At Threadneedle Street the Master-at-Arms escorted us through the empty cathedral-like banking hall, pursued by a hundred echoes of our own footsteps. Beneath our feet I knew was stored the huge reserve of gold bullion that guaranteed all the Sterling currency in circulation. The office of the Chief Cashier of The Bank of England was a surprisingly modest affair, elegantly furnished but little more spacious than the parlour at 221B; a drawn and tired-looking Frank May sat alone at his desk in a pool of light, reading by the wan yellow glow of the single globe.
Wearily he rose at our entry; “Good evening Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson; please be seated.” He fixed us with a stern look.
“This is all damnably irregular Mr Holmes; indeed, I cannot recall a situation to compare in all my years in banking and to be quite candid with you, it appears to me to have all the elements of a desperate last throw of the dice. It is altogether quite without precedent!”
Sherlock Holmes steepled his thin white fingers and gazed intently at May. “I am certain it is, but is not the situation in which you find yourself also quite without precedent? Do not desperate times call for desperate measures?”
May sat back in his opulent leather chair with a look of resignation and sighed deeply. “You are right Mr Holmes. Very well; to business then; I have, as you requested, communicated with Herr Balmer at The Bank Leu in Switzerland and he has, to my great surprise, agreed to comply with your unusual request. As you can see for yourself, it is done.”
He passed across a telegraph message which Holmes scanned eagerly then, with a chillingly feral grin, pocketed it with evident satisfaction. “And what of the other matter, Mr May, the, ah, paperwork... I trust that is all in order?”
The chief cashier looked pained; “Ah yes, that. It is here...” and he retrieved a large brown cardboard box-file from beneath his desk. “Do you have suitable security about you gentlemen?” Holmes looked across at me. “Doctor Watson here is armed. Watson, be a good fellow and take charge of this would you?” May reached beneath his desk once more; “I believe this was a further requirement Mr Holmes?” Bemused, I watched May hand Holmes a bulky canvas bag and what appeared to be a receipt of some sort across the polished desk-top; Holmes appended his signature to the document. We stood and May solemnly shook hands with each of us. “Godspeed gentlemen and I pray for a successful outcome – the fate of the nation’s economy now rests in your hands.”
And so we departed The Bank of England, I carrying my evidently precious burden, Holmes bearing the canvas bag and whistling tunelessly. I knew better than to quiz him for the present. Once back at Baker Street he relieved me of my mysterious burden and placed it upon the dining table, along with the bag.
When I tentatively enquired about the contents, he replied offhandedly “Oh these, Watson, merely bundles of exceedingly dull financial papers; those with an interest in such things might find them perfectly fascinating, but I am certain that were you to read even a dozen of them you would become bored to distraction – they all say much the same thing.”
He slid the cardboard box across to me. “Here, see for yourself.” The box was a large double folio-sized cardboard file; the lid secured by a strong cord wound around two stout bone buttons. I unwound the string and lifted the lid; I was silent for some time. I looked up at Holmes; a quirky little smile flashed over his face. “Interesting reading, eh?”
“Is this real?”
“Oh yes Watson, it is perfectly real”
“This is a fortune! Good Lord, there must be tens of thousands of pounds here!”
“One hundred thousand to be precise.”
“Then The Bank proposes to pay for the return of the plates and paper?”
“We may not expect Mr Bormanstein to return them for no gain at all. But worry not Watson, this is merely for show – a theatrical prop I trust – it is my bait; I would prefer not be compelled to hand it over, but a rat-trap with no bait catches few rats.” I shook my head in wonderment at this extraordinary volte-face. It seemed not the triumphant end I had hoped for; as I went to my room I reflected that while Holmes was an undoubted prodigy in the field of criminal detection, perhaps even he had his limits, faced with such an intractable situation.
* * *
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A Rat-Trap In Belgrave Square
While shaving early next morning – the final day of the deadline – I overheard Holmes in quiet conversation with a visitor; a moment’s concentration on the basso profundo voice of the caller confirmed that it was Solomon Warburg. I understood none of the murmured discussion except Warburg’s parting words:
“Until later then, Mr Holmes.”
