“There you are,” said Lestrade. “Solved.”
But I shook my head. “No… You said one of the statues was upstairs. That means our man could not have seen it from the street. This fellow knows where his targets lie. There is method in this.”
“Brilliant! Wonderful!” cried Holmes. “Lestrade, we are on tenterhooks! You must keep us informed as the investigation progresses.”
“What? No, no. There will be no progress. I told you about the case because I know your taste for strange occurrences, not because Scotland Yard intends to waste its time on a case that amounts to no more than three cheap statues and one window latch. We are not investigating.”
And that is where the matter came to rest.
* * *
Until seven o’clock the next morning. Unlike the previous day, I found myself awake and alert. I had not partaken of a Xantharaxes injection the night before. Not because of any moral rectitude, of course, but simply because I’d fallen asleep before I got the chance. At least I was fresh and ready when a red-faced messenger boy charged up our stairs and delivered a telegram, which read:
NOPE. NO. I WAS WRONG. WE ARE
INVESTIGATING. 131 PITT STREET, KENSINGTON.
COME INSTANTLY. LESTRADE
Alighting from our cab an hour or so later, Holmes and I beheld that familiar gaggle of chattering constables which indicates something very serious has occurred. The first victim was apparent. Just under the streetlamp, by the railings of no. 131, lay a pile of plaster fragments that—I had to assume—had recently borne the visage of the terror of Europe. On the steps to the front door of the house lay a dead man.
Just…
Really dead.
He’d been bludgeoned about the head with such violence that the impressions of the device used to murder him were quite clear. Perfectly round indentations spotted his face and scalp—most of them deeper on one side than the other. They were too large to indicate the head of a regular hammer.
“It appears likely the victim was bludgeoned to death with a walking stick,” said Lestrade, striding up to me.
“What? No! A walking stick? Why does everyone assume…? That is not a weapon!”
“Tut, tut, Watson,” Holmes remonstrated. “It is the single most British weapon anyone can name.”
“Even if it were, the indentations it left would be more rounded—spherical. These have a flat bottom, you see? The weapon that made these was cylindrical. I think what we are looking for is some sort of wooden mallet or maul.”
“Oh…” said Holmes with visible disappointment. “That’s not very British at all.”
Even more disturbing than the victim’s cranial trauma was… well… the rest of him. His head lay on the top step, with his body sprawled down the stairs below. I saw no more of the cylindrical markings, yet his torso, arms and legs had suffered repeated blunt trauma. If it hadn’t been for the lack of shoe marks on his clothing, I’d have thought someone had been jumping up and down on him for several minutes. So many bones had been broken that the shape of the victim’s body corresponded with disgusting exactitude to the shape of the stairs. Near the victim’s outstretched right hand lay a bone-handled knife.
“Ah-ha!” Holmes cried, pointing one accusatory finger at it. “The murder weapon!”
Lestrade gave him a resentful look.
“No, Holmes,” I said. “It looks as if he was holding it.”
Holmes made a queer face. “So he was walking up to this man’s door with a knife in his hand? What do we think, some sort of pre-dawn knife salesman?”
“Well, that’s one possibility. Any idea who he was, Lestrade?”
The question was met with another of his dour little shrugs and a somewhat unhelpful, “Italian, by the look of him. See the cut of his suit? Very nice, despite the workman’s quality and the wear. And look at his hair—jet black and so slick it looks like he’s been combing it with butter. His pockets were nearly empty. He had a screwdriver, a picture, and some sort of pulpy white mess I can only assume was an apple. He had no wallet or identifying papers of any kind.”
“Because the murderer took them?” Holmes wondered.
“Possibly,” said Lestrade. “Either that or because he was up to the kind of business where he didn’t wish to be identified.”
“You say he had a picture in his pocket?” I asked. “A picture of what?”
