Sherlock Holmes In Montague Street Volume 2

by David Marcum

  “Good day,” Holmes said pleasantly to the young man. “I notice there’s some stabling to let here. Now, where should I inquire about it?”

  “Jones, Whitfield Street,” the young man answered, giving the wheel a final spin. “But there’s only one little place to let now, I think, and it ain’t very grand.”

  “Oh, which is that?”

  “Next but one to the street there. A chap ’ad it for wood-choppin’, but ’e chucked it. There ain’t room for more’n a donkey an’ a barrow.”

  “Ah, that’s a pity. We’re not particular, but want something big enough, and we don’t mind paying a fair price. Perhaps we might make an arrangement with somebody here who has a stable?”

  The young man shook his head.

  “I shouldn’t think so,” he said doubtfully; “they’re mostly shop-people as wants all the room theirselves. My guv’nor couldn’t do nothink, I know. These ’ere two stables ain’t scarcely enough for all ’e wants as it is. Then there’s Barkett the greengrocer ’ere next door. That ain’t no good. Then, next to that, there’s the little place as is to let, and at the end there’s Griffith’s at the butter-shop.”

  “And those the other way?”

  “Well, this ’ere first one’s Curtis’s, Euston Road - that’s a butter-shop, too, an’ ’e ’as the next after that. The last one, up at the end - I dunno quite whose that is. It ain’t been long took, but I b’lieve it’s some foreign baker’s. I ain’t ever see anythink come out of it, though; but there’s a ’orse there, I know - I seen the feed took in.”

  Holmes turned thoughtfully away.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I suppose we can’t manage it, then. Good day.”

  We walked to the street as the butcher’s young man wheeled in his cart and flung away his pail of water.

  “Will you just hang about here, Brett,” he asked, “while I hurry round to the nearest iron-monger’s? I shan’t be gone long. We’re going to work a little burglary. Take note if anybody comes to that stable at the farther end.”

  He hurried away and I waited. In a few moments the butcher’s young man shut his doors and went whistling down the street, and in a few moments more Holmes appeared.

  “Come,” he said, “there’s nobody about now; we’ll lose no time. I’ve bought a pair of pliers and a few nails.”

  We re-entered the yard at the door of the last stable. Holmes stooped and examined the padlock. Taking a nail in his pliers he bent it carefully against the brick wall. Then using the nail as a key, still held by the pliers, and working the padlock gently in his left hand, in an astonishingly few seconds he had released the hasp and taken off the padlock. “I’m not altogether a bad burglar,” he remarked. “Not so bad, really.”

  The padlock fastened a bar which, when removed, allowed the door to be opened. Opening it, Holmes immediately seized a candle stuck in a bottle which stood on a shelf, pulled me in, and closed the door behind us.

  “We’ll do this by candle-light,” he said, as he struck a match. “If the door were left open it would be seen from the street. Keep your ears open in case anybody comes down the yard.”

  The part of the shed that we stood in was used as a coach-house, and was occupied by a rather shabby tradesman’s cart, the shafts of which rested on the ground. From the stall adjoining came the sound of the shuffling and trampling of an impatient horse.

  We turned to the cart. On the name-board at the side were painted in worn letters the words, “Schuyler, Baker.” The address, which had been below, was painted out.

  Holmes took out the pins and let down the tail board. Within the cart was a new bed-mattress which covered the whole surface at the bottom. I felt it, pressed it from the top, and saw that it was an ordinary spring mattress - perhaps rather unusually soft in the springs. It seemed a curious thing to keep in a baker’s cart.

  Holmes, who had set the candle on a convenient shelf, plunged his arm into the farthermost recesses of the cart and brought forth a very long French loaf, and then another. Diving again he produced certain loaves of the sort known as the “plain cottage “ - two sets of four each, each set baked together in a row. “Feel this bread,” said Holmes, and I felt it. It was stale - almost as hard as wood.

