“Authenticity, Watney!” he exclaimed. “Authenticity! It is the secret of all successful disguise. But here we are in Limehouse. It is many years since I made my first visit to this quaint section of our great city, but I see it has changed but little.”
We descended before a large warehouse, brilliantly illuminated by gas lamps, and made our way inside. We had apparently arrived too late for the lecture, for as we entered we could hear the fading sound of applause, and we were in time to notice a large man in the act of descending from the platform which had been raised at one end of the room. He was a startling figure, fully seven feet in height and weighing no less than twenty stone. His hair was of a deep orange shade, and as he descended the steps leading from the dais, I noted that he limped badly. At sight of this strange figure, Homes gave a sharp cry and grasping my arm with a grip of iron, drew me back into the shadows along the wall.
“Watney!” he exclaimed, his voice tense with excitement, “that is certainly not a person named Martin! That is the most dangerous man in all London! It is Professor Marty, the one they call—with good reason—the Butcher!”
“But, Homes,” I cried, “are you sure?”
“Watney, I never forget a face! You may recall that he was the master criminal who forged the papers in that quadruple paternity case of last year: the one you so aptly chronicled in ‘The Scion of the Four’! This case is becoming far more complex than I had originally contemplated. We must keep our eyes peeled, for the Professor is the cleverest criminal outside of prison today!”
Keeping well back in the shadows, we slowly circled the huge hall. Throughout its length, large tables covered with baize had been placed, and on one side of these tables men were busy shuffling cards and awaiting the audience to arrange themselves about the table to begin the play. The appointments of the hall were no less than luxurious: thick draperies of expensive silk hid the walls, while soft music came from an alcove where a small ensemble played quietly. I assumed that this was the demonstration mentioned in the leaflets, and said as much to Homes.
“It is probably much more of a demonstration than you imagine,” was his strange reply. “Let us watch the play with care, for this is obviously a major operation on the part of Professor Marty. Note the draperies and the orchestra. Note the mahogany tables and the new green baize. Note the enormous size of the organization which is needed to handle the demonstration at all of the many tables.”
“Not only that, Homes,” I answered, “note also that all of the banknotes are new. The cashiers in the corner are changing everyone’s money for new bills, and only new bills are allowed in play!”
“It is all part of the decor of luxury, Watney! The professor does nothing on a small scale, and the use of new money is in keeping with the general beauty of the establishment here. Keep watching with the utmost care, for there must be an explanation for this extravagance on the part of one who values money above life itself! And make no mistake, Watney; this has cost the Professor a fortune! I find it difficult to believe that he has done all this simply for the purpose of embarrassing a small group of bookmakers!”
The play at the various tables was, by now, quite active and the hum of voices, together with the calls of the dealers, arose until there was a steady level of sound which was quite loud. Suddenly I was sure I had the answer.
“Homes! I’ve got it!” I cried. “This is nothing but a gambling house, and the leaflets were simply a means of enticing victims to this place. Let us call the authorities at once and have them take action!”
Homes shook his head sadly. “I wish it were that simple,” said he, “but you vastly underestimate the diabolic cleverness of Professor Marty! During our stay here I have been observing the card play with exceptional care, and I have noted something which you evidently did not. Each card in use is marked in such a manner that the dealer knows precisely the value of his opponent’s hand. No; Professor Marty has made sure that nobody can bring a charge of gambling against him, for he has eliminated the element of risk from the play!”
We remained silent, lost in contemplation of the fiendish intelligence against which we were pitted. At last Homes sighed heavily. “I fear there is little more to be learned on this visit, Watney,” he said. “The answer must lie in those leaflets which Mr. Good has left in our possession. I suggest we return to our rooms, for I feel a comfortable chair and a few bars of Rubinoff will do more in aiding me to arrive at a solution to this problem than any further study we might make here.”
Once again back in Bagel Street, Homes quickly changed to his dressing gown and bade me good night. “I shall stay up a bit more, if you do not mind, Watney,” said he. “All problems are of interest to me, but any business involving Professor Marty is of particular interest. If you would not mind handing me those leaflets from the table before retiring, I shall get down to it!”
The following morning I entered our sitting room to find the lamps still burning and Homes dozing in a chair, his hand still clutching the three sheets of paper. At my entrance he awoke, instantly alert, and arose to greet me.
“I believe I have come to the proper solution, Watney,” said he, smiling genially. “I suggest we repair to the restaurant on the corner and enjoy a hearty repast, during which I shall explain my theory to you and ask for your reactions.”
We were soon seated across from one another in a corner booth in the restaurant and the waiter had taken our order. Homes leaned back comfortably and reaching into his pocket produced the three leaflets, laying them on the table before us.
