Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Volume 15

by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  Soon we sat down to a kingly feast: Lamb de Beauville, potatoes amandine, spinach Sherwood (named for the forest), and for dessert, cherries and pineapple in rum.

  As we relaxed over brandy and coffee, Holmes said, “This has been a frustrating day. I’ve learned nothing.”

  “Then what do you propose to do?”

  “Visit my brother to begin with. But I am worried, Watson, quite worried.”

  “Indeed, yes. So am I. You must engage the professor a second time, and unlike your first encounter he may learn about you.”

  “Watson,” he said somberly, “I’ve bad news. I was mistaken about that earlier contretemps. He knows that I was behind it. It is surprising that he took no action against me, but this time I will not be so lucky. Nor—”

  He stopped himself, but I completed his thought. “He may also come after me and perhaps even Mrs Hudson.”

  He nodded. “I do not think he would bother with either of you, but the man is so unscrupulous, I cannot ignore the potential risks.”

  “I have a suggestion, Holmes. She has an uncle in Yorkshire and she says he has been ailing. Perhaps we could persuade her to pay him a visit, or better yet, travel to him as an errand of mercy.”

  “Excellent, Watson!” The very next morning, Mrs Hudson departed for the North. We went to the station to see her off (and to guard against any possible attack). As we rode off in a hansom toward Baker Street, Holmes said, “I’m relieved that that’s taken care of. Now as for you—”

  “As for Yours Truly, I shall not—never will!—quit your side. By now you should know that.”

  “I do, my dear Watson. I just needed to hear it once more.” And without further regrets or qualms, he outlined what we were about to do. For a moment I wished I could rejoin my regiment wherever they be, no matter how bloody. It did seem like the more prudent course of action.

  For what he expected of me was to perfect a German accent. Now I have a good ear for music but it does not extend to languages. But later that day he devoted himself to teach me and I began to feel like Eliza Doolittle. (No, that is inaccurate. I did not see Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion till quite a few years later). At length I was sufficiently schooled to feel confident (not much, though) that I could pose as a German purchasing agent. Holmes had already placed a pertinent advertisement in several local newspapers.

  Our answer came that very afternoon when little Jimmy Stuart arrived from Holmes’s postal drop with a sealed envelope that he handed to the sleuth.

  Three billion marks, plus thirty per cent of all subsequent profits. If you are able to purchase the item in question, then come to the Porter’s Rest on Fleet Street tomorrow at two p m. Approach the table under the German flag hanging on the wall.

  Shortly after noon the following day we set out, somewhat early, I thought.

  “Are you ready, Herr Obermann?”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  But before going to Fleet Street, Holmes diverted us to the Diogenes Club. In the event that you have not read my remarks concerning Mycroft Holmes and the Diogenes Club, let me satisfy your curiosity. Mycroft is both older and smarter than Sherlock and this by Holmes’s own admission. But the senior member of the clan is decidedly rotund and equally indolent. His daily rounds are from his home2 to his offices in Whitehall and thence to the Diogenes. He has a governmental function that his sibling assures me is of paramount importance and he apparently never sloughs off his duties. But most of the time each day he is at his club, which caters to very private individuals. Only the visitor’s room permits talking, but in all other parts of the club, speech is strictly forbidden!

  It is important that you understand Mycroft Holmes’s laziness. (Sherlock says his daily routine is as fixed as a planet’s orbit.) For then you will realize why both Holmes and I were astonished to learn that he was not there.)

  “I presume he is at work,” Holmes said.

  “Perhaps he has been summoned.”

  “No one summons my—wait, that is not true. Her Majesty could fetch him at a moment’s notice, for she can find him even when I could not without considerable effort. If he was called for, then it would be a matter of national—perhaps international importance.”

  “Wouldn’t Tesla’s problem qualify?”

  “Indeed it would.”

  Just then, the club’s major-domo arrived, scant of breath. “Ah, Mr Sherlock.” (I supposed he dared this familiarity by way of Mycroft) “I am so glad that you are still here.” He proffered a folded scrap of paper, which Holmes accepted. “Your brother was certain that you would show up on the way to your appointment.”

