The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part II

by David Marcum

  “Oh, Mr. Holmes, I didn’t think anyone would notice how I did it up differently this morning,” she giggled, blushing. “I’ll be out of your way in a jiffy. You gentlemen have more important things to discuss besides my appearance. You approve though, eh?”

  “It becomes you, Mrs. Hudson,” I piped up. “No need for you to hurry off.”

  “All the same, I best get going, because I am expecting a gentleman caller,” she disclosed, stepping away with the dishes in a rush.

  “The word romance never would have occurred to me in a conversation about Mrs. Hudson,” Holmes jested in a low voice after we heard her lively footsteps on the stairs.

  “You were about to tell me your plan when she came in abruptly,” I prodded, expecting Holmes to resume our discussion.

  “Better yet, Watson, you can enthrall your readers even more so if you witness my stratagem unfolding, rather than listening to me explain it,” he contended. “Come with me to Gravesend, where I shall acquaint you with a female constable who is also an amateur stage actress in her off-hours. Gertie Evans is the key to my grand design and its shocking aftermath for the likes of Mr. Smisky.”

  “Grand design? Shocking aftermath? What on earth?” I marveled.

  “I suppose I should confide in you my ulterior motives for accepting this case, my good man. The investigation of a counterfeit coin is a means to an end. Dealing dishonestly in rare coins is but a minor crime for the nefarious Mr. Smisky, a commonplace infraction ordinarily not worthy of my attention. The fact of the matter is that I have another client, The British Fire and Casualty Company, which has its sights set on Smisky for a heinous insurance swindle. The company has engaged me to probe his responsibility in the destruction of a tenement he owned in the East End. A tremendous explosion and conflagration leveled the structure last April, killing six occupants and injuring a multitude of others.”

  “I recall reading about it, Holmes, but if I remember correctly, the police blamed a faulty gas valve for the tragedy,” I interjected.

  “The police suspect sabotage, but they didn’t say as much to the newspapers to avoid arousing interest on the part of Smisky or the professional arsonist he employed,” Holmes stated categorically. “Unfortunately, the authorities have been unable to assemble any evidence of a deliberate act. The insurance firm has come to me, therefore, to solve the puzzle so it can deny Smisky a settlement of fifty thousand pounds.”

  “Good heavens, he committed six murders, for money. How disgraceful and malicious,” I remarked scornfully. “His malevolence is unparalleled.”

  “As is my ambition to see him hang,” Sherlock Holmes threatened. “Shall we go now?”

  “I am as eager as you,” I assured him, donning my bowler.

  The afternoon sun was intense, so we rode in a hansom to Charing-Cross, where we boarded a train to Gravesend, down by the great river. On the train, Holmes spoke not a word, but tapped his toes to the rhythm of a song in his head and drummed his bony fingertips on his knees, his close-fitting cloth cap pushed forward onto the bridge of his hawk-like nose. When we reached our destination, he cautioned me on the platform not to let on in public that I knew Gertie Evans was a police official. “She works surreptitiously and wears no uniform,” he observed, “and she is very careful to protect her true identity.”

  We met Gertie at the Boar’s Head Pub, a raucous establishment on the waterfront with sawdust on the floor and medieval armour hanging on the walls. She waved warmly to Holmes from a corner table occupied by three surly men competing for her attention, one a sailor, another a businessman, and the third a football player wearing his colours. Gertie, aged about thirty, looked lovely in a dark blue dress and yellow blouse with ruffles around the neck and on the ends of her sleeves. Her auburn hair was done in large curls that draped over her shoulders and back, accenting a youthful, angelic face. As Holmes and I approached, she ordered the three suitors to “take a powder, boys, I have private business to discuss with these two gents.” Grumbling, the men strolled to the bar.

  “So this is your deputy and biographer, Dr. Watson,” she said coquettishly to Holmes, who stood at the table until she motioned for us to sit. “It is my pleasure to see you in the flesh, Doctor, because I have admired your writings from afar,” Gertie crowed. “And Mr. Holmes, I consider it an honour to collabourate with you once more.” A waitress took down our preferences for refreshments and Gertie wasted no additional time getting to the matter at hand.

