Sherlock's Sisters

by Nick Rennison

  ‘Yes; the police prepared a plan of the room for the trial, and since then by the solicitors’ orders we have not touched a thing.’

  ‘That settles the curtains then,’ continued Dorcas. ‘Look at the windows for yourself. In front of one, close by the curtains, is an ornamental table covered with china and glass and bric-à-brac; and in front of the other a large settee. No man could have come from behind those curtains without shifting that furniture out of his way. That would have immediately attracted Mrs Hannaford’s attention and given her time to scream and rush out of the room. No, we must find some other place for the assassin. Ah – I wonder if –’

  Dorcas’s eyes were fixed on a large brown bear which stood nearly against the wall by the fireplace. The bear, a very fine, big specimen, was supported in its upright position by an ornamental iron pole, at the top of which was fixed an oil lamp covered with a yellow silk shade.

  ‘That’s a fine bear lamp,’ exclaimed Dorcas.

  ‘Yes,’ said the caretaker, ‘it’s been here ever since I’ve been in the family’s service. It was bought by the poor mistress’s first husband, Mr Drayson, and he thought a lot of it. But,’ he added, looking at it curiously, ‘I always thought it stood closer to the wall than that. It used to – right against it.’

  ‘Ah,’ exclaimed Dorcas, ‘that’s interesting. Pull the curtains right back and give me all the light you can.’

  As the man obeyed her directions she went down on her hands and knees and examined the carpet carefully.

  ‘You are right,’ she said. ‘This has been moved a little forward, and not so very long ago – the carpet for a square of some inches is a different colour to the rest. The brown bear stands on a square mahogany stand, and the exact square now shows in the colour of the carpet that has been hidden by it. Only here is a discoloured portion and the bear does not now stand on it.’

  The evidence of the bear having been moved forward from a position it had long occupied was indisputable. Dorcas got up and went to the door of the drawing-room.

  ‘Go and stand behind that bear,’ she said. ‘Stand as compact as you can, as though you were endeavouring to conceal yourself.’

  I obeyed, and Dorcas, standing in the drawing-room doorway, declared that I was completely hidden.

  ‘Now,’ she said, coming to the centre of the room and turning her back to me, ‘reach down from where you are and see if you can pick up the shovel from the fireplace without making a noise.’

  I reached out carefully and had the shovel in my hand without making a sound.

  ‘I have it,’ I said.

  ‘That’s right. The poker would have been on the same side as the shovel, and much easier to pick up quietly. Now, while my back is turned, grasp the shovel by the handle, leap out at me, and raise the shovel as if to hit me – but don’t get excited and do it, because I don’t want to realise the scene too completely.’

  I obeyed. My footsteps were scarcely heard on the heavy-pile drawing-room carpet. When Dorcas turned round the shovel was above her head ready to strike.

  ‘Thank you for letting me off,’ she said, with a smile. Then her face becoming serious again, she exclaimed: ‘The murderer of Mrs Hannaford concealed himself behind that brown bear lamp, and attacked her in exactly the way I have indicated. But why had he moved the bear two or three inches forward?’

  ‘To conceal himself behind it.’

  ‘Nonsense! His concealment was a sudden act. That bear is heavy – the glass chimney of the lamp would have rattled if it had been done violently and hurriedly while Mrs Hannaford was coming downstairs – that would have attracted her attention and she would have called out, “Who’s there?” at the doorway, and not have come in looking about for her husband.’

  Dorcas looked the animal over carefully, prodded it with her fingers, and then went behind it.

  After a minute or two’s close examination, she uttered a little cry and called me to her side.

  She had found in the back of the bear a small straight slit. This was quite invisible. She had only discovered it by an accidentally violent thrust of her fingers into the animal’s fur. Into this slit she thrust her hand, and the aperture yielded sufficiently for her to thrust her arm in. The interior of the bear was hollow, but Dorcas’s hand as it went down struck against a wooden bottom. Then she withdrew her arm and the aperture closed up. It had evidently been specially prepared as a place of concealment, and only the most careful examination would have revealed it.

