Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #2

by Gary Lovisi

  I looked at Holmes closely and saw the tragedy played in his features.

  “What happened next?” I asked.

  “Well, of course the ruckus attracted the entire staff. James the butler, Gloria the maid, even Ricardo the groom were all witnesses to the event.”

  “What a tragic story. And the boy? How is he?”

  “Badly done up, I’m afraid. I had the staff whisk him away, after I made them promise not to utter one word to the police.”

  “So you took the blame. But why?”

  “To keep the boy out of it, allow him some solace, but also to give John Morrow the time he needed to escape the country. He deserved that much, I believe. You see, he had truly reformed his life, lived honorably for many years, but after what he and I were forced to witness that day I can not blame him for the action he took. As God is my judge, Watson, were I to have reached Wilfrey before Morrow, I would surely have preformed the exact same action—probably with the exact same results.”

  There wasn’t much I could say after that. I looked at Sherlock Holmes, at the cold iron bars of his jail cell. “So what do we do now?”

  “You do nothing. Say nothing of what you have learned. Tomorrow morning, as planned, James the butler will visit Scotland Yard and lay it all before Inspector Lestrade. He will tell what he and the staff witnessed, and then the search will begin in earnest for John Morrow—who will by then be well out of the country, perhaps in America or Australia or God alone knows where. And I wish him well.”

  “Shall I come back for you tomorrow morning then?”

  “Will you? I would be most pleased to see you when this affair is over and done with,” Holmes said with a smile. “But mind you, not too early, John. I want to sleep late, as I plan to finish reading Crime and Punishment this evening.”

  THE DAY AFTER

  Lestrade led me down into the basement where the jail cells were located and we found Holmes already up and dressed waiting for us.

  “Sherlock Holmes,” Lestrade said testily, disappointment written upon his face. “There has come forward some witnesses with new evidence to clear you of all charges. You are to be set free.”

  “Thank you, Inspector,” Holmes said, ready to leave, his copy of Dostoevsky’s classic novel under his arm. “And good morning to you, Watson.”

  “Good morning, Holmes.” I said softly.

  “Yes, good morning all around, I’m sure,” Lestrade said stiffly. Something was eating at his craw and he was in earnest to speak up. “I am releasing you, Mr Holmes, but once again you have interfered in official police work. Your admitting to this crime covered up Morrow’s killing and allowed him the time he needed to escape. I am not sure we will ever bring him to ground now.”

  Holmes nodded, “I can not say I am sorry, Lestrade. I know you are angry with me and you may rightly want to prosecute me for my interference. . . .”

  Lestrade softened and gently placed his hand upon the shoulder of Sherlock Holmes. It was an almost loving gesture, so much so that I was taken aback and barely knew what to make of it.

  “I have seen the boy, Mr Holmes,” Lestrade said simply. Did I see a tear welling in the tough policeman’s eye? “I imagine sometimes, a crime may be acceptable in order to defeat a greater evil.”

  My companion nodded. Nothing else need be said.

  “Well, now Watson, let us leave this place. Will you accompany me back to 221 B, and perhaps we will have a well-deserved luncheon together?”

  “Absolutely, Holmes.”

  “Then good day to you, Lestrade,” Holmes piped on his way out.

  “And to you, Mr Sherlock Holmes . . .” Lestrade laughed now, “until the next time.”

  THE BALLAD OF THE GLORIA SCOTT, by Len Moffatt

  Have you heard the story of the Gloria Scott?

  She wasn’t a schooner and she wasn’t a yacht.

  As a matter of fact she was a bark—

  Not to be confused with a barge or an ark,

  And her passengers were prisoners—a criminal lot,

  Being transported on the Gloria Scott!

  Now Sherlock claims that the Gloria Scott mystery

  Was the very first case in his crime-solving history.

  As a matter of fact all he solved was a code

  And did some minor deducing at his host’s abode.

  The victim’s memoirs revealed the actual plot

  Of the prisoners transported on the Gloria Scott.

  The prisoners revolted and massacred the crew!

  The prisoners were killers except for one or two.

  They were put off on a boat with a few supplies—

  Then the Gloria Scott exploded before their very eyes!

  They looked in vain but the ship was gone from sight—

  She was obviously the bark that did nothing in the night . . .

  MAX’S CAP by Jean Paiva

  Max was dying. What amazed me was that it was here, in a hospital, and not on the street. Max should have died in a pool of blood, shot full of holes. Or, maybe, with his throat cut from ear to ear, his mangled voice box never to growl another demand. Standing there at the foot of his bed, I even told him so.

  “Hey Max, what’cha doing lying here, taking up good bed space for. You’re supposed by out there, driving off into the sunset. You know, like a cowboy, with your boots on.”

  Of course, the moment the words were out of my mouth—make that my motor-mouth and no amount of knuckle rapping from Max over the years had slowed the flow of words from my lips—my stomach turned into a rock with my guts knotted around it for good measure. Grimacing, I stood waiting for the usual fury my loose lips unleashed.