  Speaking barely above a whisper in the din of the pub, Gertie outlined the step she had taken on her own. “My sergeant is a numismatist, and he loaned me five rare coins from his collection to offer them to Smisky for the right price. Give me the imitation crown and I’ll put it with them.”

  Holmes produced the counterfeit, which she inserted into a small paraffin paper jacket and dropped into her reticule. “Your plan will fall apart if Smisky buys back this hunk of junk,” she frowned. “I’ll memorise his words when he lays eyes on it. Now let’s see what happens.” We departed the pub together, Gertie hailing one cab while Holmes and I summoned another to take us to the railway station. “Best we’re not seen together until this is over,” Holmes theorised when we boarded separate cars for the trip to Saxe-Coburg Square, the location of Smisky’s coin shop. Once in the vicinity, Gertie walked alone the two city blocks to the shop, with Holmes and me trailing about twenty paces behind. As she went in, we plopped down on a bench near the entrance so we could hear the banter between Gertie and Smisky, close enough to intervene in the event there was trouble.

  “I wish to speak to the owner,” she notified the muscular man with a handlebar moustache behind the counter.

  “You’re lookin’ at him, lady,” he snickered.

  “Do you buy rare coins at a fair price?” she asked.

  “What price I pay will beat any competitor’s, so help me God,” he swore.

  “Well, then, I have six to sell. My dear father passed away and left me his collection. Before he went on to his reward, he told me which ones to part with if I fell onto hard times.”

  “I won’t take advantage of you, miss,” he pledged. “Let’s see what you have.”

  Gertie reached into her handbag and displayed the coins on the glass countertop.

  “Hmmm,” Smisky hummed, examining each one and replacing them into a row. “This one is worth five pounds to me, this one a little more, and the rest about ten pounds apiece - except this one,” he scowled, manipulating the counterfeit 1707 crown between his fingers, flipping it into the air with his thumb and forefinger, then catching it in the palm of his stubby right hand. “This one is worth nothing, not even face value,” he claimed.

  “What in heaven’s name do you mean by that?” Gertie ejaculated, pretending to be stunned.

  “It’s too heavy. It’s a replica, not the genuine article,” Smisky laughed.

  “We’ll see about that,” Gertie snapped. “I’m taking it back, in fact all of them - I shan’t do business with a scoundrel.”

  “Suit yourself for today, miss, but I’ll gamble that when you find I’ve been truthful I’ll see you again,” Smisky concluded arrogantly.

  “You can bet your life on that,” Gertie mumbled to herself quietly as she stomped out of the shop.

  “A marvelous, convincing performance; I believed you myself,” Holmes beamed, complimenting her at the train station. “Mr. Smisky is one notch closer to the gallows.”

  “I was tempted to clamp the irons on his wrists right then and there,” Gertie admitted, “but I realised that would interfere with your plan, Mr. Holmes.”

  Gertie returned to the constabulary in Gravesend, while Holmes and I rode on to the Strand for a dinner at Simpson’s, our usual Wednesday evening habit.

  That night, dressed as an Episcopalian cleric with a grey beard and frizzy white hair, Holmes went on the prowl in t
he West End, searching the streets for Gunther Williams, a clever and stealthy informant who once served time in Dartmoor Penitentiary for a series of burglaries, and who was known in the underworld as Hobo Willie. Holmes, who had been instrumental in the convict’s early release from prison, based upon testimony that he financially supported the orphanage where he was raised, came across Williams at midnight outside a cafe famous for its coffee and fresh-fried donuts.

  “I have a job for you, Gunther,” Holmes began.

  “And who might you be with a job for me?” Williams retorted.

  “It is I, Sherlock Holmes, your benefactor,” Holmes replied.

  “By Jove! If it isn’t you, Mr. Holmes. Preaching the gospel, are you?” a startled Williams quaked, to which Holmes responded with this quote from Oliver Twist:

  “Yes, I’m preaching the gospel according to Charles Dickens: ‘To do a great right, you may do a little wrong; and you may take any means which the end to be attained will justify.’”

  “You want me to do something underhanded, then,” the corpulent Williams predicted, stroking the fleshy portion of his double-chin.