  Holmes’s brows shot up. “You know about that?”

  “No, no, not at all! I was merely quoting your brother.”

  “Ah, of course.” As the functionary gratefully retired, Holmes unfolded the missive, read it and then handed it to me. “This is interesting. See what you make of it, Watson.”

  Here is what I read—

  S—by all means tell the enemy that we shall meet any price.—M

  “Obviously,” I said, “he is prepared to commit our government to pay a considerable sum of money.”

  “True, but what else do you notice?”

  “Well, your brother’s handwriting is quite graceful.”

  “He studied penmanship. For that matter, so did I, but only as a tool in the interpretation of clues. Now focus on his words. What do you see now?”

  I reread it several times. “I do note how economically he expresses himself.”

  “There, Watson…you have hit upon it.”

  “You mean that I’m right?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry. You have found what I’ve been giving you grief about and that is something. This is the passage in question—‘…tell the enemy we shall meet any price….’”

  “That’s what I said, Holmes. Ever so succinct.”

  “But not quite. Mycroft’s laziness extends to language. All he need have said was, ‘We shall meet any price.’”

  At last I saw what he was driving at. “So by suggesting to ‘tell the enemy,’ et cetera, his true meaning is that we must lie to them.”

  “Precisely!”

  * * * *

  When we finally arrived at our destination, I was surprised, and perhaps Holmes was, too, to find that only one man was seated at the table beneath the German flag. He looked vaguely familiar. He did not rise, but gestured for us to take seats opposite him.

  “My name,” he said, “is Isadora Persano. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

  “Indeed, yes!” I exclaimed. “You are England’s preeminent duellist.”

  He patted the cane that he gripped in one hand. “If you say so.” He gestured to the bartender and that worthy stopped in mid-conversation and hurried over to our table.

  “Another round for me, and take orders from these gentlemen, who are my guests.”

  The bartender ducked his head like the world’s foremost toadie.

  Holmes ordered a dry sherry, whilst I indulged myself with coffee and a single malt scotch (which was at that time a fairly new thing in London).

  Said Holmes, “Allow me to introduce Major Blantyre. He has been empowered by the German government to purchase Mr Tesla’s invention at the stipulated price.”

  Persano sipped his drink, then smiled coldly, reminding me of a serpent about to strike. “That is gratifying news, Mr Holmes.”

  “Who?” my friend sputtered. “You have me mistaken for someone else. I am merely a minor attaché sent here in case you and the Major require an interpreter.”

  Persano shook his head. “What you claim to be I might have credited, but my employer instructed me minutely on who I should expect to meet. Therefore, I repeat—Mr Holmes.” He turned to me. “And you are, of course, Dr John H (for Hamish, I do believe) Watson, M D, late of an Indian regiment.”

  Holmes threw up his hands. “Well, you—or, rather, the professor—are on to us. We might as well go back to Baker Street.”


  And I had not even had an opportunity to try out my German accent!

  Persano held up a forestalling hand. “My dear Mr Holmes, why do you think that you must give up? Do you have proof that you can meet the terms of our offer?”

  Holmes sat back down again, smiling (which ought to have warned Persano). “As a matter of fact, I do have a missive here from my brother Mycroft.” He offered the folded paper to him, which the duellist read it, then bestowed a decisive nod on us.

  “You may not be aware, Dr Watson, that I always read and enjoy your accounts of Mr Holmes’s adventures in The Strand. I recollect in one of them the information that at some times Mr Holmes’s elder brother is the British government. In other words, we will happily return the object in question upon receipts of the necessary funds, which must be in small denominations.

  “Because this will prove somewhat onerous, we will supply a brougham at our expense to carry the treasure. Will you meet us tomorrow in front of this establishment at, say, three in the afternoon? That should give you, or rather, Mr Mycroft Holmes, enough time to obtain the cash.”

