The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part IX

by Marcum, David;

  “I - I have so little cash reserves. I - I confess I have spent too much, unwisely. But perhaps, if you would take just fifty-”

  It happened so fast I had not even time to shout. The half-crippled man sprang to one side, seizing the antique sword that was mounted in the gantlets of the armor. He spun around, swinging the sword with strength and agility. But my friend, who had clearly anticipated such a move, was faster. He ducked low and threw his shoulder into the man, propelling him backward into the safe. His skull cracked hard on the metal box, and the sword flew from his hand. Before Asher could recover, Holmes had him by the throat and I was covering him with my pistol. He threw out his hands, begging for mercy.

  “Open the safe,” Holmes said.

  “There’s no money in it! I can get you money! There’s plenty of money upstairs in my room.”

  Holmes tightened his hold and slammed Asher’s knees to the floor. “I don’t want your money. I want to see what is inside that safe. Watson, if he doesn’t get it open in ten seconds, you have my permission to shoot him.”

  The threat worked effectively. With quivering fingers, Asher spun the combination and the door began to open. Holmes slipped a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, and I dragged the whimpering man to one side, quickly snapping the metal restraints on him. Holmes stood looking inside the safe.

  “Watson.”

  I returned to his side and shared his view. My hand slapped to my mouth. A rigid, thin, green-gray face with a neat beard, and open, glazed eyes stared up at us.

  “Holmes,” I whispered, “the rest of them-”

  “-Are clearly confederates. They know what became of their master.”

  “Then we are in danger! If they find us here-”

  “They’ll kill you!” the villain on the floor shrieked. “You won’t leave this place alive! It will be your heads in there, along with his! No one will know!”

  Holmes smiled at the man as he ripped away the heavy muffler and freed him of his wig of long hair. “Oh, but we have friends as well. Come and see.”

  I pulled Asher to his feet and herded him toward the door. Holmes flung it open. There, in the passageway, was an astonishing tableau. A burly, dark-haired man, a woman in a black dress, her fiery red hair in disarray, and a lad of about twenty, in a greasy jacket and rough trousers, were kneeling on the floor, each one securely bound and gagged, with a pair of gypsy guards hovering behind each prisoner. Their eyes screamed their anger and outrage. When they saw that their leader was our captive, the woman and the boy began to weep. Tifton hovered across from them, trembling in alarm. At the far end of the hall, the bear was blocking the exit. Tifton stepped forward, staring at the man I held.

  “Who - who is this?”

  “He goes by the name of Remington,” Holmes said, “and also by the name of Rowe. His true name will require further investigation.”

  “But what has happened to my master? Where is Mr. Asher?”

  Holmes turned to me. “Watson, I must rely on you to go back to the village, and find a way to get a message to Inspector Lestrade. I would send one of our comrades, but I am afraid the local constabulary might not give them the respect or credit they will give you. Mr. Tifton... if you will come with me?”

  The last thing I saw, before setting off on my most important errand, was Holmes gently putting his arm around the old servant’s shoulder, guiding him into the study, and closing the door.

  * * *

  “His true name is Roach,” Holmes said, weeks later, as he savored his first pipe of the evening, “so I can hardly fault him for adopting an alias. You can find him in my Index: A swindler, accomplished forger, leader of a criminal gang, and fine actor.”

  I nodded. “He took me in. I was persuaded that he was sick and dying.”

  “With no fire in the fireplace on a chilly day? Doctor!”

  I waved this criticism aside. “Tell me the rest.”

  “His confederates were already in the village, in hiding from a previous bit of misbehavior. Grief makes a man very vulnerable, and these gang members recognized an easy mark when they accepted employment with Mr. Asher. Roach posed as an American to win Asher’s confidence. He studied his victim well, but not well enough. Perhaps you noted the trap? The real Asher would have refuted the imaginary Peterson and laughed at my glaring error of placing the Okefenokee Swamp in Virginia.”

  “But how was Asher killed?”