“A fellow Italian, from the look of him,” said Lestrade, producing a bent and battered photo from his notebook and handing it to me. The subject of the photograph was male and rough-looking, with a jutting, simian mouth and lower jaw. His brow ridges were prominent, but his forehead sloped back to a shock of black hair that rather resembled a cheap wig. The front of his face was adorned with a large black moustache that had been clearly—just clearly—glued on.
“Italian?” I cried. “No, no, no! This is a chimpanzee! A shaved chimpanzee!”
“Well, you said it, not me,” Lestrade replied, raising his eyebrows in that you-know-it-and-I-know-it-but-it’susually-not-said-in-public way.
“You misunderstand me,” I said. “This is an actual ape, I am sure of it.”
“Quiet, Doctor!” Lestrade hissed. “Some of the constables have Italian ancestry—”
“That should have nothing to do with this primate!”
“He’s only joking!” Lestrade called to the assembled constables. “Very funny, Doctor. Now come along inside, won’t you? I think you and Warlock should meet the owner of the latest shattered bust, don’t you?”
And so we did. Just inside the door, we encountered a slim young man in his late twenties, leaning against a wall and looking positively green. When Lestrade introduced Holmes and me, our host looked shakily up, announced, “Buh—bhn. Uh… Buh…” and teetered dangerously backwards.
“This man requires medical aid!” I cried. Pausing only to fling my new patient into the nearest armchair, I dashed to a side table, seized a brandy decanter, sloshed a healthy dose into the first glass I saw, then ran back, shouting, “Here: medical aid.”
He gazed at it for a moment, took the glass in his trembling hands, and sipped.
“More,” I said.
He took a healthy gulp. Then came that medically questionable moment where we all waited to see which it would affect first—his wits or his stomach. Finally, he breathed a sigh of relief and said, “Ahh… thank you.”
“Pish, tosh,” I scoffed. “What else are doctors for? Now, when you feel up to it, why don’t you tell us who you are?”
“I am Horace Harker, of the Central Press Syndicate—a reporter, by trade. By God, to think of it… I spend my life chasing stories like this, but as soon as one happens to me, I find myself so rattled that… well… I wouldn’t be surprised if today’s evening edition finds this story in every newspaper in London except mine!”
“Oh dear,” said Holmes. “Before we go, you must tell us which paper it is, so we can all make sure not to buy it.”
Our host gave Warlock a less-than-generous look.
“What? Sounds like it will be missing the day’s best story,” Holmes said, with a defensive sniff.
“And just what is that story, Mr. Harker?” I prompted.
“I was up very late last night, working on an article. Some time after three in the morning, I heard a noise. I thought it came from within the house, so I was very alarmed. I grabbed the poker from beside the fireplace and went down to have a look.”
“Very wise,” said Holmes. “If it had been a misbehaving fire-demon, you could have poked him.”
“Holmes!”
“It’s one of the only weapons they fear, Watson.”
I rolled my eyes. “And did you find a misbehaving fire-demon, Mr. Harker?”
“No,” he said, looking somewhat mystified. “Nothing seemed to be out of place at all. But I did hear small noises coming from the hallway, so I made my way slowly towards it. I heard the gentle click of my front door closing, and then…”
He paus
ed and his eyes went wide with fear. “Oh, and then! A terrible screech! A yell of alarm! The sounds of a fight! I can hardly describe it! Yells! Shrieks! Thumping and thumping and thumping and screaming! I was only on the other side of the door, gentlemen, but I could not open it. I was paralyzed with fear! Well, finally the noises abated and all I could hear was gentle moaning. I gathered my courage and peeped out. There I discovered… well, you saw him.”
“Moaning, you say? So he was still alive when you found him?” I asked.
“For a moment,” said Mr. Harker, nodding. “When he saw me he said, ‘What a fool I was! The knife was in my hand. The apple, in my pocket.’ Then his eyes rolled up, he coughed out a great gout of blood, and died! I ran back to my study and grabbed my police whistle—”
“Wait now,” I interjected. “You are a reporter, not a constable. Why would you have a police whistle?”
“My job takes me often to the Liverpool docks. I keep the whistle always on my person, in case someone should try to force himself upon my virtue.”
