Holmes’s face was a mask of confusion. “How can any man carry on the business of a consulting detective if he does not consult? Surely a swift response to letters and telegrams is the bare minimum required to carry out such an undertaking?”
Mrs van Raalte again shook her head, and this time I was sure that her look was less friendly. “I couldn’t really say, Mr Lestrade. I consider his business to be his own and have never questioned him about it.”
“Of course,” Holmes quickly responded. “I meant no impertinence, but was simply concerned for an old friend.” He picked up his hat and gloves from the table at his side and indicated with a nod that it was time that we left. Mrs van Raalte bustled around as I followed Holmes out of the room and back down the hallway towards the entrance.
As we passed the imposter’s office, however, Holmes darted to the side and knelt in front of the door, ignoring Mrs van Raalte’s gasp of surprise.
“My apologies, madam,” he called over his shoulder as he worked the tip of his fingers into a gap in the letterbox. “I could not in all conscience leave such a decorative piece of ironwork in so unfortunate a condition without making some effort to fix it.” He pushed harder and gave a small grunt of exertion. “No, no, do not thank me, Mrs van Raalte,” he said (though the lady showed no sign of doing any such thing), “it is only a little stiff from lack of use. I’ll soon have it free.”
With a loud creak and a sharp cracking retort, the flap sprang open and Holmes immediately leaned in and fastened his eyes on the office hidden behind it. Only for a few seconds though, lest our hostess become suspicious.
Indeed, the lady was about to say something, I felt sure, only to reconsider when Holmes leaped back to his feet and gave her a small, if theatrical, bow. “All fixed!” he announced gleefully. “And now we must be away, my dear lady.” He grinned conspiratorially at Mrs van Raalte then stage-whispered, “We will be back tomorrow though. Unless—” Holmes stopped in his tracks, as if an idea had suddenly struck him. “Unless we could obtain his address – that to which you send on his mail – and surprise him at home, as it were?”
Mrs van Raalte’s reply was emphatic. “No, Mr Lestrade, I couldn’t do that for any reason. Mr Holmes appreciates his privacy, and I couldn’t dream of handing out his personal details to strangers.”
I thought that Holmes would protest, but instead he bowed his head in acquiescence. “Of course. Quite commendable of you, Mrs van Raalte. Well, if you should see Sherlock before then, I beg you do not tell him you have seen us. We would very much like to surprise our old friend when we visit tomorrow!”
The invitation to act as co-conspirator was enough to restore a little of Mrs van Raalte’s good humour. “Why, of course, Mr Lestrade!” she exclaimed. “Though I don’t suppose I shall see Mr Holmes today.”
“And in case we should, by chance, see him in the street and wish to preserve the surprise, can you tell me – does Sherlock still sport that ridiculous beard and side whiskers?”
Mrs van Raalte frowned in fresh suspicion. “Why no, Mr Lestrade. Mr Holmes is clean-shaven and his hair styled much like your own.” She shook her head. “You know, I don’t believe I have ever seen him with so much as a hint of whiskers.”
Holmes’s smile was unmistakably rueful. “You hear that, Murray? Sherlock has changed his appearance again.” He turned back to Mrs van Raalte. “It is a consequence of his profession, my dear lady, that Holmes need constantly disguise himself, the better to stay a step ahead of those of a criminal mind who would wish him harm. Clearly, he has done so since last we three met.”
The lady was wide-eyed as she signalled her understanding. “Well, you’d never guess he was anything but a smartly dressed young man to look at him, Mr Lestrade.”
“That is, of course, his intention,” Holmes replied.
“Yes, I see that.” The romance of the notion clearly appealed to Mrs van Raalte, for a small smile played about her mouth as she considered “Mr Holmes’s” need for secrecy.
She was still smiling as the door closed behind us and Holmes and I found ourselves on the pavement once more.
“Tell me, then – what did you see inside?” I asked as we began walking in the direction of our hotel.
