The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part II

by David Marcum

  “We have information that points us in a direction,” said Lestrade.

  “Well, that is encouraging!” said Pardman. “And where is the Cardinal presently?”

  “That is what we’ve come to ask you, Mr. Pardman,” I said.

  Pardman blinked in surprise. “Me?” he said. “But it was Ryder who took the Sleeping Cardinal!”

  “No,” I said, “but that’s what you wanted us to think.”

  “You knew of Ryder’s suspected involvement in the disappearance of the Blue Carbuncle from your discussions with the manager of the Hotel Cosmopolitan,” said Lestrade, “and knew he’d make a perfect scapegoat should a robbery ever occur at the Hotel Metropole.”

  “All you had to do was somehow mention Ryder’s involvement with the Blue Carbuncle theft to the proper authorities,” I said, “and Ryder’s arrest for the new robbery would be almost assured. My appearance at the scene must have seemed an early Christmas to you. Why raise the affair of the Blue Carbuncle to the authorities when a known associate of Sherlock Holmes could do it for you?”

  “The spare key was a nice touch in the frame-up,” said Lestrade. “Only you made a small slip up there.”

  “Really,” said Pardman.

  “You said you never let the key of your sight,” I said. “How then could Ryder have made a copy? I suspect if we were to check with locksmiths in the area of the hotel, they’d remember making a copy for you, Mr. Pardman, and not for Mr. Ryder.”

  “That proves nothing,” said Pardman. “I have keys made for the hotel all the time.”

  “But the rest of the hotel uses standard keys,” I said, “while the key to your office is Roman. Something with that unique a design is bound to stick out in a locksmith’s mind.”

  “You slipped the duplicate into Ryder’s coat so I could find it,” said Lestrade, “which completed your frame-up. A very clever touch, but not clever enough for an officer of the Yard.”

  Pardman drained his glass, and regarded us calmly. “An entertaining tale, gentlemen,” he said, “but you still haven’t told me where the painting is.”

  “The painting’s disappearance is really only a mystery if we assume it was ever in the safe to begin with,” I said, “and we only have your word for that. If, however, the opposite were true and the painting were never in the safe, then the solution becomes obvious.”

  “You walked out of the Hotel Metropole that evening with the painting in hand,” said Lestrade, “determined to sell it on the black market.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” said Pardman. “How could I walk out with a painting that size and not be seen? The idea’s ludicrous!”

  “It is ludicrous,” I said, “until you remember the ashes in your fireplace.”

  Pardman blinked at me in surprise. “I beg your pardon?” he said.

  “Lestrade noted the ashes in your office as evidence that no one had snuck down the chimney,” I said, “but what we should have been asking is why you were burning a fire at all during the hottest summer in recent memory? The answer is that you were burning the frame upon which the Cardinal was mounted!”

  “With the frame removed, the painting was much easier to conceal beneath your coat,” said Lestrade. “You wrapped the canvas around your body and walked out of the hotel, right in front of both Ryder and the porter, with neither the wiser.”

  “But this is madness!” cried Pardman. “Why should I do such a thing? I’ve been loyal to that hotel for twenty years! Ryder’s your man! He’s a thief, I tell you, a thief!”

  “Yes,” I said, “I wondered about that too. Why would you steal from your own hotel? But then I did some checking with Holmes’s criminal contacts and discovered a very interesting fact.”

  “We know about the bookies,” said Lestrade. “We know about the gambling, and we know how much you owe them. The game’s up Pardman. Why don’t you give us the canvas and be done with it?”

  Pardman stared back at us in defeat. “Fine,” he said at last. “You can have the blasted thing. No one’s buying it anyway. They say it’s too hot! But you have to protect me, Inspector! If I don’t have the money by tomorrow, they’ll kill me!”

  “Then it’s a good thing you’re going to the safest place I know,” said Lestrade. “A jail cell at the Yard.”

