“And fell dead here?” asked Holmes.
“Fell dead here, shot in the back by his assailant.”
“By a robber?”
“By a robber,” nodded the sergeant.
“His money and valuables were taken?” asked Holmes, peering across the street at the murky shadows of the trees and bushes of Gramercy Park.
“No. The robber apparently had no time. The victim’s shout for help apparently scared him off.”
“Time to shoot him but not enough time to rob him, eh? Curious. Thank you, Sergeant.”
“A very common occurrence, Mr Holmes, Perhaps in London a street assault ending in murder is a rare thing,” said Hargreave.
“Far from rare, Hargreave, but this is not a common street murder.”
This assertion, uttered emphatically by Holmes, was followed by a moment of stunned silence. Hargreave, myself, and the policemen involved in the investigation ceased all activity. Every head turned to the tall, lean, angular Englishman, who paid no heed to any of us but quickly dropped to one knee to again whisk aside the rain-dampened coat which had been draped over the victim.
“Bring a lamp here, Officer,” Holmes demanded, wagging a long finger at a young patrolman standing nearby. “Shine the light on the wound so Hargreave may examine it closely.”
My friend Hargreave gave me a questioning look, then shrugged, and knelt on the wet pavement beside Holmes, the two detectives peering intently at the bloody hole in the back of the dead man’s coat.
“Well?” demanded Holmes.
“Well what?” responded Hargreave.
“What do you make of it, man?”
“A bullet wound, of course.”
“Look closely, Hargreave. For God’s sake, it’s plain to see if only you will look beyond the obvious.”
“See what?” responded Hargreave, his voice betraying his frustration and hinting at a rising anger.
“Permit me to ask you a question, Hargreave. If I were to place the muzzle of a gun at your chest and fire a bullet into you, what would be the immediate effect of the shot?”
“To kill me, I suppose.”
“That is not the immediate effect.”
Hargreave frowned and studied the corpse again. “A bullet hole,” he stated, softly.
“Exactly! A hole, Hargreave! And what about the bullet hole?”
“There would be traces of gunpowder.”
“Precisely! I call your attention to the powder traces on this man.”
Hargreave guided the hand of the patrolman holding the lantern so as to play the most possible light upon the wound in the back of the hapless Nigel Tebbel. “There are no powder traces,” he pointed out to Holmes, still leaning over the man, the detectives’ faces so close as to be touching.
“There you have it,” crowed Holmes, rearing back in triumph. “There... are... no... powder... marks. And what does that say to you?”
Hargreave came to his feet and stared down at the body. Slowly shaking his head, he replied, “The man was not shot at close range.”
“Not shot in the kind of close encounter we have heard described by persons who presume to have seen what happened here tonight.”
“You mean, they are wrong?”
“They are probably wrong if their assertions are that this man was shot pointblank in a struggle with a common street robber. This unfortunate soul was shot from some distance. I would venture the opinion that he died of a bullet fired from over there. By that lamppost.”
“That is half a block away, Holmes.”
“Yes, and if you will examine closely a smudge on the column of that lamppost, I believe you will see exactly the kind of powder mark that would have been on this man’s clothing had he died as has been described by these witnesses.”
“But, how do you know...?”
“Because it was evident to me immediately that this fellow was shot at a distance and that he was running at the time he was shot.”
“Really, Holmes,” cried Hargreave.
“Elementary. If you assume that this man’s body was subject to all the laws of physics, then the position of his body on this sidewalk indicates that he was moving away from the assailant who shot him. Look at the scuffed condition of the toes of his shoes, observe the tear in the left knee of his trousers, the lacerations on his face, indicating that he did not merely drop to the ground after being shot. He was propelled forward and onto his face. The fall tore his trousers and scuffed his shoes. The force of the shot in the back flung him to the pavement.”
“Amazing.”
“Not at all. When you eliminate the impossible, whatever you have left, no matter how improbable, is the truth. We know it is impossible for this man to have died in the way these witnesses testified. Therefore, he died in the only other manner possible. Namely, the one which I described. He was running. Running away from an assailant who wanted this man dead so much that he stopped, leaned against that lamppost, steadied his gun hand, aimed, and fired with deadly accuracy at a target moving rapidly away from him.”
“Premeditated murder, then? Not a chance murder in the course of robbery,” whispered Hargreave.
“Murder by plan. With intent,” said Holmes, poking a fingertip into Hargreave’s chest for punctuation.
“But why?” I interjected, stepping forward boldly.
Holmes turned his flinty eyes toward me. “Why? That, dear Roosevelt, is the question.”
“But if what you say is correct, and I believe it is, how do you explain the testimony of the witnesses who said they heard a man shout for help, saw a struggle, heard a shot, and watched the murderer run away?” I asked.
“That is merely what these decent people thought they saw.”
“You can explain their error?” I remarked tartly.
