“That’s peculiar,” he said after a moment’s perusal. “Every one of these is blank.” He pulled open a desk drawer. “Drawer’s empty too.”
He handed me the papers and called to Holmes. “Anything in the cabinet?”
“Unfortunately, the drawers are locked, Inspector,” I heard Holmes say as I dropped the blank sheets on the desk. Bullock replied that that would be no hindrance, pulled a small cloth wrap from his jacket pocket and extracted a long, thin piece of metal from inside it. “I took these from a Scotch cracksman a year or so back, and they’ve proven useful with more than one lock since then.”
He bent over the first cabinet drawer and slipped the metal sliver into the lock, ignoring Holmes’s unexpected declaration that it was entirely unnecessary. Twisting his wrist, he turned the metal in one direction then, more carefully, brought it back slightly and pressed inwards. With a final flourish he took hold of the drawer handle and pulled it open, just as Holmes murmured, “It will also be empty.”
I knew he would be right even before Bullock said, “How did you know?” I had heard that same tone in Holmes’s voice many times before and rarely known him to be wrong.
In reply, Holmes invited us to follow him back down the hallway. Standing with his back to the closed door, he crouched down on his heels and indicated that we should do the same. Feeling more than a little foolish, I did so, squatting uncomfortably between Holmes and Bullock.
“Now, Inspector,” said Holmes, “tell me what you see.”
Bullock’s voice betrayed his scepticism, but he answered Holmes’s question seriously. “The office. One part of the desk, some papers on it and the back wall with a cabinet against it. Why?” he asked. “What do you see that I don’t?”
Holmes’s voice was silken. “Nothing,” he said. “I see nothing else. Because there is nothing else. There is only a half-covered desk, a cabinet and some blank sheets of paper. And all visible to anyone enterprising enough to wrench open the letterbox and look. But nothing more. Our man is careful, I’ll give him that much.”
Bullock looked none the wiser for Holmes’s explanation, but I believed I had grasped his point. “The office is as fake as its occupant!” I exclaimed. “Designed only to be viewed from afar and from a specific vantage point, proscribed by the area visible from the letterbox.”
“Bravo, Watson! You have it exactly. This office is a decoy prepared by our quarry, and nothing more. A stalking horse, perhaps, designed to draw in those too interested in his activities, or a convenient address at which he might meet his associates. I cannot say for certain. But one thing is clear. Whoever this ‘Mr Holmes’ might be, he is not a detective.”
“Not a detective such as yourself, you mean, Mr Holmes,” interrupted Bullock. “There are other ways to conduct such a business than your own.”
“It was never in doubt that this man is not a detective such as I, Inspector,” Holmes snapped with some acerbity. “But there is no reason to set up a fake business if a genuine one exists, you would agree? And if there is no genuine business, then what is there? How does my namesake make his living? How does he attract the standard of client that you tell me he does?”
He left the question hanging in the air for a second, then rose to his feet. “Come, gentlemen,” he said. “It is time we were away and allowed the good Mrs van Raalte some peace and quiet. It has been a busy day for us all, and I for one am in need of dinner. Perhaps Inspector Bullock could recommend a restaurant, and join us?”
Bullock nodded distractedly, Holmes’s questions obviously still playing on his mind. “Of course, Mr Holmes,” he muttered. “I’d be happy to.”
* * *
Dinner proved to be a pleasant surprise. I had not, of course, expected the type of primitive, frontier fayre so beloved of the so-called dime novelists, but still, the food was a good deal better than I could have hoped. The restaurant itself occupied a small, well-hidden building down a side street and, from the outside, seemed as unprepossessing as anything from the adventures of Buffalo Bill Cody. A dusty window barely served as a means by which to view the interior, and it struck me, glancing at the chipped paint and grubby, handwritten menu pinned outside, that this was perhaps deliberate.
