“This way,” he said. “Quickly.”
They walked north, away from St. Giles. Then, when they heard the warehouse door open and close, they turned around and walked back as if they were returning to the rookery. Broken Nose was just coming out of the passage when they reached it. He looked at them sharply, and turned right.
Ben took a watch from his pocket, pressed a button, and it chimed softly nine times, then three more times.
“Quarter of ten,” he said. “We may be able to make it. Let’s find a cab.”
They went west. A hansom was standing in front of the Oxford Music Hall at St. Giles Circus, and Ben hailed it.
“The General Post Office,” he said.
“It closes at ten,” said the cabby.
“I know. You’ve ten minutes to make it, and there’s ten bob for yourself if you do.”
“Get in,” said the cabby.
They got in. The cabby cracked his whip, and they were off. Andrew had wanted to ride in a hansom ever since he came to London, and he settled back to enjoy it. Lighter and more maneuverable than a growler, the hansom travelled more quickly, rocking and swaying but running smoothly on it’s rubber-tired wheels. Urged on by the cabby, the horse moved on at a steady trot, sometimes breaking into a gallop. They went along High Holborn, over the Holborn Viaduct and up Newgate Street where they turned left and stopped in front of an imposing building.
“Did it,” said the cabby.
“Good man,” said Ben.
He paid him, and the cabby touched his billycock hat with his whip. They hurried to the door of the Post Office.
“Hold this and wait here,” said Ben, giving Andrew his fiddle. “I won’t be long.”
Tapping with his stick, he went in alone and over to the telegraph window. He came out in a few minutes, smiling quietly and more relaxed than Andrew had ever seen him.
“It’s a long walk back,” he said. “Let’s take a bus.”
They hailed one on the corner of Newgate Street, climbed to the top deck and rode back the way they had come.
“Are we going out again?” asked Andrew when they were once more in the bare, drafty room.
“No,” said Ben. “Are you tired?”
“A little.”
“Well, it’s been a long day. But you’ll have a chance to rest up now. Tomorrow you can go back to the Wigginses.”
“Go back?”
“Yes. I won’t be needing you anymore. At least, not to lead me.”
“Oh,” said Andrew, disappointed. “Then I won’t be seeing you again?”
Ben turned toward him.
“I wouldn’t say that. Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” Andrew did not answer. “I suspect that one way or another we will see one another. We’ll talk about it in the morning. But it’s late and you’d better go to sleep now.”
They took the blankets from under the floor boards, and Andrew stretched out on the mattress and covered himself.
“Goodnight, Andrew,” said Ben.
“Goodnight, Mr. Holmes,” said Andrew.
Ben stiffened.
“What did you say?” he asked.
“I’m sorry. I meant … goodnight, Ben.”
“But you said Mr. Holmes.”
“Yes.”
“So you guessed who I was.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Well, Sam said the job he knew about didn’t have anything to do with you, but I wondered—I guess because I wanted it to have something to do with you. And it seemed to me that if you were in disguise you wouldn’t be able to have Sam or one of the regular Irregulars with you because too many people know them.”
“That’s why I asked Sam if he knew of anyone else. But there must have been more to it than that.”
“There was the way you acted, some of the things you did.”
“For instance?”
“Well, you were always so sure of yourself, knew just what you were doing. But I guess the most important thing was the way you smiled the two times we saw the man with the mustache in front of your house on Baker Street.”
“My friend, Dr. Watson. Sam said you were bright, Andrew, and you are. What’s more, you’re observant. But what about my eyes?”
“That’s the one thing I couldn’t understand. But I decided it must be some kind of a trick.”
“There’s more to evidence than there appears to be,” said Holmes, nodding. “There are subjective factors that can outweigh the objective ones. You’ve got the makings of a good detective, Andrew. As for the trick … here.”
Pulling carefully and delicately at one of his blank, blind eyes, he removed it and held it out to Andrew.
“I had it made out of gutta percha,” he said. “The inner part fits between the cornea and the eyelids. The outer part covers my eyes. And there’s a tiny, almost invisible hole in it so I can see—not well—but a little.”
“I never would have known it.”
“I hope no one else did. I don’t think anyone did—not even Watson. Yes, you’re quite an unusual boy, Andrew. And since we’ve at least one piece of unfinished business, you certainly will be seeing me again.”
11
The Bomb Squad
Mr. Victor Lucas, manager of Christie and Manson’s Auction Rooms, was having a busy morning. Besides the sale that was to take place that afternoon—an extensive and complicated one—he was also supervising the hanging of an exhibition of paintings that were to go on the block in two days. And since the paintings included four very important ones that were being sold for the new Lord Lowther, he was being particularly careful about their arrangement.
Deciding that the Lowther paintings should go on the large wall opposite the window, with the Reynolds and the Constable in the center, he gave the necessary orders and went out to the entrance hall. Two porters in their long, striped aprons were standing there looking at a large crate.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Don’t know, sir,” said one of the porters. “Two delivery men just brought it in.”
“But they shouldn’t have brought it in here. Why didn’t they take it to the service entrance?”
