by Ted Riccardi
Holmes went into the bedroom. There the piano that Miss Morel had played so lovingly had had its legs removed and was sitting on the floor, the legs in the corner.
“Good lord, Holmes,” I said, “this is an insanity.”
“Quite, my dear Watson, and a bit of a mystery as well.”
While we still had light, Holmes quickly looked over the flat.
“For what it’s worth, Watson, the wire from which the figure hangs is the low A string plus a piece of the C tied to it. The pillows are from the bedroom, and the uniform, if I judge correctly from the epaulettes, that of a colonel in the Italian army. Let us leave it in place.”
“Poor Miss Morel. This was meant to scare her out of her wits,” said I, thinking of our innocent client.
“Indeed, this would have shaken her a bit. I think it was put there more for the Colonel’s benefit than for Miss Morel’s. It is an ominous warning,” replied Holmes.
Holmes glanced about the room and then asked, “Watson, are you feeling sufficiently strong to help me put the legs back on the piano and place it upright?
“Of course. It should be easy enough.”
“Then let us bring the legs over and see what we can manage.”
With great effort we moved the piano onto its straight side, put two legs in place and while Holmes held it up at its narrow end, I screwed in the last leg. Holmes let it down with a bit of a grunt.
“Now let us see what this instrument is about,” he said, lifting the lid.
“A beautifully made instrument,” said I. “Why on earth would one want to destroy it?”
“When we learn that, dear Watson, we will have solved our little mystery. . . . Ah, here we go. Most interesting.”
Holmes had taken out a rule and measured the side of the case.
“Fully three inches deeper . . .” he muttered to himself. As he spoke, he crawled under the instrument to examine the sound board.
“There are deep holes drilled into the case, where screws have been removed,” he said as he stood up.
Holmes moved his hand and fingers over the sound board.
“A fine dust, Watson. Most interesting. Come, let us go and visit La Casa Sanzio, the supplier of pianos to all of Italy. And there is time to stop at our embassy to meet Mr. Spenser.”
As we left, I saw Holmes looking at a photograph on Santoro’s desk.
“Three people—Miss Morel, Colonel Santoro, and presumably Mr. Herbert Spenser. Odd, is it not, dear Watson, that our Englishman has the same name as an illustrious personage? Hasn’t that occurred before?”
“Indeed,” said I, “there was Mr. Arthur Wellesley, who passed himself off as the son of Wellington. Terrible fellow, that one.”
Holmes said nothing as he wiped the dust off his hands with a handkerchief, and we were off. Our route took us to the British Embassy to meet our vice consul. Holmes was in and out in seconds.
“As I suspected, Watson, there is no Herbert Spenser at the Embassy. The post has not been filled for several months. Mr. ‘Spenser,’ whoever he is, is a liar and a fraud. We shall catch up with him soon, I hope.”
I sat quietly as Holmes reflected. I knew nothing of the Sanzio establishment, which was involved not only in supplying pianos but also was one of Europe’s leading music publishers.
“The case is a remarkable one, Holmes,” I said finally. “I must say that I am more than a bit mystified. The mock death of the colonel, the destroyed piano . . . to what end?”
“I have some ideas, old fellow, but I too am still in the dark.”
Holmes was silent and then began to hum a tune to himself, something I did not recognize.
“Puccini, Watson, from the third act of La Bohème.”
“Never heard of him,” I retorted.
Holmes smiled. As we approached the Sanzio establishment, he broke his silence.
“Without Sanzio, Watson, there would be almost no music in Italy, especially new music. Leoncavallo, Puccini, Mascagni, and many others must give credit to Amilcare Sanzio for his support and interest in their work.”
“I know nothing of Italian opera, my dear Holmes,” said I. “I am, dear fellow, a musical ignoramus. A tin ear, as they say.”
“Then you will learn while we are here. By the by, old fellow, I am sure now that this case has nothing to do with opera, music in general, or pianos, for that matter, except incidentally. Ah, but here we are da Sanzio. Come along, we are about to meet one of the great publishers of Europe.”
The Sanzio establishment, I noted, was located in an ornate palazzo, not far from the Piazza Venezia. Arrigo Sanzio, a tall, handsome man of about fifty, greeted us warmly in Italian, but once he realized that I knew little of his language, he spoke to me in French.