I gave him a questioning look.
“Clearly, you have never been to Liverpool,” our host blustered. “Everybody there ought to have one. Anyway, I opened the door and just blew and blew and blew the whistle until a constable came and then… I don’t know… I think I’ve just been sitting here ever since.”
“You seem quite shaken, Mr. Harker,” I said. “It is probable you will require further aid. Holmes, grab that bottle.”
“No, no!” Harker cried. “I must focus! I must gather my wits and write the story, only… by God, I’ve no idea how to start! I’ve no mastery over myself.” He stared helplessly at his own shaking hands.
“Hmm, yes, I see,” I said. “My training leads me to suspect that perhaps one more glass of medical aid and a quick nap might be required before that mastery is restored. But first, tell us about the bust. When did you discover it was missing?”
“Not until one of the constables mentioned it. There has been a spate of similar trouble, from what I gather. Honestly, I hadn’t noticed it was gone.”
“And where was it kept?”
Harker gulped and wiped some of the sweat from his brow. “In the corridor upstairs. Just outside the door to my study. Egad, when I think of that murderer being mere inches from where I sat working! Why, I don’t know—I don’t know—”
“Holmes, could you…?”
“Yup! Medical aid!” Warlock said, popping a full glass of brandy into Horace Harker’s grasp.
“Now, Mr. Harker,” I continued, “do you remember where you got that bust?”
“Yes. I got it at Harding Brothers—just two doors down from the High Street Station. I just needed something for the hallway, you know, and it was cheap.”
The young man was beginning to look rather green again, and his eyes rolled back and forth with nervous energy.
“Lestrade, does the official force have any further questions for this man?” I asked.
Lestrade shook his head.
“Good,” I said. “Now come on, Mr. Harker. One more glass of medical aid and then it’s off to bed with you.”
“But…”
“No, no. Doctor’s orders. Come on, Holmes, help me get him up to his room, won’t you?”
Three minutes later, Horace Harker was sprawled unconscious across his bed.
“What do you make of it?” I asked, as we descended the stairs.
“By the gods, it’s wonderful!” said Holmes.
Lestrade was less enthusiastic. “It seems to me we are looking for an Italian—probably accustomed to violence—who kills by hammering his victims, or jumping on them. Oh! I’ve just remembered! We had such a case, a few years back. A pair of brothers, as I recall. Plumbers. But most of their violent urges were directed against turtles and crabs they found in the sewers.”
“How do you intend to proceed?” I asked.
“I have sent a message to Inspector Hill. He frequently works amongst London’s Italian population, so I was hoping he could help identify the victim. I thought I might show him the photo, too, but what is the point? They look so similar, it could be any of them.”
“Any chimp, you mean?”
“Keep your voice down!”
I sighed. “Well, if you don’t feel it will be helpful to you, Lestrade, might I borrow that photograph? I may have a use for it as I track down the busts.”
“You’re going after the busts?” said Lestrade, incredulously.
“Why not? They seem to be the unexplained bond holding all three cases together. We know that Morse Hudson is not only the first victim, he is a seller of such statuary. I thought Holmes and I might go round and see where he got them. That is, if you think it’s worth our time to investigate, Warlock.”
“Are you joking?” Holmes shot back. “If I follow your reasoning correctly, Watson, it seems you are forming the opinion that someone has trained an anti-Napoleon murder-monkey! Of course we are investigating! Ye gods, I’ve lived two hundred and fifty years and there’s every possibility this may be my very best day!”
* * *
Morse Hudson was a red-faced, small-minded tradesman of the sort that forms the very backbone of English mercantilism. His opinion of who had smashed his cheap plaster bust of a dead French emperor was as strident as it was predictable.
“It was red republicans, sir, you may count upon it! Socialists! Anarchists!”
“So… let me get this straight, Mr. Hudson,” I said. “In an attempt to destroy our system of social order, ‘red republicans’ walked into your shop during business hours and destroyed just one statue?”
