The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part XI

by David Marcum

  “Did your insurance company pay out the value of the jewellery Mr. Barratt took with him when he disappeared?” Holmes asked Mr. Spinelli.

  “I understand Mr. Barratt took nothing, sir. According to Mrs. Barratt, he was an Episcopalian and immune to greed. Not wishing to cause inconvenience, he stated in an official, stamped letter that he had passed the business to his wife, and he wrote that he and the shop girl would live on a small annuity he had from his parents. Mr. Barratt ended the letter, amor vincit omnia.”

  “You saw this letter?” Holmes asked.

  “I did. And a Christmas card that I understood was postmarked from Harrogate.”

  “And how is the business faring without Mr. Barratt?”

  “We have had our ups and our downs, sir,” Mr. Spinelli answered, “mostly downs before I took over. Business is better now, but still not what it was, sir. One of our main lines is engagement and wedding rings, and some customers may have felt that, in the circumstances of Mr. Barratt’s midnight flit with his amour, a ring bought here might be contaminated. All nonsense of course, but people are superstitious on such matters.”

  Mr. Spinelli considered. “And Mr. Barratt had many connections within the trade that Mrs. Barratt does not. She brought me into the business a year or so ago to remedy that deficiency, but it’s slow going.” He frowned and seemed about to say more.

  “Go on,” Holmes said. “This is a serious investigation, you must hold nothing back from the inspector.”

  “Mrs. Barratt and I sometimes do not see eye to eye on the necessary replenishment of stock. I was only recently able to persuade her to agree to a major increment of items for sale so that we can offer more variety and increase our turnover.”

  “Very laudable, Mr. Spinelli,” Holmes said. “You joined the business after Mr. Barratt left. Had you had any previous correspondence with him?”

  “No, sir.”

  Inspector Jones shook another cigarette from his packet. “You have met everyone involved, Mr. Holmes, aside from Towers. There are no live-in servants except the boy, Reece. A cook and servant girl come daily at eight in the morning. The business uses bonded district commissionaires for deliveries. So, there we are.”

  He lit his cigarette and smiled. “I do not see that your theoretical approach to the case has yielded anything of interest, Mr. Holmes. While good, old-fashioned police work has unearthed a motive - greed-a method - explosives-and a man - Towers - currently in jug.”

  He indicated the sobbing girl. “You don’t want to talk with Miss Dennis?”

  “No thank you, Inspector,” Holmes said, returning the inspector’s smile. “It’s a fine day and the roses are blooming.”

  He turned to me. “A page from your notebook, if you don’t mind. I must send a telegram.”

  “I am going to inspect Towers’ crib,” Inspector Jones said. “Would you gentlemen care to join me? We can stop off at the telegraph office on the way.”

  “I have reached two conclusions, Mr. Holmes,” Inspector Jones said as we walked along Bishopsgate Street.

  Holmes smiled. “I am agog, Inspector.”

  “The thieves struck on the very night that a new consignment of jewellery was put into the safe. That’s too pat for my liking - Too much for me to credit. I do not believe in coincidences.”

  “But coincidences are always singular, Inspector. That’s why they are called coincidences.”

  Jones ignored Holmes’s remark. “Only two persons, Mrs. Barratt and Mr. Spinelli, knew of the purchase of new stock, but Miss Dennis was present when the items were delivered, unwrapped, and put away in the safe. She remarked that she was happy that the stock had been renewed, as she had worried that the business was failing and she might lose her position. You should have joined me in her interview, Mr. Holmes.”

  “You may be right, Inspector,” Holmes said. “Mr. Spinelli was also concerned at the falling off of trade.”

  “Exactly. We thus have two possibles for the inside man - or woman. And Spinelli is an Italian. We know of their ways with the gentle sex.”

  “And connected with Naples,” I added, “that nest of Black Hand Camorristas.”

  “And the second of your conclusions, Inspector?” Holmes asked.

  “I believe Towers knows he has no hope of escape from my net, so he got his daughter to bring you in, Mr. Holmes, to muddy the waters.”