  “Once he was in London, and in the power of two determined villains, it was a simple thing. Jenkins and Roach plied him with drink - most likely they drugged him as well - then took him back to the hotel where his clothes were exchanged for those of Roach before he was dispatched. The men were of comparable size, which made the substitution an easy one - except for the boots. They could not jam Roach’s boots onto Asher’s feet, but Asher’s boots were distinctive and perhaps traceable. So they left the body in his stocking feet and Roach’s boots beside the bed. Then, in the wee hours, with all asleep, Jenkins and Roach escaped. It was critical that the world think Mr. Asher alive and this stranger, Mr. Rowe, dead. That is why they had to take the head away. They could not risk the proper identification of the corpse. A gunshot to the face might have been equally as effective, but it would have awakened the entire hotel.”

  I nodded my understanding of his logic. “Why keep the head?”

  “Because heads and other body parts have a notorious habit of turning up in strange places. Look how many corpses are annually pulled from the Thames, or how often dogs unearth hastily dug graves. In the safe, Roach always knew the location of the one piece of evidence that could convict him. I am sure he planned to dispose the grisly trophy, perhaps as soon as Tifton was no longer in his service.”

  “So why didn’t he sack Tifton immediately? Why the charade?”

  “He knew Tifton was elderly and almost blind, but not stupid, and from his associates, Roach knew it would not be in Asher’s nature to dismiss such a loyal retainer. It was easy enough for Roach, as an actor, to pretend that sickness had altered Asher’s voice and figure. He grew a beard and donned a wig that adequately mimicked Asher’s appearance to the almost sightless man. He knew that if Tifton were to be dismissed suddenly, without cause, the old servant might ask questions. Better to begin a slow campaign to drive him away - to make him feel that he could no longer please his master. Once he was gone, Roach and company would live as they pleased.” Holmes shook his head. “Of course, the false Asher could have dismissed Tifton by citing his advanced infirmity, sweetening the forced retirement with a sizable severance payment, a tidy legacy for his years of service... but Roach was far too greedy for this simple solution.”

  “Roach could have murdered Tifton,” I said.

  “True, but the butler’s sudden disappearance might have alerted authorities, since Tifton possessed young dependents who would have become alarmed if they could not reach him. Tifton could not vanish without the risk of uncomfortable questions being asked.”

  “And no one in Edendore would have noticed the substitution of Rowe for Asher,” I marveled.

  “The sad fate of a recluse. Asher was not a local man, and had been a Stag Hall for under a year. If his behavior after his trip seemed strange or uncouth, the people in the village assumed that was simply Asher’s nature. They had no reason to think otherwise.”

  “But the gypsies-”

  “Young Bodie was responsible for their entry into the picture, as he enjoyed their performances and could use Asher’s money to pay for them. They, however, aroused an ugly prejudice in Tifton’s breast. He attributed to them dark designs upon his beloved master’s soul - and that brought him to me. How ironic that the people Tifton blamed for the crime became the heroes of the moment! I was able, as you witnessed, to enlist them in our cause. I told their leader that the gang in Stag Hall was preparing to frame his people for mu
rder. Thus, their eagerness to cooperate and seize the villains before they could do any harm.”

  “And Tifton?”

  “I have just received a letter from him,” Holmes said, pulling an envelope from his pocket and reaching for a blade to slit it open. “Let us see what he has to tell us.” His eyes darted down the lines of the stationary. “He is distraught over the brutal murder of his master, of course. But there is a happy turn of events for our client. Once Mr. Asher’s death was revealed and his will read, it was discovered that the gentleman left his fortune to Tifton, the only person who had stuck by him in his great bereavement. Tifton informs me that he has retired from domestic service and will devote his life to helping his orphaned niece and nephews rise in this world.” Holmes smiled. “I believe the phrase ‘well done, good and faithful servant’ is appropriate here. And...”

  “What is it?” I asked, confused by Holmes’s low whistle.

