by Otto Penzler
“Perhaps you could leave us in the capable hands of your wife. I should like to ascertain some details concerning the domestic arrangements.”
“Very well, if you think it is important.”
We were left in the hallway while our client arranged for his departure and informed his wife of our request. Holmes casually examined the calling cards in the tray. His face grew taut with excitement as he caught sight of one. He grinned. “Muddy waters grow clearer, my dear fellow,” he said cheerily.
Once more we found ourselves in the drawing room. Lady Darlington had arranged coffee for us. She seemed to have lost her nervous edge and appeared composed and fully at ease, sitting on the edge of the sofa, hardly touching her drink.
“You do not share your husband’s love of painting, Lady Darlington?”
“It is his passion. I could never match his devotion to art. He leads a difficult public life and his paintings afford him relief and a respite.”
“You never visit the gallery?”
“Never.”
“What about your son?”
“Rupert?” Her face softened at the mention of her son and a loving smile touched her lips. “He has a young man’s interests, and old paintings form no part of those. Rupert and I are alike in that respect.”
“He is a member of the Pandora Club.”
Lady Darlington looked askance at Holmes. “He…he may be. I am not aware of all my son’s leisure haunts.”
“Or his acquaintances—like Lord Arthur Beacham, for example?”
“Lord Arthur, what of him?”
“He does not possess a very high reputation.”
“Perhaps not in the circles in which you mix, Mr. Holmes. You must not listen to the gossip of maids and gardeners. Lord Arthur is a pleasant gentleman, but only one of many among Rupert’s associates. Now if you have no further questions…”
“Just one more, Lady Darlington. Who has a key to the gallery?”
“There is only one and it never leaves my husband’s possession. He carries it on his watch chain.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much.”
As we were being shown out of the house by a dour and decrepit butler we encountered a florid-faced, rotund man on the doorstep. He gave Holmes a polite smile of recognition and shook his hand. Holmes leaned forward and whispered some words in his ear before we set off down the street.
“Let us walk back to Baker Street,” said my friend vigorously. “I am in need of fresh air and exercise.”
“By all means,” I agreed, falling in step with him. “I gather that rather red-faced gentleman was Hillary Stallybrass come to verify the de Granville.”
“Indeed, it was, and I passed on a little advice that may be beneficial to him and certainly to us. Time will tell on that account.”
“What is all this business of Lord Arthur Beacham and the Pandora Club? Your remarks were rather pointed in that direction.”
Holmes beamed. “They were, weren’t they? Someone was rather careless in leaving his calling card on show in the hall. Contrary to Lady Darlington’s opinion, Lord Arthur has rather a doubtful reputation: he is a dissolute fellow whose activities sometimes stray into the realms of criminality. And Scotland Yard have had their eye on the Pandora Club, Beacham’s office of operations, for some time. It is the centre for a number of somewhat nefarious dealings.”
“How naïve of Lady Darlington to consider him a suitable companion for her son.”
“How naïve of you, Watson, to think so.”
I ignored my friend’s riddle. “Do you think Beacham is mixed up with the missing picture?”
“I do. I am not sure yet what he is up to and quite who else is involved, but I have my theory, which I will put to the test later today.”
After a simple lunch provided by Mrs. Hudson, Holmes busied himself with some malodorous chemical experiments, while I caught up with correspondence and prepared some case notes ready for publication. As dusk was falling, he retired to his room, emerging some forty-five minutes later in disguise. He was attired in evening dress, but he had padded out his lithe shape so that he appeared quite plump. His face was flushed and a large moustache adorned his upper lip, while a monocle twinkled in his left eye. The touches of disguise were light, but at the same time they transformed the familiar figure who was my friend and fellow lodger into a totally different character.
“I am ready for a night at the Pandora Club,” he announced, his own voice seeming unnatural emanating from this stranger standing in our rooms. “After all my admonishments to you about the cavalier manner in which you throw your wound pension away on the guesses of the turf, I shall be very careful not to lose too much.”
“You do not require my services, then?”
“Later, m’boy, but tonight I need to act, or rather observe, alone.”
At this moment, Billy arrived with a telegram. Holmes ripped it open with gusto. “Aha,” he cried, reading the contents and then throwing the missive over to me. It was from Hillary Stallybrass. It read: “de Granville is genuine. Some of the other works are not.”
—
It was at breakfast the following morning when I next saw Holmes. He emerged, without disguise, clad in a purple dressing gown and beaming brightly.
“I gather from that grin,” said I, tapping the shell of my boiled egg, “that your excursion to the Pandora Club was fruitful.”
“The process of deduction is catching,” he grinned, joining me at the table and pouring himself a cup of coffee. “One day I must pen a monograph on the importance in the art of detection of developing a knowledge of international crime and criminals.”
“Riddles at breakfast? Come now, Holmes, speak your mind.”
“Does the name Alfredo Fellini mean anything to you?”
I shook my head.
“You prove my point,” my friend replied smugly. “Now I happen to know that he is the right-hand man of Antonio Carreras, one of the biggest gangland chiefs in the New York area. Blackmail and extortion are his methods and he has grown fat on them. So much so that he has been able to build up quite an impressive art collection. So my friend Barnes at Pinkerton’s informs me in his regular reports.”
