“It is certainly possible. It has happened before and will undoubtedly happen again. But why do you ask?”
“Because of certain things that have happened since I opened my shop here.”
“I would like to hear about them.”
“Very well. As you probably know, I opened the shop about six months ago. Before that I worked for an importer in Bristol, travelling and doing most of his buying. Shortly after I opened the shop, I began to feel that I was being watched. It may be that you know the feeling.”
“I do.”
“I kept my eyes open, tried to determine who was watching me but of course that was difficult. It could have been a beggar, a crossing sweeper or even someone who appeared to be a passerby. Then, a few weeks ago, I was approached and given what amounted to an ultimatum.”
“By whom?”
“I don’t know. I live in Kensington, and one night as I was returning home quite late, a four-wheeler drew up and someone in it addressed me by name.”
“A man?”
“Yes. I started to go over to it but was told to keep my distance. The man said he gathered I was doing quite well in the shop and asked if I would like to do even better. When I asked how, he said he was in a position to supply me with a great deal of merchandise—merchandise of all sorts—if I would be willing to divide the profits with him. I asked him where the merchandise would come from, and he said that was no concern of mine. From which I gathered that the merchandise had been stolen.”
“In other words, he was suggesting that you act as a fence.”
“Exactly. Naturally I refused, and he said I was being very foolish. That if I would not accept his offer to help me make money, it was going to cost me money. That I was going to have to pay him a specific sum every month to keep my shop open.”
“You mean pay him for protection.”
“Yes. I told him I would do no such thing; and he said he would give me a little time to think about it, and the growler drove off.”
“You never saw the man?”
“No. The street was dark and he sat well back in the cab.”
“What about the cabby and the cab number?”
“The cabby’s hat was pulled down and a scarf covered his face. All I could see were his eyes. I tried to make out the cab number as it drove away, but it was covered, too.”
Holmes nodded. “Those would be obvious precautions. What happened after that?”
“I was approached several times in the same way. Each time I told him I would not even consider his offer nor pay him to be able to conduct a legitimate business. And the last time, two nights ago, I told him that if he continued to harass me, I would go to the police. He laughed at this, said I was a stubborn fool and that it was time I was taught a lesson.”
“And today you had a fire.”
“Yes. As I said, I left the note for you before the fire, for I was determined to do something about what was happening. And now I am more determined than ever. The question is, what shall I do?”
“I would do what you told the man in the growler you would do,” said Holmes. “Go to the police.”
“That was what I planned to do originally,” said Walker. “But then I thought … Could I possibly persuade you to take on the case, discover who the man in the growler was?”
Holmes shook his head. “He would not be the principal. He would just be the demander.”
“But if you found out who he was, wouldn’t that lead to the principal, the man who organized the conspiracy?”
“Possibly. But a great deal of evidence would have to be gathered, proving that similar demands had been made on other merchants. That there was, in fact, a conspiracy. And that is a job for the police. I think you should talk to Inspector Gregory about it. If you like, you can say that I suggested it.”
“Very well,” said Walker. “I won’t pretend that I’m not disappointed. I think a great deal more of your capabilities than I do of theirs.”
“In a case like this, you can have full confidence in the police. It’s the kind of thing they handle very effectively.”
“Then I’ll go to see Inspector Gregory,” said Walker. “And I thank you for your advice.”
“Not at all,” said Holmes, rising. “Let me know what he has to say about it.”
“I’ll certainly keep you informed,” said Walker. He opened the door for Holmes and Watson. “You said before that you were interested in my shop. Do you have time to look around now?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Holmes. “I’m expecting someone at our rooms and … Hello.” He picked up a bound orchestral score. “I see you also sell music here.”
“Some. I got this when I bought a musician’s estate. Was there something in particular you wanted?”
“Yes. Bruch’s Second Violin Concerto. I’ve been looking for it for some time.”
“Have you tried Nordener in Covent Garden?”
“I’ve tried every music seller in London. Several of them have the First Concerto but no one has the Second.”
“Well, I know a dealer in Paris who might have it. The next time I go over, I’ll inquire about it for you.”
“I would appreciate that. Thank you.”
“Thank you for your patience and your counsel.” And again Walker opened the door to let them out.
“Then you don’t believe that someone is trying to organize London’s underworld, Holmes?” asked Watson as they walked up the street.
“Someone is always trying to do so. I have no doubt that someone is trying to do so now.”
“Then why wouldn’t you take on the case?”
“Because,” said Holmes testily, “as I told Walker, at the moment it is something the police are quite competent to handle. If a truly dangerous criminal leader should emerge—someone of real intelligence whose vision extends further than extortion and disposing of stolen goods—I shall be glad to match wits with him. Until then, I would rather concentrate on my own kind of case, the ones that are uncommon in some way and therefore intrigue me.”
“Well, obviously you must do as you wish. But it’s clear that Walker was disappointed. I must say that he’s rather an unusual man for a shopkeeper.”
