Sherlock Holmes in New York

by D. R. Bensen

  Irene Adler nodded, and followed him through the arch, walking beside him down the stairs. Halfway in the descent, he paused and looked thoughtfully at her.

  “You’ve not changed, really,” said he, “since that week in Montenegro … when was it, ‘ninety-one?”

  “Not changed in ten years? Sherlock, how gallant of you. But come, now—ten years?”

  “I notice nothing.”

  There was an undertone of laughter in her voice. “What? Sherlock Holmes notices nothing?”

  “Why, am I so different, then?”

  “No. Far from it. That was my first thought when you burst in here: My heavens, it’s as though it were yesterday!”

  “Well, then?” He studied the woman for a moment, seemed about to continue down the stairs, and then glanced back toward the drawing-room and the now unseen Scott. “I hadn’t known … after that first misadventure from which I managed to extricate you … that you’d married again.”

  She held his gaze steadily.

  “I have never remarried, Sherlock.”

  “I see … You were appearing in—Rigoletto, wasn’t it?”

  Irene Adler nodded. “And you were on a walking tour.”

  “Yes, I remember thinking to myself, what an unlikely place to come across you: Montenegro. You were always so attracted to … the bright lights of the Metropolis.”

  “I remember thinking the same of you. What an unlikely place to come upon someone who was never at home outside of London.”

  Sherlock Holmes said, very softly, “Never … until then, perhaps.”

  Their gazes locked silently for another moment. Then Holmes reached inside his robes, fetched out his watch, and checked the time.

  “Almost eight,” said he. “If things have gone well, and they cannot fail to have done, I’ll get word to you. Perhaps the two of us could—the three of us could—take supper together.” He looked at her with the hint of a grin. “And I don’t mean Watson.”

  Irene Adler held out her hand as she spoke. “I’ll wait for your message.”

  Holmes took her fingers very gently, his face grave, as if studying and memorizing the faint, enigmatic smile she now gave him.

  ———«»——————«»——————«»———

  It was all very well for Holmes to make a point of returning his prophet’s regalia to the costumers—and I suppose it wouldn’t have done for him to have gone about the streets all night in it—but the result of that errand was a truly infuriating delay while the Inspector and I waited for him outside the Hotel Algonquin, a wait made even less pleasant by the doorman’s evident mortification at the sight of Lafferty’s police buggy parked at the curb.

  When Holmes did finally appear, past nine, and looking a great deal jauntier than I recalled seeing him for some time, I am afraid that I was less than friendly in my greeting. “Holmes! Where have you been? We’ve been waiting God knows how long!”

  “What is it?” he replied, clearly startled by my vehemence. He glanced with concern at Lafferty. “Didn’t you get my message, Inspector?”

  “I did, Mr. Holmes, and the Nickers fellow revealed the name of McGraw’s man who’s been cooperating with Moriarty. He’s been arrested, the warehouse has been seized, and fifteen of Moriarty’s henchmen are in jail right now.”

  “But not Moriarty!” I cried.

  “What! Is that true?”

  “I’m afraid so,” said the Inspector. “He abandoned his men and slipped through our net.”

  Holmes’ face went stiff with sudden fear. “We must get to Irene’s house on the instant! Scott Adler is in the most extreme peril!”

  Lafferty did not question his judgment, but pointed to the buggy and cried out, “The wagon! Quick!”

  The three of us jumped aboard, and in a moment were clattering down the street. It was but a few moments—peril-filled ones, they seemed to me, as we dashed through the evening traffic and careered around corners so quickly that the buggy at times canted over on two wheels—until we drew up at Irene Adler’s house and Holmes dashed up the steps, ringing the bell and calling for her and Scott.

  “But—they’re not here, Mr. Holmes,” answered the perplexed Heller, looking past him at the Inspector and myself, and the buggy with its lathered horse panting in the traces.

  “Not here? Where did they go?”

  Holmes made his way into the foyer, and Lafferty and I followed.

  “Why—to meet you, sir. You sent them this telegram.” The butler picked up a buff-colored sheet of paper from the foyer table.