  “It seems that Britain’s newest member of the upper class has included a reimbursement for my services! And a rather generous sum it is.” He held the checque out to me, and my eyebrows flew heavenward at the amount written on it. “That should keep us in tobacco and our other vices for some time, should it not? I believe a celebration is in order. A nutritious repast at Simpson’s, perhaps?”

  I jumped up and pulled on my coat. I tossed Holmes his high hat. He gestured merrily at the door.

  “Exit,” he quipped, “pursued by a bear!”

  The Adventure of the Parisian Butcher

  By Nick Cardillo

  It has always been my intention to give the public as accurate and complete account of my association with Mr. Sherlock Holmes as possible. However, there have been innumerable times in our career together that I found myself having to alter facts such as names, dates, and places in order to relate matters of a sometimes scandalous or sensitive nature. On other occasions, I’ve found it necessary to hold back an account in its entirety; deciding as I laid my pen aside that it would be for the best that the particulars of some of Holmes’s cases never be exposed at all. Such is the manuscript which follows: One of the few times when I determined it best that the document be consigned to some obscure corner of the Cox and Co. Bank vault, never to see the light of day.

  Sherlock Holmes was the very last of men to ever give credence to any sort of sixth sense, so it came as something of a surprise to me one humid, rain-bedewed morning in the late summer of 1886 when Holmes sat back in his chair and said: “I have the strongest intimation that something is wrong.”

  I set the paper down on my knee. “Whatever do you mean?” I asked.

  Holmes passed me an open envelope. “That letter came to me last evening while we were away,” he said. “It is, as you will doubtlessly notice, postmarked London. However, the writer of that letter is Monsieur Andre Dupont, a wealthy French businessman. Does the name strike your ear as familiar, Watson?”

  “I cannot say with any certainty,” I replied. “What does this Monsieur Dupont write to you about?”

  “He does not say,” Holmes replied, reaching for his cigarette case. “He was most irritatingly vague. However, he says that he will present himself at our rooms at eleven o’clock on the morrow - meaning, of course, today.”

  “Well, I don’t see what makes you so particularly inclined to think that something is wrong.”

  Sherlock Holmes lit his cigarette and laid the burnt-out match into the ashtray at his side. “If you would do more than to observe the latest cricket scores in that very paper which you have currently splayed out across your lap, my dear fellow, you would find an article which announces that M. Andre Dupont will be arriving by the one o’clock boat from Paris, as he is conducting some business with a few prominent English industrialists.”

  “Which means that Dupont has been in London for a day already.”

  “At the least,” Holmes replied. “Either M. Dupont had some business of a more illicit nature to attend to in the city, or he is very much in fear for his life. The fact that his arrival in the city has now been documented leads me to believe that he will have to go to some extremes to conceal his earlier arrival. By my estimation, a lookalike shall be disembarking from the one o’clock boat in M. Dupont’s stead.”

  Holmes clicked open his fob watch. “It’s nearly eleven now,” he said. “If you would be so kind as to stay, Doctor, you could be of invaluable assistance.”

  I told Holmes that there was nothing that I would rather do than aid him in any way I could. No sooner had Holmes exclaimed, “Capitol!” and clapped his hands zealously together then did we hear the bell below chime. I could hear the sound of someone at the door conversing with Mrs. Hudson in the foyer and, a moment later, when our landlady drew into the sitting room, Holmes beamed at her.

  “You may show M. Dupont up at once, Mrs. Hudson. His visit is not an unexpected one.”

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Holmes, but it is not M. Dupont who is at the door.”

  Holmes knit his brow in confusion. “Who is it then?”

  Mrs. Hudson produced our visitor’s card and handed it to the detective. He read it, his face clouding further. Then, without a word, he gestured for her to bring the client in.

  “Well,” I said, once Mrs. Hudson had gone, “who is it?”

  “The card is most certainly that of M. Andre Dupont,” Holmes said passing it to me. “But, as you will perceive, written upon it are the words: Alexandre - Valet.”