“Very. An Oxford man, either a boxer or a cricketer, gets his clothes at Poole’s and has his hair cut at Trumper’s.”
“Now really, Holmes!”
“I know. All elementary. Poole’s clothes are unmistakable and so is the scent of Trumper’s hair lotion. As for his athletic background, even you must have suspected that from the way he moves.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t—didn’t notice any of the things you mentioned.”
“Oh? After all this time I would have thought you’d be quite skillful at observing things and drawing deductions from them.”
“I believe I am. For that is precisely what I do in medical matters,” said Watson, nettled. “But I see no need to extend it to every aspect of my life—observe and make deductions about everyone I meet or see—as you seem to do.”
“It’s no longer intentional on my part. By now it’s second nature.”
“Is it? Then what can you tell me about that lad? It seems to me that I’ve seen him before.”
They were at their door now, and Holmes glanced at the boy who was coming down the street, his eyes on them.
“So have I. Obviously it’s more difficult to make deductions about someone his age than about a grown man.”
“Obviously,” said Watson dryly.
“All I can tell you is that he is from Cornwall where he was friends with a blacksmith. That he is probably an orphan, staying at a rooming house rather than a hotel with someone who does not care for him very much.”
“What?” Holmes had opened the door and, looking at the boy once more, Watson followed him inside. “I’m sorry, Holmes, but that’s really too much!”
“Not at all. It has been unusually cloudy during these last few weeks but the boy is as tanned as a fisherman. The only place in England
where he could have gotten so much sun is Cornwall. As for the blacksmith, if you had looked at him closely you would have seen several tiny burns on his clothes, the kind you get from sparks if you stand too close to a forge or anvil when iron is being hammered.”
“And the rest?”
“If he had a father or mother or was in London with someone who really cared about him, they would have done something about the condition of his clothes—which were fairly good to begin with. They would also have seen to it that his hair was cut. As for the rooming house, his shoes badly needed brushing and polishing. If he had been staying at a hotel, he would have left them outside the door for the Boots to take care of.”
“Well, of course, there’s no way you can prove any of that.”
“No way at all,” said Holmes cheerfully. “Unless we ask him if we should see him again. But something else is troubling you.”
“Yes. I’ve been thinking about what you said about Walker. If he’s everything you claim, a gentleman, then why is he a shopkeeper?”
“A good question, Watson. A very good question.”
4
Alone in London
Andrew watched the two men go into the house. When he had first seen them coming up the street, it had occurred to him that the taller of the two, the hawkfaced man with the penetrating eyes, might be Mr. Sherlock Holmes. And when they went into number 221B—the house Screamer’s brother had come out of—he was convinced of it. But by that time it was too late.
Too late for what? Troubled and anxious though he was, he did not see how he could have gone up to the famous detective and asked for help or even advice.
Altogether it had been a bad and frightening day. When Andrew woke early that morning, Mr. Dennison was not there and his bed had not been slept in. He had dressed and, though Mrs. Gurney had been a little surprised when she brought up breakfast, she said she didn’t see anything to be alarmed about. When gentlemen came to London, they often stayed out all night. Andrew might have been reassured if he had not felt she said this simply because she had other things on her mind—other lodgers to take care of—and did not want to be burdened with an additional problem. So he had not pursued the matter. However, he had not gone out but had stayed in the room all morning, trying to read one of the books he had brought with him, but spending most of his time looking out of the window.
By lunch time Mrs. Gurney had agreed that it was a little odd for Mr. Dennison to be staying away for so long without any word to Andrew. And when he finally told her about the strange way Mr. Dennison had gone off in the growler, she had looked grave.
“I don’t think anything can be really wrong,” she had said. “After all, this is London. But if he’s not back by four o’clock or so, perhaps you should go to the police.”
Dennison had not come back. And when Andrew had gone downstairs at a little after four and knocked at her door, it was clear that she was concerned. But it was also clear that she did not intend to become too involved in something that might be unpleasant. She told him that there was a police station on Marylebone Road, but she did not offer to go there with him. So he had walked over to Baker Street and started up it—and it was then that he had seen the man he was sure was Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his companion with the military mustache.
Andrew walked slowly on to Marylebone Road, then west to the police station. It was a square, solid, forbidding building, and he stood in front of it for several minutes. He had been awed by the few policemen he had seen since he came to London—their size, their helmets, and the measured way they walked—and he was sure that they would be even more frightening in official surroundings. Not only that, but he suspected that they, like Mrs. Gurney, would find it hard to believe that anything could happen to a grown man in London. He could imagine the exchange that would take place when he went in:
A sergeant looking down at him from the high desk.
“Yes?”
“I want to report someone missing.”
“Oh? And who is that?”
“Well, I suppose you could call him my guardian.”
“You suppose?”
“Well, I’ve been living with him in Cornwall, and I came here to London with him three days ago.”
“But he’s not your legal guardian.”
“No.”
“How long has he been missing?”
“Since last night.”
“I see. That’s not very long, is it?”
