The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories

by Otto Penzler

  “It is quite simple. I have not heard the cab drive away,” Holmes said nonchalantly. “Watson, if you care to accompany Captain Van Wyk downstairs, I shall follow you shortly. I must leave a note for Mrs. Hudson in case we are delayed by our inquiries. I should not wish to cause our inestimable landlady any undue concern. You go ahead, my dear fellow, and make sure you wear something suitable against this appalling weather.”

  Taking my old friend’s advice, I put on a long waterproof and, followed by Captain Van Wyk, led the way out into the street where a four-wheeler was drawn up beside the kerb. While we waited for Holmes, we took shelter inside it from the driving rain.

  He joined us several minutes later, limping so heavily that it was with some difficulty he climbed into the cab.

  On my inquiring what had happened, he said impatiently, “In my haste, I sprained my ankle coming down the stairs and had to return in order to strap it up. But it is a mere trifle. Shall we proceed? We have already wasted valuable time through my carelessness.”

  Captain Van Wyk gave instructions to the driver and we set off for the docks along deserted streets running with water like so many minor tributaries of the Thames itself, as if that great river had burst its banks and inundated the entire city.

  Holmes said nothing during the journey. He sat huddled in his ulster, the flaps of his travelling cap pulled well down about his ears, staring out through the rain-drenched window at the passing scene. From time to time in the light of the street lamps, I caught a glimpse of his profile, looking very austere, his lips compressed and his brows heavily contracted.

  I put his silence down to the pain of his ankle but said nothing, not wishing to exasperate him further by referring to his mishap.

  Captain Van Wyk and I exchanged a few desultory remarks but we, too, soon fell silent, oppressed by Holmes’s taciturn mood and the melancholy drumming of the rain on the roof of the cab.

  Eventually, it drew up at the end of a narrow, ill-lit street where we alighted and followed Captain Van Wyk as he led the way on to the Free Trade Wharf.

  Here, the full strength of the gale, blowing straight off the river, caught us in its blast. Heads bowed against its onslaught, we struggled forward in the darkness, the captain striding ahead of us, quite at home, it seemed, in this elemental world of wind and water.

  I had nothing more than a fleeting impression of my surroundings. Battered by the storm and half blinded by the rain, I was aware only of the tall edifices of warehouses, like the sides of a grimy brick canyon, towering above us on our left and, to the right, the huge hulks of ships at anchor, their masts and rigging pitching to and fro against the night sky and groaning audibly with every squall.

  There were no moon or stars to illuminate the scene, only the fitful light of a few lamps, guttering in the wind and casting a tremulous yellow glow over those looming hulks and the river which ran between them as black as oil.

  We arrived eventually at the foot of a gang-plank which Captain Van Wyk nimbly mounted, while we followed more slowly behind him, gripping fast to the rail, especially Holmes who had to haul himself up the steep incline.

  At the top, a member of the crew in oilskins was standing guard, lantern in hand. Captain Van Wyk conferred with him briefly before, turning to us, he roared out above the storm, “He says no one has left the ship in my absence, gentlemen! Follow me! I will show you Mr. Pennington’s cabin.”

  Taking the lantern from the man, Van Wyk set off at a brisk pace towards the stern of the vessel, Holmes and I groping our way as best we could after that bobbing light over the deck which shifted uneasily under our feet on the swelling tide.

  At last we saw glimmering out of the darkness aft of the wheel-house a white-painted, flat-roofed structure housing the passengers’ accommodation, with a row of port-holes along its side and lifeboats slung above it on davits. Ducking through a low doorway, we found ourselves in a small vestibule which gave access to a passage, lit by hanging lamps, with several doors leading off it on either side.

  Captain Van Wyk threw one of these open.

  “Mr. Pennington’s cabin,” he announced.

  The interior was small, most of it taken up by a pair of bunks, one of which was strewn with articles of clothing, carelessly flung about. A leather valise, emptied of its contents, lay on its side on the floor.

