“Are you sure?” my father asked.
“Beyond a doubt,” Joanna replied. “What are the chances four Englishmen would learn to write and read the same foreign language while at war?”
“Four, you say?” my father inquired. “But there are only two involved here—the victim and Christopher Moran.”
Joanna shook her head. “I will wager you ten guineas that Benjamin Levy’s sudden death was no coincidence. He and Charles Harrelston and Christopher Moran are all part of this. And most likely, so is the fourth member of the quartet.”
“Part of what?” I asked.
“Hopefully, the coded message will help with that.”
Joanna studied the message at length before turning the sheet of paper over and holding it up to the light. Then she held it so it faced a mirror she had taken from her purse. The mirror image was indecipherable. “Nothing here,” she reported.
My father sighed wearily. “We are in for a long morning.”
“It will take much longer than that,” Joanna predicted. “We simply do not have the skills required to break a tangled code.”
“Perhaps Scotland Yard could be of service,” I suggested.
“Most of those bunglers have difficulty even reading English,” my father said.
“What then?” I asked.
“We should consult discreetly with an expert in these matters,” Joanna said. She folded the message and tucked it away in her purse. “But for now our time is better spent at the Athenian Club.”
“What should we tell Sir William?” I asked.
“That there are clues here that need to be followed, and that is the truth.”
My father rubbed his chin pensively. “I do not think Sir William will be satisfied with that statement. He will be very eager to know the meaning of his son’s message.”
“As will we,” Joanna said. “For if my assumptions are correct, the deciphered message will tell us why Charles Harrelston was murdered.”
8
The Athenian Club
It was nearly noon when we arrived at the Athenian Club on Regent’s Circle and were promptly refused entry by a rather pompous manager named Jonathan Cole. Like most men who overrate their importance, he spoke in a clipped, condescending fashion.
“The club is closed to all visitors today,” he announced. “There are no exceptions.”
“May I ask why?” my father asked.
“It is a private matter.”
“Such as the untimely death of a member?”
Cole was taken aback for a moment, but quickly recovered. “Are you a friend of Mr. Levy?”
“No,” my father said, and noticed a junior detective from Scotland Yard hurrying by. “I see that Scotland Yard is involved.”
Cole made no reply.
“Which indicates that Inspector Lestrade is here.” My father reached for his personal card and handed it to the manager. “Please give this to Lestrade and tell him I wish to see him.”
Jonathan Cole read the card at a glance before rapidly disappearing down a long, poorly lighted corridor. When he was out of earshot, my father turned to me and said, “Something is amiss here, otherwise Lestrade would not be present.”
“There must be evidence of a crime,” I surmised.
“Either that, or the simple fact that Benjamin Levy was the son of a longstanding London councilman,” Joanna said. “I read of this relationship in the morning Standard, but paid it little consideration, since at the time I was unaware of the deceased’s connection to Charles Harrelston.”
“Your point is well taken,” my father agreed. “The sudden death of a public figure or one of his family always catches the attention of the police.”
“Lestrade will wish to know why we are here,” I thought aloud.
“I will deal with that,” my father said.
“What if Moran is here?” I asked.
“There is no chance of that occurring,” Joanna answered with confidence. “He will now distance himself from the death of another comrade in arms, other than to show fake grief and sadness.”
“But he did not exhibit a great deal of sorrow when we questioned him about Charles Harrelston’s death,” I recalled.
“He is too clever to overplay his hand,” Joanna said.
The manager of the club returned, and gestured for us to follow him down a very long corridor. Off to the right was a large reading room, appointed with leather-upholstered chairs and fine, polished furniture. Next we passed an enclosed area that held a well-stocked bar, and beyond that was an expansive gaming room, which contained numerous green-felt-topped card tables, as well as several roulette wheels. Finally we reached a spacious, comfortable lounge area. Contained within it were cushioned chairs and a couch upholstered with a thick, canvaslike material. Behind the furniture was the opened door to a tiled washroom, and next to that was a hall that led to a row of small bedrooms.