My colleague laughed quietly, the parlour door closed, then silence reigned until I heard Mrs Hudson’s morning greeting as she entered to set breakfast; I adjusted my collar and entered the parlour. Holmes was already attacking a large kipper; “Most timely Watson – yours is still warm under the cover.” I was mystified by his calm, confident mood at such a critical hour. He paused; “Today is the judgement day – you are still with me?” For answer I placed my revolver beside my plate; “Of course Holmes; Mary returns from Cambridge tomorrow evening, but even were she to return earlier, I could never forgive myself if I allowed you to face this peril alone, even with your burly welcoming committee.
“I have some private matters to attend, and several tedious house-calls I must make today in Chelsea and Kensington, but I shall return around nine if that accords?”
“That will do splendidly Watson but be sure not to be much later; I myself shall call on Lestrade and apprise him of our guests tonight; I am certain he will attend, for we know he will never recover the stolen plates and paper from the blameless Petch and Gunton and they, I am sure, are quite as bewildered as Lestrade is deluded! Perhaps after, I may make a few small purchases, try my hand at the tables of The Bagatelle Club and then take tea in Belgravia” with which odd announcement he returned his attentions to demolishing his kipper.
Holmes rarely shopped or took tea out, and never gambled, much preferring to deduce the outcome of a circumstance, rather than leave the conclusion to pure chance. Little more of interest occurred that morning save that Billy showed Wiggins, the self-appointed leader of the Baker Street Irregulars up at noon. He appeared most excited as he delivered his message in breathless gasps.
“It was just like you said it would be Mr ’Olmes – Mustachios, the toff went to the telegraph office spot on ten an’ picked up two messages. I got just the quickest peek at them as the clerk handed them over. One was quite short, just a few lines, an’ the other was all down the page. ’E seemed most ’andsome pleased wiv ’em.
“Pretty nippy-like he legs it back to the river an’ one of ’is big geezers – the one wiv’ the squinty eyes – rows him out to the big boat at best speed; then ’e starts ordering all the heavies about, right toplofty, ’ollering at the top of ’is voice an’ pretty soon they starts to load lots of ’eavy-lookin’ boxes in the boat an’ rows ’em over to a wagon on the quay; I ’eard ‘im shout to be loaded in time to be in town by midnight. Then I legged it back ’ere as fast as I could wiv the news.”
“And the other errand?” The urchin reached within the capacious pocket of his ragged, oversized coat and produced a flat, evidently weighty package folded within brown paper.
“Ah yes Mr ’olmes – Mr Kauffmann sends his best regards and ’e ’opes ’e done it right. I told ’im that you wanted it just like in a mirror, which ’e thought most ’stremely strange.” Holmes unfolded a flap of the wrapping and peered within. He smiled and said “That is very satisfactory Wiggins – you have done well.”A moment later and a florin richer, the grubby little fellow dashed down the stairs to vanish into the labyrinth of London’s streets.
A fierce gleam of excitement appeared in Holmes steel-grey eyes. He thrust a pale, sinewy hand out, palm-up. In a low, exultant tone he said “I have them now Watson; I have them right here...” and the bony fingers closed inexorably into a
vice-like fist, the startling strength of whose grip I had seen demonstrated more than once in the past.
“My trap is baited and ready to spring – I will take them tonight!”
I departed to attend my first call in Knightsbridge; it was a full hour and a half before I was released by my irascible patient – the hugely florid Brigadier Grenville-Wyatt who grumbled (despite my best ministrations) that his gout was worsening, and became quite testy when I suggested that an entire bottle of Cockburn’s port per diem was perhaps excessive; later in Kensington the widow, Mrs De’Ath, an enthusiastic and accomplished hypochondriac, despite her enviably robust state of health appeared morbidly determined to live up to her family name and positively would not let me leave until I prescribed something different, something novel; in desperation I suggested violet cachous from Benedict’s Confectioners and charged only a half-crown for my consultation; (amusingly, just two weeks later Mrs De’Ath earnestly assured me that the innocent and entirely ineffectual cachous had quite cured her grave symptoms, and proceeded to upbraid me for not having prescribed them earlier! Ho Hum...) I felt certain that Holmes must be enjoying a livelier afternoon than I!