  There were signs, too, that a struggle had taken place inside that confined space. One of the curtains at the port-hole was wrenched from its rings while the basin, which was set below it in a locker, was heavily blood-stained.

  Holmes stood just inside the doorway, looking about him, his head lifted like a gun dog scenting game. Then, limping forward, he examined first the basin and the valise, before turning his attention to the port-hole, lifting aside the torn curtain to examine the large brass screw which secured it. But it was tightly fastened down and showed no signs of having been loosened. Even if it had been, the opening was too small to admit even a child, let alone a grown man.

  Meanwhile Van Wyk watched these activities with the keenest interest, murmuring to me in an aside, “It warms up the cockle of my heart to see such an expert at work!” Then, raising his voice, he continued, “If you have seen enough, Mr. Holmes, I suggest we speak to Miss Pennington. I know she is most anxious to meet you.”

  Holmes agreed and we followed the captain across the passage to a door opposite on which Van Wyk tapped several times. Receiving no answer, he finally turned the handle and, opening the door, thrust his head inside.

  In the light of the lamp, we saw at once that the cabin was empty although there were indications that it had recently been occupied. A lady’s mantle hung behind the door and a nightgown, neatly folded, lay upon the pillow.

  There were no signs, however, of a violent physical struggle, such as we had seen in the other cabin, and yet there was clear evidence that Miss Pennington had not left of her own volition. Hanging in the air was the unmistakable sweet, sickly reek of chloroform.

  It was apparent that the odour was familiar also to the captain for no sooner had he smelt it than he turned and made for the deck, shouting to us to follow him.

  By the time we had joined him, he was already deep in animated conversation in a foreign language which I took to be Dutch with a broad, heavily bearded man who, as I was later to learn, was the mate, Bakker.

  From the latter’s expression and gestures, I deduced that he was as bewildered as we were by the disappearance of Miss Pennington, following so closely upon her father’s.

  Captain Van Wyk flung out an arm in an abrupt movement of command and barked out an order to the mate. Then, motioning with his head to us, he led the way up an open companion-way, its iron treads made treacherous by the rain, to his own quarters which were situated below the bridge.

  His cabin was more spacious than the passengers’ accommodation although it was similarly equipped with a bunk and a range of lockers including, in this instance, a shelf for logs and a broad table to serve as a desk. Charts were pinned upon the walls and a brass spittoon was screwed to the floor beside the table.

  “Well, gentlemen, this is indeed a strange business,” Van Wyk said, when we had divested ourselves of our wet outer garments. “Two passengers disappeared! Such a thing has never happened before in all the years I have been at sea! I have ordered the mate to make another search of the vessel. He will report to me as soon as it is completed.”

  “And if Miss Pennington is not found?” Holmes inquired.

  “Then I shall be forced to send for the official police, despite her instructions to the contrary. I cannot see that I have any other choice. The young lady’s disappearance has indeed put the cat among the birds. She has not been taken ashore. The man posted at the head of the gang-plank was quite sure no one has left the ship. Have you any explanation to offer for this mysterious affair, Mr. Holmes?”

  “I confess I am utterly at a loss,” my old friend admitted with a rueful expression. “Mr. Pennington’s disappearance migh
t be accounted for. He could have been abducted. But his daughter’s! That is a different matter altogether. The only logical conclusion is that she must still be on board.”

  “That is my thought exactly. But the search will take at least two hours. There are many places on a vessel where someone could be hidden. If I have to delay the ship’s departure, then so be it!” Van Wyk said, shrugging his broad shoulders philosophically. “In the meantime, you will take a glass of schnapps with me? It will help to keep out the cold.”

  I was about to refuse, not having much taste for strong liquor and preferring to keep a clear head for whatever inquiries still lay ahead of us. But when Holmes agreed, I felt it might appear churlish if I declined, so I, too, accepted.

  “Then we shall drink to the successful outcome of the case!” our host exclaimed.

  Turning away, he opened a locker and took out a squat bottle and three glasses which he filled in turn, handing one each to Holmes and myself and raising his own in salutation.

