The Case of the Baker Street Irregular (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 1)

by Robert Newman

  Spreading his legs and holding Dennison’s right hand in both of his, Barney began forcing it upward. Dennison struggled, twisted and pulled, but Sebastian had him by the left arm, and he was no match for the two men.

  Lytell had not moved. Though the color had left his face, he stood there calmly, his eyes on Dennison. Barney had forced Dennison’s hand up so that the revolver was now pointing at Lytell’s chest. Then, as he slipped his finger through the guard, prepared to pull the trigger, Screamer screamed—screamed even more loudly, shrilly, and piercingly than she had before.

  Andrew, standing next to her, jumped. Barney’s hand jerked up, and the gun went off, the bullet missing Lytell and thudding into the distant wall. Then, as all of them—Lytell, Dennison, Sebastian and Barney—turned to stare at the crate, the outside door of the warehouse crashed open and running footsteps came down the corridor.

  “Quick, Barney! Do him!” said the voice from the darkness.

  With an oath, Barney tore the gun from Dennison’s hand, brought it down on his head. As Dennison fell to the ground, he turned and raised the gun again. When they had hidden behind the crate, Andrew had noticed that someone had left a heavy china mug on it. Now, hardly aware of what he was doing, he picked it up and threw it as hard as he could. It struck Barney in the back of the head, and again the gun went off harmlessly.

  Then three men with guns in their hands ran past Screamer and Andrew: Holmes, Watson, and a large, leonine man wearing a bowler.

  “Don’t move, anyone!” said Holmes sharply. “The warehouse is surrounded!”

  A shot rang out from the darkness, the bullet passing so close to Holmes that he winced. Whirling, he fired back. There was a groan and a gun clattered to the floor.

  “You’d better take care of him, Gregory,” said Holmes. “He’s the man you really want—the brains behind every major crime in London during the last year or so.” Then, turning to Lytell, “Are you all right?”

  “Just barely,” said Lytell, forcing a smile. “If it hadn’t been for someone who screamed and someone who threw a mug at our broken-nosed friend here …” He looked at Screamer and Andrew who hand come out from behind the crate. “I seem to have seen these two young people before.”

  “Yes,” said Holmes. “I’m not sure what they’re doing here myself. We’ll get to that—and the reason we were delayed—later on. But first …”

  He broke off as Inspector Gregory returned to the circle of lamp light holding a tall man with a neatly trimmed beard by the arm. The man was clutching his right hand, which was bleeding.

  “Lytell,” said Holmes, “I don’t believe you know Mr. Jonathan Walker, do you?”

  “I don’t believe I do,” said Lytell.

  “Look at him again more closely,” said Holmes. Then as Lytell started, “Now do you recognize him?”

  “Yes,” said Lytell. “It’s my brother, Roger!”

  15

  Explanation

  “Thank you,” said Lytell. “I could use one.”

  He watched as Holmes poured the whiskey, added a splash of soda from the gasogene and gave it to him. He waited till Holmes had fixed drinks for himself and Watson, then raised his glass.

  “To you, Holmes,” he said. “And to the extraordinary talents that brought me here safely.”

  “I probably shouldn’t drink to that,” said Holmes. “But I will.”

  They had come back to Baker Street after leaving the warehouse and were now sitting around a fire that was particularly welcome after the damp chill of the fog outside.

  “I promised you an explanation,” said Holmes, sipping his drink and then setting it down. “But first I’d like to apologize for our delay in breaking into the warehouse. As you probably gathered, I had alerted Gregory, had you watched, and was ready to move when you drew the money from the bank.”

  “I suspected as much,” said Lytell. “And also that the fog had complicated things a bit.”

  “Not too much,” said Holmes. “I knew about the warehouse and was fairly sure that’s where you would be taken. I had foreseen that they would have someone waiting outside to make sure you would not be followed. But what I did not foresee was that they would lock the warehouse door when they went in after you. If I had, I would have provided myself with a key. But, as it was, I had to pick the lock, which took two or three minutes.”

  “A bad two or three minutes, I must confess,” said Lytell. “But when did you guess that my brother was behind what happened?”

  “I suspected it the first time you came here to see me. It was fairly clear to me that the reason you acted so strangely at the Empire Club was that you had been drugged.”

  “Drugged?”

  “Yes. With peyote, a cactus button, which is a drug used by Mexican and American Indian medicine men to cause hallucinations.”

  “That’s true,” said Watson. “You mentioned it to me.”

  “But why?” asked Lytell.

  “Surely that’s obvious now,” said Holmes. “You were the oldest son, the heir to the title and the estate. Your father already had serious reservations about you because of your politics. And your brother, Roger, evidently thought that if you acted sufficiently outrageously—even though he was not in good favor himself—your father would disinherit you, and the estate would come to him.”

  “That never occurred to me,” said Lytell. “Certainly not that Roger was responsible—possibly because I thought he was in the United States.”

  “It was the only logical explanation,” said Holmes. “And it prompted me to do some investigating. What do you know of your brother’s activities after he was sent down from Oxford?”