  Pardman retrieved the Sleeping Cardinal from its hiding place, and Lestrade took him away to an awaiting cell. That evening, with the painting in hand, Lestrade and I visited Lady Margaret to return her property. She seemed oddly cold to the Cardinal’s recovery. In fact she hardly even bothered to thank us! But justice had been served, and I felt satisfied.

  “And that, Holmes,” I said, “is the story of how we recovered the Sleeping Cardinal.”

  Holmes, who had been smoking as he listened, opened his eyes and laid his calabash pipe on the mantle. “An entertaining tale, Doctor,” he said. “I’m sure the readers of the Strand Magazine will enjoy it.”

  “Oh, I’ll never write it up,” I said. “It’s your adventures they want, not mine.”

  Holmes smiled. “Ah, but perhaps I had more to do with the case than you realize.”

  “How do you figure, Holmes?”

  “Did you never wonder who sent you the mysterious telegram?”

  “Well,” I said, “I had always assumed the message came from your brother, Mycroft.”

  “You are only partly correct,” said Holmes. “The telegram was indeed from Mycroft. The message, on the other hand, was from me.”

  “You?” I said, astonished.

  “I had requested that my brother keep tabs on you during my absence,” said Holmes, “along with sending me full reports of your progress. When he sent me Lestrade’s police report on your involvement with the robbery of the Sleeping Cardinal, I could not help but smile.”

  I sighed. “At how poorly I performed the investigation?”

  “My dear fellow,” said Holmes, “you underestimate yourself. You had the tenacity to question the obvious while Lestrade rushed toward the easiest conclusion. I knew if we provided you a small push in the right direction you would find the truth. No, I smiled as, despite my absence, you were still in the game.”

  “Ah,” I said. “Well, thank you, Holmes.”

  “You did, however, miss one avenue of investigation.”

  “Oh? And what’s that?”

  “I find it difficult to believe,” said Holmes, “that a woman who has just had her priceless painting stolen would immediately demand compensation rather than the canvas’ recovery. I find it very probable that she planned the theft together with Mr. Pardman.”

  “Now, Holmes, that really is too much!”

  “Consider the facts,” said Holmes. “Consider that Pardman knew immediately how to smuggle the painting out of the hotel, almost as if he’d had advance warning. Consider that Lady Margaret chose not to store her painting in the gallery where it was to be exhibited, but instead to store it in a hotel safe. Consider also that she chose not to stay in a hotel near the exhibition, but instead a hotel owned by the richest man in London?”

  “Good Lord,” I said. “I have been blind all these years.”

  “Ah, but we shall never know for certain,” said Holmes. “It was her estate sale you saw in the paper. Lady Margaret died last week. But cheer up, Watson. You did find the thief and recover the Sleeping Cardinal. As good an outcome as could be hoped for.”

  “Well,” I said, “after your telegram provided a thread to follow, the solution was... er...” I hesitated, wondering if I should dare.

  “Go ahead and say it, Watson,” said Holmes. “You’ve earned it.”

  “Why, it was elementary, my dear Holmes,” I said. “Elementary.”

  The Case of the Anarchist’s Bomb

  by Bill Crider

  I have found but few joy
s in growing old. My great friend, Sherlock Holmes, no longer bids me to go adventuring, and spends his days keeping his apiary, while I, a superannuated physician, find that more and more often my afternoons are passed in looking over my notes on the many unrecorded cases that, for one reason or another, I failed to see into print in my younger and more enthusiastic years. There is, I confess, a bit of pleasure in recalling adventures long past, and for a moment I can almost hear Holmes’s voice: “Come, Watson! The game’s afoot!” Yet I know that in reality I am not likely to hear that voice again.

  There is also a modicum of entertainment to be found in knowing that some portion of the public still takes the time on occasion to read one of my accounts of those long-gone days. Holmes often made light of those writings and sometimes resorted to what I considered ridicule; he would be quite amused, I am certain, to know that even now I receive an occasional letter about them, and that the letters often contain questions concerning what the writers consider serious discrepancies in the many stories, discrepancies in such things as the location of a certain wound caused by a Jezail bullet, or the precise order of various events in the lives of either me or Holmes or the both of us.

