“Good evening, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. Come in.”
“I’m afraid we’re rather late,” said Holmes. “Weren’t you closing up?”
“We needn’t close on the dot of six. You were away, weren’t you?”
“Yes. In Paris. I just got back this morning.”
“That’s a bit sooner than you thought. I trust your trip was successful.”
“Not very. I saw your friend, Hassler, and he didn’t have the Bruch concerto but promised to hunt for it for me. As for my case, I had to return here to get some more information, and I’ll be going back to Paris again tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? Well, I hope that this time you accomplish what you set out to do.”
“So do I. The reason I stopped by—and I apologize for trespassing on your good nature—was to ask your opinion about this.” And he took a small package out of his pocket and gave it to Walker.
Walker unwrapped it and held it up to the light.
“A Fabergé snuff box,” he said. “And an extremely nice one.”
“It is Fabergé?”
“There’s no question about it. Where did you get it?”
“In a little shop off the Rue de Seine. They had three of them. I bought one and thought—if you were sure it was authentic—that when I got back there I’d buy the other two.”
“It’s certainly authentic. If you paid less than ten pounds for it, you did well.”
“I paid considerably less than that.”
“Then I congratulate you. If you do buy the other two and want to dispose of one or both of them, I’d be happy to buy them from you.”
“I might very well consider that,” said Holmes, taking back the snuff box. “Thank you very much. I hope you didn’t mind my consulting you this way.”
“Not at all. I was delighted to be of help. You’re definitely leaving tomorrow?”
“Yes. On the noon train to Dover.”
“Well, I hope you have a pleasant trip. In any case,” he looked out the window at the fog that was beginning to dim the street lights, “you’ll be lucky to be away for the next few days. I suspect we’re in for a London particular.”
13
Footsteps in the Fog
Walker was right. During the night the fog settled down on the city like a pall. As it mixed with the smoke from the factories and the thousands of coal fires in private homes, it became the special kind of fog known as a London particular; so dense, yellow, and impenetrable that it slowed traffic to a crawl and so acrid that it made the eyes smart.
Andrew and Screamer had gone to Madame Tussaud’s Waxwork Museum early in the afternoon and had spent several hours there. Screamer had taken Andrew’s hand in the Chamber of Horrors, frightened but fascinated as he explained how the guillotine worked and why Charlotte Corday was stabbing Marat in his bath. Walking slowly through the enormous, mirrored rooms, staring at the effigies of the great and near-great, they had forgotten the world outside, and it was only when they prepared to leave that they realized they could barely see Marylebone Road through the glass panels of the doors.
Screamer looked back at the nearest of the rooms where the queen and Albert stood, lifelike but forever still, surrounded by their children and said, “Do we have to go?”
“It’s late, and it’s going to take a while to walk home,” said Andrew.
“Mum won’t care. Not if I’m with you. But all right.”
They pushed open the door, went out into the fog, and moved cautiously to the nearest traffic island. The gaslights in the iron standards had been lit, but they only glowed faintly, high overhead like dim, sick moons. Since Andrew and Screamer could not see more than six or eight feet through the murk, they listened intently before they hurried across the street. Then, hugging the buildings, they went west toward Baker Street. As they reached the corner, they heard the slow clop of hoofs, and a hansom came up Baker Street, turned into Marlebone Road, and stopped. A man carrying a bag got out and paid the driver. The hansom moved off again, and the man put down the bag and remained standing there; a tall man wearing a soft felt hat and a long travelling coat.
“What is it?” asked Screamer as Andrew stared at him.
He did not answer but moved closer to the corner, peering through the fog. He suddenly realized it was the fair man in the tweed suit they had seen in Holmes’s rooms the day before.
Screamer recognized him at the same time.
“Isn’t that …?”
“Yes, the man who was leaving when we got to Mr. Holmes’s.”
“So he’s going somewhere,” she whispered. “What of it?”
“Travelling, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did he get out of the hansom? Why is he standing there?”
“I dunno.”
“Let’s wait a minute and see.”
“All right.”
She moved closer to him, and they stood there, watching the dimly seen figure. The man paced up and down, looking down Baker Street and up Marylebone Road but never moving far from the bag. Again there was the sound of hoofs, and the man picked up the bag and moved to the curb. A four-wheeler came down Marylebone Road and, seeing him, the cabby drew up.
“Cab, sir?”
The man shook his head and, shrugging, the driver clucked to his horse and went on. Andrew frowned. There was something odd about the whole thing; not merely the fact that the man had gotten out of a hansom when he apparently still wanted a cab, but something else. And suddenly he realized what it was. The man had not been looking at the cabby when he shook his head but down at the horse’s hoofs.
“I’m getting cold,” said Screamer.
“I know. But something funny’s going on.”
“What?”
He pressed her hand in warning as another four-wheeler came up Baker Street, turned right into Marylebone Road and stopped. Again the man stepped forward, looking down. Then he picked up the bag and moved toward the growler. Andrew edged around the corner, peering down also. This horse had a white bandage wrapped around its right front fetlock. The driver, billycock hat tipped forward, face wrapped in a scarf, sat there stolidly, looking straight ahead. He said nothing to the man, and the man said nothing to him. He just opened the door of the four-wheeler and got in. It was only when the door closed that the driver turned his head slightly—and when he did, Andrew gasped. It was the cabby with the broken nose.