  “One thing, Charley, you’ll never change,” rang Max’s still booming voice, followed by his usual gruff laughter. My thinking that Max didn’t sound all that sick or dying quickly changed when a wracking cough broke up his words. Gasping for breath, Max still had to have the last say.

  “But you always had a knack for hitting the nail on the head, my friend,” he said in a more subdued voice, trying not to set off another coughing spell. “This time I’ve got to agree with you a hundred percent. I should be driving my new Caddy down the expressway, looking at the harbor with a beautiful blonde by my side—remember Mitzie, she was a pistol—and, well . . .” Max’s voice trailed off. “That’s what you hand in mind, huh, old pal?”

  “Well, Max,” I started, hesitant to share my blood-soaked vision, “sort of.” Actually biting my tongue to keep the truth from blurting out, I wanted—for once—to keep my trap closed. This one time I was going to remember Max’s constant criticism: “For Pete’s sake,” he’d yell, “just think for one second before you open your trap and give away the family’s secrets! Your motor-mouth goes faster than a supersonic jet. And you wonder why you’re always the last one we tell anything.”

  That was sort of an exaggeration. I mean, I never gave away any secrets or anything. Not once. Well, I don’t think so, anyway.

  Max probably wasn’t remembering the time my motor-mouth got us out of a real jam with Sugar Joe. Joe was ready to pull the trigger the minute he saw Max but I was there and somehow I managed to talk circles around the old guy.

  Joe’d had it in for Max for a long time but when Max got the okay to move a fresh load of television sets—you know, the kind that usually fall off a truck—Joe finally slipped a few gears. He wanted to take Max out, then and there; and he had a heavy .45 handy to accomplish this goal. Joe’s eyes were glazed and he was looking for a clear shot when somehow I managed to catch his attention. I kept Joe going for a few minutes, talking about the Met game of all things, just long enough for Max to get the gun away.

  Sugar Joe gave up after that. Guess he figured he’d had it. Not only was he losing bids to Max, he was
even getting side-tracked by some dumb old motor-mouth.

  After that we got more and more contracts. As many as we could handle. We probably could have gotten all of them but Max wanted to keep our operation small—and safe. Furs had been big for us for a few years, especially with Sugar Joe out of the way; and Max always said it was my doing. I guess that’s why he put up with me. He called me his good-luck piece and told people that he’d rather have Charley along than any rabbit’s foot.

  Max’s brittle cough brought me back to the hospital room, now deep in shadows. Max always liked the dark and other than when he was showing merchandise by bright light—he’d always taken pride in the quality of his goods—only the dimmest lights were on in his home or in his corner of the club room.

  “Charley, listen to me.” Max sounded very tired. “You’re the only one I wanted here, you know I wouldn’t even let those other mugs visit. I want to be sure you take care of things for me. Even with your big mouth, you’re the only one I trust.”

  I heard somewhere that praise from Caesar—some Greek god or something in case you don’t know—was praise indeed. That’s the way I felt right at that moment. Like some god had told me I was the best, which I thought Max was, and he did.

  Seeing that my mind was wandering, Max was always good at that, he uttered his favorite curse at me. Not because it’s unprintable, which it sort of is, but more because it’s personal and private, I’m not going to repeat it but, as usual, it got my full attention.

  “Listen up. You’re going to take care of some stuff for me.” Max went on and detailed a long list of errands and chores I had to do and, even with my mind fully occupied taking notes on the back of his hospital chart, I realized he was dictating his last will and testament.

  Most of what he rattled off had to do with what to do with which stuff. There was sure lots of stuff and lots of things to do. Some of it he couldn’t seem to decide about and told me to do what I wanted. Later, when I thought about it, I realized he was giving the stuff to me. But back in the hospital room I was just writing down his orders.

  When he was through he looked a lot more peaceful. Like he’d gotten a burden off his chest. His ex-wife and daughter were taken care of, as always, and his current girl-friend, Shirley, better be happy with what he was leaving her. Diamonds ain’t to be sneezed at. Fortunately for her, Shirley was the last in a long line of leggy blondes. Max could go through dames faster that I could use a box of Mr. Coffee filters.

  His new Caddy was the only thing that had his real name on it and, even though he knew I had my eye on it, his daughter was going to get it to replace her station wagon. I knew I could work out a deal with her. She’d never use the long sleek sedan, not with all the kids she had to squire about.

  Visiting hours were just about over. The floor nurse poked her skinny nose in the room and arrogantly told me to leave. She had an attitude ever since Max won the battle to keep the lights off. Nurses don’t like losing arguments.

  “Listen kid, you better take a day or two off from visiting,” Max said just as I was reaching for the door. “I ain’t feeling so hot. But do me one more favor. My cap, right here on the night table, needs a cleaning. Bring it in for me, will you, so it’ll be like new when I get out. And, I’ll talk to you later.”

