The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part III

by David Marcum

  From there on, his side of the conversation consisted of grunts, a few rather irritated “no, no,” a number of “yes, go on,” then, “Right! Right! Now, if you would read that entire page to me,” followed by a lengthy silence during which Holmes jotted a few notes on a scrap of paper which he had rescued from his pocket. Once he said, “Would you spell that please?” At that, he jotted another line on his paper scrap.

  When the telephone conversation ended, Holmes’s demeanor underwent a complete change. He was smiling, as much as Holmes ever smiled, and he was even humming to himself quietly.

  “What was the telephone conversation about?” I asked.

  “Oh, nothing, nothing. It is an inconvenience not to have one’s reference books at hand, so I imposed on that sweet lady who keeps my cottage in order, to gather some information for me. By the by, she asked me to give you her best regards.”

  “How lovely. I appreciate her remembrance to me. Did she find what you wanted?”

  “Oh, yes, quite admirably, although I can’t say that she did it with enthusiasm.”

  “Can’t blame her,” I said thinking of how daunting a task it must have been for her to wade through, and decipher, Holmes’s scribblings, “I heard you mention ‘scrapbook.’ Have you continued to keep your formidable scrapbooks up to date all these years?”

  “Well, ‘up to date’ would not be fully accurate, but I do record new material very frequently even now. Years ago, it became a habit, perhaps even a compulsion, of mine. I still find it interesting and it fills my time,” he explained, then added, “We must arise and leave early tomorrow. I know that those whom we wish to observe will be assembling tomorrow, but I do not know at what hour they will do so. We will need to make every effort to be in place when the action begins. I am a bit hungry. Would you care to stroll down to the pub for a bite and, perhaps, a glass of wine?”

  It was scarcely past dawn the next morning when Holmes shook me awake. He was, of course, dressed and ready to go. I shaved and dressed as quickly as I could. My breakfast consisted of a cup of tea, which Holmes had somehow persuaded Agnes to provide at that early hour. I managed to sip it while I was shaving.

  As we were leaving the flat, Holmes took a few minutes to stuff various items from valise to pocket. That seemed to me to be a waste of time, for I couldn’t imagine what he might need on that day. When I asked him about it, he merely said, “Better to have and not need than to need and not have. Don’t forget your coat and hat. It is still quite chilly.”

  In deference to Holmes’s distaste of the Underground, we hailed a high top taxicab, which we were fortunate to have been able to do at that hour of the morning. We instructed the driver to take us to Charing Cross. We could walk to our destination from there. During the trip, Holmes occasionally commented about various landmarks that had not changed over the years, those that had changed, and particularly about those that were no longer there at all. Once he leaned over to speak directly into my ear and said, “Know what I miss most, Watson?”

  “I think so, you mentioned it yesterday. The sound of the horses’ hooves against the pavement.”

  A whisper of a smile crossed Holmes’s lips. He settled back in his seat, closed his eyes and was silent for the remainder of the trip.

  When we arrived, ready to set up our observation post, it became apparent that our mere presence in that neighborhood at that hour made us conspicuous, so we spent two hours just strolling here and there, down to the River, back across from the Underground station, around the monuments, and wherever we felt we could spend time but never be away from our proposed point of observation for more than fifteen minutes. We never knew when the action might begin, and we had no intention of missing it.

  By midmorning, there seemed to be enough people in evidence so that two old fellows sitting on a bench trying to warm themselves in the winter sun would not have seemed odd to the casual observer. At last, Holmes thought it all right for us to take our seat, so we did so. I must say that it was a most welcomed event for me. I had found the morning’s walks to be a bit tiring. It turned out to be a long morning indeed, for it was about half past noon before anyone began to assemble at the mysterious door. Edward Stratton and some of his friends arrived early. Other men began to assemble; yet it was more than half an hour before their numbers began to approach the size of the group we had observed on the previous day.

  It was shortly after one o’clock in the afternoon when the men started to move toward the door through which they had passed the previous day. One at a time they each approached the door, hesitated as they were scrutinized, presented the identifying password, and, ultimately disappeared through the doorway.

  Holmes leaned over to me and said, “Go.”

  I looked at him with surprise and asked, “Go where?”

  He directed, “Down there. Go with those fellows. We need to see what is afoot in that building and I could be easily recognized as the bloke who tried to use ‘Madagascar’ as the password. You’ll have to go. If anyone in there has seen you at all, it would have been only briefly. Now, go! Use the password you learned yesterday and hope that they haven’t changed it. This is important. Go!”

  I rose with the utmost reluctance. “Why am I doing this?” I asked myself. “Because Holmes said it was important,” I answered myself. I started to cross the grassy ground between our observation post and the building, then, quickly turned back as it hit me that I had forgotten the password!

  “Holmes,” I said, “I’ve forgotten the password.”

  Holmes smiled an indulgent smile, shook his head disapprovingly and reminded me, “‘Hostina.’ You are the one that heard it. Go!”