“I told them to,” said the porter. “But they just made some unpleasant remarks, put it down and left.”
“I wish you’d called me,” said Mr. Lucas, irritated. “I’d have had something unpleasant to say to them. I’m sick of people not doing what they’re supposed to.”
He examined the label on the crate. It had been shipped to Christie and Manson’ by D. B. Cox of Redcliffe Crescent, Bristol.
“Cox,” he said. “I remember. Rugs and tapestries sent here for appraisal and possible sale. Take it down to the store room, and I’ll have it opened later.”
“Yes, Mr. Lucas,” said the porter.
He and his mate advanced on the crate and were preparing to lift it when the door opened and a stocky, aggressive looking man in a bowler strode in followed by two policemen.
“Where will I find the manager?” he asked brusquely.
“I’m the manager,” said Lucas rather stiffly.
“Name?”
“Victor Lucas.”
“I’m Inspector Leggett of the Bomb Squad.”
“Bomb Squad?”
“Yes. Scotland Yard. We’ve just received confidential but reliable information that an attempt may be made to bomb your establishment sometime today.”
“What? You’re not serious, Inspector!”
Leggett looked at him coldly. “I don’t have the time, nor is it my habit, to indulge in practical jokes. I assume you read the papers.”
“You’re referring to the bombing in Pall Mall the day before yesterday?”
“And to the one in the Baker Street Underground. And to attempts you don’t know about.”
Lucas looked around anxiously. “But what do we do about it? We’re holding an auction this afternoon.”
“You may have to call it off
. But first we’ll search the premises.”
He jerked his head and the two policemen approached.
“Start at the bottom,” he said. “Cellar, store rooms, and work your way up. I’ll cover this floor here.”
As the policemen saluted and started to move off, Leggett glanced at the crate.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“It just arrived,” said Lucas. “Rugs and tapestries, I believe.”
Leggett bent down to read the address on the label, then stiffened and leaned closer to the crate.
“Come here and listen,” he said to Lucas.
Nervously the manager bent down also, pressing his ear to the crate. From somewhere deep inside it he heard a quiet but ominous ticking.
“Oh, no!” he said. “You don’t mean …?”
“Out!” ordered Leggett. “Everyone out! Clear the building!”
“But …”
“I said, out! Jones,” he said to one of the two policemen, “get those people out!” He nodded toward the exhibition room where two of Mr. Lucas’s assistants were looking out at him anxiously. “Simmons, clear the rest of the building!”
As the policemen moved off, the assistants joined Mr. Lucas, and all three of them hurried out into King Street. In front of the door was a solidly built wooden van covered with steel mesh. Bold red letters on its side said: DANGER, BOMB DISPOSAL UNIT. The uniformed driver, a heavyset man with a crooked nose, looked down at them impassively, then glanced at the open door.
The rest of Mr. Lucas’s staff began coming out of the building: auctioneers and clerks, appraisers, porters, carpenters. They stood in a hushed group around the manager, watching the open door like the driver of the van.
Then Leggett appeared. The two policemen were behind him, carrying the crate.
“Open up, Barney,” called Leggett.
The driver jumped down from the box, went around to the rear of the van and opened the door.
“Careful now,” said Leggett as the policemen came down the steps with the crate. Then to Lucas, “We’re not going to try and open it here. We’re taking it to the proving grounds.”
The two policemen eased the crate into the rear of the van, closed and locked the door, then climbed up to the high front seat where they were joined by the driver and Leggett.
“I assume you’ll let me know …” began Lucas.
Leggett nodded grimly.
“All right, Barney,” he said. “Drive like the devil!”
The driver cracked his whip, the horses broke into a trot, and the van rumbled off up King Street, turned left on Duke Street.
A sigh went up from the crowd in front of the auction rooms.
“I must say, you have to be pretty brave to do that sort of thing,” said one of Mr. Lucas’s assistants.
“Brave?” said the other. “You wouldn’t catch me doing it for a thousand pounds!”
“All right, all right. Back inside all of you,” said Mr. Lucas impatiently. “We’ve got work to do.”
It was shortly after this that Dr. Watson heard a hansom stop in front of 221B. Looking out, he saw Holmes paying the driver. He went to the door and had it open as Holmes came up the stairs carrying his bag.
“It’s good to see you, Holmes,” he said, shaking his hand. “I had no idea when you were coming back.”
“Neither had I,” said Holmes.
“How was Paris?”
“I suspect much as it always was.”
“You suspect?” He studied his friend. “Was your trip successful?”
“I don’t know yet. Has Inspector Gregory been here?”
“No.”
Holmes glanced at his watch.
“It’s still early. He should be here in an hour or so. How have you been, Watson?”
“Well enough. Have you had lunch?”
“No. And I’m famished.”
“Why don’t I ring and tell Mrs. Hudson …”
“Just a second.” Holmes opened his bag. “I have something for you.”
“A present?”
“You might call it that. Here.” And he handed Watson a stethoscope.
“Holmes, this is truly remarkable!”
“How so?”
