty extends,” said Holmes. “If you don’t tell me where The Society is, I will be forced to expose your connection to it. Further, if I am forced expose you, you’ll have to expose The Society. Pick your option,” said Holmes. Oaks paused when he realised that the game was up.
&nb
sp; “You - you can’t do anything!” he sputtered.
“You may not know who I am, but I am the foremost mind in deductive reasoning. Consulted by all manner of life, from kings to peasants, and I assure you I have enough evidence to re-open Norton’s case and tie you to it. I’m sure the police will like to know that you both have the same satin glove which belongs to The Society. Further, I have a firsthand witness who knew you were a member when you exposed your secret one drunken night at a party. You already made it clear that The Society has aggressive tendencies by your reaction to the delivery of the black spot. I can also see from the brown stains under your fingernail that you’ve recently had exposure to raw opium, a substance Norton was keen on. Given that, and that you both belong to the same society, and exhibit the markings of a consumer, it is no stretch that you partook of the substance while in attendance at The Society. A very quick experiment would determine if you used the same batch of opium. So tell me, where is the Society located, and why would they kill a member?”
Oaks held still for a moment in an attempt to call a bluff. I could see him grip the handle of the seat tightly and his face begin to perspire. “We have a private location. Sullivan Docks, pier 4,” Oaks began slowly. “The club itself is kept completely secret. Only members know of its existence, or at least it should be members only.”
“And the punishment for exposure?” Holmes asked.
“You swear a life oath when you join. If you for any reason expose the club, your life is forfeit,” Oaks said.
“Why is this?” I asked.
“The kind of things we do are not entirely…” he paused taking a deep breath, “…they are not legal. Opium is a hot commodity, and many States are instilling laws that ends the free use of it. This could have a terrible affect on our business. We have a hand that stretches across the land. Oh, the Society is but an iceberg’s tip. You’ll find no better racketeering in the country. From Presidents to petty shop owners; we are able to bribe and launder to our hearts content. Eyes are turned when we indulged in - all type of fornication.”
“How does one get admitted into this society?” I asked.
Sherlock Holmes and The Scarlet Thread of Murder Page 16