  I glanced back but once on my short sally across the grassy area. Holmes had arisen and was walking back toward the street. I certainly hoped that he wasn’t going to abandon me to whatever this mission might turn out to be.

  When I arrived, the queue had dwindled to about six men. I took my place at the end of the line and waited until it was my turn to approach the door. The little trapdoor opened and a gruff voice demanded, “Password.”

  I cleared my throat and, with as much steadiness as I could muster, pronounced, “Hostina.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation, which concerned me. Had I been detected? The little peephole closed and the door opened.

  I entered to see a medium sized room fitted with long, wooden benches, upon which perhaps twenty-five men sat, mostly in small groups. It was easy to identify Edward Stratton, and those I supposed to be his friends, seated on the second bench removed from what appeared to be a low wooden stage at the front of the room. I took a seat beside the Edward Stratton group, hoping to be taken as one of their number. Any attention I drew was casual and fleeting. Just as I was seating myself, I heard the door open and close one more time. I glanced around, but the room was gloomy, and I could discern but a vague human form.

  The attention of the group was fully focused on something positioned on the stage. It was, perhaps, three to three-and-a-half feet tall, and about that equal in the other dimensions, and covered with some sort of dingy cloth. There was one bulky fellow standing alongside who seemed to be guarding the object. I sat in anticipation, but only heard the quiet buzzing of conversation which is always associated with a collection of people who are idly waiting together. There was a slight movement behind a curtain which was hung across the back of the stage. The conversational buzzing quieted.

  A man of medium height came from behind the curtain, and the audience’s buzzing silenced completely. If this man had ever entered one of my consulting rooms, I would have been immediately concerned for his health. He was exceedingly thin, and his skin had an unhealthy gray pallor about it. He moved with great effort, as though in constant pain. He drew himself to the center of the stage, put his hand on the concealed object, and faced his small audience. He started to speak haltingly
, in a weak but audible voice with the trace of a foreign, as it turned out, Germanic, accent.

  He began, “Most of you know me, for we have met in this place previously. I do see some new faces in the audience, though. Please know that you are most welcome here. For the benefit of the newcomers, I am Professor Werner Leitz, and I have spent most of my life in Vienna at the University. I am a physical scientist, both by persuasion and education, and I have devoted my life to the creation of the machine you see before you. The Provider.”

  At this point he removed the cover from the hidden object on stage, and as he did, an audible gasp arose from the audience, and a few of the men actually rose to their feet. Removal of the cover revealed, atop a table, a device not unlike the mangles often attached to those new mechanical clothes washing machines. This device, however, was quite a bit larger, and was contained in a polished wooden box. It consisted of two large rollers lying horizontally, one above the other, and in contact with one another. The box within which the rollers were housed had affixed unto it coils of wire and various small metal boxes with some sort of electrical attachments. I could see, in the rear of the apparatus, a cranking device.

  Professor Leitz continued, “Most of you have already seen at least one demonstration of the most desirable products which The Provider can produce; some of you have seen more than one. However, for newcomers, I will consent to demonstrate just one more time.”

  With this, he reached behind the curtain which draped over the back of the stage and brought out a small box. He withdrew a small paper rectangle, raised it and turned it over; it was blank on both sides. He approached the machine, adjusted a few dials, activated a switch, and the device responded with a buzzing sound. The Professor very carefully placed the paper rectangle between the rollers and, very slowly, started to turn the cranking mechanism. In response to the cranking, the paper rectangle moved forward as it was squeezed between the rollers. Immediately one could see the paper start to emerge from the other side of the rollers. Perhaps five minutes passed as the paper slid between the rollers and emerged on the other side. As soon as the transfer was completed, the Professor tugged the remaining fraction of the paper, still wedged between the rollers, loose and held the paper up for the audience to see. It now had printing on it.

  The Professor waved the paper about freely and asked if anyone in the audience would care to examine it. Among a few others, I raised my hand. An assistant took the paper from the Professor and chose me, among the others wishing to have a close look, to examine it first. I was truly amazed! In retrospect, as I am writing this account, I am now quite embarrassed by that amazement, but at the time the effect was most dramatic. I held in my hand a one hundred pound Bank of England note. I turned it over and examined it from all angles; it appeared to be quite genuine. It would have been ideal to have been able to compare this note with one I knew to be genuine, but alas, I didn’t own a one hundred pound note. The assistant took the note from me and gave it to one of the other fellows who had shown interest in examining the paper. One burly chap sitting in the row in front of me took a long look at it and said, “So, what good is a counterfeit bank note? A fellow is sure to get caught trying to pass bad bills.”

  The Professor seemed to be offended by this challenge and responded with a tinge of anger in his voice. “Sir,” he protested, “I am insulted to know that you think that I, Professor Werner Leitz, would present you, or anyone, with a machine that produces counterfeit currency. The note you hold in your hand is counterfeit only in the respect that it was not produced and circulated by The Bank of England. In all other respects, it is identical to those bank issued notes.” The Professor seemed to get control of his indignation and continued, “several of you have previously been given samples of The Provider’s products to take with you and test as you might have wished.” Three members of the audience indicated that they had received such samples.