  Holmes produced a large pocket-knife, and with what seemed to me to be superfluous care and elaboration, cut into the top of one of the cottage loaves. Then he inserted his fingers in the gap he had made and firmly but slowly tore the hard bread into two pieces. He pulled away the crumb from within till there was nothing left but a rather thick outer shell.

  “No,” he said, rather to himself than to me, “there’s nothing in that.” He lifted one of the very long French loaves and measured it against the interior of the cart. It had before been propped diagonally, and now it was noticeable that it was just a shade longer than the inside of the cart was wide. Jammed in, in fact, it held firmly. Holmes produced his knife again, and divided this long loaf in the centre; there was nothing but bread in that. The horse in the stall fidgeted more than ever.

  “That horse hasn’t been fed lately, I fancy,” Holmes said. “We’ll give the poor chap a bit of this hay in the corner.”

  “But,” I said, “what about this bread? What did you expect to find in it? I can’t see what you’re driving at.”

  “I’ll tell you,” Holmes replied, “I’m driving after something I expect to find, and close at hand here, too. How are your nerves today - pretty steady? The thing may try them.”

  Before I could reply there was a sound of footsteps in the yard outside, approaching. Holmes lifted his finger instantly for silence and whispered hurriedly, “There’s only one. If he comes here, we grab him.”

  The steps came nearer and stopped outside the door. There was a pause, and then a slight drawing in of breath, as of a person suddenly surprised. At that moment the door was slightly shifted ajar and an eye peeped in.

  “Catch him!” said Holmes aloud, as we sprang to the door. “He mustn’t get away!”

  I had been nearer the doorway, and was first through it. The stranger ran down the yard at his best, but my legs were the longer, and half-way to the street I caught him by the shoulder and swung him round. Like lightning he whipped out a knife, and I flung in my left instantly on the chance of flooring him. It barely checked him, however, and the knife swung short of my chest by no more than two inches; but Holmes had him by the wrist and tripped him forward on his face. He struggled like a wild beast, and Holmes had to stand on his forearm and force up his wrist till the bones were near breaking before he dropped his knife. But throughout the struggle the man never shouted, called for help, nor, indeed, made the slightest sound, and we on our part were equally silent. It was quickly over, of course, for he was on his face, and we were two. We dragged our prisoner into the stable and closed the door behind us. So far as we had seen, nobody had witnessed the capture from the street, though, of course, we had been too busy to be certain.

  “There’s a set of harness hanging over at the back,” said Holmes; “I think we’ll tie him up with the traces and reins - nothing like leather. We don’t need a gag; I know he won’t shout.”

  While I got the straps Holmes held the prisoner by a peculiar neck-and-wrist grip that forbade him to move except at the peril of a snapped arm. He had probably never been a person of pleasant aspect, being short, strongly and squatly built, large and ugly of feature, and wild and dirty of hair and beard. And now, his face flushed with struggling and smeared with mud from the stable-yard, his nose bleeding and his forehead exhibiting a growing bump, he looked particularly repellent. We strapped his elbows together behind, and as he sullenly ignored a demand for the contents of his pockets Holmes unceremoniously turned them out. Helpless as he was, the man struggled to prevent this, though, of course, ineffectually. There were papers, tobacco, a bunch of keys, and various odds and ends. Holmes was glan
cing hastily at the papers when, suddenly dropping them, he caught the prisoner by the shoulder and pulled him away from a partly-consumed hay-truss which stood in a corner, and toward which he had quietly sidled.

  “Keep him still,” said Holmes; “we haven’t examined this place yet.” And he commenced to pull away the hay from the corner.

  Presently a large piece of sackcloth was revealed, and this being lifted left visible below it another batch of loaves of the same sort as we had seen in the cart. There were a dozen of them in one square batch, and the only thing about them that differed them from those in the cart was their position, for the batch lay bottom side up.

  “That’s enough, I think,” Holmes said. “Don’t touch them, for Heaven’s sake!” He picked up the papers he had dropped. “That has saved us a little search,” he continued. “See here, Brett; I was in the act of telling you my suspicions when this little affair interrupted me. If you care to look at one or two of these letters you’ll see what I should have told you. It’s Anarchism and bombs, of course. I’m about as certain as I can be that there’s a reversible dynamite bomb inside each of those innocent loaves, though I assure you I don’t mean meddling with them now. But see here. Will you go and bring in a four-wheeler? Bring it right down the yard. There’s more to do, and we mustn’t attract attention.”

