by Unknown
"You've been here before," he said with sudden understanding.
"Never to my knowledge," replied Holmes.
"Then 'owd' you know . . ." Our driver's voice dwindled out and he shot another glance over his shoulder. There was a shrewd look in his eye. "Guess you're as good as they say, all right. There is a bridge, sir, as you shall shortly see. I take it that's what you're interested in."
"For the moment." The matter dropped there. I felt prompted to inquire of Holmes but chose to follow the driver's example. My friend would have probably responded with one of his pet phrases like, "It had to be, old fellow," which seemed to explain everything to him but was of scant use to me.
Dandy Jack guided his four-wheeler in a zigzag course through country lanes and soon we were riding adjacent to the rails and around the curve. Ahead loomed a vehicular bridge necessitated by a main road stretching south to Colchester, I assumed.
When we reached that point in the lane closest to the bridge, our driver reined in the bay and helped us down from our seats. Holmes requested Dandy Jack to accompany us, and he secured the horse's reins to a tree and caught up quick enough as we made our way across pastureland to the bridge. Holmes followed the roadbed under the overpass, his eyes surveying the span above us, and then we were on the other side. My friend seemed to be measuring the distance from the tracks to the top of the overpass and then he cast his eye around the open ground surrounding us on both sides. In the season this portion was tilled and for this reason Holmes spied what he was looking for. It was a straight length of wood that was quite dead and tapered at one end. Formerly a beanpole, no doubt, that had been thrown aside because of the brittleness of the old wood. Evidently it would serve Holmes' purpose, for he secured it and brought it to the point of the roadbed directly under the edge of the overpass. Measuring with his eyes, he whipped a handkerchief from the pocket of his traveling ulster and tied it to the pole. Needless to say, Dandy Jack and I were regarding him with some mystification.
As he righted the pole under the bridge, he did offer an explanation. "From here to the handkerchief represents the height of the boxcar from the ground."
"What about the armored cubicle?" I exclaimed, with a sudden idea as to what he was about.
"That does not figure in my calculations." Holmes indicated for Dandy Jack to hold the pole in the position he had placed it and stepped back, his eye swiveling from the handkerchief to the top of the bridge. "Hmmmm, about seven feet to the under portion of the span and another five feet to the parapet of the bridge. A bit more distance than I had figured, but it could be done."
Positioning himself directly underneath the edge of the bridge, he marched down the track with his measured stride for a short distance. He then stopped, turned, and gazed at the top of the bridge, nodding in seeming satisfaction. Returning, Holmes gestured for Dandy Jack to lower the pole, and he retrieved his handkerchief from it.
"Is that the shortest way to the bridge?" he asked, indicating a sharp slope to the south of the tracks.
Openmouthed, our driver nodded.
"But a moment, gentlemen, and I will rejoin you," said the sleuth, making for the hillside. As he swarmed up the incline with no apparent difficulty, Dandy Jack sidled over toward me, all the while watching Holmes' figure with a somewhat alarmed expression.
"'E don't say much, does 'e?"
"On the contrary, he can be quite loquacious," I replied with, I fear, the smugness of one dealing with a familiar subject. "It's just that he's a bit hard to understand," I added.
"That I can believe," the man growled.
"It is all very plain to him," I exclaimed somewhat defensively.
Dandy Jack's grin came to the rescue of his bafflement. "'Tis glad I am, sir, that it's plain to someone."
This seemed to cover the subject and we remained silent until Holmes returned shortly thereafter. I noted, with envy, that he was not even breathing deeply.
"Back to the carriage, lads," he ordered, and there was a pleased expression on his usually inscrutable features. Dandy Jack and I followed the sleuth's long strides. When we reached the four-wheeler, Holmes had a question. "How close can you get us to the spur line?"
"Iffen I goes 'round by the old mine, I can drive right to the end of it," was Dandy Jack's reply.
"Capital. The junction of the feeder line with the main track has little to tell us," said Holmes.
