by Otto Penzler
“What do you want me to do with these?” Holmes inquired of the boys.
“Do what you like,” Jacky told him. “But don’t tell Jicky Tar we brought them to you.” Little Jemmy cautioned fearfully, “He give you a clout with that stick of his to knock you down, and he stomp you like a bug.”
Holmes assured them, “I shall have none of him.”
After the boys had departed, each clutching a new sixpence within his mitten, Holmes turned to me. “Come, Watson. We must dress and be off at once. If these rocks are what I surmise them to be, I need you for a witness.”
“And our breakfast?” I reminded him.
“We will breakfast later.”
I did not dispute him. In record time both of us were ready to depart. I went ahead, carrying his stick, while he carried the chest down. I was fortunate in procuring a hansom cab for us almost immediately. Holmes directed the driver, “To Ironmonger’s Lane.”
When we were underway, Holmes explained, “I am taking the chest to a certain Signor Antonelli, who is, I have been informed, the finest lapidary in London. For centuries the East Indians were the only lapidaries in the civilized world. As you doubtless learned in your years in India, that country was the only known source of diamonds until the early 18th century and the discovery of them in Brazil.”
“Indeed yes,” I recalled. “The best and most famous stones have come from the Golconda area near Hyderabad. The Kuh-a-Nur, which was a gift from India to our royal crown, is the longest diamond known. The Darya-i-Nur, another of the great stones, is in Persia. It was taken there along with all those now known as the Persian Crown Jewels, by the Nadir Shah when he sacked Delhi in 1739. They say the Persian jewels surpass all others in vastness of number, size, and quality, although our own crown jewels contain some of the most precious gems, particularly in diamonds.” The toe of my boot nudged the chest. “You believe these rocks are diamonds?”
“I do,” replied Holmes. “Both in India and Brazil, diamonds were found only in gravel deposits. As sedimentary rocks come from some deeper deposit, obviously this was not the original source. But only with the discovery of diamonds in South Africa, less than twenty years ago, have we learned that they come from within deep pipes of igneous rocks. In its uncut form, the diamond cannot be distinguished from any sizable rock.”
When Holmes investigated a subject, he did it with thoroughness. “Diamonds are pure carbon. True, some poorer stones have small crystals of other minerals embedded, but these are not used as gem stones, only for diamond dust and other mean purposes.” He mused. “The history of diamonds is fascinating, Watson. They are known to have been worn as precious stones as far back as 300 B.C. In ancient documents it is recorded that Alexander, the Macedonian Greek who conquered Persia, and added ‘The Great’ to his title as he proceeded to take over all the mid-east, decked himself in diamonds. The very name is from the Greek, adamas or ‘invincible.’ ”
Holmes had evidently found time, along with all else he was engaged in, to visit the reading room of the British Museum. He continued, “The diamond is the hardest of gemstones, therefore the most difficult to cut. It alone ranks ten, the highest point, on Mohs’s recently tabulated scale. Of special interest to me are the differences in judging the beauty of a diamond. In the East the beauty is primarily in its weight, whereas in the West it is in color and form. The Indian lapidaries devised the rose cut, which best preserved the weight. But they found it next to impossible to polish this cut to bring out its fire.
“It was the Venetian lapidary, Vincenti Peruzzi, who in the late seventeenth century began experimenting with adding facets to the table cut. The result was the first brilliant cut. Cutting is a science. Peruzzi had studied with East Indian lapidaries. As has Signor Antonelli. And that is why we are here,” he concluded as the cab drew up before a very old shop on Ironmonger’s Lane.
Holmes alighted. While he was paying off the driver, I pushed the chest over to where he could lift it out more easily. I then stepped down to the walk and started across to the shop door. At that instant I saw a man who was approaching at a rapid pace, despite the hindrance of a peg leg.
“Holmes!” I warned quickly.
At the alarm in my voice, he turned, and he too recognized who this person must be. None other than Jicky Tar. He was large although not tall, and his seaman’s knit jumper could not conceal his bulging muscles. His visage was a malevolent mask. He brandished a cudgel, knobby as are those heavy clubs which come from the village of Shillelagh.