“In truth, not a great deal, Watson. There is a short hallway leading from the door into the main body of the office, which, sadly, is largely hidden from sight of anyone in the position in which I found myself. The little I could see, however, was much as one might expect. A desk upon which are piled documents and trays, a small table lamp, a wooden cabinet against the back wall. All entirely unexceptional.”
We walked along in silence for a minute, considering and digesting the small amount we had learned so far. We might have done so until we found a cab, had I not recalled something that had temporarily slipped my mind.
“Mr Lestrade?” I asked mischievously, making no attempt to stifle the note of amusement in my voice.
“I found myself unexpectedly in need of a pseudonym, and the inspector’s was the first name which came to mind.”
“So it seems,” I replied. “I have one question, however. Will that remain your name of choice for the entirety of our time in the Americas, or should I expect to find strangers addressing you as Athelney Jones or Tobias Gregson in the near future?”
The laughter I had been suppressing since leaving Mrs van Raalte could be contained no longer as Holmes threw a scowl in my direction. Fortunately, for all his devotion to logic and reason, my friend is not without a sense of humour, and before we had walked a dozen yards he had joined in my laughter, appreciating the irony of beginning his quest to uncover an imposter by himself borrowing the name of another.
We were still chuckling as we hailed a passing hansom cab and gave the driver directions to our hotel.
Chapter Four
The hotel in which we had arranged to stay sat partway along the long, wide road known as Broadway, a street which stretched the length of the central section of Manhattan, and which was lined with opulent hotels and theatres standing cheek by jowl with ornate churches and other places of worship. Crowds of people moved purposefully about their business as our hansom pulled up, and we made our way inside.
The interior of the hotel was marble-floored and dotted with slender marble columns. Delicate carvings and paintings adorned the walls, and large plate glass windows allowed the sunlight to illuminate the hanging artwork. I admit I found myself comparing it to the great hotels of London and finding that this hotel did not fall far short even of our greatest.
We had an appointment with Gregson’s erstwhile colleague, Bullock, in the afternoon, but, it being as yet a little before eleven, we took the opportunity to refresh ourselves and change clothes before going to meet with him.
While Holmes shaved, I remembered the newspaper I had bought earlier and glanced through it in hopes of uncovering a mention of our mysterious quarry. There was, however, little of immediate note to be found amongst the typical American melodrama that dominated its pages. Lurid reporting of a socialite allegedly murdered by her fiancé – a man now on the run from the authorities – took up much of the front page, while the interior contained reports on the likelihood of the invention of a flying machine within a decade, and on the growth of organised criminal gangs in the city. The only mention of “Holmes” was a report that the “popular English detective” had not been seen around town for a few days and was believed to be involved in a new case in the north of the state.
I mentioned this last detail to Holmes when he returned from his ablutions.
“It is of little consequence, Watson. It may, in fact, work in our favour. A day or two in which we might make a fuller investigation into the activities of this imposter can only help us in the long run.”
“And if he does not return? What if he has moved on?”
“Why should he? He has no reason to leave his present, comfortable existence behind.”
“Perhaps he has had wind of our arrival?”
“Again, Watson, why should he have? Do you suppose he haunts the docks of New York, examining passenger lists daily, in fear of his unmasking?” Holmes laughed. “No, our man will resurface in due course. But in the meantime we should find out all we can about his activities in New York. A conversation with Inspector Bullock should make the ideal start, and may even provide us with the information we need to deal with this scoundrel.”
Holmes’s reasoning was impeccable. I left for my own room to change, keen to begin our investigations and hopeful of a swift conclusion.
* * *
Simeon Bullock was a tall, spare man with thinning grey hair and a neat, grey moustache, who exuded an air of quiet competence. He wore a suit cut in the American style, fastened only by the top button, but when he greeted us, gripping each of our hands in both of his, his accent had lost little of its Yorkshire roots. He invited us to take a seat in his spacious office, lit a small cigar and asked us to explain once again what he could do to help us.