  I realized, even then, that Max didn’t quite mean what he was saying. He meant something else but it wasn’t the best time to ask him what he really meant. So I took the cap and closed his door gently behind me, not really thinking that I wasn’t going to be seeing to Max any more.

  * * * *

  The cap was a snap-brimmed tweed, mostly brown and white but with lots of flecks of other colors. A little blue, a little red, even a little yellow. I’d always liked it and had even bought the same cap for myself but when Max saw it he snatched it off my head. “What do you wanta do?” he’d said, “Look like twins?” My cap ended up back in the store.

  Leaving the hospital I twirled Max’s cap in my hand, liking the feel of it. Without really thinking, I flipped the cap on to my head. It wasn’t until I’d started up my Ford LTD and looked in the rear view mirror that I realized I was wearing Max Babson’s cap.

  It was made for me. The bits of blue picked up the exact color of my eyes, and the brown and white flecks perfectly matched my graying brown hair. All of a sudden I understood what my wife meant when she talked about a dress that she had to have. The cap was me.

  It was too early to go home so I headed for the club. Don’t get me wrong now, I’m not talking about a country club or a health club or any of those wierdo places. This was the club. The one where Max had his own table. Our club wasn’t one of those dinky storefronts either—where you could look in through dusty windows and see guys sitting around doing nothing. Our club was a double-wide storefront with heavily curtained windows so no one could look in. A small bar had been set up in back and we went by the honor system, leaving cash or chits in the kitty for anything we took.

  * * * *

  Pulling up, I found a parking space waiting for me right in front of the club—something I could only remember happening maybe twice before, and the last time was a good five years ago. Checking the LTD’s rear-view mirror to see how much space I’d left the guy behind me, I noticed the cap again. It felt so good, like it was meant for my head, I’d forgotten I was wearing it. Flicking the cap’s brim with my fingertips I made a quick decision to leave it on. After all, Max had given it to me.

  The guys in the club all asked about Max and I told them. He wasn’t good. Hank was the first to notice I was wearing Max’s cap. It was then, I think, that the guys really believed me about Max maybe not making it.

  I took my usual seat at Max’s table, on the left side, with my back against the wall. The table itself was to the right of the bar and one of only two large tables in the club room. The other large table was to the left of the bar and it usually held Hank and his crew of dead-beats. There were four smaller tables between these two and the front door, plus a long table under the front window running almost the width of the club, from the wall to the door. On a busy night a couple dozen guys could be found with poker hands and poker faces, brewing it up.

  Looking at Max’s corner seat I realized that he probably would never sit there again and I got a little misty. It suddenly hit me that someone else might sit in Max’s chair and for some reason that was the last thing in the world I wanted to happen. So I shifted over to Max’s chair. At least, I reasoned, it would keep some one else from sitting there.

  A couple of beers, a few quick hands of poker and I knew it was long past the time for me to go home. At the request of us members the club had no phone so, if I was to call the wife with excuses, I had to do it from the street. Figuring excuses weren’t necessary, that I’d show up soon enough, I got my jacket from the back of the chair and started out the door.

  “Hey Charley,” Hank called from the bar, “you tell Max we’re thinking of him. Especially who’s going to get the next contract. There’s a load of video tape recorders that’s up for grabs.” Hank’s laugh hurt me. I knew Hank would cut his own mother out of a bidding, but it just struck me as wrong that he was so enthusiastic about the business.

  * * * *

  Starting the LTD up and moving out to the corner light kept me occupied for the next few minutes, but waiting for the green signal gave me time to think. If Hank is ready to move in, the other guys probably also are—but at least they’re cool enough not to show it. The green light blinked on and I moved out, still thinking. “What would Max want me to do?” Motor-mouths like me talk to themselves a lot, or so I’ve been told. Sometimes we ask questions out loud, even when we think there’s no one around to answer.

  “Bid, you idiot,” rang Max’s growl, as clear as if he’d been sitting next to me.

  Not counting the car I crashed into, I think I handled the situation
pretty well.

  Pulling over four blocks and two turns later, I sat quietly—very quietly—waiting for the shaking to stop.

  “Bid what?” I finally asked out loud, not really believing—and definitely hoping it wasn’t going to happen—that I’d get an answer.

  “Bid higher than anyone else and low enough to cut a clean profit,” the voice echoed around me in the enclosed car. “You should know that much by now.” Only Max could talk that loud.

  Instinct had always worked for me and suddenly I knew exactly what to do. I grabbed the cap off my head and tossed it to the far corner of the floor on the passenger’s side.

  “How much higher?” I asked, catching a glimpse of my wild eyes in the rear view mirror. I also had my fingers crossed and my knees braced against the steering wheel post to keep them from knocking. There was no answer. I cleared my throat, realizing my voice was barely audible and maybe I should speak up. “How much higher?” Still, no answer.

  Looking at the cap, snap brim facing me and smooth crown line looking as sleek as a sports car, took all of my nerve. Reaching for it and actually holding it took more courage than I thought I had but I finally held it in my shaking hands. “How much higher?” I tried again.