“It seems our paths cross again, Dr. Watson,” Lestrade cried as he stepped out of the bedroom closest to the lounge.
“It is always a pleasure to see you,” my father said.
“What brings the famous Dr. Watson to the scene of this misfortune, might I ask?”
“An interested family, who wishes to remain anonymous, asked us to look in briefly,” my father replied.
“Then I shall tell you everything we know and you may draw your own conclusions. If you wish, I can give you a summary of the events that took place last evening.”
“Please.”
Mr. Cole cleared his throat audibly and said, “Inspector, I must inform you that women are never allowed in the Athenian Club. It is against all regulations and they must be strictly adhered to. With this in mind, I trust you will allow me to escort the lady out to a suitable waiting area near the front staircase.”
“The lady stays,” Lestrade said bluntly. “And you will assist her and her colleagues in any way they wish. Is that understood?”
Mr. Cole managed a nod, to go along with his reddening face.
“Now, as to my summary.” Lestrade returned his attention to us. “Mr. Benjamin Levy arrived at the Athenian Club just before ten o’clock last night in the company of his friend Dr. Christopher Moran. They gambled heavily and won, I should add. Perhaps it was their good luck that encouraged them to drink to excess. By all accounts they were a happy pair. Unfortunately, the consumed alcohol brought a sickness to Mr. Levy’s stomach. He was accompanied to this lounge area by Dr. Moran. After several bouts of vomiting, Mr. Levy rested on the couch here to gather himself. Dr. Moran, in his professional opinion, thought it best for Mr. Levy to rest further, and left him to do so. According to Dr. Moran, Levy was comfortable and dozing off when the doctor left him to return to the gaming room. Mr. Levy was seen to be sleeping on the couch by a number of club members as they passed through on their way to the washroom. Early this morning Mr. Levy was found dead by a steward who had come to arouse him from his sleep. There was absolutely no evidence of foul play.”
Joanna asked, “Was a well-respected physician such as Dr. Moran able to discern the cause of death?”
“He could not be certain, but believed that excessive drink led to a very sound sleep,” Lestrade replied. “And while deeply asleep, Mr. Levy may have again lost the contents of his stomach and sucked these same contents into his lungs, which brought on sudden asphyxiation.”
“Was there evidence that Mr. Levy had vomited again?” Joanna inquired.
“Indeed there was,” Lestrade answered, and pointed to the cashmere scarf on an arm of the couch. “Mr. Levy’s scarf was soaked with vomit when it was found around his neck this morning.”
Joanna looked to my father. “I take it, Watson, that vomit-induced asphyxiation is a well-known phenomenon.”
“Oh, yes,” my father said promptly. “I myself have witnessed it on several occasions.”
“And there you have it,” Lestrade concluded. “I am afraid, Dr. Watson, that you have wasted your time on this one.”
<
br /> “So it would seem,” my father agreed.
“Of course the coroner will have the final say on this matter,” Lestrade said, and straightened his derby in preparation to leave. “But I feel confident he will side with Dr. Moran’s well-thought-out medical opinion.”
“I have just a few more questions,” Joanna said, her gaze going from the washroom to the couch, then over to the adjoining bedrooms.
“Of course,” Lestrade said without hesitation, but his eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“It seems odd that Mr. Levy would choose to spend the night on a most uncomfortable couch when a bedroom is so nearby, does it not?” Joanna asked.
“I thought so, too, madam,” Lestrade responded. “But when one has imbibed far too much, any resting spot will do. And perhaps he wished to be close to the washroom in the event his nausea returned.”
“Well put,” Joanna said. “But the bedroom is also close by and would be far more comfortable. By the way, how tall would you estimate Mr. Levy to be?”
“He was slightly under six feet, I would say.”
“Which would cause him to be quite crowded on that relatively small couch.”
“I would have certainly chosen the bedroom,” Lestrade concurred. “But that seems to be a minor matter here.”