  “Down the hatchway!” cried he, his blue eyes sparkling as, throwing back his head, he swallowed down the brandy in one single draught.

  I followed his example, feeling the schnapps burn its way down my throat like liquid fire. As a protection against the cold of that stormy night it was indeed effective. Within seconds, its warmth had begun to circulate through my blood, spreading out to tingle down to the very fingertips.

  Meanwhile, Holmes, glass in hand, had wandered across the cabin to examine one of the charts pinned up on the wall above the desk. He seemed abstracted, his mind no doubt still on the mysterious disappearance of Mr. Pennington and his daughter. I had seen him in this mood many times before when the problems presented by a case so occupied his mind that he was oblivious of everything else about him.

  “You have not yet drunk our toast, Mr. Holmes,” Captain Van Wyk reminded him.

  “I beg your pardon,” Holmes replied. “My thoughts were elsewhere. To our success, Captain!”

  He was about to raise his glass when he gave a sudden lurch sideways, only saving himself from falling by clutching at the table with his free hand. However, he quickly recovered and, standing upright once more, he threw back his head and swallowed the brandy.

  Whether the ship had been struck by a particularly heavy swell or his sprained ankle had caused Holmes that momentary loss of balance, I could not tell for at that moment I myself was overcome by a violent bout of dizziness. The cabin seemed to be rising and falling in a most extraordinary manner, as if the Friesland had already set sail and was tossing about on the high seas.

  My last recollection was of Holmes, setting down his empty glass and saying, with a smile of apology, “I am afraid I am a poor sailor, Captain Van Wyk. I appear not yet to have acquired my sea-legs. But your excellent brandy should soon set that to rights.”

  The next instant, the cabin spun about me and I felt myself pitching forward into a black abyss of oblivion.

  II

  I do not know how long I remained unconscious but, some time later, I was aware of Holmes shaking me urgently by the shoulder. For a moment, I fancied I was in my own bed in our lodgings in Baker Street and that some crisis had occurred for which Holmes required my immediate presence.

  However, as I struggled to sit up, I found that I could not move. It was only then I realized that I was lying, facing the wall, on the bunk in Captain Van Wyk’s cabin, my hands secured behind my back by a rope which was drawn tightly across my chest, my legs and feet similarly bound. A pad of cotton wadding, placed across my mouth and held in position by a strip of cloth, made breathing difficult and I felt half suffocated for lack of air.

  “Lie still and do not make a sound,” Holmes whispered close to my ear as he removed the gag.

  I next heard the rasp of something metal cutting into the cords and, as my bonds fell away, I was able to sit upright at last to see Holmes standing beside me, one finger against his lips, his deep-set eyes glittering in the lamp-light.

  Leaving me seated on the bunk to recover my full senses, he moved with a cat-like speed and silence across the cabin, showing no sign of the limp which had earlier impeded his movements. Kneeling down in front of the door, he inserted into the keyhole a thin metal rod which he began to manipulate to and fro with great care, his head pressed against the panel as he listened for the wards to yield.

  While he was thus engaged, I looked about me, still dazed, trying to piece together what had happened in the time I had been unconscious.

  From the lengths of rope lying on the far side of the cabin, together with a pad and piece of cloth, I deduced that Holmes, like me, had been trussed up and gagged although I had no idea how he had managed to release himself.

  Nor could I see why Captain Van Wyk had wished to lure us aboard the Friesland and to offer us schnapps laced with some strong narcotic drug, for that was what must have happened. There was no other explanation for my sudden loss of consciousness.

  I assumed that Holmes, too, had been drugged although looking at him as he knelt by the door, every sense alert, his fingers probing delicately at the keyhole, it was difficult to imagine. He appeared to have suffered no ill effects, a recovery I put down to his iron constitution and that seemingly bottomless well of nervous energy on which he was able to draw in times of crisis.