  “Very little. Mother died shortly after he was born, and there was just enough difference in our ages—four years—so that we were never close. I had left Harrow by the time he went there. And the same was true of Oxford. As a matter of fact, I was never sure why he was sent down.”

  “Your father was able to hush it up, but he was expelled for cheating at cards. And then what?”

  “As far as I know, he went to the United States.”

  Holmes shook his head. “He was supposed to, but he did not go to the United States until about two years after that. He stayed in London and, since your father had cut his allowance to a bare minimum, he began a career of minor crime along with a man who had been involved with him, in the cheating scandal at Oxford: a man named Dennison.”

  “The man he wanted to shoot me?”

  “Yes. As I said, their crimes were minor to begin with. When they attempted a major one—a robbery—they were caught. Dennison gave evidence against your brother and got off, but your brother went to jail for a year.”

  “How is it I never knew that?”

  “Again your father used his influence to protect the family name. Your brother had been using an alias, and your father saw to it that he was tried and sent to jail under his assumed name.”

  “Then he never went to America at all?”

  “Yes, he did. When he got out of jail I suspect he had a meeting with your father, promised to go to the United States and stay there if he were given a sizeable amount of money. Your father probably agreed. In any case, he went to New York, but he didn’t remain there. He stayed long enough to grow a beard, dye his hair and generally change his appearance as much as he could. Then, having established an address in New York and having arranged for someone to receive and forward his mail, he returned to London as Jonathan Walker.”

  “Was this the address I sent the cable to, telling him I was planning to sell the pictures?”

  “Probably. Where did you get it?”

  “From father’s solicitor after father died. For some time before that father had said he didn’t know where to reach Roger.”

  “Knowing what he did about Roger, he was probably trying to protect you, keep you from getting in touch with him.”

  “But why did he come back?”

  “Because a cash settlement—and possibly a
regular remittance—wasn’t enough for him. He wanted much more than that. And, while he was in jail, he had worked out a means of getting it.”

  “While he was in jail?”

  Holmes nodded. “While there he met a man named Jerry Wragge, a well known putter-up, or organizer, of criminal activities. He learned from Wragge that one of the key elements in organized crime was the fence, or receiver, of stolen property. He arranged with Wragge to take over this role. When he came back to London, he did precisely that. With the money he had gotten from your father and additional money he got from Wragge, he bought the warehouse and also opened his shop on Baker Street. Someone who does importing and exporting, dealing in all sorts of things, is of course in a very good position to dispose of stolen goods. One interesting aspect of all this is that, shortly after your brother returned to London, Wragge was murdered.”

  “Are you saying that Roger murdered him or had him murdered?” said Lytell.

  “At this late date it would be difficult to prove, but I think it’s likely. Wragge was an important figure in the London underworld, and Roger wanted no rivals. He was determined to be alone at the top of the heap, the Napoleon of crime.”

  “Did you know all this from the beginning?” asked Watson. “When we first went to Walker’s shop?”

  “No, Watson. I knew from things that Gregory told me and information I gathered myself that someone was organizing London’s criminal activities very efficiently. I also knew that I was under constant surveillance. I recognized several beggars who suddenly appeared around here as crows, criminal lookouts or spies. I first began to suspect Walker—or Roger—when he tried to mislead me, and possibly provide himself with an alibi, by saying that he himself had been approached and asked to act as a fence.”

  “I wondered why you refused to look into his case,” said Watson. “And I suppose that was the reason he opened his shop here on Baker Street.”

  “Exactly. Besides being able to keep track of my movements and activities, what better place could he find for his headquarters? Who would expect him to establish it under the very nose of the man most criminals feared more than anyone else?”

  “So far it all seems fairly clear,” said Lytell. “But while I know how he stole the paintings, I’m still not sure I understand why he did.”

  “Though he was well on his way to becoming London’s criminal overlord, he was still interested in the Lowther estate. When his attempt to turn your father against you failed and your father died, he turned his attention to you. If he could get you out of the way he would inherit not only the estate but the title.”

  “In other words, he stole the paintings to use them as bait.”

  “Precisely. At the same time, an opportunity had arisen for him to pay off an old score. By coincidence, Dennison, the associate who had betrayed him, given evidence against him, came to London from Cornwall where he had been teaching school. Roger saw him, had him kidnapped and taken to the warehouse. As you know, he intended to have him kill you—after all, Dennison did have a criminal record—then he was going to have Dennison killed in such a way that it would look as if you had killed him in a struggle.”

  “I see,” said Lytell. “Is there more?”

  “Yes,” said Holmes, “but nothing that directly concerns you.”

  “What about that girl and boy, Screamer and Andrew? With all due respects to you, Holmes, I would probably not be here now if it weren’t for them. And though I thanked them, I want to do a great deal more than that for them.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Holmes. “I’m expecting them here tomorrow at one o’clock. I have some unfinished business to take care of with them myself. But when that’s concluded, I’ll arrange for you to see them.”

  16

  The Final Stroke

  The landlady let them in and went up the stairs with them.

  “Ah, there you are,” said Holmes when he opened the door. “Have you had lunch?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Andrew.

  “Too bad. We were just going to have ours, and you could have had it with us.” He looked thoughtfully at Screamer. “Sara … or do you prefer Screamer?”