Inside, however, everything was clean if plain, and the food was exceptional. I joined Holmes in a dish of mussels before trying a famous New York steak. Both were delicious, and it was only after we had each completed our repast that we settled down to discuss the business at hand.
“I’ll tell you what I can of the man, Mr Holmes,” Bullock began. His attitude to Holmes, which had admittedly been friendly since we arrived, now held an additional layer of respect. It was plain that the revelations Holmes had been able to glean from a single minute in the imposter’s office had made a deep impression, and Bullock was now more eager than ever to provide what help he could. “He was first seen in New York around a year ago and is reputed to solve every case he takes on. Complete discretion is his watchword, it’s said – to the point that I can’t tell you why he has been called in on any case, nor even what sort of crime has been committed, never mind actual details.”
“And his appearance?” Holmes asked eagerly.
“Much as yourself, I’m afraid, sir. Tall and slim, with dark hair in a similar style to your own. And with an English accent, of course.”
“You have seen him personally?”
“No, never. But I have heard him described.”
“By Americans?”
“Well, yes, Mr Holmes. There are a fair few of them in the area.”
Holmes smiled thinly. “I do not mean to give offence or to suggest any inferiority in our colonial cousins, Inspector, but an American is far less likely to be able to differentiate between specific English regional accents than an Englishman might. You would admit that your own English accent and that of Dr Watson are quite distinct? Or mine and that of a gentleman from the north?”
“Ah, I take your meaning,” the inspector responded. “Unfortunately, however, I know of no English native who has spoken to the man, so cannot narrow his accent any further than ‘English’, I’m afraid.”
“No matter. It is a relatively minor point, in light of our current location. There cannot be many English detectives of any sort in New York, so the question of whether our quarry hails from Surrey or Northumbria can wait a while. Now, is there anything else you can tell us?”
“I can think of nothing further, I’m afraid, Mr Holmes. What I can do, though, is introduce you to the other Mr Holmes’s most recent client, or at least the most recent that I know about.”
“Really? That is excellent news! And the lady’s name? I assume it is a lady, or you would surely have been less cautious about revealing her existence.”
“Mrs Elizabeth Lockhart. She’s a bit of a battle-axe and would sooner protect her family’s honour than breathe, so she’ll likely prove uncooperative, but she’s all I can provide for the minute.”
This was more than I expected, and I could tell that Holmes too had been wrong-footed by this offer of a potential source of fresh information. Bullock could obviously sense our surprise, for he rushed to explain that the lady in question had sufficient influence in New York to end the career of a mere police inspector.
“At first, Tobias’s letter notwithstanding, I wasn’t sure about either of you, truth be told. Two London toffs come to make my life difficult for no good reason, I thought. But that trick you played at Holmes’s – the other Holmes, that is – office? Well, I reckon that showed there’s more to this than meets the eye, that maybe this fake is up to more than just imitating Sherlock Holmes so as to pick up a customer or two.” He tapped one of his cheroots on the back of his hand, but left it unlit. “And that’s probably worth me taking a risk with the likes of Mrs Lockhart.”
Holmes nodded. “I thank you for that, Inspector, and appreciate both the risk you are taking and the confidence you have shared with us. I too am beginning to wonder if there is not more to this m
atter than simple impersonation and, in this foreign country, Watson and I are grateful for all the help we can get.”
I struck a match and leaned forward as Holmes concluded this little speech. Bullock accepted the light and, after I had lit my own cigarette, we three sat and smoked companionably for some time.
Chapter Five
Elizabeth Lockhart was a grande dame of the old school, who would not have looked out of place at Henley Regatta or a Chelsea tea party. She sat in a high-backed wing chair, her spine as straight as any guardsman’s, and observed us disapprovingly through her pince-nez. Holmes had taken an immediate dislike to her, and she to him.
“Come now, Mrs Lockhart,” he said, barely concealing the impatience in his voice, “you must be able to tell us something about the work this man carried out on your behalf. I do not ask for intimate details, merely a very general idea of the scope of the task he was set.”