  “Give me that!” cried Holmes, and hastily read it. “‘Meet me at the fountain in Stuyvesant Square within the hour. Sherlock.’” He crumpled the telegram in his fist. “I’ve sent them directly into his hands! Heller—how long ago did they leave?”

  “Within the half-hour, sir.”

  Sherlock Holmes turned to us, his eyes ablaze. “Quick, The game’s afoot, and we’ve not a moment to lose!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Holmes, Lafferty, and I scurried down the steps to the buggy and leaped aboard it.

  The Inspector yelled to the driver, “Stuyvesant Square! Emergency!”

  We were bounced about on the seat as the wagon got off to a racing start. Far faster than before, we scorched through the streets, very nearly overturning at some corners, it seemed to me, and more than once scraping a lamppost.

  In a few moments, Lafferty glanced out the window and said, “This is it! Now, where—?”

  I looked out into the park-like square, and saw, near its central fountain, the figure of a lone woman. “There! That’s Miss Adler. But where’s the boy?”

  At the Inspector’s direction, the driver sent the police wagon driving straight along the footpath to where Irene Adler stood. Holmes fairly tumbled out of it and ran over to her.

  “Sherlock! Sherlock, they have him! They have him again! Just now!”

  I caught a glimpse of a closed carriage at the moment leaving the square, the lamplight revealing a familiar checked pattern on the driver’s coat, and pointed at it. “Holmes! There, just turning the corner! The chap driving that cab!”

  “Yes!” cried Irene Adler. “They’re the ones!”

  “Moriarty!” said Holmes. “Inspector! That cab! We must overtake it! Irene, Watson, come!”

  He and I pulled her along and into the buggy, while Lafferty called out to his driver, “That cab heading south! Catch up with it!”

  Once again the police vehicle seemed to fly along the streets; but this time there was a quarry in sight, a quarry which, though we could not gain on it, did not seem able to draw away from us.

  In a few broken sentences, Irene Adler told us how she had taken the telegram as a genuine one, thinking that Holmes, to celebrate Moriarty’s downfall, meant to meet them at the indicated spot to take them to the late supper he had spoken of. She and her son had, indeed, thought that the carriage which approached them held Holmes himself, until the boy had been snatched from her and thrust into the cab by the man in the bright suit, and she herself immobilized by a pistol clapped to her head.

  “Thank God you came when you did!” she gasped. “Even seconds later, and they would have been out of sight and gone forever!”

  “Seconds earlier, and we should have forestalled them!” said Holmes savagely. “Don’t worry, Irene—we’ll get your lad out of this!”

  I hoped his voice did not ring as hollowly to her as it did to me.

  Then, as the chase progressed, Holmes suddenly glanced sharply out the window. “Inspector, isn’t this—?” he began.

  “By heaven, it is,” said Lafferty. “We’re heading straight for the scoundrel’s headquarters!”

  ———«»——————«»——————«»———

  The carriage containing Scott Adler and the white-faced man who menaced him with a pistol, and driven by the man in the checked suit, jolted to a halt at the derelict warehouse.

  “They’re hot on our heels, Profes
sor!” the driver called.

  “Step lively, boy!” Moriarty ordered Scott. “Through that door and up the stairs! March!”

  The driver pulled the door closed behind them. In the Professor’s study, Moriarty snapped orders to his remaining henchman. “You know what to do! Ready the launch!”

  He grasped a long lever at the side of his desk and pulled it. A section of the bookshelves along one wall slid open, revealing a moldy, brick-lined passage. The man in the checked suit entered it and was lost to sight.

  “We’ll follow, once I’ve completed one final bit of business,” said Moriarty. He flung an arm around the boy’s neck and dragged him behind the desk, then raised his pistol and barked, “Don’t move, boy! It’ll be the finish of you if you do!”

  His weapon trained on the door, he waited …

  ———«»——————«»——————«»———

  As the police buggy dashed up, to halt beside the now-empty carriage that had brought Scott Adler and his captors to this dreadful place, the four of us jumped from it.

