by Steve Hayes
At last he found the key he required and unlocked the doors in his own sweet time.
As the first of the day’s visitors began to file inside and fill the building with their shuffling echoes, the old doorman began to hobble back to the staff room below stairs, where he would enjoy a nice cup of tea and a close study of The Sporting Life – another of his long-established habits. But even as he started toward the narrow side door that led down to the museum’s voluminous basement area, he heard what he took to be the sound of a horse approaching at speed.
He turned, noting that the museum’s visitors had heard the sound too and were now looking back toward the busy street beyond, thinking that perhaps a cabbie was having trouble with his recalcitrant horse.
Instead, they saw a masked man astride a pure white stallion galloping up the wide cement steps toward them.
As people scattered to left and right the horseman surged through the open doors. Keeping the horse at a gallop, he rode across the lobby and beneath a series of terracotta arches toward the central exhibition hall.
At the far end of the hall was a glass case surrounded by an iron cage and a rope barrier. Inside the case, resting on artistically folded red velvet, sat the Star of Persia.
Alerted by the commotion at the front doors and then by the clatter of hoofs on the black-and-white tiled floor, the two elderly guards standing watch over the exhibit hurried forward and defensively raised their hands as if to ward off the rider.
Jesse James knew it would have been easy to run the old boys down, but he admired their courage and drew rein instead.
‘Get outta the way, you idiots!’ he shouted behind his mask.
The guards dearly wanted to do just that. But they were old soldiers and they still had their pride, so they stood their ground and brandished the short, stout clubs with which they’d been issued.
Jesse cursed and drew one of his Colts.
He fired a couple of shots at the floor between their feet. They leapt in to the air and ran for cover, one of them producing a whistle from his pocket and blowing it shrilly.
Ignoring them, Jesse dismounted, grabbed the rope coiled over his saddle horn and quickly knotted it around two of the bars protecting the Star of Persia. He vaulted back into the saddle, wrapped the rope about the pommel and then backed the horse up.
At first nothing happened, except that the stallion, Duke, slipped and left a line of scratches along the polished floor. Jesse urged the creature to greater effort, knowing he didn’t have much time. Word of the robbery must have already gone out and the police would soon be converging on the museum from all points of the compass.
As if to prove it, more whistles sounded in every dusty corner of the museum, mingled with the sound of guards racing into the ground-floor exhibition hall. Men were shouting for him to stop, or stay where he was, or lay down his weapon, while others yelled that the police were coming and he’d never get away with it.
Clenching his teeth, Jesse spurred the horse to greater efforts and this time the two bars started bending outward. ‘Come on,’ he urged the stallion. ‘Come on, dammit, you can do it!’
At last the front section of the cage buckled as it was wrenched out of the floor. Jesse jumped from the saddle, kicked aside the buckled ironwork and smashed the glass display case with the barrel of his Colt.
‘Stop him!’
‘He’s stealing the Star of Persia!’
‘Get him!’
‘Don’t let him get away!’
Jesse heard the commotion – the yells, whistles, the clatter of running men in heavy boots coming ever closer – and ignored all of it. He knew the robbery had taken longer than he’d expected and even as he grabbed the huge diamond, remounted and whirled the stallion around, he saw that the police had already arrived.
Truncheons drawn, they quickly formed a line blocking his path.
Worse, Jesse now spotted another complication he hadn’t foreseen – the old goat of a doorman had had the presence of mind to shut the front doors, effectively blocking the outlaw’s escape.
Impulsively he reined up, causing the stallion to slide on the marble floor. It almost went down, but somehow kept its balance. Jesse yelled: ‘Yaaah!’ and instead of heading for the policemen spurred the horse up the wide, winding staircase to the mezzanine.
Caught off guard by the unexpected move, the policemen immediately broke ranks and charged after him.
The stallion leapt the final few steps, its hoofs clattering on the parquet floor of the circular mezzanine. Jesse loped the horse around the area, glancing into each open door he came to. None offered any escape.