When Mrs Lockhart continued to stare at him as though he were an incompetent kitchen maid, pursing her lips and saying nothing, Holmes pressed on, the last vestiges of courtesy beginning to fray at the edges.
“Was it a theft, madam? An assault? Did you perhaps discover that your illustrious family is descended from Black Country leather-workers or Scandinavian herring fishermen?”
In his defence, Mrs Lockhart had been nothing but obstructive since we had arrived, and Holmes had spent the last ten minutes attempting to cajole the slightest useful morsel of information from our unresponsive host. Still, discourtesy was unlikely to aid our cause, and so I did my best to pour oil on these particular troubled waters.
“I think my friend is trying to say that, while we fully understand that – quite rightly – you have no desire for your private business to be discussed with strangers, if you could see your way to providing a general – a very general – idea why you called in a detective, it would be most helpful to us.”
Mrs Lockhart turned her attention to me. “And you say that you are policemen?” she said after a long, thoughtful pause.
“We are assisting the police, yes,” I confirmed, and consoled myself that I had not exactly lied, though it would have been more accurate to say that a single policeman was assisting us, and that quite unofficially.
“Assisting, yes…” Her voice faded; then, as though coming to a decision, she addressed herself to me again, ignoring Holmes entirely.
“I will tell you one thing, and after that I would be obliged if you would leave me and my house in peace, and take your unpleasant companion with you. His eyes are too close together. He has the look about him of a Bohemian or an anarchist.”
I felt Holmes bridle beside me, but I laid a hand on his arm in warning.
“Any information that you could supply would be extremely helpful and much appreciated.”
“If you absolutely must know, and if that is the only way in which I shall be rid of you both, I engaged Mr Holmes to investigate a spate of petty thefts.”
“Domestic thefts?” Holmes interjected. “Did these thefts occur here, in the family home?”
“I am aware of the definition, thank you,” Mrs Lockhart replied acidly. “And yes, the dishonesty in question was of a domestic nature.”
“And Holmes was able to help?”
Mrs Lockhart’s glare could have frozen water solid. “I believe I have told you all that you asked. Suffice it to say that Mr Holmes was thoroughly professional and that the whole matter was cleared up satisfactorily.”
“How, though, did you know that the man you spoke to actually was Sherlock Holmes?”
I thought for a moment that I saw a momentary flash of something fearful behind the old lady’s eyes, but if I did, it was quickly replaced by a scornful glare. “Other than the successful conclusion of our business, you mean? I have also viewed several sketches of him, and Mr Holmes was as like his image as any man I have seen.” She rang a small bell that sat on a table to one side of her chair. “Now if you will excuse me, I am expecting visitors. Invited visitors.”
I rose and prepared to bid the lady good day, but Holmes would not be silenced.
“One last question, if I may, Mrs Lockhart,” he began. “When did you last see Mr Holmes?”
“About six weeks ago. I paid him in full in cash, and he left at once. I hope never to see him – or you! – again.”
The door behind us opened, and the butler who had shown us in indicated that we should now follow him out. Any further questions Holmes might have had would have to wait. The lady opened a slim volume that had lain in her lap and, ignoring our farewells, read until we had left the room.
Or rather, almost until we had left the room, for as the door swung closed behind us, Holmes turned smartly on his heel and pushed his head back into Mrs Lockhart’s drawing room.
“One more thing, if you don’t mind, Mrs Lockhart,” I heard him say. “Did Dr Watson accompany Mr Holmes when he called upon you?”
I could not make out the muffled reply, but I heard Holmes say, “He did? Excellent. Then I will trouble you no more, madam,” as he finally closed the door and joined the butler and me in the hall.
“Shall we be on our way, do you think, Watson?” he asked, with every appearance of satisfaction. He strode past the butler, taking his hat and gloves from the man as he did so. I followed, my mind oddly troubled by the thought of a fake John Watson joining the fake Sherlock Holmes.