  “Skullduggery is more like it, Gunther,” Holmes corrected. “There is a coin dealer in Saxe-Coburn Square who paid what the Americans call a torch to set an apartment building ablaze in the East End, where six people were burned alive and many others scorched. I want you to make a friend of him and learn the identity of the culprit who destroyed the building.”

  “That’s an easy assignment, Mr. Holmes,” Williams boasted. “I know the man, Joe Smisky, and he is a hard case, but I am more brainy. I’ll betray him to you, yet never to the coppers, though. They would make me go to court and expose myself as a snitch.”

  “I shall protect your role in this, Gunther, rest assured,” Holmes promised.

  “Your word is your bond, I know that for a fact,” Williams conceded, then was ready to disappear into the darkness until Holmes delayed him with the story of Gertie Evans and the counterfeit 1707 crown. Holmes also gave Williams explicit instructions on how to prompt Smisky to name the arsonist. “I’ll sleep on all this and give you my report tomorrow before suppertime, Mr. Holmes,” Hobo Willie vowed.

  Holmes arrived back at Baker Street in the wee hours of the morning and devoted much of the time thereafter poring over his Index of criminals or pacing the floor of our sitting-room in his purple dressing gown, smoking his bent-billiard, briar-root pipe.

  I awoke at dawn to the sound of his brewing the strong coffee that he favoured, which gave off a pleasant aroma that circulated upstairs to my bedroom. Groggy, I stumbled down to the table and helped myself to a cup while Holmes was sipping his as he scribbled a long message to Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard.

  “Watson,” he muttered without looking up from the stationery, “I have deduced the identity of the arsonist and will receive confirmation of my finding today from my informant, Gunther Williams, if he follows my script.” Then, staring into my bleary eyes, Holmes warned: “Tonight will be a dangerous time. I must be off now to bait the trap.”

  While he was gone, Williams was fulfilling his commitment to Holmes, rapping on the door to Smisky’s coin shop about eight o’clock to roust him out of bed in a back room. Drowsy from a deep slumber and in a foul mood, Smisky unlocked the door and opened it a crack. “Well, Hobo Willie, what do you want at this ungodly hour?” he sneered.

  “Let me in, Joe, I have something to sell,” Williams pleaded.

  Opening the door wider and motioning with his head for his visitor to come inside, Smisky greeted him with an insult. “Something to sell? From one of your sticky finger endeavours?”

  “No, Joe, it’s information I’m pitching,” came the answer.

  “I’m not buying. I have all the information I can use,” Smisky growled.

  “This is about you and your future in the labour camp, or maybe even at the end of a rope,” Williams enticed. “What’s that worth to you?”

  “It’s not worth one pence so far. Are you out of your mind?” Smisky, now curious, said to lead Hobo Willie on. “I see you’re all spruced up, shaved, hair trimmed, and in a new suit of clothes. Come into some money, have you?”

  “Yes, I’ve been working, and these are my working clothes,” Williams lied.

  “Working at what, you tramp?” Smisky cackled.

  “I’ve been working with Sherlock Holmes, the renowned detective, and he has the goods on you, Joe,” Williams revealed.

  “Has the goods on me? For what?” Smisky clamoured.

  “That’s what I have for sale, the whole picture,” Williams professed. “I can give you information that will save your bacon.”

  “You’re doing your pandering behind Holmes’s back, then, for a bit of extra cash?” Smisky wanted to learn.

  “You could say that, Joe, but it’s more like I’m sharing what I know with a friend,” Williams continued.

  “Let me hear what you have to tell, and then I’ll decide if you get anything from me for it,” Smisky specified.

  “Doesn’t happen that way, Joe. First, you make an offer, and, second, I make the decision if the price is right,” Williams bargained.

  “Ten shillings, then, is that enough?” Smisky acquiesced.

  “Not for what I have,” Williams spouted.

  “How much do you want, you little crook?” Smisky smirked.

  “A five-pound note will buy everything you need to know,” Williams boldly stated.

  “Five pounds! Do you think I’m made of money?” Smisky protested, his face flushing.

  “That’s my price, take it or leave it,” Williams countered.

  “I’ll take it, but this better be good, you blackmailing bastard,” Smisky cursed.