“Art collection?” I dabbed my chin with the napkin and, pushing my half-eaten egg away, gave Holmes my full attention.
“Yes. Now I observed Fellini last night at the Pandora Club where he spent a great deal of his time deep in conversation with a certain member of the Darlington household.”
“His Lordship’s son, Rupert.”
“Precisely. And the conversation was animated, not to say acrimonious at times. And all the while that sly cove Lord Arthur Beacham hovered in the background like a concerned mother hen.”
“What does it all mean, Holmes?”
“To use a painting metaphor, which in this case is somewhat appropriate, I have sketched the outlines of the composition but I still need more time to fill in the detail and work on the light and shade. However, it is clear that Rupert Darlington is involved in some underhand deal which involves the unscrupulous Beacham and one of the most dangerous criminals in America—a deal that involves the theft of the de Granville canvas.”
“But the painting was returned unharmed.”
“It had to be. That is Rupert Darlington’s problem.”
Holmes loved to throw enigmatic statements at me to catch my reaction. I had long since learned that no matter how I responded he would not impart any information he held until he thought it the appropriate moment to do so. I had no conception of what Rupert Darlington’s problem might be but I knew that should I press my friend to explain this conceit he would in some manner refuse. Therefore I tried to take our conversation in another, more positive direction, only to find it blocked by further enigma.
“What is our next move?” I asked.
“We visit ‘the dog man,’ ” he replied with a grin.
—
Within the hour we were rattling in a hansom cab east
wards across the city. I had heard Holmes give the cabbie an address in Commercial Street near the Houndsditch Road, a rundown and unsavoury part of London. He sat back in the cab, his pale, gaunt features wrapped in thought.
“Who or what is ‘the dog man’ and what is the purpose of our visit? Since you requested my company on this journey it would seem sensible to let me know its purpose,” I said tartly.
“Of course, my dear fellow,” grinned my companion, patting my arm in an avuncular fashion, “what am I thinking of, keeping you in ignorance? Well now, ‘the dog man’ is my own soubriquet for Joshua Jones, whose house is overrun with the beasts. His fondness for canines has driven both his wife and children from his door. He lavishes love and attention on the various mutts he takes in, far more than he does upon his own kith and kin. However he has a great artistic talent.” Holmes leaned nearer to me, dropping his voice to a dramatic whisper. “He is one of the greatest copy artists of all time. Only the keenest of experts could tell the real ‘Mona Lisa’ from a Jones copy. I have used the fellow on a couple of occasions myself when fake works of art were required to help clear up a case. You see where he might fit into our mystery?”
“Not precisely.”
“I suspected Jones was involved in the matter yesterday morning. You may recall that when I examined the de Granville, I asked if Darlington kept a dog?”
“Yes. I do.”
“That was because through my lens I observed several dog hairs adhering to the frame—hairs of at least three different breeds. It seemed quite clear to me that the painting had at some time recently been lodged in premises where several dogs had been able to brush past the canvas. Where else could this occur but in the home of Joshua Jones?”
“Because he was copying the canvas…”
Holmes nodded.
“I see that, but why then was the real painting returned and not the copy?”
“Ah, that is the crux of the matter and I wish to test my theory out on my friend Mr. Joshua Jones.”
—
Commercial Street was indeed an unpleasant location. The houses were shabby and down-at-heel with many having boarded windows. The cab pulled up at the end of the street and Holmes ordered the cabbie to wait for us. With some reluctance he agreed. We then made our way down this depressing thoroughfare. A group of ragged, ill-nourished children were playing a ball game in the street and ran around us with shrill cries, taking no notice of our presence, their scrawny bodies brushing against us.
“If this Jones fellow is such a successful artist,” I said, “why does he not live in a more salubrious neighbourhood?”
“I believe he has another house in town where his wife and two children reside but she has forbidden him to bring a single dog over the threshold, so he seems quite content to stay here for most of the time with his horde of hounds. Ah, this is the one.”
We had reached number 23: a house as decrepit as the rest with a dark blue door and a rusty knocker. The curtains at the window were closed, shunning the daylight and the outside world. Holmes knocked loudly. As the sound echoed through the house it was greeted by a cacophony of wailing, yapping, and barking cries as though a pack of hounds had been let loose.
“I trust these dogs are not dangerous,” I said with some unease.
“I trust so too,” replied Holmes, knocking loudly again and setting off a further fusillade of canine cries. Mingled with these came the sound of a human voice. Within moments the lock turned and the door creaked open a few inches; a beady eye and a beaky nose appeared at the crack.
“What do you want?” demanded the man.
“A little information, Joshua, if you please.”
“Why it’s Mr. Holmes,” came the voice again, this time softer and warmer in tone. “Give me a moment to settle my little ’uns down. I don’t want any of them to get out. Dog meat’s at a premium around here.” So saying he shut the door and he could be heard shepherding his pack of dogs back into the recesses of the house.