"First time I knew rail track could tell me anythin'," said Jack, and promptly lapsed into silence. I sensed there was something about Holmes that made him nervous.
Our route involved a number of turns and the gentle curves that country roads are prone to have, and I completely lost any sense of direction. When we arrived at a cleared area with several boarded-up and dilapidated wooden buildings, a rail bed that ended at a sizeable pile of boulders relocated my directional bug. The spur line went in a straight northeast direction, placing the main line in my mind. The clearing had been hewn from a heavily timbered area, and already second growth was making a considerable showing. A small hill close to the end of tracks was studded with rocky outcroppings and there was a sizeable opening in its side, now shielded by loose rock. This had to be the abandoned tin mine.
While Holmes was busy scrutinizing the ground around the termination point of the spur line, I walked closer to the mine entrance. It seemed that wooden supports within had finally given up the ghost. Action of rain and weather had resulted in a cave-in at the mouth of the digging. A small boy might have worked his way within, but I certainly could not, nor did I wish to, for another shifting of the hillside might have entombed me. I was glad to rejoin Holmes, who had straightened from the semi-crouch in which he had been inspecting the area. Words were unnecessary. His manner told me that any clue that might have been seduced by his uncanny powers of observation into a thin thread of revelation and thence into fabric for a garment of truth had been taken or trampled by the heavy-footed minions of the law who preceded us to this spot.
Never at a loss in finding other avenues of investigation, Holmes brought his attention to bear on Dandy Jack, he being the expert on the locale. "The boxcar was found right at the end of track?" he asked that worthy.
An affirmative nod was the reply.
"An uncanny bit of figuring," said the sleuth, and then chose to confide in our driver. "The boxcar with the gold was separated from the rest of the train on the upgrade. Gravity caused it to roll backward, picking up enough speed to carry it to the spur line and then right here. How far would you say?" he asked, regarding Dandy Jack intently.
"Good half mile." Drawn into the recreation, the man contributed another thought after a moment. "If the freight carrier was goin' a mite fast, those rocks would have stopped it." He indicated the boulders I had noted earlier. "Though I don't recall a mention of one end bein' bunged in. There's a slight downgrade in the spur line, which you've noticed."
Holmes indicated that he had.
"They could ha' levered her here had they wished. A coupla stout timbers would ha' done it."
"And stout backs." My friend seemed dissatisfied. "But why when they could just as well have driven the wagon to wherever it stopped? It was a wagon, wasn't it?"
His keen eyes had never left Dandy Jack.
"Aye. Iron-tired wheels. The tracks was plain when the railroad police and Constable Sindelar got here from Brent."
"You heard about it." Holmes' statement had the overtones of a question.
"I come later to 'ave a peek. 'Twas but one wagon, two horses."
"It was a heavy load. All right, Jack, what would you have done with half a million in gold ingots?"
"Different from them, it would have been. A wagonload of hay outward-bound in one direction. Some feed bags in another. The safest of the lot, a load of manure, taking a third route."
"With gold ingots riding under the loads," said the sleuth, nodding as if in agreement with this idea. "Might they not have done that? Divided the booty further along the line?" Holmes th
en suggested.
Dandy Jack's denial was firm. "There was not that much traffic at the time. I know pretty much everybody hereabout. Iffen it was outsiders, somebody would have noticed them."
"There were no locals involved. You're sure of that?"
"Very sure, Mr. Holmes." This was the only time Dandy Jack used my friend's name and a flicker in his guarded eyes showed that he regretted it. There was no reaction from my friend at this breech of etiquette. Rather, he seemed prepared to accept Dandy Jack's statement.
"Then how did they do it with but one wagon?"
Our driver shrugged. "'Tis a point that's puzzled me."
"From a professional standpoint," said Holmes dryly.