As a matter of fact, it really wasn’t very long. And if there was nothing unusual about someone staying out all night, as Mrs. Gurney had said, why shouldn’t Mr. Dennison stay out a while longer, say until supper time? Perhaps he should wait until evening—or even until tomorrow morning before he talked to the police.
Knowing that he was temporizing, finding excuses for not doing something he found difficult, Andrew started back to the rooming house, this time by way of Gloucester Place. He rounded the corner into York Street, then paused. A growler was standing at the curb between him and Mrs. Gurney’s. The cabby had his back to Andrew but there was something familiar about the set of his shoulders, the way his billycock hat was tipped forward. He did not seem to have discharged a fare, and he did not appear to be waiting for one: he was not looking at any of the buildings, he was looking straight ahead towards Baker Street. Suddenly, as if he sensed that someone was watching him, he turned around. It was the cabby with the crooked, broken nose who had driven Mr. Dennison off the night before.
At that moment Andrew knew—knew beyond any doubt—that the menace he had felt when Mr. Dennison got into the growler had not been imaginary. And he also knew that the cabby was now there for him.
With pretended casualness, he turned around and began to walk the other way. Behind him he heard the slap of reins, the creaking rasp of wheels and the sound of a horse’s hoofs and, glancing back, he saw that the cabby had turned the growler and was coming after him. Crossing Gloucester Place, he turned south, then at the next corner went west again. The slow clopping of the horse’s hoofs continued and, looking over his shoulder, he saw that the growler was still following him. Not only that but the cabby was grinning now as he had when he drove off with Mr. Dennison.
Andrew felt his heart pounding. This couldn’t be happening. Someone couldn’t be kidnapped in London in daylight—certainly not here in these respectable residential streets. And all at once it occurred to him that that was why the growler had not drawn any closer to him. The cabby was waiting until they got to a different kind of neighborhood, one that was more deserted.
Looking ahead, Andrew saw a nursemaid pushing a pram and he began walking faster. If he kept close to her, he would be safe. Then, when he was still some distance away, she stopped, picked a baby out of the pram and went down into an areaway.
Andrew paused next to the pram, hearing the growler stop behind him. Should he speak to the nanny, tell her what was happening?
Tell her what? As he tried to think of how he could put it, she came out again—a thin woman in a grey uniform and a nurse’s cap. She looked at him suspiciously, wheeled the pram down into the areaway and went into the house, slamming the iron gate.
The street was deserted now. Behind him Andrew heard the horse’s hoofs as the growler started forward, coming towards him, and suddenly he could no longer pretend. He began walking more and more quickly and suddenly he was running—running as fast as he could.
The character of the neighborhood was changing; the houses were smaller, plainer. Then ahead of him he saw traffic. There was the crack of a whip and the horse behind him broke into a trot. He came out on a wide and busy street lined with shops. Without hesitating, he ran in front of an omnibus, under the nose of a horse pulling a dray, and crossed the street. Looking back, he saw the cabby, no longer grinning, trying to work his way through the stream of traffic.
Dodging pedestrians—clerks wearing bowlers, rough-looking men with caps and women carrying shopping baskets—he turned right, then left again.
Ahead of him was another street, not quite as wide or busy and, on its far side, a row of wooden sheds. He ran across the street, found a narrow opening between two of the sheds and squeezed through.
He came out into a large open space that faced a canal where barges were tied up, nose to stern, like a file of sleeping whales. The front of the nearest shed was piled high with bags of coal. He slipped in behind the bags and sat down.
He was panting, and he had a stitch in his side. He tried to breathe more quietly, listening. He could hear the rumble and clatter of traffic behind the shed but nothing else, no sound of footsteps.
He sat there in the quiet darkness of the shed, trying to think. Had Broken Nose seen where he’d gone? At the moment, it didn’t seem so. But if he hadn’t, how long should he hide there? Certainly for a while.
He moved back until he could lean against the wall. Along with the traffic he heard another sound, oddly discordant, that reminded him of Cornwall. He suddenly realized it was the crying of gulls. Of course. There would be gulls here at the canal basin. Somehow he found that comforting and he began to relax. His eyes closed.
Sitting up with a start, he realized he must have fallen asleep—he did not know for how long. He got up slowly, stiffly, and edged his way past the bags of coal. It had been dark in the shed and now he saw that it was dark outside too, the only light coming from a watchman’s shed near the water’s edge.
Now what? Should he go back to York Street or to the police? Perhaps now if he told Mrs. Gurney what had happened, she would come to the police station with him. It was worth trying. But first he would have to find his way back to the rooming house.
He squeezed his way between the sheds out to the street. The gaslights were lit now but the street was almost deserted. To his left, he could see a wider street, the one he had crossed before. Traffic was still moving there—he saw a carriage and two hansoms go by—and he started toward it.
He paused when he reached the corner. Farther up the street were some costermongers, selling fruit and vegetables from barrows lit by naptha flares. As he looked at them a voice behind him said, “I thought you might come back this way, Master Andrew.”
The Case of the Baker Street Irregular (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 1) Page 4