One glance, and Holmes thrust the box at me. He extricated his stick from under my arm, then advanced a few paces and stood waiting. Only then did I see the two bully boys who had come round the corner in Jicky Tar’s wake. One had Jacky immobilized in an arm lock, the other had a viselike fist around Jemmy’s small arm.
Holmes saw them as I did, and he thundered, “Release those boys! At once!”
“Not until you return my property,” Jicky snarled. He had advanced to a distance of several yards from Holmes before taking his stance. It was obvious that he was accustomed to street fighting, where striking distance was needed in order to swing a cudgel for the fullest impact.
“What property of yours do you claim I have?” Holmes asked.
“The box.” Jicky gave a quick glance to where I was standing. “The box those picaroons stole from me and gave to you.”
The boy Jacky shouted atop his words. “He’s lying, Mr. Holmes! He’s lying! It wasn’t his, it was ours. We found it. Not him.”
Jacky was twisting and straining to release himself from his captor, aiming his kicks to where they would do the most good. One found its mark. The bully howled, and for a moment his grip on the boy was loosed. Jacky wrenched away and darted at high speed up the lane.
The bully shouted, “Jicky, he’s got away! The bloody little wretch got away! I’ll go after him.”
“No,” Jicky ordered. “Stay! We’ll get him later. He won’t go far. Not without his sniveling little brother.” He then turned his full attention to Holmes. “Will you give me the box or do I take it?”
Holmes stated with authority, “The property belongs to the Gaekwar of Baroda and I shall return it to him.”
Without warning “on guard,” Jicky Tar swung his cudgel, while the unencumbered bully came under it toward Holmes. Holmes’s well-aimed feint at Jicky became a blow to the bully’s head, felling him. It was then just the two men, both experts, in this tit for tat, manoeuvering as swordsmen, one to disarm the other. The bully came to his feet too soon and moved in to join the fray. I feared for Holmes with two against one, but I need not have. With enviable deftness, Holmes’s stick struck and dropped the bully again. Holmes’s stick was then raised to disarm Jicky Tar when a police whistle sounded.
“It’s Jacky,” Jemmy cried out. “He’s brought the Peelers.”
It was indeed Jacky, running ahead of one bobby while another followed, blasting his whistle. The police quickly took charge of Tar and his henchman. The one who had mishandled Jemmy had faded away during the rumpus, releasing the boy, who ran to his brother’s side.
Holmes told the policemen, “Take these men to Inspector Lestrade. I will be there shortly to inform him as to their misdeeds. And take the boys with you.”
“Gor blimey,” Jacky cried, while Jemmy clung to him. “He’s shopped us!”
“Not at all,” Holmes told them. “It isn’t safe for you to return to your old haunts. Just stay with the police until I come, and I will then find a better place for you to live.”
While he was speaking, the police wagon, summoned by the whistle-blasts, came down the alley. The villains were quickly locked inside. With great reluctance the boys were boosted beside the driver and the wagon clip-clopped back up the road. Holmes brushed off his coat and straightened his cap. He then took the box from me and we proceeded to enter Signor Antonelli’s shop.
It was dim and dingy inside. There was just the one room, a counter separating the front from the lar
ger rear. There, shelves were laden with all manner of rocks, and on a long table were more, in various stages of grinding. The diamond dust recovered from grinding is the only substance hard enough to produce the necessary high polish for fine stones.
At this table, bent to his work, was a wizened old man, his face scarred doubtless from rogue bits of gemstone. His scant yellow-white hair fell below his ears and he wore spectacles with lenses of heavy magnification. If he was aware of the recent commotion outside his shop, he gave no indication. He ignored our entrance.
After a moment, Holmes spoke. “You are Signor Antonelli?” The question was ignored. Holmes continued, “I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend, Dr. Watson.”
The old man did not respond.
As the awkward silence continued, Holmes hoisted the chest to the counter and unhasped it. He took one of the rocks and held it out to Signor Antonelli. “Will you tell me what this is?”