  “And what did you do with your samples?” the Professor asked.

  “I took mine to my bank and asked it to be changed into two fifty pound notes. My bank did so without the slightest question,” Edward Stratton testified.

  “Ah ha,” I thought to myself, “that explains the change of bank notes in Stratton’s desk.”

  Another fellow reported, “I took mine to a bank and asked them, directly, to examine it to determine if it was either counterfeit or genuine. Several people in the bank occupied themselves for a good fifteen minutes in examining the note, and reported to me that it was unquestionably genuine. They also asked me why I might question that the note was real. I told them that I had found the note on the street and was certain that I couldn’t have been so lucky as to find a real hundred pounds.”

  A chuckle passed through the room.

  The Professor faced his accuser in the audience and raised his eyebrows in a quizzical fashion, “Well,” said the skeptical fellow from the audience, “how do I know that you didn’t pay these fellows to say what they did?”

  There was a mutter of protest from the audience.

  “I can think of no way to prove to you that I have done no such thing, I can only offer the solemn word of these good men.”

  The men who had received the samples nodded affirmation and grumbled a bit at having their honour challenged. Edward Stratton said, with an undisguised note of annoyance, “Please, Professor, can we get on with it?”

  “All right, we shall begin with the auction,” the Professor announced.

  “Just a minute. If you have a money printing machine, why would you ever sell it?”

  I had to admit that that question had most certainly crossed my mind, too.

  The Professor sighed a sigh of great weariness, “I have answered that question several times before in these meetings. I say again, reluctantly, for I don’t like to share my problems in public. My doctors have told me that I have but a few weeks to live. The Provider has served me well, and I have used it judiciously only for my true needs. I have no heirs. What will happen to The Provider when I die? God only knows what hands it might fall into and what economic destruction could arise from its misuse. I have given thought to destroying it, but could never bring myself actually to do so. It is my life’s work. I wanted The Provider to pass on to someone who would truly value it, and I could think of no better way to judge a person’s value for the machine than to ask that the next owner make a personal commitment, a personal sacrifice, a token of their appreciation for my life’s work, in the form of their hard earned cash. I never intended to keep the receipts from this auction. I shall donate all of it to charity. In a few weeks, money will be completely useless to me. Some of you already know that there is an additional requirement for the new owner. He must sign a sacred and legal oath that he will never abuse the use of The Provider. It can assure its owner of a very comfortable income for life, but if greed and avarice should rear their heads, great grief can descend on the owner and his loved ones.”

  “All right, Professor, can we get on with it now?” Edward Stratton had jumped to his feet in anger.

  “Let’s get right down to the business at hand, Professor,” Stratton continued. “Me and my friends have begged and borrowed every cent we can and we’ll go together and just bid, right now, twenty-nine thousand pounds.” Stratton turned to the audience and continued, “That’s our bid. If anybody else here wishes to top it, go ahead, and me and my chums will just put our money back in our pockets and go home, and God bless you!”

  A groan of disappointment arose from the audience.

  Stratton waited, tensely, but there was no challenge to his bid.

  The Professor shook his head disapprovingly and warned, “Very well, but I must say that I have always discouraged joint ownership of any financial endeavor. Sharing ownership of The Provider will lead to conflict and strife, and will certainly destroy your friendship and, perhaps your lives. Would you care to reconsider?”
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  “No!” said Stratton almost shouting it, “we can handle all that!”

  “Very well, if you insist,” the Professor acquiesced. He surveyed the audience and asked, “Do we have bids higher than twenty-nine thousand pounds?”

  There was silence for a moment, then the Professor continued, “Going once for twenty-nine thousand pounds.”

  Silence.

  “Going twice for twenty-nine thousand pounds.”

  Silence.

  “And going...” the Professor began.

  Suddenly, I heard someone arise behind me so abruptly that the bench was knocked over with a loud clatter.

  “Sir, do you wish to increase the bid?” the Professor asked.

  “No, sir, I do not! I wish to see to it that you are arrested and sent to prison. You are no Professor Leitz or any other kind of professor. You are Viktor Lustig, international swindler, and your Provider is a fraud!”

  “Sir!” the Professor shouted indignantly.

  There was the sound of a police whistle and I turned just in time to see Sherlock Holmes tearing off the white wig and false beard that had gained him admittance to the auction. There was a great smashing noise at the door and a squad of constables came rushing into the room. The man who introduced himself as The Professor bounded from the stage, with remarkable agility for a sick man near death, and disappeared behind the curtain with constables in quick pursuit. Other constables surrounded The Provider. The members of the audience stood in silent shock, shifting their gazes from the stage to each other and back again.

  Holmes, now free of his disguise, slapped me on the back and said, “Good show, Watson! You will make an excellent witness for the prosecution.”