  “I don’t care. I’m used to Screamer.”

  “Then, Screamer, I have a favor to ask of you. There’s something I want Andrew to do. Would you mind waiting downstairs with Mrs. Hudson for a while?”

  She moved closer to Andrew, clutching his sleeve.

  “Will he have to go away again, the way he did that other time?”

  “No, no. He won’t leave this room.”

  “Well, why can’t I stay too?”

  “It would just be better if you didn’t.”

  “Do you like trifle?” asked Mrs. Hudson.

  “I don’t think I ever had any,” said Screamer.

  “I’ve made some for the gentlemen’s lunch. Come along with me and try it.”

  “All right,” said Screamer and with a last look at Andrew, she went off.

  “You know Dr. Watson, don’t you?” said Holmes.

  “Yes, I do. Good afternoon, sir.”

  “Hello, Andrew,” said Watson.

  “You look different today, Andrew,” said Holmes. “Is that a new jacket?”

  “Yes, sir. Screamer took me to the Samaritan Society, and they gave it to me.”

  “It fits you better than your old one. In fact, it looks quite good. Now, Andrew, there are two things I want you to do. The first is quite simple. The second may be a bit more difficult.” He led him to a desk that faced a window looking out onto a garden. “Here are some scrapbooks, all indexed alphabetically. And here is a pile of newspaper cuttings all dealing with people of one sort or another. I’d like you to go through the cuttings and paste them in their proper place in the scrapbooks.”

  “According to name, sir?”

  “Yes. This one, for instance, about Moulton, the axe murderer, goes under “M.” Clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The next part of what I want you to do will, as I said, be a bit more difficult. I’m expecting someone here in a little while—someone whom, as it happens, you know. This person and I will talk—and the talk will probably become quite dramatic and emotional. I have no objection to your listening. In fact, I don’t see how you can avoid it. But under no circumstances, no matter what is said, do I want you to react—to show in any way that it is of any interest to you. Is that clear, too?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you feel I can trust you to do exactly what I ask?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.”

  “It may make it a little easier for you, Andrew,” said Watson, “if I told you I’ve no idea what he’s about myself. You see, he does like his little mysteries.”

  “My wonders to perform? I must confess I do,” said Holmes. Then, at a light tap at the door, “Ah, lunch. Come in, Mrs. Hudson.”

  “I thought you’d like to know,” said Mrs. Hudson, entering with a tray, “that Screamer does like trifle. In fact, she thinks it’s jammy.”

  “I’m delighted to hear it,” said Holmes. “Though I confess it sounds a bit redundant. You’re sure you won’t have anything, Andrew?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He had begun pasting the newspaper cuttings in the scrapbook and was finding them very interesting. Most of them dealt with crimes—murder, robbery, or forgery—but not all of them. Some were concerned with missing persons and others with people who had curious professions or interests: a man in Dorset who was trying to develop a stingless bee, for instance, and another near Salisbury who was building a flying machine with wings that flapped like a bird’s.

  Holmes and Watson had finished their lunch, and Andrew was reading an article about a woman who kept snakes in the attic of her house in Hampstead, when the downstairs door opened and closed. There were raised voices—that of a woman and that of Mrs. Hudson, who seemed to be protesting—then quick footsteps came up the stairs.

  “This,” said Holmes, “should
be the person I’m expecting.”

  The door opened without a knock, and Mrs. Harker entered, her face flushed and her eyes bright with anger.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Harker,” said Holmes. “You seem a bit upset.”

  “That,” she said, “is a decided understatement! I do not like having games played with me, Mr. Holmes!”

  “Games?”

  “What else would you call what happened? I agree to go to Paris with you, and we travel together to Dover where we board the Channel packet. Then you disappear—and it is only after the boat has sailed that I discover you are not aboard and there is no way I can return to London or even England until this morning!”

  “I regret that,” said Holmes. “Particularly regret that you had to spent the night in Calais. But it was necessary for someone to believe that I had in fact gone to Paris with you. On the other hand,” and his voice became colder, firmer, “haven’t you been playing games with me?”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “You know very well what I mean. You have been trying to deceive me from the time you first came here. Your name is not Harker. You are not an American, and the case you begged me to look into for you was a complete fabrication.”

  The color left Mrs. Harker’s cheeks.

  “That’s not true,” she said. “At least, it’s not completely true.”

  “Ah? Perhaps you’d better tell me what was true and what was not.”

  “Well, it’s true that I’m not an American—though I’ve been there for the past ten years. And it’s true that my name is not Harker. I’d rather not tell you what my real one is.”

  “Then suppose I tell you,” said Holmes. “You are really Verna Tillett, the actress, who was supposed to open at the Adelphi last week, but for good reasons did not.”

  She stared at him.

  “How did you know that?”

  “Deduction and investigation. You made a slip when you first came here that convinced me you were—not only English—but a Londoner. The rest was merely a matter of deciding who you actually were.”

  “Then there’s no need for me to continue to wear this,” she said, pulling off a dark wig and shaking out the tawny hair Andrew remembered from the time he and Screamer had seen her arriving at the Hotel Langham.