As matters turned out I returned to Baker Street a few minutes before nine, when I encountered Holmes seated at his desk, meticulously cleaning and loading his revolver. “Ah Watson; good to see you back; and how has your day been?”
I shrugged resignedly. “Oh, it was perhaps only slightly more absorbing than attending last week’s all-night sitting debating the proposed redrawing of several London Borough boundaries.”
“I am sorry to hear it, for I by contrast have spent a fascinating afternoon on a jigsaw puzzle – you have no idea how gratifying it is to locate and place those crucial few pieces over which for days, you have puzzled how to fit into the emerging picture! However, enough of this chatter – we must make ready to welcome our guests in a fitting manner” and he reached for his coat, hat and revolver.
“He called down for a cab, and then retrieved a gleaming new Gladstone bag which I had not previously noted, from beneath his desk; it was equipped with a heavy steel chain and a thick bracelet to lock upon one’s wrist. I presumed it contained the humiliating ransom to be paid.
“Then we are to depart Holmes?” at which he said wryly; “Surely you did not imagine that I planned a Brick-Lane booth-brawl here at Baker Street! I doubt that we would have lodgings beyond tomorrow if that were to be the case; no, Watson, I have chosen an altogether more congenial meeting place, and Mrs Hudson shall be spared considerable distress. Come; get your coat, for unless I am much mistaken that is our driver below.”
Travelling into town I quizzed Holmes as to the reason for our leaving Baker Street at a little after half-past nine for a midnight rendezvous, unless it was to be a good distance away. “Not in the slightest Watson; in fact it is not far away at all, but we are dealing with wary, experienced and dangerous men. I am certain that they will arrive before the appointed hour and keep a circumspect watch on the place for at least an hour, perhaps more, lest they be drawn into a trap. Unknown to them we and our hidden army shall be in place long before midnight, and waiting to welcome them appropriately.”
Shortly, we entered that most exclusive, most expensive acre of London – Belgrave Square, where we alighted on the north side opposite a large grand house; like many of its neighbours it was extravagantly ablaze with light. Our arrival passed quite unnoticed among the gaiety of promenaders and the myriad fares arriving and departing in this centre of London’s high-society.
As I paid off the driver, Holmes nodded briefly in the direction of two very heavily-built gentlemen, dressed for the opera or theatre, seated on an elaborate wrought-iron bench beside the garden-square directly opposite the splendid mansion. A brightly-illuminated brass plaque beside its stone pillars identified it as Eaton House.
The two muscular theatre-goers resumed their quiet conversation; Holmes took my elbow and guided us away from the mansion, then crossed the street, at which point we doubled back until we arrived at the coaching entrance beside Eaton House; after a careful glance around, we strolled casually into the dimly-illuminated coach-yard. I froze as a monstrous silhouette loomed from the shadows; instinctively I reached for my revolver.
“Easy, Watson” Holmes murmured.
Softly he said “Good evening Private Shadwell; you understand your duty tonight?” The colossal soldier’s improbably quiet voice replied “That I do Mr Holmes Sir, never fear.”
“That is well Jeremiah; then stay alert for the sign.” My companion clearly knew the lie of the land because he guided us swiftly and unerringly through the gloom of the yard to a low arch at the far side by the stables and then to the left along a path bordering wide lawns, when we arrived at what I guessed to be the tradesmen’s entrance at the rear of the house. A few paces beyond, a great wash of light issued from a long array of glass doors in the French style, all leading onto the velvet lawn and the trees beyond. Elaborate wrought-iron shutters were open, but folded back against the sandstone walls. The merest glimpse through the windows told of an exceptionally opulent interior. We were admitted by the butler – a sallow, lugubrious-looking fellow who introduced himself as Balthazar; he ushered us through into a large and magnificent inner hall where we encountered Inspector Lestrade and a burly constable – both armed – and the mighty Solomon Warburg.