  Holmes agreed and we left the place, hailed a cab and hurried off again to the Diogenes Club. This time, Mycroft Holmes was present.

  “Particulars?” he asked.

  “The entire sum must be delivered by three o’clock tomorrow,” Holmes replied. “It must be in small denominations.”

  Mycroft rang for the major-domo, who swiftly supplied libations to our trio. After he was gone, Mycroft said, “Small denominations will be a nuisance but not impossible. I am concerned, though, about you both.”

  “Why?” I wondered, but Holmes—the younger one—answered me.

  “Because when Moriarty does not receive his money, you and I, Watson, will be his targets.”

  A moment of troubled silence, and then Mycroft said, “That’s understood. Now, gentlemen, here is what you must do.”

  * * * *

  The next day at three o’clock the exchange took place. We watched the brougham waddle off and then Holmes suggested that we take in an early concert at the Tivoli Hall, which we did. Afterward, we travelled some distance to dine together. We did not return to Baker Street till it was nearly ten at night.

  Isadora Persano, fuming, was there to greet us.

  “Holmes!” he snapped. “I should not have thought you capable of this!”

  Holmes took off his cape and hat, poured glasses of wine for all of us and said, “This is an amontillado almost worth being walled up for.” He took a sip, then added, “I have no idea why you are so upset. Watson and I have been attending a splendid concert—look, here are our programmes! I’d thought our business was concluded successfully.”

  Persano tasted his amontillado and his eyes widened appreciably.

  “Gentlemen, my apologies…I have been too precipitate. But shortly after the brougham rode off, it was stopped by three masked men with pistols. They stole every last shilling!”

  “I am quite upset to hear this,” said Holmes. “After the concert, we dined and, as you see, have just returned. But if you don’t mind waiting, I will immediately seek out my brother. It should not take long. While I’m gone, do have more wine or whatever else might appeal to you.”

  The duellist nodded. “I do feel rather peckish.”

  My friend rang for Mrs Hudson and asked her to accommodate our guest. Then he left us and I wondered what on earth we could do to pass the time, but Persano turned out to be a gifted conversationalist and as we shared Mrs H’s “impromptu,” we talked about everything from art and literature to politics and world history.

  In less than an hour, Holmes was back. “I have some good news—well, not as good as you’d wish, yet better than you may have expected.”

  “Do tell!”

  “Yes, Mr Persano, I will. It consists of two items. First, Mycroft not only already knew about the theft, he has identified its perpetrator. Have you heard of a thug who calls himself Jack Sheppard?”

  I recognized the name, having read about him in The Newgate Calendar. Originally, he worked for Jonathan Wild, but then set out on his own, even stealing from Wild himself! That worthy, of course, “peached” on him and Sheppard was arrested and imprisoned in a maximum security cell, from which, however, he escaped.

  “My employer is well aware of Sheppard,” our guest replied. “The fool created his own criminal network and has been getting in our way too often. This clinches it—he shall be taught a lesson he will only need to learn once.”

  That bothered me.

  Persano began to leave, but then stopped himself. “You said there were two items on your agenda?”

  “Yes,” said Holmes. “My brother offers to reimburse you for half of the amount that was taken.”

  “Excellent! As a matter of fact, our price was deliberately inflated, so we would gladly have been bargained down to half. I shall go tell my employer about this at once!” He hurried off.

  “Holmes,” I said, “how can you and Mycroft throw Sheppard to the wolves? Even though he is a criminal—”

  “A criminal who has committed murder and worse. Don’t be concerned, Watson. Moriarty already has formed his plans to eliminate his enemy.”

  * * * *

  The following afternoon, Mrs Hudson opened the door and in came a man bearing three gift-wrapped packages, two of which he bestowed upon Holmes and the other larger one on me.

  “Mr Tesla,” Holmes said, surprised, “to what do we owe the honour?”

  “I recently visited your brother … his club is quite appealing! If I lived here, I should apply for membership. Anyway, he told me that you have recovered my plans.”

