The Baker Street Boys: The Case of the Disappearing Detective

by Anthony Read

  Shiner was now about eleven or twelve years old, a born rebel with a temper that often got him – and sometimes the other Boys – into trouble. He could be stubborn and selfish, but he had his good side, too: he was brave in the face of danger, and he could always be relied on to see any job through, no matter how hard it was.

  Shiner was a quick lad with sharp ears, good at listening to his customers as he polished their boots and shoes, and picking up useful gossip. He had once overheard a respectable-looking businessman (who, incidentally, had been wearing an expensive pair of elastic-sided brown boots) telling another man about hiding stolen jewels in the station’s left-luggage office. Shiner had reported this to Wiggins. Wiggins had reported it to Mr Holmes. And Mr Holmes had been able to catch the thief, recover the jewels and hand both over to Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard.

  Shiner had basked in everyone’s praise at this triumph. But he had spoiled things by not wanting to share the reward with the other Boys. Queenie, however, had soon put a stop to that, and they had all enjoyed a blow-out feast that left them feeling full for days.

  Now, Wiggins was explaining about finding the apple core, and how the big man had vanished without trace. “Like a puff of smoke,” he said.

  “I seen that done at the theatre,” chipped in Sparrow. “They has this powder in a little tray, and when you put a spark to it, it goes up in a big flash.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?” Rosie asked.

  “It makes a lot of smoke as well. And while the audience is still half blinded by the flash, the lady what’s got to disappear nips out and nobody sees her go ’cos of the smoke.”

  “There weren’t no flash,” said Beaver solemnly. “We’d have seen it. Right, Wiggins?”

  “What you on about?” Wiggins sounded exasperated. “Course there weren’t no flash. Nor no smoke, neither.”

  “There was the fog…”

  “Beaver!”

  “Sorry.”

  “This weren’t no conjuring trick. Mr Holmes said it was very interesting.”

  “Was he cross with you for losing the man?” Rosie asked.

  “No,” Wiggins replied. “I thought he would be, but when I told him what happened, and showed him that –” he pointed to the apple core “– he just said it was very interesting and that we done really well.”

  “I can’t see how,” said Queenie. “What’s he want us to do now?”

  “He says we’re to keep up the good work, and he gave me another bob. Look.” He held up another shiny shilling, then dropped it into the cracked china toby jug on a shelf near the stove, where they kept their meagre savings. The jug was shaped like the head of a man wearing a three-cornered hat and a black mask across his eyes. Wiggins said it was Dick Turpin, the famous highwayman. Queenie thought it was funny to have a robber looking after their money, but Wiggins always laughed and said there was nobody better.

  “Well, we must be doin’ somethin’ right,” said Shiner, cheering up at the chink of the money in the jug and the thought of the food it might buy.

  “We’ve gotta keep looking out for that man, and anybody else what goes in and out of that house,” Wiggins told them.

  A sudden shout from the doorway made them all turn round.

  “I seen him! I seen him, just now!”

  Gertie, the last of the Baker Street Boys, had just pushed her way in through the sacking sheet that hung over the cellar entrance. Her green eyes were sparkling with excitement.

  “Where? Where d’you see him?” Wiggins demanded.

  “Out there, in the street. I was holdin’ this horse’s head—”

  “You can’t hold horses’ heads!” Shiner interrupted. “That’s a lad’s job.”

  “I ’spect they thought she was a lad,” said Rosie.

  And indeed Gertie did look like a boy, with her ginger hair cropped short and ragged trousers reaching just below her knees, and she was well able to hold horses’ heads to stop them straying while their carriages were parked at the kerbside. She grinned, pleased by what Rosie had said, and continued. “I was holdin’ this horse’s head – a grey, it was, with a lovely long mane – when our man comes along and stands on the kerb right by me.”

  The others gasped.

  “Right by me,” Gertie repeated dramatically. “Then he hails a cab.”

  “Where to? Did you hear where he was going?” asked Wiggins.