  “Why should Andre Dupont send his valet to you instead of coming himself?” I asked.

  Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “I hope that the man shall endeavor to answer that very question.”

  Our landlady returned with a tall, lanky man in his early fifties. He was well-dressed, though I figured that the dark coat and bowler hat which he carried could not have been in the slightest comfortable, especially as the late summer weather had turned the atmosphere thick and cloying.

  “I would not be incorrect in assuming that you have come on behalf of your master?” Holmes asked the servant.

  “That is correct, sir,” the man replied. He remained stiff as a board, totally unmoving as he spoke. “M. Dupont had all intentions of calling on you himself this morning, per his letter, but he decided otherwise at the very last moment. He would, however, be most grateful if you would accompany me to my master’s home. He is still most anxious to speak with you.”

  “This business must be one of the utmost severity,” Holmes said, more to himself than anyone else in the room. “Very well. I shall come with you, provided that Dr. Watson is allowed to accompany me. He acts as my associate in all my cases.”

  The valet nodded his head slightly. His total lack of movement made the man appear to be some kind of statue. “That shall be quite alright, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Excellent! Then the Doctor and I shall join you in the foyer in precisely three minutes.”

  Holmes quickly set out gathering up his things and, once we had made our way downstairs, we climbed into a waiting four-wheeler and soon found ourselves hurtling through the teeming streets of the metropolis.

  “Tell me, Alexandre,” Holmes began, “how long have you been in M. Dupont’s employ?”

  “This autumn will be my fifteenth year.”

  “Would you describe your relationship with M. Dupont to be a close one?”

  “I should think that no man knows my master better than I,” the valet replied.

  “And you have no idea in the slightest what could be troubling him so?”

  For a moment, a look of fear came into the valet’s dull, grey eyes, before he said quite emphatically: “No, sir. I cannot think of anything.”

  I noticed the look and flashed Holmes quick glance. He locked eyes with me and I knew that he too had perceived the valet’s clumsy attempt at deception.

  Our cab drew up outside of a
very well-appointed house, tucked back behind a mighty oak tree which grew out of the well-manicured front lawn. The valet produced from his coat a ring of keys and, once inside, he divested us of our hats and led us into a large, open sitting room. The room was lined with expensive-looking oil paintings on three of its walls, with the fourth taken up by a stylish set of French windows which looked out onto a neat stone veranda. At the furthermost end of the room was a large fireplace, before which stood the man I took to be Andre Dupont. He was tall and lean, and not a day over forty - though he looked considerably younger - sporting an elegantly waxed mustache. He was well-dressed in an expensive black suit. He looked as if he was destined to be in that room, as though he were one of the subjects of the portraits on the wall that had come to life, just to add flair to the space.

  “Ah, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he said, with the slightest trace of a French accent permeating his words. “Thank goodness you have come.”

  “M. Dupont,” said Holmes as he moved further into the room to shake hands with the man, “you need not be a detective to figure that you are quite distressed about something.”

  “I should imagine that my urgent letter and my subsequent behavior was enough to convey that to you.”

  “Indeed,” Holmes said, “I have seldom encountered so curious a starting point to an investigation in my days as a consulting detective. Dr. Watson, my friend and colleague, can testify to that point.”

  I shook hands with Dupont and verified Holmes’s words, which seemed to put the aristocrat to some ease.

  “I am in fear for my life, Mr. Holmes,” Dupont replied. “Please, gentlemen, sit. I shall tell you the story through.”

  Dupont took a seat in a wing back chair while Holmes and I took seats on opposite ends of a plush-looking settee. After he had offered us cigarettes, Dupont leaned back in his chair.

  “I am a wealthy man,” he began. “As such, I have garnered a few enemies in my time. Business rivals have publicly threatened me, and I have more than once in my life avoided being brained by thrown rocks. I have developed a thick skin. However, petty threats and stones pale in comparison to the threatening letters which I have received in the past few weeks.”