Suddenly the sleuth whirled and set out toward the main line, his long strides eating up distance. Dandy Jack and I looked at each other for a moment questioningly, and then I shrugged and followed in Holmes' footsteps with our driver by my side. My judgment of distance is faulty, but it seemed like less than a quarter of a mile hike to the main line, where we found Holmes inspecting the junction point with his magnifying glass. Arising, he brushed off his knees. A look at Dandy Jack evidently carried a message and the man secured a metal bar from a wooden box beside the track. Using it, he activated the switching mechanism and I noted the iron tracks shift. Holmes reached down with a finger and straightened to rub it against his thumb.
"Well oiled, but they would do that."
"The man positioned here, you mean, after the gold train went by," I exclaimed.
"Or before, for that matter." The sleuth's attitude was casual and he seemed to have lost interest in the matter.
Our walk back to the four-wheeler was made in silence. I had nothing to say nor had Dandy Jack, who had recovered his grin. Holmes was deep in thought, his hands clasped behind his back and his aquiline face chin-down on his chest. In the conveyance, Dandy Jack headed back to Brent since there were no orders to do otherwise.
As we approached the small village and its station, Holmes summoned himself from his reverie. "I would appreciate your thinking more on how that wagonload of gold was removed with no one the wiser. In daylight too, for the authorities found the boxcar before night fell."
Dandy Jack indicated that he would give the matter due consideration, but there was little enthusiasm in his manner. Why our driver should be expected to come up with an answer eluded me. At the station, Holmes passed some bills to Dandy Jack, who did not bother to count them before shoving them into a pocket with a gesture of acknowledgment that could have doubled for thanks.
As he stood on the platform and waved us goodbye, did I detect an expression of relief on his weathered face?
On the train, I viewed Holmes with purpose. I had allowed him a lengthy period for meditation, and enough was enough. Questions were bubbling on my lips. I never had the chance to ask them; Holmes divined my thoughts.
"Dandy Jack has led a not-uneventful life, and it was fortunate for our purposes that he was on the scene." Holmes removed his ostrich-skin pouch and fueled his short-stemmed briar. "For that matter, the sleepy village of Brent has seen more exciting times. It was once the halfway house for a thriving business." My mouth opened with the obvious question, but Holmes continued: "A ring of brandy smugglers got their contraband cargo this far and then sent it in various directions, much in the manner that Dandy Jack mentioned."
"He was, then, a part of the ring?"
"Very good at his job, too."
"How do you know of this, Holmes?"
"I broke the ring."
"Ah, then you knew Jack."
"Only by reputation. There was a falling out among the thieves. The matter of greed you mentioned previously. There were two casualties, which did not sit well with one member of the gang. I was able to contact him, by post actually, using a code name. We transacted some business, always by the mails. The entire gang was captured, including a customs official in Yarmouth."
"But they didn't all go to jail," I said with a wise smile, which his answer erased.
"Actually, they did. However, one of the gang escaped after a brief period in a certain penal institution. He's never been found."
Holmes puffed on his pipe for a considerable moment, his eyes harkening back to times gone by. Then he continued in a low tone of voice which, on occasion, served as a tocsin for a confidential matter of importance. "Dandy Jack is a singular name and rather hard to forget. Old friend, we'd best forget it just the same."
During our return to London, I viewed our countryside investigation in a new light. Small wonder that our unusual driver had considered the matter of the stolen gold with a professional interest. If a smuggler—who must have worked in collusion with some of the local inhabitants at one time—did not know how the stolen gold was removed, then who would?