“Now what?” asked Screamer.
“That’s the cabby I told you about. The one who took Mr. Dennison away and chased me.” Then, as the cabby shook the reins and the growler moved off, “Look, you go home. I’ll meet you there later.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to follow him.”
“Why?”
“Because the man with the bag is a friend of Mr. Holmes. I want to see where the cabby’s taking him.”
“I’m coming too.”
“Screamer, please …” The growler had disappeared into the fog. He could still hear the sound of the horse’s hoofs, but in another minute it might be gone. “All right. On one condition. That you do just what I say. Will you?”
“Yes.”
Hand in hand they went around the corner, hurrying along Marylebone Road after the four-wheeler. Now, for the first time, Andrew was thankful for the fog. It not only hid their movements but kept the growler to a walking pace so that they were able to catch it and keep up with it. The driver had not lit his lamps but they could make out the square, swaying shape as it rolled slowly through the thick, yellow obscurity. After a few minutes the growler turned right.
“Where are we?” asked Andrew.
Screamer squinted, trying to identify some landmark through the fog.
“I think … Portland Place.”
They turned right also, walking close to the curb on the opposite side of the street from the growler. There was almost no one about, though once they nearly bumped into a man who loomed up suddenly out of the misty darkness.
And when they went past the Hotel Langham where they had watched the actress Verna Tillett arrive, they saw a hansom waiting at the cab rank, the driver hunched disconsolately in his box.
On they went, the cold dampness of the fog chilling them, its foul taste in their mouths. The growler crossed Oxford Street, turned east and went by Hengler’s Circus on Great Marlborough Street. They were now on the same side of the street as the growler, walking about twenty feet behind it. The fog muffled all sounds, making their footsteps almost inaudible, but even so, the cabby turned his head occasionally, looking back and seeming to listen and, when he did, they stopped and then went on again.
They went throgh Soho, around Soho Square, and came out into St. Giles Circus. Now the four-wheeler went north, and when it turned into Great Russell Street, Andrew suddenly knew where it was going. He touched Screamer’s arm, leaned close to her.
“Be very quiet, very careful now,” he whispered.
She nodded. As he had expected, the growler turned right, going south. About a hundred yards down the narrow street was the alley that led to the abandoned warehouse in which Holmes had been so interested.
Keeping his hand on Screamer’s arm, Andrew went more slowly, expecting the growler to stop. But, though it slowed up also, it did not. Then, when it was a short distance past the entrance to the alley, a man stepped out of a doorway, waved to the cabby, and then retreated to the doorway again. The cabby waved back, and the four-wheeler went on, turning right on New Oxford Street.
Andrew stopped dead, thinking hard. He was still convinced that the growler’s destination was the old warehouse. But if it was, why had it gone on? There could only be one reason. Someone wanted to make sure that it wasn’t being followed. The cabby would make a circuit, going round by way of St. Giles Circus and then returning again. In the meantime, the man in the doorway would be watching to see if anyone was following. It would take at least five minutes for the growler to go round and come back again. And, since it was unlikely that there was anyone else in the warehouse—Holmes and Andrew had only seen Broken Nose and the well-dressed young man go in there—this would give Andrew a chance to do something that Holmes had not been able to do; go in and look around.
He leaned close to Screamer again and whispered, “You said if I let you come with me you’d do just what I told you to do.”
She nodded.
“All right. Then go back to Baker Street and tell Mr. Holmes what happened. That the cabby he and I followed to the old warehouse picked up the man who was in his rooms yesterday and is taking him to the warehouse.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“I’m going in there for a minute to look around, then I’ll come out here again and wait.”
“No!” she said. “You can’t.…”
“It’s important!” he said angrily. “And you promised! Now go ahead!” And he turned her around and pushed her.
She looked at him over her shoulder, her eyes wide and frightened, then went pattering off toward Great Russell Street.
His heart thumping unevenly, Andrew peered through the fog. The man—and he was convinced it was the young, well-dressed man that he and Holmes had followed from the gin shop—was still in the doorway on the far side of the alley.
Andrew moved quickly but quietly to the mouth of the alley and went down it to the door of the warehouse. He tried the knob. The door was not locked. He pushed it open and went in. He found himself in a long, narrow corridor, dimly lit at its far end. A faint light also showed under a door to the left. He started down the corridor, then paused. Someone behind the closed door had groaned. Bending down, he looked through the keyhole.
From what he could see, the room was small and had probably been the warehouse office. A candle burned on a plain wooden table, and on the far side of the room was a cot. That was all he saw at first. Then he heard another groan and twisting sideways and looking to his left, he stiffened. There, handcuffed to a chair, was Mr. Dennison!
Andrew straightened up. Then, without thinking, he opened the door. Hearing it open, Dennison turned and stared at him. His hair was unkempt, he was unshaven and his face was thin and pale.