  “Yes, we have.”

  “He also said that you would not accept any fee for your services.”

  A nod. “I was working for the British government.”

  “So do open your presents!”

  I let Holmes go first. The slightly bulkier one contained a new calabash pipe. “Ahh”, my friend smiled, “some artists have depicted me as smoking one of these, whereas I always use a straight clay pipe. Now I can make their portraiture come true.” He then opened the second package and promptly sniffed its contents. “Good heavens, Mr Tesla! This is one of the finest—and most expensive—pipe tobaccos in the world!”

  “Do enjoy it, Mr Holmes.”

  “But you are opposed to smoking!”

  “For myself, but I never impose my opinions on anyone else. Now, Dr Watson, what are you waiting for?”

  I removed the gift paper and discovered a bottle of single malt scotch!

  * * * *

  Tesla soon left. The balance of the afternoon was devoted to relaxation and enjoyment of our respective gifts. But just when we were about to retire for the evening, Isadora Persano returned. He had an envelope that he gave to Holmes, then said good night and departed.

  Holmes opened the letter, read it and passed it to me.

  S— you must know that I saw right through this charade. You had very little to do with it. It positively reeks of your brother. But I let you stay out of it, for he was merely exercising his ego. His counter-offer is wholly acceptable. As long as you do not get in my way in future, there shall be no repercussions. —J M

  I poured more scotch. But I was worried.

  “Yes, Watson? Say it.”

  “I know you all too well, Holmes. You have no intention of leaving Moriarty alone.”

  A deep sigh. “Thanks to me, his entire organization is about to come crashing down. He will not be apprehended, though, for he has covered his tracks too well, as have both Persano and a certain former military man who I shall tell you about later.”

  I set down my glass. “Then sometime soon, you, myself, and Mrs H may expect severe retaliations?”

  “I think it unlikely that he will bother either of you. No, I shall be his target, though perhaps Mrs Hudson, at least, should go on a long vacation. Ah, Watson, may I have a taste—?” I gestured for him to have some scotch.


  “This is superb!” He exhaled and enjoyed its after-taste. “You see, my friend, Moriarty has climbed so high that it is inevitable that he must suffer a great fall. When that happens, I do intend to be there to witness it.”

  As it happened—with surprising celerity—Holmes’s prediction came true.

  I mean that quite literally.

  1 Wild was also the model for Peachum in Bertolt Brecht’s The Three-Penny Opera, as well as the villainous Arnold Zeck in a trio of murder mystery novels featuring the Mycroft-sized New York City consulting detective Nero Wolfe; its author was Rex Stout.

  2 I am not at liberty to provide particulars. Indeed, I do not know them. But Holmes says that it would be easier to track down Queen Victoria at a secret retreat than Mycroft Holmes if he elected to disappear.

  THE REVENGE OF THE FENIAN BROTHERHOOD, by Carole Buggé

  Come all ye young rebels and list while I sing,

  For the love of one’s country is a terrible thing

  It vanishes fear with the speed of a flame

  And makes us all part of the Patriots’s Game

  —Tommy Makem

  We have received many unusual visitors in our rooms on the second floor of 221 Baker Street, but I cannot remember any appearance more unexpected than that of the personage who appeared at our door on a cold, wet November night in 1889. I was, in fact, left speechless for some time—though Holmes, displaying his usual sang froid, calmly motioned our visitor towards the sofa.

  “You realize, of course, my distaste in coming to you for assistance in this matter,” said our caller, settling his thin, bony frame into the depths of the sofa.

  “Naturally,” Holmes replied, digging his long fingers into the Persian slipper which served as his tobacco tin.

  I stood staring as foolishly as a school boy, until Holmes laid a hand gently on my shoulder.

  “Please sit down, Watson; you are making me nervous.”

  I sat slowly in my usual chair in front of the crackling fire, never taking my eyes off our guest. I don’t know what I thought he would do, but although I had never laid eyes on him before I was certain that this was a man you did not turn your back on.