Chapter 7
The Leaden Intruder
THAT EVENING, our dinner at 221 B Baker Street was a quiet one. I was touched by the faith Holmes had evidenced by his revelation on the homebound train and did not wish to plague him with further questions. Many of my queries through the years must have smacked of the inane to him. He frequently displayed irritation when others could not match the mercurial speed of his intellect, but exhibited a singular patience with me. On more than one occasion he had stated that I possessed an intuitive ability to center on a key fact, as though gravitated to the missing piece of a mosaic he was attempting to piece together. His words were sweet music and I invariably glowed when recalling them, but there was the lurking suspicion that he might have strained a point or two in this respect. He invariably referred to our investigation and the problems that we must solve in a manner so convincing that the words were universally accepted, fortunately for me. Had anyone dared to question Mr. Sherlock Holmes or looked closely at the façade of our equal contributions to case-solving that he had created, they might have burst out laughing. When I allowed my mind to dwell on this, there was the recurring thought that Holmes could have hypnotized himself into actually believing that I was an indispensable cog in the machinery that he had created. An active weapon like Slim Gilligan or, perish the thought, the awesome and frightening Wakefield Orloff.
Holmes seemed preoccupied and, as he so often did when involved in thought, busied himself in his chemical corner. When he was intent on beakers and retorts, conversation was impossible. I decided to bide my time relative to certain matters that still puzzled me about our afternoon expedition. I was attempting, without too much success, to collect and sort notes on a case history that I hoped to make available to my readers, going through the usual exasperation involved in locating certain information and assembling it in the proper order. My friend had a vial full of a dark liquid bubbling furiously. He removed the candle beneath it and placed it on the desk. Holmes was turning back toward his apparatus when the upper pane of one of our bay windows was shattered. There was a booming sound, the candle was abruptly halved, and there was a resounding thud in the far side of the room. I sat transfixed, staring at the reduced candle, convinced that I had felt a disturbance in the air in front of my face, which may or may not have been true. Then I was galvanized into action.
"Holmes, we are being fired upon," I cried, dropping from the desk chair to the floor and making for the window on all fours with the intent of drawing the blind.
"Calm yourself, old fellow," said the sleuth in a casual tone as though asking for a dinner roll.
To my consternation, he made for the door to our chambers with no attempt of concealment.
I lunged back toward him with the half-formed idea of pulling him to the floor so that he would not make such a splendid target, but he was already at our outer portal and had it open.
"Billy," he called, "please inform Mrs. Hudson that naught is amiss. A slight miscalculation in one of my chemical experiments was the cause of the disturbance."
I assumed that the page boy acknowledged this request and made for our landlady's domain. I was, again, scurrying toward the window and had mana
ged to close the drapes by the time Holmes reentered our quarters from the landing.
"Please, Watson, do not be so concerned."
I fear my reply was made with some heat. "Bullets flying through the air and you . . ."
"A bullet," he interrupted. "Fired with no intent of doing us harm."
The sleuth retrieved the upper portion of the candle from the floor. "Remarkable piece of shooting. Had the marksman fired at a human target, one of us would now be dead."
His eyes went upward and, to my horror, he crossed to the window, pulling the blind partially aside to view the shattered pane of glass. "See the angle of the shot," he said, indicating upward.
"For God's sake, Holmes, close that drape." I had flattened myself against the wall between the windows. "You may be interested in plotting a trajectory, but I'll have no part of your madness."
He did let the material fall back into place and there was concern in his large eyes as he viewed me, frozen in my protected position. "Good fellow, the crash of a rifle bullet, fired from an elongated barrel I suspect, is a jarring note on a quiet evening at home. Let me repeat that the man behind the gun did not have blood in his eye."
As he spoke he was tracing an imaginary line from the window to the candle, which took him to a point in our floorboards where he squatted, after securing the clasp knife from the mantelpiece.
"Anyone who could sever that candle so neatly could have found either of us with ease had he so wished."
He rose to his feet at this point, displaying a misshapen piece of lead triumphantly. "I shall inspect this carefully, but other matters claim our attention." He was at the desk now, in the chair I had vacated so precipitously but a short while before, scrawling on foolscap. I could not remain pressed against the wall forever. Drawing a deep breath, I crossed to the settee, casting a nervous glance back at the window through which the whisper of death had entered our sitting room.
"Forgive me if I seem unduly concerned," I began, and there was a liberal touch of irony in my voice.