  Lafferty ordered his driver, “Round up a squad as fast as you can!” The buggy turned and clattered off once more. “Shall we burst in and seize them?” he asked Holmes.

  “No! I must go in alone. Who knows what harm he might do Scott if cornered—and I’m sure the premises blaze with hidden pitfalls. When you see the lad come out that door—unharmed—then you may come in after me.”

  He walked toward the warehouse door, then halted briefly and turned as Irene Adler moaned hopelessly, “Oh, Scott, Scott … !”

  “You shall not long be parted.”

  Holmes said the phrase as solemnly as a man taking an oath.

  ———«»——————«»——————«»———

  He moved cautiously but certainly up the steps. Light leaked around a door at the edge of the landing, and he knew that here was where the final confrontation must be. Once at the door, he did not hesitate, but pushed it open.

  Professor James Moriarty, a gun trained squarely at Holmes’ chest, and grasping Scott Adler about the throat, sat crouched behind his desk.

  “Mr. Sherlock Holmes!” said he in venomous, husky tones. “I thought it might be you.”

  “I’ve no doubt of that at all.” Holmes looked about the room, and a touch of grim amusement passed across his face. “Well, well! A little touch of London far from home, I see! You must really feel at home in that chamber of horrors to want to duplicate it wherever you go.” He took one step nearer the desk. “You may release the lad now, Professor. I’m the one you want, and here I stand. Let the boy return to his mother.”

  Moriarty sneered. “Dare you cross the room to fetch him?”

  Sherlock Holmes took another step. With the speed of a striking cobra, Moriarty let his pistol fall to the desk, gave a sudden tug at one of the levers protruding from its edge, and snatched the weapon up again. Holmes leaped to one side just in time to avoid the smashing plunge of the heavy chandelier to the floor.

  “Wrong, Mr. Holmes!” cried Moriarty in shrilly triumphant tones. “I’ve got what I want—the boy!” He indicated the open passageway with the pistol, then returned it to its bead on Holmes. “D’you see that passage? It leads to the river, where a steam launch waits! The boy comes with me, and you’ll never see him again, neither you nor his mother! That’s the revenge I’ll have of you, Mr. Holmes! You’ll neither of you ever see this precious boy again!”

  Holmes’ leap had brought him next to the mantelpiece, on which, he noticed, stood a vase identical to the one he had smashed in the Professor’s London quarters. He reached for it—and flung it squarely at the hand which held the gun. It shattered, and Moriarty gave a howl as the weapon spun to the floor. In making a grab for it, he momentarily released his grip on Scott.

  “Scott! Run!” Holmes cried, leaping at Moriarty. “Back down those stairs to your mother! Quick, lad—show me your heels!”

  As the boy disappeared, Holmes and Moriarty grappled in what each meant to be their final struggle. The Professor snatched the gun from the floor as Holmes closed with him, forced his arm upwards, and the pistol fired harmlessly into the ceiling. Holmes was able to wrench it away from him, and flung it aside; then Moriarty broke free, grabbed an umbrella from a stand and brought it down in a vicious arc armed at his opponent’s head. Holmes parried the blow and struck the umbrella from his adversary’s hands.

  The struggle had taken them almost to the fireplace, against which the Professor now violently shoved Holmes. Then Moriarty darted back to his desk to pull another lever, which sent a knife flashing across the room to within a fraction of an inch of the detective’s head. Holmes grabbed up a fire iron and advanced on Moriarty, but was obliged to leap backwards to avoid the impact of a heavy suit of standing armor which the Professor attempted to tip over onto him.

  With another bound to his desk, Moriarty gave a final tug to a lever, and the section of flooring immediately behind Holmes—in fact, partly under his heels—dropped away, leaving him teetering precariously. Moriarty gave a savage roar of triumph and rushed for him. Together they grappled, and swayed on the edge of the open trapdoor, as they had on that May day ten years before, on the brink of the Reichenbach Falls.

  ———«»——————«»——————«»———

  Outside the warehouse, the police driver had just returned with a half-dozen reinforcing constables, when we heard a shot, and then saw Scott Adler suddenly appear in the doorway. Irene Adler cried out and ran to him, dropping to her knees and enveloping him in her arms.