“Forgive me, please, dottore, but we Italians know almost no English.”
“And we English are quite stubborn about foreign languages. French is the only language we know.”
“Except for the languages of our colonies,” said Holmes sardonically.
“We Italians are late in building an empire, caro dottore, but someday perhaps we shall establish a new order in the Mediterranean and bring back the glory of ancient Rome. Ma, basta, you are here because of Miss Morel and her piano.”
“Yes, indeed, but most importantly, I have some questions that you may be able to answer for us,” said Holmes.
“Dica, signore,” said Sanzio.
“Miss Morel was given a Vulsin, I think, a piano presumably made in Austria. I confess to ignorance of the Vulsin piano. Could you enlighten us as to the history of the company?”
“The Vulsin, caro ingeniere, is, as Miss Morel has put it, a fine instrument. I would go further, however, and describe it as the best piano ever made. The company is new and makes very few, no more than twenty or thirty each year, and we must fight to get our share. The company is now owned by Colonel Santoro’s wife, the Baroness Horvath, of Budapest. She has turned the small company founded by her father into a musical giant. Our competitors sometimes offer outlandish prices. This year, I have received an order for twenty grand pianos all destined for Egypt, and I am happy to say that the director of the Vulsin factory has agreed. We have almost all of them now.”
“Isn’t that rather odd?” asked Holmes incredulously. “Who on earth ordered twenty pianos?”
Sanzio smiled. “The Khedive himself. Ever since the success of Verdi’s Aida, the Khedive has decided to make Cairo the foremost musical city of the world. Unfortunately, Signor Holmes, by mistake, one of the pianos was given to Miss Morel as a practise piano. I am told by my tuner that the piano has been severely damaged, perhaps by one of our rivals, or by one of hers. In any case, you need not worry, I have sent Miss Morel an excellent piano for her use. For her trouble, I have given it to her gratis, for as long as she needs it. The piano is a Blüthner, designed and played by Liszt himself.”
“That is most kind of you. Tell me, Signore, by what route do your Vulsin pianos go to Cairo?” asked Holmes.
“To Lecce via rail, and then to Cairo on a ship provided by the Egyptian government.”
“And are they inspected before they leave here?” asked Holmes.
“I oversee the final inspection. If I am absent from Rome, they are sealed by your vice consul, Herbert Spenser. He is very knowledgeable about music and represents your government in Cairo. He has been very kind in his services to us.”
“And where is he now? I should like to meet him,” said Holmes.
“He is in Lecce with the first part of the shipment for the Khedive. Fifteen grand pianos, all Vulsins, constructed to the highest standards and now the premier piano of Europe. When he returns I shall introduce you.”
“Thank you Mr. Sanzio,” said Holmes. “I have one last request.”
“Dica,” said Sanzio.
“Where are the other five pianos destined for Egypt?”
“They are here in this building, on the floor below.” Sanzio replied.
“Would you allow me to examine them?�
�
“Examine? But of course. What are you looking for, Mr. Holmes?”
“Let us say I am interested in the workmanship of the Vulsin factory.”
Sanzio snapped his fingers and instantly a small boy of about ten years appeared.
“This is Pasqualino,” said Sanzio. “He will take you to the room of instruments. It is late, Mr. Holmes, and I have many things to attend to.”
“Thank you for you patience, Signore. I shall be quick.”
Holmes and I followed the boy down the stairs into the basement. Though the light was not strong we could follow Pasqualino to the pianos that were to be shipped to Egypt. Holmes lost no time. In a few seconds he was on the floor, moving from under one piano to another. I heard him give out an occasional chuckle and every so often a self-satisfied, full-bodied laugh.
“All right Watson, jot this down will you? Vulsin serial numbers: 178 to 1803.”
“What are these numbers. Holmes?” I asked.