After a while the door opened again, this time wide enough to reveal the occupant, who was a scrawny individual of around seventy years of age, or so his wild white hair, rheumy eyes, and fine dry skin led me to believe. He was dressed in a pair of baggy trousers, a blue collarless shirt, and a shapeless green paint-spattered cardigan.
“Come in, gentlemen, come in.”
Only two dogs appeared at their master’s heels as he led us down a dingy corridor and into an equally dingy sitting room. The air was oppressive with the smell of hound. In a nearby room one could hear barking and yelping accompanied by the occasionally frantic scratching as some fretting dog attempted to burrow out.
Jones gave a throaty chuckle at the sound of the muted row. “The little ’uns don’t like being separated from their daddy,” he grinned, revealing a row of uneven brown teeth. With a casual wave of the hand he indicated we should take a seat on a dilapidated old sofa. “Well, Mr. Holmes, what can I do for you?”
“I need information.”
A thin veil of unease covered Jones’s face. “Ah, well,” he said slowly, “I am reticent in that department, as you well know. I cannot be giving away the secrets of my clients or, soon enough, I’d have no clients.”
“I have no wish to compromise you, Jones,” said Sherlock Holmes evenly. “Indeed, it is not fresh information I require, merely confirmation of my deductions, confirmation which will allow me to proceed further in my case.”
Jones frowned. “What you’re asking is something I cannot give you. I treat all who cross over my threshold, be it man or dog, with the same regard and assurance of discretion.”
Holmes appeared unperturbed by Jones’s intransigence. “I am glad to hear it,” he said. “I have no intention of asking you to betray anyone’s trust, even that of such a lowly character as Lord Arthur Beacham.”
Jones blanched somewhat at the mention of this name and his eyes flickered erratically. “Then what do you want from me?” he asked, his voice lacking the earlier assertiveness.
“I wish to present a series of suppositions to you regarding my current investigation which concerns the theft of Lord Darlington’s painting the ‘Adoration of the Magi’ by de Granville—a work I understand you know intimately. All I require from you is a slight inclination of the head if you believe that I am in the possession of the correct interpretation of events and a shake of the head if you perceive my suppositions to be incorrect. There is no need for verbal confirmation. This would help me tremendously in the same way I believe I have helped you in the past.”
Jones, who was by now sitting opposite us on a wicker chair with one of the dogs perched on his lap, bent over and kissed the creature on the nose and ruffled its fur. “As you know, I never ask questions of my clients. However I cannot prevent you from expressing your views in my company, Mr. Holmes,” he said, as though he were addressing the dog.
“Indeed,” agreed Holmes.
“And I may nod and shake my head as I feel fit. That is not to say that this will indicate definitely that I either agree or disagree with your statements.”
“I understand perfectly. Now, sir, I happen to know that you have recently been asked to copy Louis de Granville’s ‘Adoration of the Magi’ for a certain client.”
Jones’s head remained in close proximity to the dog but it moved downwards in a virtually imperceptible nod.
“I believe your client to be Lord Arthur Beacham…” Holmes paused but Jones did not move.
“And I believe you have copied many paintings for him over the last six months or so.”
Another gentle nod.
“The work was carried out over a day and a night and both paintings, the original and the copy, were returned to your client. He then returned the fake to the premises of the owner and sold the original to one of several unscrupulous collectors.”
“I have no notion of what happens to the paintings when they leave these premises, Mr. Holmes. I have no interest in the matter and would regard it as somewhat in
discreet to make enquiries.”
“I can understand that. Such enquiries could lead you to learn information you would not wish to know.”
For a moment a smile played on the old man’s thin lips. He sat up, and looked Holmes in the eye and nodded.
Holmes continued: “I take it that you are able to carry out preparatory work on most copies as their images are easily accessible in lithographic form.”
“That is correct. I prepare what I call my skeleton work in advance. It speeds up the process and lessens the time the original work needs to be with me in my gallery.”
“But in the case of the de Granville this was not possible, was it? Being a ‘lost painting’ there were no lithographs available, so you required a longer time with the original.”
Another imperceptible nod.
“You are an excellent listener,” cried Holmes enthusiastically, rising to his feet and pulling me with him. “Your silences have been most eloquent. My case is all but complete. I thank you.”
“In expressing your gratitude please remember that I conveyed no information to you, nor confirmed any of your statements.”
“Of course. The players in this sordid drama will condemn themselves without involvement from outside sources. Come, Watson, let us see if the cabbie has waited for us.”
And so in this hurried manner we took our leave of “the dog man.”
—
I was surprised at the speed by which this case came to its conclusion; and a very dark conclusion it was too. I would never have guessed that what began as as a fairly inconsequential affair concerning a missing painting would end in murder and a family’s disgrace.
The cabbie had been as good as his word and was still waiting for us at the corner of the street. However an expression of relief crossed his ruddy features as he saw us returning. “Back to Baker Street is it?” he asked as we climbed aboard.
“No,” responded Holmes, “Mayfair.”
—
“This is a sad affair, Watson,” said my friend, lighting a cigarette as he lounged back in the recesses of the cab. “The person who will be hurt most by its outcome is the only innocent player in the drama.”