  ‘Now,’ exclaimed Dorcas, triumphantly, ‘I think we are on a straight road! This, I believe, is where those missing banknotes lay concealed for years. They were probably placed there by Mr Drayson with the idea that someday his frauds might be discovered or he might be made a bankrupt. This was his little nest-egg, and his death in Paris before his fraud was discovered prevented him making use of them. Mrs Hannaford evidently knew nothing of the hidden treasure, or she would speedily have removed it. But someone knew, and that someone put his knowledge to practical use the night that Mrs Hannaford was murdered. The man who got in at the front door that night, got in to relieve the bear of its valuable stuffing; he moved the bear to get at the aperture, and was behind it when Mrs Hannaford came in. The rest is easy to understand.’

  ‘But how did he get in at the front door?’

  ‘That’s what I have to find out. I am sure now that Flash George was in it. He was seen outside, and some of the notes that were concealed in the brown bear lamp have been traced to him. Who was Flash George’s accomplice we may discover tonight. I think I have an idea, and if that is correct we shall have the solution of the whole mystery before dawn tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Why do you think you will learn so much tonight?’

  ‘Because Flash George met a man two nights ago outside the Criterion. I was selling wax matches, and followed them up, pestering them. I heard George say to his companion, whom I had never seen with him before, “Tell him Hungerford Bridge, midnight, Wednesday. Tell him to bring the lot and I’ll cash up for them!”’

  ‘And you think the “him” – ?’

  ‘Is the man who rifled the brown bear and killed Mrs Hannaford.’

  * * * * * *

  At eleven o’clock that evening I met Dorcas Dene in Villiers Street. I knew what she would be like, otherwise her disguise would have completely baffled me. She was dressed as an Italian street musician, and was with a man who looked like an Italian organ-grinder.

  Dorcas took my breath away by her first words.

  ‘Allow me to introduce you,’ she said, ‘to Mr Thomas Holmes. This is the gentleman who was Charles Drayson’s partner, and was sentenced to five years’ penal servitude over the partnership frauds.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied the organ-grinder in excellent English. ‘I suppose I deserved it for being a fool, but the villain was Drayson – he had all my money, and involved me in a fraud at the finish.’

  ‘I have told Mr Holmes the story of our discovery,’ said Dorcas. ‘I have been in communication with him ever since I discovered the notes were in circulation. He knew Drayson’s affairs, and he has given me some valuable information. He is with us tonight because he knew Mr Drayson’s former associates, and he may be able to identify the man who knew the secret of the house at Haverstock Hill.’

  ‘You think that is the man Flash George is to meet?’

  ‘I do. What else can “Tell him to bring the lot and I’ll cash up” mean but the rest of the banknotes?’

  Shortly before twelve we got on to Hungerford Bridge – the narrow footway that runs across the Thames by the side of the railway.

  I was to walk ahead and keep clear of the Italians until I heard a signal.

  We crossed the bridge after that once or twice, I coming from one end and the Italians from the other, and passing each other about the centre.

  At five minutes to midnight I saw
Flash George come slowly along from the Middlesex side. The Italians were not far behind. A minute later an old man with a grey beard, and wearing an old Inverness cape, passed me, coming from the Surrey side. When he met Flash George the two stopped and leant over the parapet, apparently interested in the river. Suddenly I heard Dorcas’s signal. She began to sing the Italian song, ‘Santa Lucia’.

  I had my instructions. I jostled up against the two men and begged their pardon.

  Flash George turned fiercely round. At the same moment I seized the old man and shouted for help. The Italians came hastily up. Several foot passengers rushed to the scene and inquired what was the matter.

  ‘He was going to commit suicide,’ I cried. ‘He was just going to jump into the water.’

  The old man was struggling in my grasp. The crowd were keeping back Flash George. They believed the old man was struggling to get free to throw himself into the water.

  The Italian rushed up to me.