Left with little choice, Jesse guided the stallion through one door and along the length of an enormous room filled with stuffed animals of almost every description, including a separate section devoted to freaks of nature, from albino tigers to cats with two tails.
He headed for the row of stained-glass windows at the far end, reined up and looked through the glass at the street far below. He was rewarded with a vertigo-inducing bird’s-eye view of cabs, carts and pedestrians passing in both directions. Realizing that if he jumped he’d be committing suicide, Jesse whirled the horse around.
Policemen now came bursting into the room.
Cursing his luck, Jesse charged them. One of the policemen threw himself at the horse, grabbed the back of Jesse’s jacket and almost tore him from the saddle. He used the truncheon in his free hand to strike Jesse in the back. Hurt, Jesse twisted and aimed his revolver at the man, saw that he was young and scared, and knew he couldn’t pull the trigger.
Instead he spun the horse around, the sudden unexpected manoeuvre breaking the policeman’s hold. He went flying, crashing into a display case that toppled over and hit a stuffed bear exhibit. The huge grizzly teetered for a prolonged moment, then fell forward, pinning the howling constable underneath it.
By now still more policemen were blocking the doorway. Jesse drew his Colt and fired over their heads. Two bullets punched holes into the plaster above the lintel and the policemen scattered. Desperate, Jesse spurred the stallion forward and the big white horse galloped back out into the mezzanine.
The constables and museum staff raced after them.
Jesse spurred the stallion onward and entered a room on the other side of the mezzanine. It was filled with fossils of all shapes and sizes, presented in a bewildering maze of display cases. For an instant the stallion broke stride, not sure where to go, and reared up, neighing shrilly. At once Jesse brought his fist down between the horse’s flattened ears. It dropped back on to all fours, and then took off between the rows of display cases filled with rocks and fossils. Jesse guided the horse down the nearest aisle. At the end of it was a wall in which stood a row of large windows.
‘We’ve got him now!’ yelled one of the constables.
‘He won’t get away this time!’ shouted another.
Jesse twisted in the saddle, and fired a bullet over their heads. Police and staff immediately took cover, giving Jesse time to look quickly through the window at the Thames below.
Far, far below.
Tugs and barges plied her grimy waters, but those same waters promised a marginally softer landing than the cobbles of Victoria Tower Walk on the other side of the museum.
As if sensing its rider’s intention, the stallion snorted, stamped and shook its head, mane flying. Forcing the animal to back up, Jesse growled: ‘I’m warnin’ you, you son of a lop-eared mule. Either you jump or I’ll make you eat the evidence! Your call.’
Duke hesitated, as if considering the alternative.
Then man and beast seemed to reach a mutual decision, and Jesse yelled: ‘Aw, hell, hoss, let’s do it!’
He whirled the stallion away from the window and rode back to the opposite wall. Then, with teeth clenched, he turned the horse again and spurred its flanks. Duke surged forward, hoofs clattering on the floor.
The multicoloured window rushed towards them.
Jesse gave a
wild shout and clung to the reins.
The window loomed up directly in front of them. Fearing that the stallion might balk at the last instant, Jesse dug his spurs into its flanks.
The stallion surged forward and without any hesitation leapt through the glass.
The window exploded outwards with a thunderous crash. It was followed by a weird, disorienting moment of absolute silence as man and horse sailed through the air, shards of glass spinning and tumbling around them.
Then—
Jesse felt the wind pulling him backwards out of the saddle. He let the reins go, felt them lashing his arms and shoulders like whips – and doggedly clung to the saddle horn with both hands.
Beneath him the horse’s legs kept pumping, as if he were trying to run on air.
Jesse looked down and saw their momentum had carried them beyond the narrow footpath below, out over the water….