“There may be yet another reason why Mr. Levy elected to remain on the couch,” Cole interjected. “In order to reserve a bedroom, a member must sign in at the front desk. Perhaps Mr. Levy did not feel well enough to do so.”
“There you have it,” Lestrade said with finality. “Rather than stumble his way to the front, Mr. Levy chose to remain at rest on the couch.”
“I see,” Joanna said, as if the issue was settled. “There is one more minor matter here that I am certain can be easily answered. Was Mr. Levy’s scarf, laden with vomit, found where it now lies?”
“No, madam,” Cole replied. “The scarf was securely around Mr. Levy’s neck when he was discovered motionless on the couch. It was removed by a member-physician to search for a carotid pulse. None was detected.”
“Thank you for clarifying that point,” Joanna said, then turned to my father. “I think I see the picture more clearly now, Watson. Are there other questions I should have asked?”
“Only one relatively small consequence,” my father responded. “Were there signs of vomit on the victim’s lips and in his mouth?”
Lestrade and Cole exchanged puzzled looks, with neither being able to give the answer. My father’s question was not of small consequence, but one of great significance. Had Benjamin Levy truly choked on his own vomit, there would be evidence of it in and about his oral cavity.
“I cannot be certain,” Lestrade said finally. “But I shall pass on your inquiry to the doctor who attended Mr. Levy.”
“All well and good, then,” my father said. “And now Inspector, I know that you are busy with other duties that you must attend to. Would it be too much for me to ask to remain behind and retrace Mr. Levy’s steps from last night? It would satisfy my curiosity and make certain nothing is left unanswered.”
“I see no reason why not,” Lestrade said. “The manager here will assist you and show you how and where Mr. Levy moved prior to his death. If anything unusual is discovered, I trust you will notify me.”
“Promptly,” my father promised.
“Excellent,” Lestrade said and, after tipping his derby, gestured to the manager. “And now Mr. Cole will be good enough to accompany me to the front desk where we will prepare a detailed statement for his signature.”
I waited for the pair to depart, then said, “Lestrade seems very accommodating to us these days.”
“That is because he knows which side his bread is buttered on,” my father remarked. “He realizes that if we solve the case he will be given most of the credit, just as in the times of his father and Sherlock Holmes. But I must admit I find his lack of depth astounding.”
Joanna nodded. “You are referring to asphyxiation being the cause of death.”
“Precisely,” my father said. “How in the world could he accept such a superficial notion? Mr. Levy was not in a state of drunken stupor during which he would have retched up contents from his stomach and sucked them deep into his lungs. He had already relieved himself and was seated on the couch, alert and talking to Moran. Mr. Levy then lay down to rest and dozed off. Had he vomited again and sucked the nasty fluid into his lungs, he would have awakened and jumped up, coughing and wheezing and racing about seeking help. That he would have simply lain there and died is nonsense.”
“Your medical expertise is most helpful here, Watson,” Joanna said. “But you must give Moran credit. He planted the seed beautifully and Lestrade could not wait to swallow it. And that he happily accepted the notion that a tall Benjamin Levy would choose to sleep on a cramped couch rather than a soft, comfortable mattress is equally incredulous. Even a large, senseless animal would much prefer the bed.”
“Why are you so concerned where Benjamin Levy slept?” I asked.
“I am concerned because obviously Christopher Moran was,” Joanna replied. “He went to great lengths in his story to keep Mr. Levy’s presence away from the bedroom. Moran continued to say that everything occurred while Levy was on the couch, always on the couch. Never once does he mention the bedroom.”
“Which meant?”
“Moran wishes to keep all eyes away from the bedroom,” Joanna said. “Something happened in there that he does not want us to know. And I see one simple answer. That is where Moran caused the death of Benjamin Levy.” She paused to glance at the couch and studied it at length, then nodded to herself. “Moran could not chance killing Levy on the couch. It was too exposed, with people coming and going to the washroom. He had to perform his evil deed in the bedroom.”
“Allow me to play the devil’s advocate,” I requested.
“Please do.”