  ‘Ah, poor old man!’ he said. ‘Don’t let him get away!’

  He gave a violent tug to the grey beard. It came off in his hands. Then with an oath he seized the supposed would-be suicide by the throat.

  ‘You infernal villain!’ he said.

  ‘Who is he?’ asked Dorcas.

  ‘Who is he!’ exclaimed Thomas Holmes, ‘why, the villain who brought me to ruin – my precious partner – Charles Drayson!’

  As the words escaped from the supposed Italian’s lips, Charles Drayson gave a cry of terror, and leaping on to the parapet, plunged into the river.

  Flash George turned to run, but was stopped by a policeman who had just come up.

  Dorcas whispered something in the man’s ear, and the officer, thrusting his hand in the rascal’s pocket, drew out a bundle of banknotes.

  A few minutes later the would-be suicide was brought ashore. He was still alive, but had injured himself terribly in his fall, and was taken to the hospital.

  Before he died he was induced to confess that he had taken advantage of the Paris fire to disappear. He had flung his watch down in order that it might be found as evidence of his death. He had, previously to visiting the Rue Jean Goujon, received a letter at his hotel which told him pretty plainly the game was up, and he knew that at any moment a warrant might be issued against him. After reading his name amongst the victims, he lived as best he could abroad, but after some years, being in desperate straits, he determined to do a bold thing, return to London and endeavour to get into his house and obtain possession of the money which was lying unsuspected in the interior of the brown bear lamp. He had concealed it, well knowing that at any time the crash might come, and everything belonging to him be seized. The hiding-place he had selected was one which neither his creditors nor his relatives would suspect.

  On the night he entered the house, Flash George, whose acquaintance he had made in London, kept watch for him while he let himself in with his latch-key, which he had carefully preserved. Mr Hannaford’s leaving the house was one of those pieces of good fortune which occasionally favour the wicked.

  With his dying breath Charles Drayson declared that he had no intention of killing his wife. He feared that, having heard a noise, she had come to see what it was, and might alarm the house in her terror, and as she turned to go out of the drawing-room he struck her, intending only to render her senseless until he had secured the booty.

  * * * * * *

  Mr Hannaford, completely recovered and in his right mind, was in due time released from Broadmoor. The letter from his mother to Dorcas Dene, thanking her for clearing her son’s character and proving his innocence of the terrible crime for which he had been practically condemned, brought tears to my eyes as Dorcas read it aloud to Paul and myself. It was touching and beautiful to a degree.

  As she folded it up and put it away, I saw that Dorcas herself was deeply moved.

  ‘These are the rewards of my profession,’ she said. ‘They compensate for everything.’

  CONSTANCE DUNLAP

  Created by Arthur B Reeve (1880-1936)

  Arthur B Reeve’s varied career as an author included writing film serials which starred the escapologist Harry Houdini, novelettes for the legendary pulp magazine Weird Tales and some of the most popular American crime fiction of the early twentieth century. His best known character was Craig Kennedy, the ‘scientific detective’, who appeared in dozens of short stories and novels. A professor of chemistry, Kennedy applied his knowledge of science and his mastery of scientific gadgets to the solution of apparently baffling crimes. His adventures were narrated by his own Watson-like companion, the journalist Walter Jameson, and attracted a wide readership for many decades. Film versions of Reeve’s works were made throughout the 1910s and 1920s and a TV series based on Craig Kennedy’s cases was produced as late as 1952. Constance Dunlap, Woman Detective is a collection of interlinked stories published in 1913. The publishers advertised it as part of the ‘Craig Kennedy Series’, although it does not feature Reeve’s most famous creation. The title character is a young woman thrown on her own resources by the crimes and eventual suicide of her weak-willed husband. In a series of adventures she demonstrates her ability to deal with a range of criminals from gunrunners and embezzlers to blackmailers and shoplifters. ‘The Dope Fiends’, in which Constance comes face to face with cokeheads and drug-dealers, is a fascinating story in its revelations of attitudes at the time to cocaine and those who used it. And Constance emerges, as she does from all the stories, as a woman of strong character and great intelligence.