“They will tell us which of these pianos has been altered in order to hold a special treasure for the Khedive. My examination was cursory, but I can tell you, Watson, one of the pianos carries a very large number of ten-pound notes. They are excellent counterfeit, and in Egypt no one will recognize the difference, or care for that matter. The remaining pianos will carry bags of Austrian Maria Teresa silver thaler, coinage highly prized by the Ethiopian soldiers who defeated the Italian Army at Adowa. And finally, dear Watson, you see the oversized grands in the corner there? They contain the latest examples of the Salzburg rifle, now the most accurate weapon of its kind available in Europe.”
“Good Lord, Holmes,” said I. “The pianos alone are worth a small fortune. What would be the worth of the cargo?”
“I would say old boy, well over two, possibly three million. Enough to fight a long-drawn-out war. The pianos are loaded with their cargo in Austria, where they are manufactured at the Vulsin factory just beyond the Italian border. They are shipped here to Rome by freight train, then sealed in metal cases, whence they are shipped to Lecce and are placed on the Egyptian steamer that takes them to Egypt. Once they leave Rome they are not opened again; hence their cargo is safe. Safer than any other mode of transportation. The disguise, Watson, I judge to be completely successful. The question for us is where and by whom these instruments are turned into mere containers. These pianos hold a large fortune, enough to supply more than one sizable army with its needs for at least a year of fighting.”
Holmes stood still for a moment.
“Listen, Watson, a noise. Did you hear it?”
“Yes, it came from behind the basement door there, a groan—”
Holmes strode over to the door and I pulled out my revolver. Slowly he turned the knob.
As the door opened, a man bound and gagged, resting on his haunches, fell forward before us, dead.
“This time the real thing,” said Holmes.
We removed the gag and the rope and sent a quaking Pasqualino to summon Sanzio.
“He’s dead, Holmes, but—”
“Santoro, no doubt,” said Holmes.
Sanzio turned pale when he entered. “Mio amico è morto. Chi l’ha ucciso? Who killed him?”
“I have my suspicions, but only time will tell. Note that his position is that of a beheading, Watson, just before the executioner strikes. I suspect that we may find out who the attacker was after we find Mr. Herbert Spenser, and la Signora Santoro. Please call Ispettore Grimaldi,” he continued. “We shall await his arrival.”
Santoro’s body lay stiff on the floor, and I covered it with my coat. He had been dead for several hours and the sound that had alerted us to his presence was, perhaps, an involuntary gasp.
“He is just as much a suppliant as a victim, Holmes. I suppose we must tell Grimaldi to go after Spenser,” I said.
“Indeed, and Santoro’s wife. A well-organized attempt to smuggle all this contraband has fallen apart with Santoro’s death.”
Grimaldi was there within the hour. “So. At last Santoro himself, a war hero,” said Grimaldi, marking his words with deep irony, “one who works for a gang of criminals, all of whom served in Ethiopia.”
“What do you know about them?” asked Holmes.
“Very little,” said Grimaldi. “I know that Santoro and his wife became arms suppliers after the loss at Adowa. This we learned by accident, for one of their shipments was intercepted in Brindisi. It came into the port on the backs of donkeys from the hills of Basilicata, the guns wrapped in thick sheepskins. In the dark, all escaped, but one of our men swore that Santoro was there. He showed a rifle that he had found. It bore Santoro’s military insignia. All signs pointed to him, but because of his prestige as a war hero and the political influence of his wife, he was exonerated. We have an idea of what he was up to, but we never discovered how he managed to do what he did. Until now, my dear Holmes,” he said dryly, “if I am not mistaken. The gang too has broken up. I suspect that your good citizen Spenser is part of the reason for the gang’s breakup.”
Holmes beamed. “Se monumentum quœris, circumspice,” he said. “The piano, my dear Grimaldi, is the latest means by which the Santoro gang shipped whatever they wanted to, concealed from all eyes by the deceptive irrelevance to war of this great instrument. A splendid example of what I have referred to as the Dupin Principle: should you wish to hide something, leave it in partial or full view. Examine the pianos at the end there, and you will see pianos that are empty inside. In them, even the metal frame and the pin block have been removed, in order to lessen their weight and to allow for more to be stored. But they still bear the unmistakable form of the piano. Fill one of these cases with counterfeit bills and you have a fortune neatly hidden. Strap it closed and you have a foolproof disguise. Should the odd customs official raise questions, a small emolument coupled with a threat, and you silence the only ones who could open them.”