“You understand, gentlemen, that I’m more than happy to do what I can for friends of Tobias, but I’m not entirely clear what it is you believe I can do.” He picked up the letter from Gregson again and ran his eye down the few lines of text. “If I have the right of this, you claim that the gentleman known as Sherlock Holmes, a detective whose success has monopolised the front pages of our newspapers for some time now, is, in fact, no such thing and that you, not he, are the real Sherlock Holmes. Is that correct?”
“It is,” Holmes agreed.
“And you further allege that this New York Holmes is trading upon your good name in order to generate business for himself?”
“Exactly so, Inspector.”
“And you can prove that you are the genuine Sherlock Holmes, of international repute, and that this other gent is not?”
“Prove?” Where another man might have found offence in Bullock’s words, Holmes was unruffled. “I have a copy of an extract from the Birth Register as bona fides for my own identity. And ‘Sherlock Holmes’ is sufficiently uncommon a name that I would confidently wager that that is not this scoundrel’s true moniker.”
Bullock considered this for a moment, then nodded his agreement. “That appears satisfactory, though the fact that Tobias Gregson vouches for you is all the proof that I personally require. Now, how much do you know of your alter ego?”
We owned that our knowledge of the man was scant and consisted almost entirely of a handful of newspaper clippings describing his appearance on the New York scene, and his office address – which had, of course, been supplied by Bullock himself. Of more interest to the inspector was our recent conversation with Mrs van Raalte, which Holmes recounted to him without delay. He listened quietly, interrupting only twice, the first time to ask Holmes to spell the name of the imposter’s landlady, and the second to clarify that no mail was delivered to the office.
“He has another address in the city and an accomplice, then,” he remarked thoughtfully. “That’s interesting, is that.”
“How so?” I asked.
“Well, you must understand, gentlemen, that, like as not, this fellow, imposter though he may be, has committed no crime that I can make out.”
I began to protest, but Bullock continued to speak, explaining his reasoning.
“No, Dr Watson, there’s no call for protestation. You and Mr Holmes say that this chap has stolen both a name and a reputation and has used them to line his own pockets. All well and good, and I believe you to be speaking the truth, but so far as I know there’s no crime in calling yourself anything you like, nor in opening a – what was it? – consulting detective business. Nobody has filed a complaint against the man claiming his work is lacking, nor that his morals are lax, and, by the by and not that it has any bearing on criminal matters, he’s got friends up high in New York society.” He sat back in his seat, blowing cheroot smoke towards the ceiling. “You see my problem, Mr Holmes? There’s no crime here for me to investigate, and that’s the truth of it. But an office that receives no correspondence? Well, that’s no crime either, but it is out of the ordinary, and out of the ordinary is often a good place to start looking, I find.”
Throughout this speech, Holmes had sat quietly. Now, as Bullock fell silent in his turn, my friend spoke up. “I take your point, Inspector. Of course, a man may call himself Charles Harrod if it pleases him, and he would have my good wishes if he did so, but if that same man then opens a grocery shop, questions might be asked. I suggest that the same principle applies here.”
“That’s too fine a distinction for me, Mr Holmes,” the inspector replied after a moment’s thought. “And where this second Harrods would, presumably, take business from the first, this imposter Sherlock Holmes is having no effect on your own business back in London, is he?”
“Not as such, no, but even so…!” Holmes was by nature a calm man and rarely allowed his temper to show, but I, who had known him for so long, could tell by the slight flush on his cheek that Inspector Bullock’s words had proved irksome to him.
Bullock too must have had some inkling, for he held up his hands as though in surrender. “Forgive me, Mr Holmes, but I am merely playing the part of the magistrate, for he will say all of these things, should I apprehend the false Holmes and you press charges. Don’t forget what I said. He has friends of influence, and they are as likely to believe that he is the real Sherlock and you the imposter. I don’t say they will, mind, but the odds are stacked against you, and if you wish to put a stop to this fellow’s activities, you would do well to remember that. There must be proof of wrong-doing before I can act in an official capacity.”