  We stopped at a pleasant house set back a little by a small front garden. A policeman guarded the open front door. Inspector Jones consulted with a spade-bearded sergeant in the hall.

  He turned to Holmes. “My men have discovered no explosives as yet, Mr. Holmes, but we have found plenty of cracksmen’s tools, as you can see.” He indicated an open leather bag on the floor.

  Holmes sniffed. “Broken and rusty. These implements have not been used in months, if not years. That accords with his daughter’s assertion that Towers is retired.”

  “You do not give our criminals sufficient credit, Mr. Holmes. I am sure you will agree with me when I say that we English have the most inventive brains in the world. New devices and apparatus proliferate daily, gentlemen. Our cracksmen are evolving (if I may use a scientific term, Doctor). Where once your Yeggman would carry twenty pounds of chisels, augers, and drills, now his tools are a few sticks of dynamite and a box of detonators.”

  “Nevertheless, Mr. Towers kept his conventional cracksman tools.”

  “He had expended his dynamite! In my office I have gas lighting, all very modern and convenient, Mr. Holmes. But on my desk is a paraffin lamp, just in case, do you see?”

  “You have an answer for everything, Inspector Jones,” I suggested.

  “It’s my business to do so, Doctor.”

  The inspector led us through to the scullery, where from the windows we had a view of a large back garden.

  “We are starting on searching the garden, but there are certain difficulties,” he said.

  I peered through the kitchen window. The police constables searching outside seemed to be hugging the garden walls and edging along them in a most peculiar fashion.

  Holmes joined me at the window and laughed aloud. “Bee hives. Mr. Towers keeps honey bees.”

  Inspector Jones opened the kitchen door and revealed a triple row of bee hives stretching to the back of the garden where the grass gave way to bushes and trees.

  “I shall remain here,” Inspector Jones said, “to better co-ordinate our efforts.”

  “Fuss and feathers,” Holmes said. He marched out of the door and I followed, not without a certain trepidation. Holmes ignored the policemen and weaved between the hives towards a small copse at the back of the garden surrounding a shed and tarpaulin-covered woodpile.

  The hives buzzed ominously as we passed them, and in my anxiety, I almost bumped into Holmes as he suddenly stopped and glared about him.

  “We might start with the most obvious place, the woodpile. If not there, or the shed, we must look at the hives.”

  I blinked at him.

  “And from here on we must emulate the constables and proceed with cat-like tread.” He walked slowly and deliberately to the shed, and I followed in his footsteps.

  “Are bees disturbed by vibrations?” I asked.

  “It’s not bees I’m worried about.” Holmes frowned at the policemen behind us, who were gaining confidence and poking in the bushes that lined the side fences of the garden with hawthorn sticks.

  “No, this will not do,” Holmes murmured “They will pulverise the neighbourhood, stamping about in their policeman’s boots.”

  He called softly to the nearest constable. “You, what’s your name?”

  “Anderson, sir, City of London Police.”

  “Married?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. Come here. I need you
to be careful and quiet. Can you do that?”

  “Because of the bees, sir?”

  “If you like. Send your colleagues back to the house.”

  Holmes led the constable and me to the woodpile. He gently removed three logs from the pile, lay them on the grass, sat on them and lit his pipe. “Gentlemen, kindly remove each log separately in the manner I just showed you. Do not drop a log, because you may set off an explosion that will demolish the neighbourhood. Stop the instant you see or feel anything unusual.”

  “I say, Holmes-” I frowned at his pipe.

  “The danger is from the police clodhoppers, not a naked flame and not the honey bees. The smoke will calm them.”

  Holmes blew a cloud of aromatic smoke into the air. “If stored for beyond a year, dynamite becomes highly unstable and weeps nitro-glycerine. It killed Emil, brother of Alfred Nobel, the Swedish chemist and inventor.”

  “I’d best remove my boots, sir,” Constable Anderson said.

  Holmes turned to me. “An intelligent thought, the first from the police all day. This young man will go far.”

  Anderson and I took turns gently removing logs from the pile.