“But they won’t win!” he confirmed, waving a pudgy finger in my face.
“No, I don’t see how they could,” I agreed.
“A thousand tiny victories, such as these! A million slight acts of disobedience and sedition!”
“Why, soon we should have no plaster statuary of our greatest national enemies at all!”
He gave me the sort of look that gave me to understand he might be beginning to realize I was making fun of him. I changed my tactics immediately.
“Tell me, Mr. Hudson, do you make the busts yourself?”
“What? Of course not! I am a merchant, sir! I would not dirty my hands with such labors! My place in life is to buy things from one person and sell them to another. As such, I am entitled to live in a large house with plenty of servants. Everybody knows this.”
“Do you recall who did make those particular busts?”
“Well, I don’t know. Do I? No! I do! It was Gelder’s place in Church Street, Stepney. I recall I bought a batch of three from him, oh… must be a year ago, now. Sold two fairly quickly but the third stayed on the shelf.”
“Until it was destroyed by ‘red republicans’ trying to undermine our social order?”
“But they won’t win!”
“Of course not. One more thing, Mr. Hudson: do you know this… um… fellow?”
I held up the picture we’d found in the dead man’s pocket only an hour or so before. Morse Hudson squinted at it, puffed some air through his pendulous lips and opined, “I don’t know, some Italian. Oh! Wait! I do know him! That’s Beppo!”
“Beppo?” said Holmes and I together. My expression—I am sure—was one of extreme skepticism. Holmes’s was that of pure joy.
“Yes, yes! He comes around the shop sometimes and makes himself useful. Oh, we love Beppo! Such a happy, funny little fellow!”
“Little?” I said. “I don’t suppose you mean he’s short, with overly long arms?”
“Longest you’ve ever seen! And a mute, you know. Tragic. But he makes it known what he wants. Works all day on whatever we set him to and all he ever wants in exchange is a shilling or a few pieces of fruit. ‘Beppo, fetch down that reproduction Vermeer,’ we’ll say, and he hauls himself up to the highest shelf and takes it down for us. By god, he’s good at climbing! Handy with a hammer, too. Always smiling at us with those funny lips of his. Atrocious teeth
, though.”
“Mr. Hudson, has it ever occurred to you that your part-time worker, Beppo, might be a chimpanzee?”
“What? No, no, no. Italian! He’s got that black moustache, doesn’t he?”
“Do you know his last name, Mr. Hudson?”
“Oh, I don’t think he has one. Italians often don’t, you know.”
“And when was the last time you saw Beppo?”
Morse Hudson pursed his lips and considered. “Just the day before the bust was smashed, I suppose. Yes he’d been in helping out for an hour or two. He seemed distracted, though. Kept leafing through our sales books in that funny little way of his. My assistant, Jacob, said he saw Beppo carrying one of the books towards the back window, but when I looked for it later, it was in its proper place.”
“I see… Well, thank you, Mr. Hudson. You have been most helpful. Good luck with the anarchists.”
“And you as well, sir! We won’t let them win!”
“No, indeed.”
“Rule Britannia!”
“As you say.”
On the way down the steps, Holmes leaned in towards me and whispered, “Really? Italians don’t have last names?”
“Oh, they emphatically do, Holmes. Great, sweeping, classically beautiful ones with lots of vowels. But do you know who doesn’t have them?”
“Battle monkeys?”
“Well, I was going to say ‘apes’ but… yes.”
* * *
Mr. Bertram Gelder of Gelder & Co., Stepney was a saggy sort of fellow. He had saggy brown hair that sagged over saggy eyes with great bags under them that sagged onto the saggy cheeks he tried to hide with a saggy moustache. As we entered his shop, he blinked at us and wondered, “I don’t suppose you’re here to buy something?”
“Er… no,” I told him.
“Thought not,” he sighed.
“We were rather hoping you might help us with a question about busts of Napoleon. You make them here, do you not?”
“Indeed.”
“Could you tell me how?”
Warlock Holmes--The Sign of Nine Page 6