After a murmured discussion concerning the detailed dispositions of the men, Holmes concluded “Remember gentlemen, the trap is now baited and set – if we are to catch our rats in the act this night it is quite vital that you do not enter the library until I sound my whistle; the Doctor and I shall be observing progress closely from within the adjoining writing room at the far side. I think it probable that no more than three will enter the house; the others will most likely be on guard by the wagon at the front entrance. “They will be... taken care of by my men in the square. Should Bormanstein set his thugs outside the study door, then take them quietly at your first opportunity. There will now be something of a delay until midnight, for I am certain the house – if it is not already being watched – will shortly come under discreet surveillance by our guests, and will remain so until the appointed hour. Are we all clear on this gentlemen?” The reply took the form of three grim, determined nods. “Then let us to our places; until midnight men, and not a sound before!”
Balthazar gravely opened the large double doors into the deserted library of this magnificent mansion – but whose was it? With the exception of our taciturn guide, we had encountered no other occupant, nor indeed, the master of the house. What brief glimpses I had seen of this splendid establishment were impressive, but upon entering the library I was astounded – it was a veritable temple in celebration of the most perfectly refined taste, the most costly of fine antiques, and the most superb objets de vertu. The walls were hung with a collection of the great masters – I counted several by Raphael, three Holbeins, a Breughel, four small Rubens and even a Titian. A large antique Tabriz silk carpet lay upon the marble floor; a log fire blazed in the grate.
There were perhaps a dozen small Leonardo Da Vinci sketches while to the side of the magnificent marble fireplace, within a thick glass case was an early Gutenberg bible. One wall was devoted to shelves of rare volumes and manuscripts – another to ebony and cut-glass showcases crammed with exquisite, eggshell-thin, translucent Japanese porcelain of unimaginable age and value.
To the rear of the room, the garden side, were fragile, intricately crafted glass-panelled doors – the French windows I had observed earlier; I noted on the right, an open door which clearly led through to the writing room referenced earlier by Holmes. Diagonally across in one corner, close to the writing-room door, sat a large, highly-polished rosewood desk upon which rested an open book; the room smelled opulently of beeswax, fine leather and costly cigars.
The overall impression was of overwhelming wealth, discreetly displayed in the finest taste.
While I gazed from the d
oorway at this breathtaking display of affluence, Holmes spoke quietly to the butler who then proceeded to dim the gas lights one by one, then departed closing the doors behind him. In the near darkness I watched Holmes step to the desk, and place the Gladstone bag beneath it; from here I saw his lean silhouette move to the window onto the square, where stood a small occasional table upon which rested an ornate reading lamp and a polished cedar-wood humidor; he knelt down and motioning me to follow suit, repositioned the lamp and humidor, then turned the light half-way up again. The table was now brightly illuminated, while a much softer glow spread across the desktop. The corners of the library were in deep shadow. Evidently he did not wish us to be observed from the garden or from the square.
“I believe that completes our preparations, Watson; I think we may now retire to await our visitors” and he scuttled on his hands and knees, crab-like into the darkened writing-room; I followed suit. It was similarly richly furnished. With difficulty I checked my watch in the deep gloom – it was now well after a half past eleven o’clock; minutes now remained until we confronted whoever was behind this crime. Holmes pulled the door to, leaving a crack perhaps four inches wide through which we would watch events in the dimly illuminated library. From our vantage point we could observe the desk, the small table with the brightly-lit lamp and the humidor by the window onto the square, the entrance doors on the far side of the library, and four of the six French windows to the garden.
Perhaps fifteen minutes later the front door opened and closed; after a murmured conversation in the entrance hall a tall elegantly-dressed figure entered the library. He looked somehow familiar but when he entered the pool of light at the window there was no further doubt – it was the cultured criminal, Otto Dietmar von Huntziger. I peered, astonished, at Holmes in the gloom; he shook his head, one finger to his lips; clearly, von Huntziger was a player in Holmes’ trap; I remained silent. The robber-baron opened the humidor and selected a cigar then appeared to change his mind, replaced it and strolled to the desk. He glanced down and reached for the Gladstone bag, which he briefly opened. He made no comment except to emit a low whistle; having replaced it he seated himself, and became absorbed in the book which lay open before him. Without looking in our direction he said very quietly “Good evening Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson; welcome to my modest house. I see all your arrangements are in place.”
Sherlock Holmes & The Master Engraver (Sherlock Holmes Revival) Page 25