“Andrew!” he croaked. Then frowning uncertainly at Andrew’s cropped head and badly fitting clothes, “Is it you?”
Andrew nodded.
“What are you doing here? How did you get here?”
“I followed a cabby. The one who took you away that night.”
“Oh.” The look of bewilderment remained, but a faint light appeared in his lacklustre eyes. “I behaved very badly toward you—I know that now—and what I wanted to do was even worse, but … will you help me?”
Mutely, Andrew nodded again.
“Then go and get a policeman—go quickly!—and bring him back here.”
As Andrew turned, the outside door opened, there were quick, light footsteps along the corridor, and Screamer came into the room.
“Screamer!” he said. “I told you …”
“I know. And I started to go. But when I got to the corner I remembered something Sam said this morning. Mr. Holmes ain’t here. He’s gone to Paris.”
14
The Man in the Dark
Andrew stared at her. He had been out, doing some marketing for Mrs. Wiggins when Sam had come back from Baker Street. But if Screamer said Holmes was away, he was.
“Holmes?” said Dennison. “What’s he got to do with this?
Before Andrew could answer, there were footsteps on the cobbles of the alley outside.
“They’re coming!” groaned Dennison. “Shut the door!”
Screamer, who was closest to it, pushed it closed.
Dennison looked around frantically. Except for the cot, the table and the chair to which he was handcuffed, the room was bare.
“The cot!” he said. “Hide under the cot. And if by some miracle you get away, call the police!”
Pushing Screamer ahead of him, Andrew ran across the room, and they both crawled under the cot. Reaching out, Andrew pulled down the blanket so that it hung over the edge of the cot, concealing them.
The warehouse door opened. There were footsteps in the corridor. They paused opposite the door, then went on again. Nearer at hand there was a dragging, scraping sound and, peering around the edge of the blanket, Andrew saw that Dennison was pushing the chair across the room so that it was as far from the cot as possible.
The outside door opened again. There were more footsteps in the corridor, and now the door of the small room opened.
“All right, Barney,” said a voice. “Take the bracelets off him.”
Again Andrew looked around the edge of the blanket. The slim, well-dressed young man from the gin shop stood in the doorway, a revolver in his hand. With him was the broken-nosed cabby. The cabby went over to Dennison, took out a key and unlocked the handcuffs, then lifted him to his feet.
“This way, Mr. Dennison,” said the young man. Then, as he swayed unsteadily, “Having trouble walking?” He clicked his tongue in mock sympathy. “Help him, Barney.”
Taking him by the arm, the cabby led him to the door. Gun ready, the young man watched him. Then the three of them disappeared up the corridor that led toward the interior of the warehouse.
Screamer, lying next to the wall, pulled at Andrew’s jacket, and he crawled out from under the cot and helped her out. They tiptoed to the door. Andrew looked down the corridor. There was no sign of Dennison or the two men.
Again Screamer pulled at his jacket, nodding toward the outside door. Dennison had told them to escape if they could and get the police. Andrew had never been particularly fond of Dennison, but he had saved them just now and Andrew had a feeling that if anything was going to happen to him, it would happen before the police got there.
He leaned close to Screamer, whispered, “You go get the police. I’m going in there.”
“No!”
“Yes!” he said, trying to push her toward the door. He felt her brace herself, re
sisting, knew there was no time to argue with her and gave up. He started down the corridor toward the interior of the warehouse with Screamer following close behind him.
At the end of the corridor was a large crate, and he got behind it, peering around its edge. The interior of the warehouse was enormous, cavernous. On a barrel in the center of it was an oil lamp. And standing in the circle of light that surrounded the lamp, bag in hand, was the man they had seen in Holmes’s room and followed there.
“Do you have the money, Lytell?” asked a voice from somewhere in the darkness. It was not the voice of the slim young man. It was another voice, cultivated and authoritative.
Lytell nodded and held up the bag.
“Go get it, Barney,” said the voice from the darkness.
Barney advanced into the lamp light, took the bag and opened it.
“All cummifo?”
“Seems to be,” said Barney.
“Very good.”
“What about the paintings?” asked Lytell.
“Ah, yes. The paintings. There’s something I must do before we get to them. Sebastian, we’re ready for Mr. Dennison now.”
Sebastian, the slim, well dressed young man, appeared out of the darkness. He was holding Dennison’s arm with one hand. In the other was the revolver.
“Dennison, I have you covered,” said the voice. “A false move, and you’re a dead man. Do you understand?”
Shaking, his drawn and unshaven face paler than ever, Dennison nodded.
“Good. Sebastian, give him your barker.”
Releasing Dennison but standing close to him and watching him carefully, Sebastian handed him the revolver. Dennison looked down at it, then started to turn around.
“No,” said the voice from the darkness. “Don’t turn around. You see the man in front of you?”
Dennison nodded.
“His name is Adam Lytell. You will now shoot him.”
“What?” Dennison stiffened. “No!”
He tried to drop the gun, but Barney was at his right side now and clutched his hand, holding his fingers around the butt of the revolver.
“Perhaps you’d better help him, Barney.”
The Case of the Baker Street Irregular (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 1) Page 12