“Suppose Mr. Levy wished to occupy the bedroom, but was too heavy with drink to navigate his way to the front desk where he had to register in order to reserve a room. Then he would have been obliged to spend the night on the couch.”
“Pshaw!” Joanna said, quickly dismissing the idea. “That could have been easily remedied. Moran could have acted in Benjamin Levy’s behalf and gone to the front and reserved the bedroom, saying that he was Levy’s doctor and Levy was feeling poorly and needed the room.”
“And had Moran done that, it would have connected him and Levy to the ill-fated bedroom,” my father added. “That is the very last thing Moran would have wanted.”
“It all points in one direction, does it not?” Joanna said. “Moran is cleverly covering up the deed he committed in that bedroom.”
“But which bedroom?” my father asked. “There are six of them, and by now all of them have been cleaned and sanitized. And to make matters even more difficult, we do not know which of the six to search.”
“Hmm,” Joanna uttered, which was the sound she made when her brain shifted into highest gear. She glanced over to the washroom, then the bedroom, and then to the couch where she focused on Benjamin Levy’s soiled cashmere scarf. Moving in closer, she sniffed the air and said, “Even from this distance, I can detect the unpleasant odor of vomit.”
“Of what significance is that?” my father asked.
“That is how we shall determine which bedroom Benjamin Levy occupied briefly,” she said and hurried over to my father. “Tell me, Watson, is Toby still with us?”
“I am not sure,” my father replied. “She was some years ago, but now she would be very old.”
“You must see if she remains alive,” Joanna said, with some urgency. “We need a hound that can sniff out the faintest of scents.”
“Toby would do very well here.”
“Then you must fetch her for us.”
As my father and I headed for the corridor, he looked over his shoulder and asked, “How did you know of Toby?”
“I read about her in one of your Sherlock Holmes adventu
res,” Joanna replied.
My father nodded slowly, thinking back. “Oh, yes. I believe she was mentioned in The Sign of Four.”
“And a fine tale it was,” Joanna commented. “Now please hurry. Time is of the essence, for the scent will quickly fade.”
“I shall have to stop by Baker Street and consult my files for the address where Toby is housed.”
“No need,” Joanna said, her eyes blinking rapidly while she searched deep into her memory bank. The blinking ceased when the answer was retrieved. “The dog resides at number 3 Pinchin Lane in lower Lambeth, assuming the address you mentioned in The Sign of Four still holds.”
“Extraordinary,” my father murmured, moving quickly down the corridor. “Absolutely extraordinary.”
As I hurried to catch up, I could not help but remember Sir Henry Blalock’s description of Joanna’s brain. It was like a steel trap. Once a fact entered, it never escaped.
“Did Sherlock Holmes have the same remarkable memory?” I asked my father in a whisper.
“Both Sherlock and his brother Mycroft were similarly endowed,” my father whispered back.
“It must be a family trait, then,” I concluded.
“Beyond any question,” he agreed. “It runs in those amazing genes that Joanna inherited from her father.”
“And perhaps from her mother, Irene Adler, who was the only woman ever to outwit Sherlock Holmes.”
“Are you suggesting that Joanna received a double dose of this memory gene?”
“I am.”
As we approached the front lobby, my father lowered his voice even more. “Are you further suggesting that her uncanny memory might be a cut above Sherlock’s?”
“That, my dear father, would not surprise me in the least.”
9
Toby Two
On our journey to fetch Toby my father regaled me with the exploits of the remarkable dog. A half-spaniel mix, she could track a scent under the most severe of conditions. Once, after two days of heavy rain, she was able to follow the faint odor of creosote across half the city. Despite Toby’s successes, she never received so much as a pat on the head from Sherlock Holmes. There was no affection between them, yet a special bond connected the two. Both lived and breathed for the sole purpose of utilizing their skills, and together they had foiled some of London’s craftiest criminals. I wondered if the hound would work as well for Joanna as it had for Joanna’s father.
The Daughter of Sherlock Holmes Page 9