As they plunged downward, the horse gave a scream that was so womanlike Jesse wondered if his ears had betrayed him. Still clinging to the saddle horn, he followed the stallion down, his own legs pumping wildly as the Thames rushed nearer, nearer, nearer….
Man and horse hit the water with an ear-shattering explosion. Cold water burst up around them in a great spray. An instant later they sank beneath the surface.
The impact pounded the wind out of Jesse, jamming his sodden bandanna into his mouth. He gagged, unable to breathe, and panicked.
The stallion recovered first. Submitting to instinct, it began to fight its way back to the sun-dappled surface, leaving Jesse to hang on and hope they would make it before his lungs burst.
It took much, much longer than he expected and there was a moment when he thought he wasn’t going to survive.
But finally they both broke the surface, Jesse, hatless now, his bandanna swept away, gasping and laughing, choking and spitting foul water all at the same time.
He heard yelling. Looking up, he saw faces filling the shattered window and knew he couldn’t rest yet – he and the stallion still had to get out of there.
He groped around in the water until he found the trailing reins, then started swimming toward a set of moss-covered stone steps leading up to the footpath.
The stallion obeyed the tug of the reins and started swimming alongside him.
They reached the steps together. Jesse scrambled out of the water first, dripping and shivering, followed by the stallion. The big white horse shook itself like a dog, spraying droplets everywhere. Exhausted, Jesse was wearily preparing to mount up when he heard yelling behind him.
‘There! There he is! Get him!’
He turned just in time to see three policemen from the Bow Street Horse Patrol galloping around the corner of the museum astride big, heavy hunters. As soon as they saw him they blew their whistles and yelled for him to stop, that he was under arrest.
Jesse thought: To hell with that!
Quickly mounting, he gave the stallion another dose of the spurs. The horse leapt forward and thundered in the opposite direction. Jesse took the first left – a narrow, cobbled alley leading back toward Victoria Tower Walk. At the far end he burst out on to the thoroughfare with barely any warning, scattering pedestrians and scarcely missing all the horse-drawn traffic. He crossed the street with angry yells ringing in his ears and sent the stallion down another, less busy alleyway. Ahead, behind a row of black iron railings, he saw a park – a sign identified it as Victoria Tower Gardens, a great sward of grass and trees that provided a buffer between the Royal Museum and its near neighbour, the Palace of Westminster. He galloped through the gates and headed for the wooded area.
By the time the police reached the park, there was no sign of the man who’d stolen the Star of Persia.
CHAPTER 18
Prelude to a Showdown
As soon as Holmes arrived back at Baker Street Watson leapt up from his chair.
‘Have you heard the news?’ he demanded. ‘I can’t believe that James would do something so … so … irresponsible! The man is here for revenge, not to embark upon a new career as a jewel thief!’
‘Quite so,’ said Holmes, removing his cap and wig.
‘So what do we do about it? Confront him? It’ll be dangerous, Holmes. The man is a known killer.’
‘A confrontation with Mr James will have to wait,’ said Holmes. ‘We have other matters to attend to first.’
He vanished into his room, where he remained just long enough to remove all trace of ‘Levi Wright’ from his person. When he reappeared he was dressed in a black Prince Albert, and together he and Watson travelled by hansom to the Royal Museum.
Following the robbery the museum had been closed for the day. But they were allowed in when Holmes introduced himself to the flustered curator, Professor Stanley Longford.
There were signs of chaos everywhere. In particular Holmes was drawn to the marks the robber’s horse had left in the wooden floor of the mezzanine. He knelt and studied them for several minutes before moving on.
Since the robbery had been committed within the confines of the Metropolitan Police Force’s Whitehall Division, it had fallen to Inspector Maxwell Byron to investigate the crime. Holmes and Watson found him peering out through the shattered window at the grey Thames below, while his men continued to scour both floors for clues.
‘Confound the man!’ said Byron, after he’d shaken hands with them. ‘Whoever he is.’
‘You don’t believe it is Jesse James, then?’