  Having always thought that the answers to such questions were obvious, I have seldom bothered to respond to the letters, but perhaps that was boorish of me. I shall now state the obvious this one time only, and that will have to suffice for all who would ask about these things. I happily confess that the stories I set down, while accurate in most of their details, were perhaps not accurate in all. This is true for a number of reasons, some of which need not be mentioned, though the most prominent of them is simply that there are times when I am not certain myself of just where or when a certain event might have taken place. My notes are often jotted down in haste and present only the merest outline of events. Trying to set them in order at a later date is not always possible, thanks to the fallibility of human memory.

  To take just one example, I know that it is generally considered true that Holmes returned to England in April, 1894, having been absent for quite some time after the regrettable incident at the Reichenbach Falls. It is possible, however, that the date is in error. As I said, I am not always certain about those things. Just why is hard to explain, but in perusing my notes for a specific case, I can see why I am necessarily unsure about things in that particular year. Perhaps if I put the incidents on paper, I will clarify matters for myself, if not for others.

  It was February of 1894 when I received one evening a note from a man whom I did not know well, but with whom I had previously had dealings through Sherlock Holmes. The man was no less than Holmes’s brother, Mycroft, and his note was a request for me to join him at the Diogenes Club for a conversation about a matter of extreme urgency.

  I was, of course, puzzled by this, and wondered what Mycroft could possibly want of me. He is, beyond doubt, one of the oddest men in London, and one of the most intelligent. He had even on occasion given advice to Holmes about one or another of his cases, though that was not his main interest in life. He was a gatherer and an absorber of information, so much information, in fact, and so well ordered in the massive files of his mind, that he had made himself virtually indispensable to the government, and a word from him could establish or alter national policy. Holmes had done him a favor from time to time, and I had been involved to some extent, but merely as an assistant who acted when called upon and directed. All the ratiocination had been Holmes’s.

  My curiosity being aroused, I made myself ready and took a cab to the Diogenes Club, which is located in Pall Mall, along with many others. The Traveller’s Club, the Athenaeum, and the Reform Club are well known. The Diogenes Club is not. It is as odd as Mycroft himself, being a haven for people who as a rule would never enter a club. It is understood that everyone who enters must be absolutely silent. No one must take any notice of anyone else. Those who do not obey the rules are summarily ejected.

  It was a dank February evening, with a gray fog that slid along the streets and shrouded the stone buildings in dampness. Lights flickered dimly in the windows. I paid the cabbie and entered the club. I found myself in a long hallway paneled with glass through which I could see the club itself, its members sitting apart from one another, reading silently or simply staring off into space.

  There is a small visitor’s room just off the hallway where talking is permitted, and it was into this room that I directed my step. Mycroft was already there waiting for me, and my first impression was that he had grown even larger than he had been at our last encounter. He is quite the trencherman if one is to judge by his appearance, and Holmes had once told me that his brother’s only exercise was the short walk between his rooms and the Diogenes Club. As a physician, I suppose I should have taken it upon myself to give Mycroft some advice on how to better care for himself, but he was not the sort of man who solicited advice or took it unsolicited, so I never broached the topic with him.

  “Ah, Dr. Watson,” said he as I entered the room. “Do have a seat. You’ll pardon me if I don’t rise.”

  “Of course,” said I, removing my coat and hat and hanging them on a rack. It would have been difficult for him to rise, for he seemed to take up much of the small room with his bulk. The chair he sat in must have been especially made to accommodate him. I took a seat in the room’s other chair, one of normal size.

  Mycroft watched me settle myself with his peculiar light gray eyes. When I was comfortable, he said, “You have heard, I am sure, of this afternoon’s sad affair of the Frenchman in Greenwich Park.”