  At last, there came a faint click as the lock gave way but instead of opening the door and beckoning to me to follow him on deck as I had expected, he secured the top and bottom bolts before crossing silently back to the bunk on which I was sitting, his finger again pressed to his lips. Seeing my look of interrogation, he mouthed the word, “Wait.”

  But for what? I wondered. For Van Wyk to return and break down the door when he discovered it barred against him? Although the bolts were strong, it would take no more than two men to burst them open.

  And then what would happen to us?

  I was under no illusions that we were not in mortal danger. The captain had not made us his prisoners only to let us walk free. Indeed, I was surprised that he had not dispatched us when he had us drugged and at his mercy.

  Such thoughts clamoured in my mind and yet I dared not voice them out loud to Holmes. He had taken the captain’s chair at the desk and was leaning back, his eyes closed, as he strained to pick up the faintest sounds beyond the four walls of the cabin.

  The storm had abated a little and it was possible to distinguish other noises aboard the Friesland besides the relentless roar of the wind and the beating of the rain. I heard footsteps occasionally passing below on deck and the sound of distant voices. Once there came a faint metallic crash, as if a heavy iron door had been slammed shut. As a background to these signs of human activity, there was the constant creak and groan of the vessel itself as it swung restlessly at its moorings.

  My tension was exacerbated by Holmes’s inactivity. Although we were unarmed, all my instincts told me it would be better to make a dash for it on to the deck where, in the darkness and ensuing confusion, we might have a chance of escape. And even if we failed in our attempt, we would have the satisfaction of going down fighting like men which was infinitely preferable to sitting there, like trapped animals, tamely awaiting our fate.

  For the first time in my long association with Sherlock Holmes, I felt that he had failed me and I was bitterly disappointed. I could not believe that this was the same man who had met his arch-enemy, Moriarty, face to face without flinching and, by grappling with him on that narrow ledge above the Reichenbach Falls, had sent him plunging to his death.

  With each succeeding minute, my exasperation mounted until I could contain it no longer and prepared myself to make a dash for the door, my intention being to force Holmes into action by taking the initiative. If I moved first, surely he would follow?

  As events were to prove, it was fortunate that Holmes forestalled me. Before I could rise from the bunk, he had sprung to his own feet, an expression of intense relief lighting up his keen features.

  “There is our signa
l!” he exclaimed aloud.

  “What signal?” I inquired, greatly astonished not only at the sound of his voice after so long a silence but at the remark itself. I had heard nothing apart from the usual sounds on board the Friesland and a double blast on a steam whistle from some passing vessel.

  “Of Inspector Patterson’s arrival. Hurry, Watson! There is no time to lose!”

  Suddenly he was in a positive whirl of activity, snatching our coats from the hooks and throwing my waterproof at me before flinging his own ulster about his shoulders. With two rapid movements, he had slid back the bolts and, opening the door, disappeared outside. By the time I had caught up with him, he was already scrambling down the companion-way which led on to the deck.

  The sight which met me when I finally descended, close on Holmes’s heels, was one of utter confusion. Lanterns were darting to and fro like fireflies in the darkness, their yellow beams illuminating briefly portions of the stern deck, shining black in the rain, and flashing on to a struggling group of men whose mingled shouts and curses, raised to a dreadful pitch, added to the impression that I had stumbled into a scene from a mediaeval inferno.

  In the centre of all this wild activity, as if forming its nucleus, I could dimly discern the huge figure of Bakker and the stocky form of Captain Van Wyk, both fighting like mad men.

  The next moment, Van Wyk had broken free from the mêlée and, turning rapidly about, came charging forward to where Holmes and I were standing in the lee of the wheel-house.

  I doubt if he saw us in the shadows. His goal seemed to be the gang-plank which lay over to our left. Two constables, recognizable by their helmets and their black waterproof capes, were guarding it but their attention was on the main struggle which was taking place further along the deck. Within seconds, all could be lost. Van Wyk would reach the gang-plank and, taking the constables by surprise, might force his way down on to the wharf from where he would easily make his escape among the surrounding labyrinth of alleyways and side-streets.