  “What makes you think that Towers hid his-” I froze with a log in my hands.

  Holmes leapt up and carefully leaned past me. “A loop of fishing line has snagged on the log, or perhaps it was imperfectly attached. Do not move a muscle, my dear fellow.”

  Holmes knelt and gently brushed away leaves and debris, revealing the corner of green tin box or trunk below the logs.

  “The line passes through a tiny hole in the lid.” Holmes looked up at me. “A booby trap.”

  My eyes widened, and I felt beads of sweat on my brow.

  “I’ll get-” Anderson began.

  “Do not move.” Holmes peered closely at my log, then very tenderly he slid his index finger into the loop of fishing line and drew it slowly off the piece of bark on which it had caught. It moved smoothly for an inch or so, then snagged again, and I sucked in a sharp breath.

  “Nearly there.” Holmes smiled up at me. He drew the line off the log, but it was now looped around his finger. “You are loose. Put the log down,” he murmured.

  I lay the log on the grass, my hands quivering.

  “Anderson, go to the hallway and look among Towers’ burglary tools for a lantern,” Holmes ordered. “Check it is filled. There will be a tin of oil in the scullery. Move carefully, but make haste. Do not get involved in explanations.”

  “What is the situation, Holmes?” I asked. “What should I do?”

  “I believe this line is attached to a phial of nitro-glycerine. The intention was that a person picking up your log would jerk on the line, bump or shatter the phial, and detonate the explosives.”

  “My God-”

  “I do not want to let go of this line until we see to what it’s attached. Ah, here is Anderson. Did you light the lantern? Good man.”

  Holmes instructed me to clear the remaining logs away and gently lift the trunk lid and inch or so, letting the line run through the hole. Anderson directed the lamplight into the box, and I bent down and peered inside.

  “The fishing line is connected to an empty phial,” I told Holmes.

  “You are sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Holmes slipped off the loop of line and stood. “Interesting. A booby trap, but not set to explode. My theory is proven.”

  He leant down and slowly opened the trunk. “An empty phial and a broken stick of dynamite, weeping nitro.”

  Holmes turned to Anderson. “You’d best get your inspector to call in the Explosives Inspectorate Department. Colonel Majendie has vast experience with explosives in all forms.”

  The constable stalked away, picked up his boots, and jogged to the house.

  Holmes and I walked back through the lines of hives. Was it my imagination, or were the hives buzzing at a shriller tone?

  “Well done, Constable Anderson,” Holmes said as we returned to the kitchen. The young constable, now booted in regulation manner, saluted.

  “We are safe enough here for you to dance a victory dance.” Holmes smiled. “It might disturb the bees, however, so let us slink away and leave the hives in peace.”

  Inspector Jones waited in the hallway. He took a gold necklace from his pocket and displayed it. “This was found hidden in the baby’s cot upstairs.” He waved a sheaf of papers. “It exactly fits the description by Mr. Spinelli of items stocked by Barratt’s. And I believe you have found explosives, Mr. Holmes, further confirming my case against Towers.”

  “Then you will not mind giving me a chitty allowing me to interview your suspect in Bishopsgate Police Station.”

  Holmes and I sat on folding chairs in a narrow, whitewashed cell. Long Tom Towers sat on his bed opposite us, a grizzled man in his mid- to late sixties who had stood tall and erect as we entered.

  “Well, Towers, I am sorry to see you in this situation,” Holmes said. He turned to me. “Towers is a first-class Yeggman. I would aver that for twenty or more years, there was no one in the business at his level.”

  Towers smiled. “Kind of you to say so, Mr. Holmes. Those were good years for my profession, sir, before we lost our way with these new-fangled explosives.”

  “We found your cache, Towers.”

  Towers looked down at his feet. “I dabbled a year or two ago, but found explosives not to my taste, sir. The cache is not mine. I requested the owner to remove it.”

  “Nevertheless, I want you to blow a safe open for me, Mr. Towers. A hypothetical, theoretical safe, similar to Barratt’s Milner safe, but entirely in our imaginations. I can assure you that whatever you say will not prejudice your defence against any charge you may face. In fact, it will be in your interest.”