  Indeed I had, but only because one of my patients had told me of it, for I, unlike Sherlock Holmes, was not a diligent reader of sensational newspaper articles. And this event had been quite sensational. A young Frenchman and known anarchist, Martial Bourdin, had fallen in Greenwich Park, and in doing so had exploded a bomb that he had in his possession. It had blown off his left hand and destroyed a goodly portion of his stomach.

  “He was literally hoist by his own petard,’” said I, after asserting my knowledge of the affair. “An unfortunate fall.”

  “For Boudin, yes, but not for us,” said Mycroft. “It is most fortunate that he did not reach his destination, for who knows what damage he might have done.”

  He paused and looked at me as if expecting me to speak. It was almost as if Holmes were in the room, for he often seemed to think I had the power to reason as he did. “You know my methods,” he would say, and wait for me to bring forth some kind of response. Mycroft was fully his equal at waiting.

  “What damage might that have been?” I asked after a while.

  “Ah, that is the question,” Mycroft said. “Or one of the questions, at any rate. Sherlock often said you had a way of getting to the heart of things, and I can see that he was correct.”

  I was flattered, though I should not have been, as I had no idea what he was talking about.

  “You see,” Mycroft continued, “we have no idea what Boudin’s purpose was. Why did he have that bomb? Where was he going?”

  “Surely he was going to the observatory,” I answered. “He was a known anarchist and an associate of others of his stripe, possibly the leader of a gang of them. He had the intention of destroying the observatory.”

  “Highly unlikely,” Mycroft said. “Think, Watson.”

  I thought, again trying to apply Holmes’s methods. Eventually I thought I could see where Mycroft was aiming.

  “A bomb large enough to destroy the observatory would not simply have blown away a man’s hand and part of his stomach,” I said. “It would have scattered him over a considerable area.”

  Mycroft smiled a thin smile. “You are correct. Therefore his intent was not to destroy the observatory. And there is more to the story. Bourdin was carrying a large sum of money. Where did the money come from? Boudin was a tailor, and he was not a rich man. Lately he had worked but little. He must ha
ve been given the money for some reason having to do with the bomb. Who gave him the money? Why? Bourdin lived long enough to tell us these things, but he refused to do so, and he soon died of his injuries. We need those answers.”

  It was a rare puzzle, indeed, but I still had no idea why Mycroft was discussing it with me. My association with Holmes may have sharpened my wits to some extent, but I was never his equal in the art of deduction. Mycroft was, of course, but he applied his powers to different ends, and besides, he could not be bothered to stir outside beyond his rooms or the Diogenes Club. With that thought, I began to see what need he might have of me, and he confirmed my suspicion with his next words.

  “Within the hour,” said he, “the police will raid the Autonomie Club, where Bourdin was a member. Perhaps you have heard of it.”

  “A notorious nest of anarchists,” I replied.

  Mycroft gave a minute nod. “So it is said. At any rate, I need a man among the police. There is no one I would trust as much as you to report what they find. You might also learn much of interest that they might miss. They are, after all, only the police, and no match for Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Nor am I a match for him,” said I.

  “You may surprise yourself,” Mycroft said, and began to struggle to his feet.

  I rose myself, still somewhat at a loss, and offered to assist him, but he managed to rise on his own.

  “You will find a cab outside,” he told me. “I have arranged for the driver to be at your disposal this evening and for as long as you need him. He will be your assistant in this matter.”

  Ah, if only Holmes could have been there. He would have much appreciated this game I was about to enter upon, and to tell the truth, I would have been much more comfortable as his assistant than in having an assistant of my own, much less some cabbie I had never met. Still, if he had Mycroft’s recommendation, he must be a good man. I donned my coat and hat and told Mycroft that I would do as well as I could.

  “And you will do admirably,” said he. “But you must hurry, for the raid is scheduled for nine o’clock. You need to be at the club when it begins.” He handed me a folded paper. “This letter is all you will need to show the police, should they ask for your bona fides. Keep it safe.”