  I hurried away and found the cab. The meaning of the loaves, the cart, and the spring-mattress was now plain. There was an Anarchist plot to carry out a number of explosions probably simultaneously, in different parts of the city. I had, of course, heard much of the terrible “reversing” bombs - those bombs which, containing a tube of acid plugged by wadding, required no fuse, and only needed to be inverted to be set going to explode in a few minutes. The loaves containing these bombs would form an effectual “blind,” and they were to be distributed, probably in broad daylight, in the most natural manner possible, in a baker’s cart. A man would be waiting near the scene of each contemplated explosion. He would be given a loaf taken from the inverted batch. He would take it - perhaps wrapped in paper, but still inverted, and apparently the most innocent object possible - to the spot selected, deposit it, right side up - which would reverse the inner tube and set up the action - in some quiet corner, behind a door or what not, and make his own escape, while the explosion tore down walls and - if the experiment were lucky - scattered the flesh and bones of unsuspecting people.

  The infernal loaves were made and kept reversed, to begin with, in order to stand more firmly, and - if observed - more naturally, when turned over to explode. Even if a child picked up the loaf and carried it off, that child at least would be blown to atoms, which at any rate would have been something for the conspirators to congratulate themselves upon. The spring-mattress, of course, was to ease the jolting to the bombs, and obviate any random jerking loose of the acid, which might have had the deplorable result of sacrificing the valuable life of the conspirator who drove the cart. The other loaves, too, with no explosive contents, had their use. The two long ones, which fitted across the inside of the cart, would be jammed across so as to hold the bombs in the centre, and the others would be used to pack the batch on the other sides and prevent any dangerous slipping about. The thing seemed pretty plain, except that as yet I had no idea of how Holmes learned anything of the business.

  I brought the four-wheeler up to the door of the stable and we thrust the man into it, and Holmes locked the stable door with its proper key. Then we drove off to Tottenham Court Road police-station, and, by Holmes’s order, straight into the yard.

  In less than ten minutes from our departure from the stable our prisoner was finally secured, and Holmes was deep in consultation with police officials. Messengers were sent and telegrams dispatched, and presently Holmes came to me with information.

  “The name of the helpless Frenchman the police found this morning,” he said, “appears to be Gérard - at least I am almost certain of it. Among the papers found on the prisoner - whose full name doesn’t appear, but who seems to be spoken of as Luigi (he is Italian) - among the papers, I say, is a sort of notice convening a meeting for this evening to decide as to the ‘final punishment’ to be awarded the ‘traitor Gérard, now in charge of comrade Pingard.’

  “The place of meeting is not mentioned, but it seems more than probable that it will be at the Bakunin Club, not five minutes’ walk from this place. The police have all these places under quiet observation, of course, and that is the club at which apparently important Anarchist meetings have been held lately. It is the only club that has never been raided as yet, and, it would seem, the only one they would feel at all safe in using for anything important.

  “Moreover, Luigi just now simply declined to open his mouth when asked where the meeting was to be, and said nothing when the names of several other places were suggested, but suddenly found his tongue at the mention of the Bakunin Club, and denied vehemently that the meeting was to be there - it was the only thing he uttered. So that it seems pretty safe to assume that it is to be there. Now, of course, the matter’s very serious. Men have been dispatched to take charge of the stable very quietly, and the club is to be taken possession of at once - also very quietly. It must be done without a moment’s delay, and as there is a chance that the only detective officers within reach at the moment may be known by sight, I have undertaken to get in first. Perhaps you’ll come? We may have to take the door with a rush.”

  Of course I meant to miss nothing if I could help it, and said so.