  THE DOPE FIENDS

  ‘I have a terrible headache,’ remarked Constance Dunlap to her friend, Adele Gordon, the petite cabaret singer and dancer of the Mayfair, who had dropped in to see her one afternoon.

  ‘You poor, dear creature,’ soothed Adele. ‘Why don’t you go to see Dr Price? He has cured me. He’s splendid – splendid.’

  Constance hesitated. Dr Moreland Price was a well-known physician. All day and even at night, she knew, automobiles and cabs rolled up to his door and their occupants were, for the most part, stylishly gowned women.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ urged Adele. ‘He doesn’t charge as highly as people seem to think. Besides, I’ll go with you and introduce you, and he’ll charge only as he does the rest of us in the profession.’

  Constance’s head throbbed frantically. She felt that she must have some relief soon. ‘All right,’ she agreed, ‘I’ll go with you, and thank you, Adele.’

  Dr Price’s office was on the first floor of the fashionable Recherche Apartments, and, as she expected, Constance noted a line of motor cars before it.

  They entered and were admitted to a richly furnished room, in mahogany and expensive Persian rugs, where a number of patients waited. One after another an attendant summoned them noiselessly and politely to see the doctor, until at last the turn of Constance and Adele came.

  Dr Price was a youngish, middle-aged man, tall, with a sallow countenance and a self-confident, polished manner which went a long way in reassuring the patients, most of whom were ladies.

  As they entered the doctor’s sanctum behind the folding doors, Adele seemed to be on very good terms indeed with him.

  They seated themselves in the deep leather chairs beside Dr Price’s desk, and he inclined his head to listen to the story of their ailments.

  ‘Doctor,’ began Constance’s introducer, ‘I’ve brought my friend, Mrs Dunlap, who is suffering from one of those awful headaches. I thought perhaps you could give her some of that medicine that has done me so much good.’

  The doctor bowed without saying anything and shifted his eyes from Adele to Constance.

  ‘Just what seems to be the difficulty?’ he inquired.

  Constance told him how she felt, of her general lassitude and the big, throbbing veins in her temples.

  ‘Ah – a woman’s headaches!’ he smiled, adding, ‘Nothing
serious, however, in this case, as far as I can see. We can fix this one all right, I think.’

  He wrote out a prescription quickly and handed it to Constance.

  ‘Of course,’ he added, as he pocketed his fee, ‘it makes no difference to me personally, but I would advise that you have it filled at Muller’s – Miss Gordon knows the place. I think Muller’s drugs are perhaps fresher than those of most druggists, and that makes a great deal of difference.’

  He had risen and was politely and suavely bowing them out of another door, at the same time by pressing a button signifying to his attendant to admit the next patient.

  Constance had preceded Adele, and, as she passed through the other door, she overheard the doctor whisper to her friend, ‘I’m going to stop for you tonight to take a ride. I have something important I want to say to you.’

  She did not catch Adele’s answer, but as they left the marble and onyx, brass-grilled entrance, Adele remarked: ‘That’s his car – over there. Oh, but he is a reckless driver – dashes along pell-mell – but always seems to have his eye out for everything – never seems to be arrested, never in an accident.’

  Constance turned in the direction of the car and was startled to see the familiar face of Drummond across the street dodging behind it. What was it now, she wondered – a divorce case, a scandal – what?

  The medicine was made up into little powders, to be taken until they gave relief, and Constance folded the paper of one, poured it on the back of her tongue and swallowed a glass of water afterward.

  Her head continued to throb, but she felt a sense of well-being that she had not before. Adele urged her to take another, and Constance did so.

  The second powder increased the effect of the first marvellously. But Constance noticed that she now began to feel queer. She was not used to taking medicine. For a moment she felt that she was above, beyond the reach of ordinary rules and laws. She could have done any sort of physical task, she felt, no matter how difficult. She was amazed at herself, as compared to what she had been only a few moments before.