* * *
As was often the case when deep in thought, Holmes preferred not to speak in the cab we took back to the hotel. Instead we sat in silence and I took the opportunity to examine the streets as we passed through them.
Even more than in London, splendour and poverty existed in close proximity to one another here, and as we progressed towards Broadway, I was conscious that many of the side streets and alleys I glimpsed as the hansom sped along were dark, dirty places, redolent of the worst slums at home. Growing weary of the silence, I remarked as much to Holmes, but he gave no sign that he had heard me. If his interest was not to be piqued by a comparison of the two cities, I thought perhaps an appeal to his vanity might prove more successful.
“Tell me, Holmes,” I enquired, “how did you know to ask whether the fake Holmes has an equally false Watson?”
Holmes’s eyes at once lit up. “I did not know, I confess,” he said with a small smile. “But I was reasonably certain – certain enough in any case to test the theory.”
“You guessed, then?”
“Never!” Holmes was insistent, as I knew he would be. I now had his full attention. “As you know, I do not guess. Guessing is a waste of both my time and my intellect, each of which is precious and not to be frittered away by idle conjecture. No,” he continued, “I had a theory, that is all.”
“A theory?”
“Exactly so. One created whole from the available facts, and then tested by direct interrogation.”
“What facts, Holmes? I have seen and heard nothing to suggest an accomplice.”
“Are you forgetting the friend who holds the imposter’s correspondence when he is out of town?”
I could not hide my surprise. I confess I had forgotten, but even if I had not, it seemed a small base on which to build a theory. I said as much to Holmes, but that only heightened his evident satisfaction.
“Not just that, Watson! You are overlooking the coat rack,” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands together with pleasure. “Did it not occur to you to wonder why there was a coat rack in the imposter’s office? It surely did not come with the room, for Mrs van Raalte said the room was rented unfurnished, nor can it be seen from the doorway, so it was not part of the dressing of the office. No, our man took the time and effort to purchase a coat rack and place it there.”
“Perhaps he wished for somewhere to hang his coat?”
“In an office that was not an office, and hence contained no clients? Why should he? On the rare occasions he was there alone, he could leave his hat and overcoat on the spare chair. Far more likely that he had a regular visito
r and so felt the need of a rack. And the most likely such visitor is, of course, a close acquaintance – or an accomplice, as you put it. Having established that, what else would such a man be called but John Watson?” Satisfied with his own reasoning, Holmes chuckled at the look on my face, then broke off as a new thought occurred to him. “Why,” he cried suddenly, “I’m sure that Mrs van Raalte could settle the matter and tell us if ‘Holmes’ had a regular visitor of any sort.”
He knocked on the roof of the cab and when it pulled to a stop shouted up that he wished to be taken to Mrs van Raalte’s address.
“Shall I come with you?” I asked.
“Not this time, Watson. I will not be long, and besides we are supposed to be meeting Inspector Bullock at the hotel.” He leaned out of the cab window and looked down the street. “It cannot be more than half a mile – a mile at most – to the hotel from here. The walk will do you the world of good, I’m sure.”
Before I had time to protest, I found myself on the pavement, watching Holmes’s cab disappear into the distance. The hotel was nowhere in sight, and I recognised none of the buildings around me, but I knew the direction at least.
As I made certain that I had my bearings, I had the unsettling feeling that I was being watched. Making every attempt at subtlety, I shaded my eyes against the low sun and took surreptitious stock of my surroundings. The street was busy but not overly so, and it was not hard to pick out the one man in the vicinity who was staring in my direction. A dark figure stood just inside an alleyway across the street from me, his face, where it was not already hidden by the shadows, shaded by a wide-brimmed bowler hat, worn tipped forward at an angle so that the brim almost touched his nose.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Counterfeit Detective Page 6