  “Clear as a bell. ‘Driver,’ says he, ‘take me to Paddington railroad station, quick as you can!’”

  “Paddington!” exclaimed Shiner.

  “Railroad?” Beaver puzzled. “Why’d he say that?”

  “Why were you talkin’ in that funny voice?” asked Queenie.

  “’Cos that’s how he talked. You know what I reckon?” Gertie cried triumphantly. “I reckon he’s a Yankee!”

  “An American, you say?” Sherlock Holmes nodded his head thoughtfully.

  “That’s what Gertie thinks,” Wiggins replied. He was standing before the great detective in his rooms at 221b Baker Street, twisting his hat nervously in his hands.

  Dr Watson sat near by, an encouraging smile on his friendly face, stroking his full moustache as he listened to what Wiggins had to say.

  “And has Gertie ever heard an American speak before?” Mr Holmes asked.

  “I dunno.”

  “Could he, perhaps, have been an Irishman?”

  “Oh no, sir,” Wiggins replied confidently. “She knows what an Irishman sounds like. There’s lots of Irishmen in London. ’Sides, her dad was an Irishman.”

  “And there is the matter of terminology,” Dr Watson added.

  “Eh? I beg pardon, sir?”

  “Names,” Mr Holmes said. “The use of ‘railroad’ instead of ‘railway’.”

  “Precisely,” said Dr Watson. “‘Railroad’ is an American term.”

  “Thank you, Watson,” Mr Holmes replied sarcastically. “We are aware of that.”

  “Yes, of course. Just trying to help, old chap.”

  Mr Holmes snorted impatiently. “This requires a great deal of thought,” he said. Striding across the room, he picked up his violin from a shelf and plucked its strings to check that it was in tune.

  Dr Watson got hurriedly to his feet and made for the door.

  “I … er … I have to visit a patient,” he stammered. “Come along, Wiggins. We’ll leave Mr Holmes to his deliberations.”

  As they descended the stairs on their way out they heard the screech of the violin’s first notes.

  Dr Watson looked at Wiggins with a pained expression on his face. “I always enjoy a good tune,” he said. “But this modern music…”

  Wiggins nodded sympathetically. “Still,” he said, “if it helps him think…”

  “Oh, it does that, all right. Can’t for the life of me see how, but it seems to work for him. Sometimes he’ll play for hours. In a world of his own. Then he’ll suddenly lay down the violin, smile, and say ‘I have it, Watson!’”

  “Brilliant!”

  “Yes. He has a remarkable brain. Quite remarkable.”

  Dr Watson closed the shiny, black front door behind them, settled his top hat firmly on his head and bade Wiggins goodbye.

  “Should I come back tomorrow for more orders?” Wiggins asked.

  “Yes,” the Doctor replied. “Yes, why don’t you come back in the morning.” And he marched away down the street.

  Wiggins stood for a moment, listening to the sound of the violin coming from inside the house. The fog had thinned slightly, and when he looked up at Mr Holmes’s window he could see his shadow on the blind, playing his unearthly music. As Wiggins turned away, however, he realized that he was not the only one watching that window. There was a closed carriage standing at the kerbside, with a small but distinct letter “M” painted on the door. Inside it, he could just make out the gaunt figure of a middle-aged man with a large, dome-like, bald head, his sunken eyes fixed intently on the silhouette of the detective. There was somethin
g evil about the man, and Wiggins felt a chill as he looked at him. For a moment, a cold smile flickered across the man’s cadaverous features, then he rapped with his cane on the roof of the carriage, and it pulled away into the gloom.

  The Most Dangerous Man in London

  The fog had lifted a little next morning, but the light was still gloomy as Wiggins made his way back to 221b Baker Street.

  He had already posted the Boys on look-out duty around the streets, but there was no sign of movement from the big man’s house. He had sent Shiner to his work at Paddington Station with strict instructions to watch out for the man there.

  “He won’t be hard to spot,” Wiggins had told him. “He’s so big, you’d see his head well above the crowd.”