  “I’m going in there, Inspector,” said I firmly.

  I strode for the door, somewhat relieved to see that Lafferty and his men were hard on my heels. We took the stairs at a run, and burst into the room at their top—to see Holmes and Professor Moriarty locked in a precarious struggle over a gaping trapdoor.

  Lafferty drew a pistol and shouted, “Professor Moriarty—throw up your hands!”

  Unhappily, this diversion startled Holmes more than it did the Professor, who seized the opportunity to force him over the edge of the trap. With a yell, Holmes dropped from sight—but then I saw his fingers, still grasping the edge of the flooring.

  “Holmes! Great heavens!” I cried, and flung myself down, managing to get a grip on my friend’s wrists. “Here! Give us a hand, some of you!” I called over my shoulder, and Lafferty and his driver each got a hold on one of my legs and hauled backwards, perforce drawing Holmes out of the open trap.

  Many hands now reached out to help us both to our feet, but abruptly Sherlock Holmes whirled and pointed to an open passageway in the wall.

  “Quick! He’s getting away!”

  We turned and saw Moriarty slinking down the passage. Holmes leaped to follow, but Moriarty, with a high-pitched cackle, threw a lever protruding from the wall, and a closely-knit mesh of steel wire crashed down, blocking our entrance.

  “Good night, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!” the Professor called out.

  Inspector Lafferty gave an inarticulate roar and emptied his revolver at Moriarty—who could, after the volley, be seen standing unhurt behind the mesh curtain. His taunting voice came through it clearly.

  “Let the victory be yours this time, Mr. Holmes. But there will be other battles and other battlefields, and victory’s so temporary a thing, is it not? Good night, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!”

  Professor James Moriarty seemed to shimmer in the gloom of the passage, and then was gone.

  “Where in the world can it lead to, Holmes?” said I.

  “To the river, Watson—where a steam launch waits.” My friend’s voice was quiet, and weary.

  Inspector Lafferty was fuming. “I’ll have a police vessel in his wake within the hour!” he exclaimed.

  Sherlock Holmes shook his head. “Within half that time, he’ll undoubtedly be beyond the limits of your jurisdiction. No. The final encounter between the Professor and myself is yet to come. In any event, I am assured of the boy�
�s safety.” He faced me and set one hand on my shoulder. “Watson, I am once again deeply in your debt. That tide would soon have carried me to my certain end.”

  I was pleased almost to bursting at his words, but could find nothing better to say than a mumbled, “My pleasure, Holmes. Don’t mention it.”

  He turned back to the Inspector. “Our quarry may have eluded us, but his evil scheme has been thwarted. At what time is the transfer of the gold to take place?”

  Lafferty scanned Holmes’ face anxiously.

  “At eleven tomorrow morning!” he answered.

  Holmes smiled at him. “Then let us all be there to witness it. I assure you that I am not jesting, and that you shall not be disappointed.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The lift that connected the ground floor of the Bouwerie National Bank with the gold vaults below it was thronged to capacity the next morning, with Holmes and myself, Inspector Lafferty, Mortimer McGraw, three Exchange employees, and one representative each of the German and Italian banks who were concerned in the approaching transaction.

  Although both Lafferty and McGraw were clearly close to panic with anxiety, Holmes was chatting amiably with the latter.

  “… Yes, Lord Brackish, Managing Director of the Bank of England. He was to be murdered mysteriously, and his death was to cause panic in the world’s financial circles. This theft was to be the culmination of a grand scheme. I was able to foil the murder of Brackish, and I am now able to forestall the theft of the gold.”

  “Mr. Holmes,” said McGraw tensely, “I certainly hope your confidence is not over-expressed.”

  The lift shuddered to a halt.

  “You may test its validity at your convenience, Mr. McGraw, for we seem to have arrived. Be so good as to unlock the door.”

  McGraw closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if in prayer, then opened them and, with less than accustomed expertness, worked the combination lock and pushed the heavy steel door open.