  “I trust you, Mr. Holmes,” Towers said, “but you have picked a bad lay. Barratt’s is a family business with the owners living above the shop. We can’t hammer and lever our way in, as the noise would deafen the owners. We’d need a long winter night to drill the safe, again with some noise. I’d suggest we tickle the lock.”

  “Pray use the water method.”

  Towers chuckled. “On a Milner?” He shrugged. “I know the theory, Mr. Holmes, but I have never put it into practice - I prefer my levers and picks.”

  “We are speaking theoretically.”

  Towers nodded. “I would begin by drilling a quarter-inch hole in the top of the safe. That’s two-inch case-hardened wrought iron, so a long job, Mr. Holmes, requiring a ton of elbow grease, a ready supply of the very sharpest bits, the patience of Job, and in this case a monk’s silence.”

  “The safe was facing a shuttered window with a peep hole for the beat constable to check on it every half-hour,” I said.

  Towers shrugged again. “You’d need regular breaks and a tot anyway. Just fill the hole with black putty, hide as the copper passes, and press on.”

  Towers sprinkled tobacco on a paper and began rolling a cigarette. “Once you have your hole through to the innards, you put a funnel in and fill the safe with water.”

  I glanced at Holmes. We had a reason for the water.

  Towers chuckled. “But now things get tricky. Nitro is fickle stuff, gentlemen, and needs featherbed handling. You tie fishing line around the lip of a glass tube - you can get various sizes of tube from a laboratory supplier or have some blown to order to fit your brace-and-bit.”

  He held up his cigarette to the guard outside, and on his nod, I struck a Swan Vesta against the wall and lit it.

  “You pour the nitro-glycerine into the tube, keeping an even flow with no jarring,” Towers continued, puffing on his cigarette. “It has the consistency of syrup, gentlemen. What you want is the gentlest of touches and not too much explosive or you’ll disintegrate the safe and everything in it
. Stopper the tube with a cork and gently lower it through the hole and into the safe - leave it hanging in the water at about in the centre line.”

  He blew a stream of acrid smoke across the room.

  “Now, detonators. Simplest is tie off the fishing line, put a candle under, light it, and scarper. The line will snap in a few seconds, the tube falls to the bottom of the safe and, even if it doesn’t shatter, the jar will be enough to set off a blast in nine out of ten cases. In the tenth case you are scuppered - you sit with your hands over your ears waiting for a bang that doesn’t come. Disappointing. Then you must very, very gently pull on the line and try again. Delicate, dangerous work that a man who wished to live to a ripe age would not contemplate.”

  Towers blew out another stream of foul smoke, filling the cell. I coughed, reached for my cigar case, and offered him a Panatela.

  “Thank you, Doctor.” He stubbed his cigarette against the sole of his shoe and took the cigar, rolling it under his nose. “What I would do, faced with a modern Chubb safe, is slip the nitro tube in the safe on the fishing line, as I’ve said, but make up a thin tube of dynamite, about the size of a cigarette, I’d grease it to make it waterproof and insert it halfway through the hole in the safe top. Dynamite is nitro stabilised with washing soda and absorbed into kieselguhr, a powdered earth. It’s safe to work with, though you wouldn’t want to drop it, but it goes stale pretty quickly, especially if it freezes. The sticks weep nitro as they thaw, which is no picnic neither.” He sighed. “I prefer the old ways. You might not get into the safe every time, but you keep your limbs attached to your body.”

  I lit Tower’s cigar.

  “Attach what length of fuze you want,” he continued, puffing. “In this case I’d give the beat copper fifteen minutes to get as far away as possible, light a five-second fuze, and take cover. The dynamite sets off the nitro and the water acts as tamper, multiplying the effect and reducing the sound of the explosion.”

  “This method works with any safe?” Holmes asked.

  Towers blew out a stream of aromatic smoke. “If you can make a hole in it, you can blow it. The pressures are enormous. No iron safe can withstand them. Maybe this new steel material will, but that’s a problem for younger men.”