  “Very well,” replied Holmes, “we’ll get ourselves up a bit.” He began taking off his collar and tie. “It is getting dusk,” he proceeded, “and we shan’t want old clothes to make ourselves look sufficiently shabby. We’re both wearing bowler hats, which is lucky. Make a dent in yours - if you can do so without permanently damaging it.”

  We got rid of our collars and made chokers of our ties. We turned our coat-collars up at one side only, and then, with dented hats worn raffishly, and our hands in our pockets, we looked disreputable enough for all practical purposes in twilight. A cordon of plain-clothes police had already been forming round the club, we were told, and so we sallied forth. We turned into Windmill Street, crossed Whitfield Street, and in a turning or two we came to the Bakunin Club. I could see no sign of anything like a ring of policemen, and said so. Holmes chuckled. “Of course not,” he said; “they don’t go about a job of this sort with drums beating and flags flying. But they are all there, and some are watching us. There is the house. I’ll negotiate.”

  The house was one of the very shabby passé sort that abound in that quarter. The very narrow area was railed over, and almost choked with rubbish. Visible above it were three floors, the lowest indicated by the door and one window, and the other two by two windows each - mean and dirty all. A faint light appeared in the top floor, and another from somewhere behind the refuse-heaped area. Everywhere else was in darkness. Holmes looked intently into the area, but it was impossible to discern anything behind the sole grimy patch of window that was visible. Then we stepped lightly up the three or four steps to the door and rang the bell.

  We could hear slippered feet mounting a stair and approaching. A latch was shifted, a door opened six inches, an indistinct face appeared, and a female voice asked, “Qui est là?”

  “Deux camarades,” Holmes grunted testily. “Ouvrez vite.”

  I had noticed that the door was kept from opening further by a short chain. This chain the woman unhooked from the door, but still kept the latter merely ajar, as though intending to assure herself still further. But Holmes immediately pushed the door back, planted his foot against it, and entered, asking carelessly as he did so, “Où se trouve Luigi?”

  I followed on his heels, and in the dark could just distinguish that Holmes pushed the woman instantly against the wall and clapped his hand to her mouth. At the same moment a file of quiet men were suddenly visible ascending the steps at my
heels. They were the police.

  The door was closed behind us almost noiselessly, and a match was struck. Two men stood at the bottom of the stairs, and the others searched the house. Only two men were found - both in a top room. They were secured and brought down.

  The woman was now ungagged, and she used her tongue at a great rate. One of the men was a small, meek-looking slip of a fellow, and he appeared to be the woman’s husband. “Eh, messieurs le police,” she exclaimed vehemently, “it ees not of ’im, mon pauvre Pierre, zat you sall rrun in. ’Im and me - we are not of the clob - we work only - we housekeep.”

  Holmes whispered to an officer, and the two men were taken below. Then Holmes spoke to the woman, whose protests had not ceased. “You say you are not of the club,” he said, “but what is there to prove that? If you are but housekeepers, as you say, you have nothing to fear. But you can only prove it by giving the police information. For instance, now, about Gérard. What have they done with him?”

  “Jean Pingard - ’im you ’ave take downstairs - ’e ’ave lose ’im. Jean Pingard get last night all a-boosa - all dronk like zis” - she rolled her head and shoulders to express intoxication - “and he sleep too much today, when Émile go out, and Gérard, he go too, and nobody know. I will tell you anysing. We are not of the clob - we housekeep, me and Pierre.”

  “But what did they do to Gérard before he went away?”

  The woman was ready and anxious to tell anything. Gérard had been selected to do something - what it was exactly she did not know, but there was a horse and cart, and he was to drive it. Where the horse and cart was also she did not know, but Gérard had driven a cart before in his work for a baker, and he was to drive one in connection with some scheme among the members of the club. But le pauvre Gérard at the last minute disliked to drive the cart; he had fear. He did not say he had fear, but he prepared a letter - a letter that was not signed. The letter was to be sent to the police, and it told them the whereabouts of the horse and cart, so that the police might seize these things, and then there would be nothing for Gérard, who had fear, to do in the way of driving. No, he did not betray the names of the comrades, but he told the place of the horse and the cart.