“It is quite simple. They heard a shout. Possibly this man calling for help. Possibly his assailant calling him to halt. That’s not important. Someone shouted. The shout was followed by a shot, almost immediately. No, in fact, immediately. Frightened and startled, persons in these gracious homes cautiously drew back their curtains and peered out through wet windows, through a mist that would do London justice. They saw the shadows of trees cast by flickering gaslights. How many times, as a child on a stormy night, dear Roosevelt, did you mistake a shadow on your nursery wall for an animal or some hideous ogre straight out of a fairy tale?”
“They saw shadows?” I asked.
“And thought they saw what they subsequently described, which, we have shown, they could not have seen, because this fellow Tebbel was shot in the back while running from a gun in the hand of an unknown killer who stood beneath that lamppost and took careful aim to be sure he succeeded in his job,” said Holmes. “Do you concur, Hargreave?”
“It appears that it happened as you described, Holmes.”
“Then we need only discern why,” I stated.
“How easy you make it seem, Roosevelt,” chuckled Holmes, striding away and peering at the front of the house before which the crime had been committed. “This is an imposing house. Gramercy Park South, number 15. Whose house is this?”
“The Sage of Gramercy Park,” I replied.
“The Sage of...?” responded Holmes.
“Samuel J. Tilden lives here,” Hargreave interjected.
“The Samuel J. Tilden?” asked Holmes.
“The,” nodded Hargreave.
“Very curious;” Holmes nodded, “that this seemingly common murder which turns out to be uncommon has happened on the very doorstep of a man who was the unsuccessful candidate for President of the United States in the most unusual election in the history of your noble democracy.”
“You amaze me with your knowledge of our country,” said Hargreave.
“I cannot claim credit,” Holmes replied. “I do not usually interest myself in politics, not even the politics of England and the Empire, except as politics crosses paths with crime – which is a far more common occurrence than you might imagine.”
“It was my brother Mycroft who kept me informed of the extraordinary election involving Tilden and Hayes. Mycroft is the politically-oriented Holmes brother. The only political opinion I have ever expressed concerning the United States of America is that her separation from England in 1776 was a great mistake and that the future of the world demands an eventual reconciliation of these two great English-speaking peoples. As to the process which was involved in the election of President Hayes and the defeat of Mr Tilden, I know only the scantiest details.”
“The election was disputed and the Congress took the unusual step of establishing an elections commission to decide the outcome. The body decided in favour of all Republicans. Tilden, to his eternal credit, advised his followers to accept the verdict quietly.”
“A noble gesture,” nodded Holmes.
“Surely, Holmes, you are not suggesting a connection between this murder and the fact that this is Mr. Tilden’s house?” asked Hargreave.
“Perhaps it is merely a coincidence,” said Holmes.
“I’m sure it is,” said I with a confident smile.
“Still,” muttered Holmes, striding away from us in the direction from which the slain man had evidently been running, “if you were to venture an opinion as to where Tebbel was running when he was shot down, it would not be unreasonable to assume that he was heading for that door with the number 15 upon it.”
___
Author's notes on this chapter
Five
In the examination of the corpse, what else was found on his person in addition to the identifying papers?” inquired Holmes.
Signalling a roundsman to bring him a small sack containing the worldly possessions found on the late Mr Tebbel, Hargreave poked through the items. “Not much here. A key, a scrap of paper with the letters C and G jotted upon, it, the man’s billfold which lists his name but no address, a couple of cigars – cheap ones from their aroma, and a small tin that contains a white powder which we have not yet identified.”
“May I see the items?” asked Holmes.
With a nod, Hargreave handed over the miserable assortment of belongings. Holmes examined all of them in the flickering light from the lamps on the imposing facade of the Tilden house. “A hotel key,” he remarked. “It has the number 405 scratched into it. Crudely done. A room number.”
“Or an address,” suggested Hargreave.
“Perhaps, but people usually remember their addresses. I believe it is a hotel room key. The tin of powder is cocaine.”
“Cocaine?” muttered Hargreave. “As good a guess as any.”
“It is cocaine. Your laboratory will confirm it,” said Holmes impatiently, returning the tin of powder to Hargreave. “You see, I never guess. It is destructive to the faculty of logic,” Holmes went on tartly. “May I see the man’s billfold? Ah, here it is. I say, Hargreave, you didn’t tell me that this fellow had a great deal of cash in his possession.”
“Less than a hundred dollars,” shrugged Hargreave, taking the billfold from Holmes and counting the currency inside.
“How very peculiar,” observed Holmes.
“It was that amount of money which led us to assume the motive was robbery. Someone saw this Tebbel in a saloon, we surmised, saw him flash his billfold and the cash within...”
“A fair assumption on the surface, but it doesn’t hold up in view of our knowledge that robbery was not the motive.”
“Just a moment, sir,” retorted Hargreave, growing agitated again. “I agree that Tebbel was shot from a distance, but that does not rule out robbery as the motive.”
“But no money was taken. Odd behaviour for a man who has just killed in order to obtain that money,” replied Holmes.
“The coming out of witnesses frightened him away,” I suggested.
“A man with a gun who has committed murder for money is not going to be intimidated by unarmed and frightened citizens while he still holds the gun in his hand, a smoking gun at that,” Holmes said, striding back to the corpse once more. “I am fascinated by the presence of so much money on this fellow’s person when, if you will look at his shoes, notice the rundown heels, the small hole where the sole of his left shoe has been worn through.”