“Then,” said Grimaldi, “I trust that we no longer must chase Lucanian donkeys in the dark.”
“You need not,” said Holmes with a smile. “I think we should go after Mr. Spenser even though he is no musician. He pretends to be the vice consul, but he is not, we can be sure of that. What started out as the Santoros and Mr. Spenser in a unified company in league with the Khedive and some other African potentates, are now Mr. Spenser and Mrs. Santoro against the dead Colonel. Come, Watson, it is getting late. Will the illustrious signori, Grimaldi and Sanzio, join us at the Campo dei Fior, at La Carbonara, to be precise, in the next hour?”
It was at a very late hour that a courier delivered a note for Holmes as we sat in a small café discussing the case. It read:
Dear Sherlock Holmes,
Sorry to have escaped again, old boy. Please keep trying. It amuses me. I am happy that Santoro is now out of the picture. He should still be in a closet in Sanzio’s basement. A fool who thought he could steal from us.
And by the by, I send you best wishes from Alice Morel, who is here beside me as my new bride, now totally free of the burden of that awful instrument. (Signed)
Charles Darwin, Jr.
(Aboard the Beagle )
“Good Lord, Holmes, can it be—that a young woman of her abilities would run off with a total charlatan like Spenser?”
Holmes smiled ruefully.
“Darwin, old fellow. He has changed his name again. To paraphrase the Sage of KÖnigsberg,” he said, with a smile, ‘two things fill me with wonder: the starry heavens above, and the idiocies below.’ I trust that Mr. Darwin is not very far away.”
Grimaldi smiled and held up his glass.
“To innocence—and madness,” he said.
PORLOCK’S DEMISE
AMONG THE MEMBERS OF THE CRIMINAL GANG WITH whom the late professor James Moriarty surrounded himself, none was more formidable than the man who ventured forth under the nom de plume of Fred Porlock. The reader may recall my brief references to him in “The Valley of Fear,” one of the longer accounts that I have dedicated to the exploits o
f Sherlock Holmes.
Porlock was Moriarty’s right hand. More than Sondberg, the cruel and avaricious murderer, and Vitsle, the extortionist, Porlock showed not only the sinister intelligence required to survive in a world inhabited by such villains, but a contorted spirit surpassed only by that of Moriarty himself. In comparison, even the highly touted Sebastian Moran was no more than a common ruffian.
Unlike such loyal but obsequious minions, however, Porlock maneuvered his position so deftly that he became essential to Moriarty’s success. It was he who transformed the theoretical crimes conceived by the Master into the ever increasing number of disasters that baffled all but my dear friend. It was, as Holmes was wont to say, Porlock’s genius that enabled the evil professor to realize his ambition of criminal supremacy in Britain, if not in all of Europe. Indeed, so fine was Porlock’s touch in concealing his teacher’s presence, that some sincerely came to believe Moriarty to be a figment of Holmes’s overworked imagination. It was as if Moriarty’s invisibility increased as his power grew each day.
And yet, as Holmes was wont to remark on occasion, Porlock too had his weaknesses, the chief of which was his moral ambivalence toward crime. A large part of him desired to be a man like other men. Despite the riches which came his way, he considered the world of crime beneath him, at best a quagmire of fraud and misery, and he both despised and admired Moriarty for having bestowed upon him his career of ill-gotten wealth, but wealth nevertheless.
I laid eyes on Porlock only once in all the years Holmes knew him. It was in early December of 1891 on a snowy morning towards the beginning of the month that I met Holmes at the Rosetta Stone in the British Museum. He had arranged to examine a recently acquired papyrus which contained the earliest Greek treatise on poisons and their antidotes. We were about to follow the attendant to the reading room when Holmes turned and said, “This, my dear friend, is the wizard to the king.”
Holmes bowed in a mocking sort of way to a gentleman who suddenly stood next to him.
“And this, no doubt, the learned chronicler of the great master detective,” said Porlock quietly. Neither of us proffered our hand, and Holmes did not attempt to cover the momentary awkwardness. He merely said, “Please wait for me here, old boy, I shan’t be but a moment.”