  “Don’t worry,” Shiner had answered keenly. “I don’t miss much on that station. If he’s there, I’ll see him.”

  “Good lad. Off you go, then.”

  Shiner had saluted and hotfooted it to Paddington. Wiggins had checked over his troops and then headed for Baker Street. On the way, he had passed Rosie, just returning from the market at Covent Garden with a full tray of fresh little flowers to sell. He had asked her to patrol the street near the alley with the iron door, to watch for any comings or goings there.

  Confident that he had everything covered, he arrived on Mr Holmes’s doorstep. But before he tugged the shiny brass bell pull, he took a careful look around, to make sure the sinister “M” was not watching. Only when he was certain that he wasn’t did he ring. The door was opened, even before the bell had stopped tinkling, by a boy who was about the same age and height as Wiggins but very different in appearance.

  Billy was the pageboy employed by Mrs Hudson, the landlady, to answer the door, show visitors in and run errands and take messages for her and the people who, like Sherlock Holmes, rented sets of rooms in the house. He was dressed in a typical pageboy’s uniform: trousers with a broad, red stripe down the side and a tight jacket, with two rows of brass buttons running up the front, fastened right to the neck. When he went out on an errand, he wore a little pillbox hat at a jaunty angle, held on by a piece of elastic under his chin. His hair was cut short, parted in the centre and plastered down on his scalp so close that he seemed to be wearing a tight, shiny, black skullcap. His face was round, pink and extremely clean. His snub nose was very short – but he still managed to look down it at the scruffy street urchin who stood facing him.

  All the Boys thought Billy was rather stuck-up. Wiggins said it was because deep down he was jealous of them. Queenie couldn’t see what he had to be jealous of – he was well looked after, while they were often cold and hungry – but Wiggins said it was the special friendship they had with each other, and their freedom to do whatever they liked. Queenie was not convinced. And Billy certainly didn’t look jealous now, as he glared at Wiggins.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he sneered. “What d’you want?”

  “I’m assisting Mr Holmes on a case,” Wiggins replied with a little smile of triumph. “He wants to see me.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Course I am. He told me it’s a matter of national importance. Now are you gonna let me in?”

  “No.”

  “What d’you mean, no?”

  “I mean, Mr Holmes is not in. So he don’t need you that bad. He’s gone out.”

  Now it was Billy’s turn to smile in triumph. He started to shut the door. Wiggins quickly jammed his foot in the opening, to stop him.

  “I’ll see Dr Watson, then.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “’Cos he’s gone out as well. Visiting patients.” And this time, he did close the door – after he’d stamped on Wiggins’s foot.

  When he’d stopped hopping around, Wiggins stood still for a moment, wondering what to do next. He decided to take another look at the mysterious iron door, and set off at once for the little alleyway, taking care to keep his eyes open for anything suspicious on the way.

  The entrance to the alley was partly blocked by an old beggar man leaning his crooked back against one wall. His face was half hidden by a battered hat with a broad brim, and the tangle of hair that escaped from underneath it was grey and matted, as was his beard. He was selling matches and bootlaces from a tray hung round his neck.

  “Wotcha, grandad,” Wiggins greeted him cheerfully. “How’s business?”

  The old man shrugged hopelessly. He looked so dejected that Wiggins dug in his pocket to find a penny. It was his last, but the man obviously needed it more than he did.

  “’Fraid I ain’t got much,” he said, “but here – at least it’ll buy you a cup of tea.”

  “You’re a good boy,” the old man croaked, sounding grateful.

  He held out a shaking hand, but as Wiggins went to place the penny in it, he suddenly found his wrist clamped in a grip of steel.

  “A very good boy, Wiggins, my friend!” The voice was that of Sherlock Holmes.

  Wiggins gasped, and stared open-mouthed at the old man. Behind the disguise, he could recognize the familiar piercing eyes of the great detective.

  “Mr Ho—” he started to blurt out.

  But Mr Holmes cut him short. “Shh! Don’t say it!” He looked around, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “There is an old saying: ‘Walls have ears.’ Never forget that.”