Antonelli ceased work and shuffled over to us. He took the rock from Holmes. “I will see,” he muttered.
We watched as he carried the rock back to his worktable. With instruments which had no meaning to either Holmes or myself, he began grinding a bit at the edge. Shortly he brought it back to the counter. “It is a diamond,” he stated.
“From the Prince of Poona cargo,” Holmes told him.
The Signor muttered, “I have been waiting for these. I was told you might bring them here.”
“Then I may leave the chest with you?” Again there was no response. But Holmes continued as if there had been. “I shall so advise the viceroy. He will inform you about what is wanted by the Gaekwar.”
The ancient nodded once. Without a word of farewell to us, he lifted the chest as if it were no heavier than a dog’s bone, carrying it back to his working area. Holmes and I, exchanging amused glances, took our own departure.
It was necessary to walk to a more traveled thoroughfare before finding a hansom cab. “I will drop you off,” Holmes told me. “It may be that Mrs. Hudson will serve you a late breakfast. At least she will fetch something to tide you to the lunch hour.”
“And you will eat…?”
“Later,” he said. “First I must go to Scotland Yard to confer with Lestrade. From now on I am certain that he will keep a wary eye on Jicky Tar. I must also arrange a place where the boys can be safe. Thanks to Muffin they came to me with their find. If they had gone to that villain, I daresay by now the ‘rocks’ would all have been flung into the river.”
III
It was nearing the dinner hour before Holmes returned.
“And will ye be wanting your breakfast now?” I jested him in the cook’s broad Scots. “Or will ye be waiting for the dinner?”
“Lestrade and I had lunch after we reported to the viceroy,” Holmes replied. “I may just pass our dinner tonight. After the cuisine prepared by the chef of the Savoy, Mrs. Hudson’s cook does not tempt my appetite.”
“Although she does prepare a bountiful Scotch breakfast.”
“True,” he agreed as he laid off his coat and cap.
“What of the boys?” I inquired.
He answered with enthusiasm. “I have turned them over to a pair of my Irregulars. Stalwart young chaps who will not only arrange a place for Jacky and Jemmy to live but will initiate them into the ways of the Irregulars. We will be seeing them again, I have no doubt.”
“Nor I,” I nodded.
“In case you puzzled, as I, how Jicky Tar knew of Signor Antonelli’s shop; he had an informer from the Poona who advised him that the chest would find its way there. Once he learned that I was on the case, Jicky had me watched. Hence our being followed. All’s well that ends well,” he quoted, and suggested, “Perhaps a small glass of amontillado would not go amiss?” He walked to our sideboard, fetched two wine glasses and the bottle. After he poured, I lifted my glass. “To yet another success.”
He dismissed the tribute. “Pure happenstance this time.”
“But based upon accumulated knowledge,” I amended.
“And a tweeny.” He now raised his glass. “To our Mistress Muffin,” he toasted. “You know, John,” he said as he seated himself, “I am not accustomed to accepting remuneration for help I give to those in need of solutions to their problems. But now and again, I do make a settlement. This was a time when I did. The Gaekwar can well afford it.”
He sipped his sherry. “I have in mind to send Muffin to a school—a good school for females. But how to arrange it? It is quite obvious that both she and her Mum are independent personages who would not accept charity, or anything that hinted of it.” He shook his head. “Yet for their living they find it necessary for both to go out to work.”
“With the cost of living these days, it seems to be essential,” I commented.
“I have been pondering this problem.” He refilled our glasses. “I have thought of some kind of scholarship. Not to cover fees alone, but with enough over to at least pay for their lodgings. This way her mother could afford to have Muffin take advantage of schooling. The child has such a bright mind and unusual spirit, it would be wasteful not to allow her to better herself. Perhaps become a teacher.”
“Or perhaps a scientist,” I suggested.
“Or a doctor of medicine,” he countered.
“That day will come for women,” I agreed. “And before too long.”
“But how to devise a scholarship? And how to make sure that Muffin will make use of it? This is as knotty a problem as yet I have encountered.”