“I lost my old stethoscope two days ago—I’m not sure where or how. And for you to have gotten me another …” He broke off. “But this is my old one!”
“Yes.”
“Where did you get it?”
“From you,” said Holmes, smiling.
“What?”
“But …” Watson’s eyes widened. “The blind Irish fiddler who bumped into me, knocked off my hat …”
“Yes, Watson. One of my better disguises. I needed the stethoscope, hoped you wouldn’t mind my borrowing it for a day or so.”
“Then you never went to Paris?”
“No. It was important that I pretend I had, but I was here the whole time.”
“But …”
“I really am famished, Watson. I’ve been living on food that was barely edible since I left here. Let’s have Mrs. Hudson up, order a really special lunch, and when Gregory gets here, I’ll explain.”
They had finished lunch, a quite lavish one, and Holmes was filling his pipe when Gregory arrived.
“I got your telegram, Holmes,” he said. “How was your trip?”
“Interesting. How have things been here?”
“Fairly quiet.”
“No more bombings?”
“There was one—not very serious—in Pall Mall the other day.”
“Yes, I know about that. Nothing else? Nothing strange or unusual happened today?”
“Now that you mention it, there was something. I planned to look into it later on. Just before I left the Yard, we got a note from a Mr. Lucas, manager of Christie and Manson’s, thanking us for our prompt and courageous action in removing a bomb from their premises.”
“Removing a bomb?”
“Yes. Which puzzled us a bit. Because, while we do have a bomb squad, they had not been there.”
“I see. Any more details in his note?”
“No. Except that he wanted to know if we felt it was safe for them to go ahead with their plans for an important sale they were holding the day after tomorrow.”
“If I’m not mistaken, that’s the one at which Lytell’s paintings will be put up.”
“Lytell?”
“The new Lord Lowther. That’s very interesting.” Getting up, Holmes walked to the window and stood there for a moment puffing on his pipe. “Have there been any strange deaths or disappearances since I went away?”
“Just the usual ones. Nothing particularly strange.”
“Any that involved an artist?”
“What?” Gregory looked at him in surprise. “There was one. Nothing to do with my branch, though I believe the Arson Squad is looking into it. There was a bad fire in Chelsea, and a painter named Follette was burned to death in his studio.”
“Oh?” Holmes turned from the window. “You said you were planning to go to Christie and Manson’s?”
“I thought I might stop by and talk to this Mr. Lucas.”
“I think you should, Gregory. I want to tallk to someone myself and send a telegram, but Watson and I will meet you at Christie’s at four o’clock.”
Holmes glanced at his companion as they got out of the hansom on King Street.
“You’ve been unusually quiet, Watson,” he said.
“Puzzled would be more accurate. I don’t understand any of this.”
“I’m not surprised. But be patient. Once I’ve made certain of one or two things, I’ll be glad to explain. After all,” he smiled a faintly ironic smile, “it would be very shortsighted of me to keep my Boswell in the dark.”
“It always seemed to me that Johnson was more appreciative of Boswell’s efforts than you’ve been of mine. However …” He broke off as a tall man in tweeds rounded the corner and came toward them. “Isn’t that your friend, Lytell?”
“Yes.
I asked him to meet us here. You’re very prompt,” he said as Lytell reached them.
“A habit I find hard to break,” said Lytell, shaking hands with him and nodding to Watson. “Besides I was curious as to why you wanted me to meet you here of all places.”
“Let’s go in and perhaps I can satisfy your curiosity.”
Inspector Gregory was in the entrance hall talking to a worried looking man in a frock coat.
“Ah, there you are, Holmes,” he said. “May I introduce Mr. Lucas, manager of Christie’s?”
“Mr. Lucas,” said Holmes. “I believe you know Lord Lowther.”
“Indeed, yes,” said Lucas, bowing. “My lord.”
“And this is my friend, Dr. Watson. Lytell, this is Inspector Gregory of Scotland Yard.”
“This gets more and more interesting,” said Lytell. “Am I to surmise that you brought me here on a police matter?”
“I suspect it may be,” said Holmes. “Mr. Lucas, would you tell us exactly what happened this morning when the men from the bomb squad came here?”
“Why, yes, Mr. Holmes.”
When he was finished, Holmes nodded.
“Where were Lord Lowther’s paintings at the time?” he asked.
“Leaning against the wall there. I had had them brought up from the store room, left them there while I decided where to hang them.”
“And where are they now?”
“In here.”
He led the way into the exhibition room, pointed to four paintings in the center of the wall opposite the window.
“Those are, in fact, your paintings, Lytell?” asked Holmes.
Lytell glanced at them.
“Yes.”
“There’s no question about it?”
With a puzzled frown, Lytell looked at him, then approached the paintings and examined each in turn.
“No. None. Why should there be?”
“We’re none of us perfect. I could be mistaken,” said Holmes. “But …” He turned as a dapper man wearing pince-nez came in. “Ah, Mr. Wilson.”
“I’m afraid I’m a bit late, Mr. Holmes,” said the man with the pince-nez. “Sorry.”
The Case of the Baker Street Irregular (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 1) Page 10