‘No, sir, I do not. And for three very good reasons. One, there’s nothing to indicate that Jesse James is even in the country. Two, he’s a bank or train robber. He deals in hard cash. This kind of crime isn’t him at all.’ He shook his head. ‘No, sir. And thirdly – Fleet Street has simply linked James’s name to the crime because it will sell more papers. But may I ask your interest in the matter, Mr Holmes?’
‘I am intrigued by the audacity of crime,’ Holmes replied vaguely.
Unconvinced, Byron studied him shrewdly. He was a tall, remarkably good-looking man, and as tenacious as a starving rat. ‘I know you are a man of integrity, Mr Holmes, so I have to take you at your word. But I am aware that you have been helping Rosier of T Division with the recent spate of jewellery thefts. And of course you were quick to visit Inspector Varney of the City of London Police following the Crosbie and Shears robbery.’
Holmes smiled. He had always liked Byron, who was quick and imaginative.
‘But there,’ Byron continued, ‘I fear the similarity ends.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Watson asked.
‘Because the robbery of a country house and the robbery of a city bank pale by comparison with this. As I’m sure you can imagine, this is very likely to cause a serious diplomatic incident if that stone isn’t returned.’
Watson looked at the jagged remains of the window and shook his head. ‘Hard to believe someone could actually jump a horse out of a window into the river and live to talk about it.’
‘But from that feat we can deduce that the thief was a man of great nerve and has no small talent as a rider,’ said Holmes. ‘He is also used to thinking on his feet. He almost certainly visited the museum sometime within the past day or two to get the lie of the land and formulate his plan, but when it went wrong and the doors were closed, preventing him from making his getaway, he quickly found another means of escape. If you haven’t already done so, Inspector, I suggest you ask your men to question the museum staff to see if they remember anyone paying particular attention to the Star of Persia.’
‘I have already done that, sir.’
Holmes himself glanced through the shattered window. ‘You say the police lost him in the woods on the other side of the park?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Mr Holmes. But by all accounts it wasn’t much of a chase. To hear them tell it, they felt they might just as well have been chasing winged Pegasus, the way that horse flew away from them.’
‘That does not surprise me,’ Holmes remarked. ‘No ordinary horse cou
ld have made that leap into the river. Well,’ he added briskly, ‘we cannot tarry overlong, Inspector. We too have work to do.’
‘Of course, sir. But, ah, before you go …’
‘Yes?’
‘Is there anything else you can tell me that might be of use? We really do need to find this jewel quickly, you know.’
Holmes considered briefly, then said: ‘You are looking for a recently shoed horse of between sixteen and seventeen hands, whose skills would normally be employed in show jumping or perhaps dressage.’
‘How can you possibly know that?’ asked Byron, frowning.
‘The marks your thief’s horse left on the floor outside show a stride of approximately twelve feet, or one stride for every four taken by an average man. Size that up accordingly and you get an impressive horse indeed. As near as I can tell, the scuffs show little or no wear – hence, the animal was shoed recently, perhaps in preparation for this very crime. In addition, the shoes were fitted with caulkins.’
‘Caulkins?’
‘They’re cleats, more or less,’ said Watson. ‘“Frost studs” if you like. They’re brazed or screwed to the shoe to improve the creature’s balance and give it greater traction. Your own police mounts wear them, I believe.’
Holmes smiled. ‘Well done, Watson. Oh, and by the way, Inspector. You have one of the animal’s mane-hairs stuck to your sleeve.’
Byron looked down, saw the offending hair and quickly peeled it off. ‘A mane-hair, eh?’ he asked, raising one eyebrow.
Holmes nodded. ‘Certainly. A hair from its tail would have been noticeably longer and considerably less flexible. Good day, Byron.’
In his room at Montague Hall Jesse climbed out of the tub and towelled himself dry. The hot bath had chased away the last of his chills and he felt as close to contentment as he had since this whole thing had started.