“You will solve it,” I spoke with certainty.
“I must,” he responded. “It is, if I may invent a phrase, a ‘finder’s fee.’ ”
The first bell sounded from below. We began to gather ourselves together, to be ready to descend the stairs before the second. Holmes smiled as he put down his wineglass. “I have a notion to play Father Christmas to our young friends. A warm coat and winter cap for Muffin, and the same for the boys. Perhaps even a new pair of stout boots for each of them.”
The second bell sounded.
“Do you not think I could pass muster, even to wise children, in a long white beard and a long red coat and a red bonnet on my head?”
I made no reply. To the boys, yes, I believed he could. But not to our Muffin.
The Man from Capetown
STUART M. KAMINSKY
THE PROLIFIC AND varied career of Stuart Melvin Kaminsky (1934–2009) produced several long-running mystery series, screenplays, books on writing, and works about the film industry.
As a professor of film at Northwestern for sixteen years and at Florida State for six, Kaminsky was well-qualified to write about film genres, as well as produce biographies of such significant figures as Don Siegel, Clint Eastwood, Gary Cooper, and John Huston. He also cowrote the screenplay for Once Upon a Time in America (1984).
Kaminsky enjoyed great success with his twenty-four-volume series about Toby Peters, a slightly seedy private detective during Hollywood’s golden age who became involved with the greatest stars of the era, including Humphrey Bogart (Bullet for a Star, 1977), the Marx Brothers (You Bet Your Life, 1978), Bela Lugosi (Never Cross a Vampire, 1980), and Mae West (He Done Her Wrong, 1983).
Equally well-received was the series about Porfiry Rostnikov, an honorable Russian police detective in Moscow, which began with Death of a Dissident (1981) and ran for sixteen books; A Cold Red Sunrise (1988) won the Edgar Award for best novel.
Kaminsky produced more than sixty books in his career, had eight Edgar nominations, and was named a Grand Master for lifetime achievement by the Mystery Writers of America in 2006.
“The Man from Capetown” was originally published in Murder in Baker Street, edited by Martin H. Greenberg, Jon L. Lellenberg, and Daniel Stashower (New York, Carroll & Graf, 2001).
THE MAN FROM CAPETOWN
Stuart M. Kaminsky
IT WAS RAINING. It was not the usual slow, cold gray London rain that spattered on umbrellas and broad brimmed hats but the heavy relentl
ess downpour that came several times a year jungle drumming on the rooftops of cabs reminding me of the more mild monsoons I had witnessed in my years in India.
Time in India always moved slowly. Time in the apartment I shared with Sherlock Holmes had moved at the pace of a torpid Bombay cat during the past two weeks.
I kept myself busy trying to write an article for The Lancet based on Holmes’s findings about the differences he had discovered between blood from people native to varying climates. At first Holmes had entered into the endeavor with vigor and interest, pacing, smoking his pipe, pausing to remind me of subtle differences and the implications of his discovery both for criminology and medicine.
Several days into the enterprise, however, Holmes had taken to standing at the window for hours at a time, staring into the rain-swept street, thinking thoughts he chose not to share with me.
Twice he picked up the violin. The first time he woke me at five in the morning with something that may have been Liszt. The second time was at one in the afternoon when he repeatedly played a particularly mournful tune I did not recognize.
On this particular morning, Holmes was sitting in his armchair, pipe in hand, looking at the coal scuttle.
“Rather interesting item in this morning’s Times,” I ventured as I sat at the table in our sitting room with the last of my morning tea and toast before me.
Holmes made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a sigh.
“A Mr. Morgan Fitchmore of Leeds,” he said. “Found in a cemetery on his back with a railroad spike plunged into his heart. He was gripping the spike, apparently in an attempt to remove it. The night had been damp and the police found no footprints in the mud other than those of the deceased. About twenty feet from the body a hammer was found. The police are baffled.”
Holmes grunted again and looked toward the window where the rain beat heavily on the glass.
“Yes,” I said. “That is the story. I thought it might interest you.”