  “No, sir, Mr … er… No, sir.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I went round your place, but you wasn’t there. So I thought I’d take another look at that funny door.”

  Mr Holmes smiled behind his false beard. “Your instincts are excellent, my young friend. It is indeed a funny door – and a very clever one at that. But I would prefer you not to go near it again for the moment.”

  “Oh.” Wiggins was disappointed, but accepted, as always, that Mr Holmes knew best. “Right, sir. I won’t.”

  “Good. All will be revealed in due course, I promise you. Now, what did you want to see me about?”

  “Oh, yes. I wanted to let you know that we’ve got that house staked out again.”

  “Good.”

  “And I’ve got Shiner keeping watch at Paddington Station.”

  “Excellent. We shall make a detective of you yet.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And? Was there something else you wished to tell me?”

  “Yes, sir. There is. I don’t know if it means anything…”

  “I will be the judge of that. Just give me the facts.”

  So Wiggins told him about the sinister man he’d seen in the carriage the night before. “He was watching your windows, sir. I’m sure he was.”

  “Describe him to me.”

  Wiggins described the man. As he did so, he could sense a growing excitement in the great detective.

  Mr Holmes let out a long sigh. “Excellent. You have a good eye for detail, Wiggins. You have drawn a perfect picture of him.”

  “D’you know him, sir?”

  “I believe I do. Was there anything else?”

  “Just the one thing. There was something painted on the door of the carriage.”

  “A monogram, perhaps?”

  “An initial: the letter ‘M’.”

  “Moriarty,” said Mr Holmes. “So it was him.”

  “Moriarty?” Wiggins asked. “Who’s he when he’s at home?”

  “Professor James Moriarty is the Napoleon of crime, the most dangerous man in London and my deadliest adversary. I believed he had perished during our last encounter, in Switzerland. It would appear that I was mistaken.”

  Wiggins let out a low whistle. “What’s he up to, then?”

  “That, my dear Wiggins, is the question. Only when we have discovered what he and his accomplices are plotting can we hope to stop them.”

  “What d’you want me to do, sir?”

  “Go back to your Irregulars, and tell them to keep watching, but tell them to be especially careful. They are to take no risks. I couldn’t bear it if I were t
o cause the death of any of you. Do you understand?”

  Wiggins gulped and nodded. This was serious business.

  “If you have any new information,” Mr Holmes continued, “come back here and report it to me. Otherwise, keep well clear. Now, off you go.”

  Paddington Station, the London terminus of the Great Western Railway, was busy as usual. Travellers hurried to and fro – those departing anxious not to miss their trains, and those arriving looking out eagerly for friends and relatives meeting them at the platform gates. Porters trundled heavy suitcases and trunks on handcarts and trolleys. Locomotives that had recently arrived stood facing the station concourse, their dark green paintwork streaked with dirt. Smoke rose from their gleaming brass funnels, mingled with escaping steam and climbed lazily up towards the great glass roof. On platform number 1, the famous Cornish Riviera Express stood waiting to depart on its long journey to Penzance, near Land’s End – the very tip of the English mainland. The last passengers were climbing into its smart coaches, painted in the railway company’s chocolate and cream colours. The last doors slammed shut. The guard was unfurling his green flag, ready to signal the driver to start.

  Shiner loved working at the station. He loved the sounds and the smells, the hiss of steam and the shrill blasts of the guards’ whistles. He loved the hustle and bustle, and the fact that there was always something going on, and that he was part of it. But most of all, he loved the trains – the engines with their huge iron wheels and their powerful, gleaming piston rods. He loved the noise they made as they started off, the puffs getting louder and faster as they gradually began to pick up speed, straining to haul their heavy loads out of the station.

  Shiner had never actually been on a train. But that did not stop him dreaming of being on the footplate of a steam engine, of one day driving a crack express. That was the best job in the whole, wide world, better even than being a famous detective. He would not be a shoeshine boy for ever. One day he would be an engine driver. He looked at the Cornish Riviera Express and sighed deeply.