  “Good. By the way, Joe, this is extortion, not blackmail. There is a distinction in the law. Put the money where I can see it and I’ll not touch it until you’re satisfied I sang like a bird,” said Williams confidently.

  Smisky, moaning, went into the back room and emerged with a five-pound note, which he laid on the counter between himself and Hobo Willie. “Now sing your song,” he demanded.

  “I’ll start with how you cooked your own goose yesterday,” Williams began. “The young woman who came here with rare coins to sell was in league with Sherlock Holmes. All they wanted was for you to show them you knew a 1707 crown was a phony. You did just that, which made the case against you for transacting in counterfeit. That’ll probably get you a three or four-year stretch. Now for the bad news. Holmes has tracked down the party who burned your building in the East End, and the man has confessed, with the prospect of escaping the gallows if he testifies against you and the others who paid him to set fires. He told Holmes how he did them all, by rigging the gas valves. Now if he goes to court and fingers you, that could mean you’ll swing from Old Bailey.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Smisky bellowed. “Frank Kiefer is smarter than any private detective. He wouldn’t spill his guts if his life depended on it.”

  “His life did depend on it, Joe,” Williams argued. “Sherlock Holmes caught him in the act of doing another job.”

  “T-t-this is terrible,” Smisky stammered. “Has he gone to the police with his evidence?”

  “Not yet, because he hasn’t wrapped up the package in a neat bundle, at least not until he persuades you to confess, too,” Williams informed Smisky. “Besides, he isn’t working for the police. His client is an insurance company.”

  “I have some time, then. I can still do something about this meddlesome busybody,” Smisky surmised. “Where can I find him?”

  “He’s pounding the bricks, he’s on the street right now,” Williams advised. “But I know where he’ll be at seven o’clock tonight - having dinner at Simpson’s in the Strand with a witness on another case.”

  “What’s he
look like?” Smisky questioned. “I think I’ll have dinner with him.”

  Hobo Willie described Holmes down to the clothing he would be wearing that day, picked up the five-pound note, wished Smisky good luck, and departed in a jolly frame of mind, mission accomplished. He would make his report of a successful effort to Holmes at Baker Street in the afternoon, as he had prophesied.

  Meantime, Holmes was experiencing success as well. He had traced Frank Kiefer to a brothel and opium den he owned in the sleazy Limehouse district.

  “Frank, I am a friend of Joe Smisky, who says you can make gravel burn,” Holmes exaggerated by way of introduction. “My name is Matthew McKinney, and I am a businessman from Baker Street, where my haberdashery is located. I have lost all my savings on the poker tables and I am in debt to the gamblers. I need you to arrange a gas leak.”

  “I can do that easily enough, but the cost to you will be severe,” Kiefer foretold. “Joe had to triple the coverage on his apartment building to accommodate me and make a tidy profit at the same time. He was pleased with the results, though. The job turned out beautiful. What a sight it was! Oooo, the flames were magnificent. Too bad so many people had to die and get hurt, but, like Joe said, they were the scum of the earth. How much insurance do you have?”

  “Ten thousand pounds. How much do you want for the job?” Holmes asked.

  “Ten thousand is my price,” Kiefer allowed. “You’ll have to do the same thing Joe did, double or triple the coverage, depending on how much you owe the sharks. What kind of building is it - what’s it made of?”

  “It’s brick on the ground floor and wood frame on the floor above,” Holmes related.

  “Brick, you say?” Kiefer said hesitantly. “That will add a thousand pounds to the price. Brick needs a powerful blast. I’ll come take a look at it tomorrow afternoon - be there at two o’clock. What’s the address?”

  “It’s 221 Baker Street in the West End,” Holmes told him. “Will you come alone?”

  “My understudy, Donald Bonsal, will be with me,” Kiefer disclosed. “He is my right arm, ever since I lost mine in an explosion three years ago. I was chopping holes in the roof of a club for ventilation when my ax struck a steel beam and created a spark. That was enough to ignite the gas. The vapors are volatile. I charge a lot of money for my work because it is so hazardous. But I guarantee the results and leave the coppers scratching their heads. When Frank Kiefer finishes a job, they can’t prove a thing.”