The man’s shoes were as Holmes described – quite worn down.
“A poor suit of clothes, as well,” I noted.
“Excellent, Roosevelt. A shabby suit, indeed! Hardly the attire of a man who goes about with one hundred dollars in his purse. We now have three perplexing questions before us: Who shot this man, why, and what circumstances led to this unlikely fellow having so much money in his pocket-book?”
“And has your deductive power answered those questions?” asked Hargreave irritably.
Holmes shrugged, “If so, you, Hargreave, would be on your way to an arrest in this case. I do not, unfortunately, have the answers to our three questions, but this is an interesting problem, and we do have something to go on. A key, a scrap of paper with two letters jotted on it, and the incontrovertible fact that Nigel Tebbel was shot to death from a motive far more sinister and intricate than mere murder for profit. Would you object, Hargreave, if I were to work on this very interesting problem?”
“It will be interesting for me to observe your methods,” said Hargreave.
“They may prove somewhat unusual,” replied Holmes.
“You will, of course, keep me informed?”
“From moment to moment.”
“May I ask how you plan to begin your investigation?”
“By learning precisely where the late Nigel Tebbel bought his cigars. May I take one?”
Hargreave presented one of the cheap cigars to Holmes with a flourish. “Not an especially appealing variety, Holmes.”
“But not ordinary, either,” replied Holmes, sniffing the long tan cigar as if he were preparing to smoke it. “A touch of Cuban, mostly Virginian, decidedly domestic, about a penny a piece, I would presume. One other favour, Hargreave? Another look at that hotel key?”
“Of course,” smiled Hargreave, handing it over. “Is it as extraordinary as the cigar?”
“It has its interesting aspects, though I could tell you more if I had my magnifying glass with me, but it is in my rooms.”
“Which are nearby,” I suggested.
Holmes managed a small smile. “Two blocks walking,” he remarked. “I could be there and back in a few minutes, including the time I would require to closely examine the key.”
“I expect to be detained here for a time. I must have a chat with the witnesses, supervise the search of this area for a possible weapon,” said Hargreave, eyeing the murder scene.
“You won’t find it, of course,” asserted Holmes.
“But we must have a look nonetheless,” shrugged Hargreave. “Take the key, examine it.”
“Excellent,” replied Holmes. “And you, Teddy? Care to come along to my digs?”
“Well, yes, I would like that,” I said emphatically.
Once inside his rooms, Holmes strode directly to a large corner work table that appeared to me to be burdened to the point of collapse with scientific paraphernalia – beakers, flasks, a microscope, piles of notebooks and an amazing array of bottles of various chemicals. From the midst of this clutter, he withdrew a large magnifying glass which he proceeded to use for a close look at the key he had carried snugly in his waistcoat pocket. Utterly ignored by the lean, intense young man bent over his table, I took the opportunity to have a look around his rooms.
That a man with such an orderly mind could permit his house to be so unkempt–a clutter of old newspapers, magazines, heaps of books – left me aghast, so much so that I, being a neat person, began tidying up, closing a book here and there, straightening piles of periodicals. Without looking away from his glass, Holmes announced brusquely, “Please touch nothing, Teddy!”
Startled, I drew back.
“Sorry.”
“Every item is where I want it to be. It may look a mess, but it has its own special order about it.”
Chastened, I sank into the only chair not heaped with papers. “Can an ordinary key be that interesting?” I asked presently, peering across the clutter.
“It tells a story of its own. Come! See for yourself. You can readily tell that it is an old-style key, almost an antique. Dating from the antebellum period of your country’s history, no doubt. The key is made of an alloy the chemistry of which has been refined by metal makers since this key was cast. The number has been gouged into it by the tip of a knife. A pocketknife, probably. The room to which it provides access has hardly been unoccupied for decades. Hundreds of uses have given the metal a very smooth patina. The lock which it opens has been quite defective for a long time. Any self-respecting burglar could get into that room in a trice. But you see all that, of course?”
“You amaze me, Holmes. How can you know so much from a key?”
“Ah, but I know far more than I’ve told you. Principally, I now know that we must look for a hotel very near the waterfront, a structure of no more than four floors, a bit dilapidated, probably a home for sailors or, perhaps, a lodging house for those unfortunate derelicts who have fallen on hard times through an addiction to drink or drugs. In short, Roosevelt, an establishment that is only a cut above what you New Yorkers quaintly call a flophouse.”
“Astounding!”
“It’s all here in the key,” he smiled, dropping the object into my palm. “Notice the discoloration from corrosion that could come only from years of exposure to the damp air that one finds at the waterfront. Add to that my dating of the key as pre-Civil War, and you must deduce that the building that belongs to this key predates the taller ones that are becoming the fashion and the wave of the future for Manhattan, which is an island and which will, surely, have to build upward once it expands to occupy all available land for erecting structures.”
“But how can you say that this hotel is a cut above being a flophouse?”
The Stalwart Companions Page 5