I had heard enough. I appreciated that the inspector was playing the realist and knew this city better than Holmes or I, but the case seemed so clear-cut that I could not help but protest. “But it is fraud, at least, surely, Inspector? And that remains a crime, even in the United States!”
“It does indeed, Doctor,” replied the inspector patiently. “And if we can prove that someone engaged the fake Holmes in the belief that he was the famous English detective – and if that person can be persuaded to press charges, which seems unlikely given that the fake has yet to fail with a case, so far as I know – if all that happens, then perhaps something might be done. But until then, my hands are tied. For Tobias’s sake, I’ll do what I can, but that’s likely to be a mite less than you’d hoped for.”
I could tell that Holmes was displeased with Bullock’s words, but I understood the inspector’s caution. For all his desire to help, he was a busy man with many demands on his time, and if the imposter had broken no laws, then there seemed little he – or we – could easily or swiftly achieve. If he could only advise, then it might be that we would have to be content with that. I feared, however, that Holmes – never over-imbued with respect for the police force – would not see it that way.
Fortunately, Bullock had a greater degree of assistance in mind than I had given him credit for.
“What I can do is take you back to this office and have a look inside. The tale you’ve told me is enough for that, I should think.”
Holmes brightened visibly at these words and was at once anxious to be away. “Capital, Inspector!” he exclaimed. “We could not have asked for a better place to begin.”
He pushed back his chair and rose to his feet, already reaching for his hat and gloves. Bullock followed suit, striding to the door to shout for some unseen subordinate to arrange transport. Finding myself the only one still seated, I hurriedly buttoned my jacket and followed the two men out of Bullock’s office.
* * *
Mrs van Raalte was surprised to see us again so soon, and with that surprise came a return of her earlier suspicion of us.
“Mr Lestrade and Mr Murray! This is unexpected. I’m afraid Mr Holmes hasn’t returned yet, and I don’t know when he shall, as I told you.”
She stood hesitantly in the doorway, obviously unsure as to our purpose and wondering who the third member of our party
might be.
Bullock, playing the part Holmes had sketched out for him on the journey over, tipped his hat and introduced himself as an inspector in New York’s police force. “We were wondering if we might have a look inside your Mr Holmes’s office,” he said as the lady invited us inside, any trepidation she might have felt partially ameliorated by the sight of Bullock’s identification card. “These gentlemen are intimately acquainted with Mr Holmes and are concerned that some harm may have befallen him.”
Mrs van Raalte raised a hand to her mouth and gave a small cry of shock. “Harm?” she asked.
“It may be nothing, ma’am, but if you could allow us a quick glance within, it would be enough to put their minds at rest, likely enough.”
The warring desires to aid the police and to protect the privacy of her tenant were plain on her face. She looked from one of us to the next, gnawing unconsciously at her lower lip, until, her mind made up, she asked us to wait. “I need to fetch something,” she explained, and bustled off to her own living quarters, leaving us standing in the hallway outside the imposter’s office door.
We had no time to discuss her disappearance before she returned, holding a heavy bunch of keys. “I wasn’t too sure of you before, you see,” she explained. “A mite too charming for your own good, I reckoned. So I wasn’t letting on I had a key to Mr Holmes’s office until I spoke to him, made sure you were who you said.” She stepped around us and unlocked the office door. “But seeing as you have the police with you, I think it’ll be all right. In you go then,” she concluded, waving us impatiently inside.
The office was as Holmes had described, with a short hallway that opened out into a small, square room. Directly opposite us as we stood in the entrance was a cheap wooden desk, piled high on one side with papers, blotters and other common instruments of business. Moving into the room, I was surprised to note how bare everything seemed. An empty coat rack stood in the far corner, but other than a chair behind the desk and another in front of it and a scuffed wooden cabinet against the rear wall, the room was devoid of furnishings. Holmes immediately darted to the cabinet and pulled at one of the drawers after another, but uttered a cry of annoyance as every one proved to be locked. Bullock meanwhile had crossed to the desk, where he examined the sheaf of papers in a tray marked “OUT”.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Counterfeit Detective Page 5