“Do you note anything out of the ordinary about these pages, Watney?” he inquired. “You do not? Well, when first I saw them it struck me that there was something missing, but at the moment I was unable to place my finger upon it. It was only last night upon our return from Johnson’s Warehouse, when I had an opportunity to spend more time in the study of these documents, that I realized what it was.
“You have undoubtedly seen many leaflets in your time, Watney, as have we all, and there is always one mark on every leaflet or any printed matter, as far as that goes, which we see but we do not observe, since we see it but subconsciously. That is the seal of the Printer’s Guild at the bottom of the sheet. It is always there; every folder announcing the sale of used traps, every journal which appears daily at our breakfast table, every concert announcement posted on a wall; they all have imprinted at the bottom of the page the small oval of the Guild. It is so obviously and everlastingly there that we never see it.
“And so we return to the case of these leaflets which Mr. Good brought to our attention. I did not consciously look for the mark since I felt I knew it was there. But when I studied them with the care they deserved, I noted that these marks were not there. And therein lies the solution to our problem.”
“You mean …?” I asked, astounded.
“Exactly! My old enemy Professor Marty is running an illicit printing establishment and earning great sums of money through his failure to pay proper Guild wages, or the dues which that organization requires.”
“But the card room, Homes,” I protested. “What reason could he possibly have for arranging such an elaborate establishment, and what possible connexion could there be between Johnson’s Warehouse and an illegal printing plant?”
Homes smiled gently. “You may recall the noise involved in the cardplay once the so-called demonstration was in session. A printing press has many qualities, Watney, but silence is not one of them. To operate a printing press, one must be prepared for a certain amount of noise, and if this press is to be operated clandestinely, the noise obviously must be hidden. Where better to hide one noise than under a greater noise; the noise, for example, of the players as they place their wagers and follow the play?”
“Then you believe that this illicit press is being operated on the premises of Johnson’s Warehouse?”
“If my theory is correct it must be! Either in an attic or in a basement.” Homes leaned across the table confidentially
. “I have an idea as to how we can get Professor Marty himself to disclose the secret of the hiding place. It is a device I have found of use in the past, and I have no reason to doubt it will be successful once again. Tonight please see that your revolver is available, and we shall bring this case to a successful conclusion!”
Homes was unable to travel to Limehouse with me that evening as he had to stop and arrange for the various accoutrement necessary to his scheme. However, I had scarcely alighted from my hansom when he appeared at my side.
“Everything is arranged,” he said in a low voice. “Pay close attention to your instructions! As soon as we are finished with this conversation, I should like you to enter and mingle with the others in a natural fashion. At precisely ten o’clock you will hear a cry of ‘Fire!’ as I throw these smoke bombs upon the floor. This cry will be repeated by many voices, for I have stationed the Bagel Street Regulars about the place. Your job is simply to keep an eye on the Professor during the resulting confusion. It is certain that he will go at once to the place where the press is concealed.
“A few moments after the initial cry, there will be a general retraction, and people will begin saying it was only a false alarm. At that point, my dear Watney, you will kindly leave the hall and join me at the corner of the street, where we will plan the next step in our campaign.”
To this end I entered the hall and walked slowly from table to table, always keeping my eye on the huge figure that dominated the room from his position at the foot of the dais. At exactly ten o’clock there was a sudden commotion and great pillars of smoke arose as many voices took up the cry of “Fire!” The orange-haired giant sprang from his place and limped rapidly towards one corner of the large room while I watched every move that he made. At that moment voices were raised crying that the whole thing was a false alarm, and I watched until the Professor had returned to his place before leaving the hall and joining Homes on the street corner.
He grasped my hand in great excitement. “Did you watch him?” he cried.
“Certainly. As soon as the tumult arose, he left his position near the platform and hurried immediately to the southwest corner of the room.”
“What was there?” Homes demanded.
“A fire extinguisher,” I replied.
Homes smiled grimly. “A fire extinguisher!” he remarked softly, as if to himself. “Hanging on the wall! Pure genius! You see, Watney, one might lift aside the heavy draperies in search of a keyhole to a secret passage, but who would ever lift aside a fire extinguisher in such a search? We accept it so much that we scarcely note that it is not a part of the wall, but can readily be used as an agent of concealment.
“Well, Watney, this gaming establishment remains open until midnight, and I suggest that we give the Professor an extra hour before we attempt to find the secret hidden behind that fire extinguisher. You remembered to bring your revolver? Good! I never underestimate Professor Marty, and I should not like to see harm come to either of us.”
We turned and began walking slowly up the street as Homes continued. “Fortunately I foresaw the possibility of our arriving at this point in our investigation, and have engaged a room across the street from the hall. There I have concealed a bull’s-eye lantern as well as the other instruments necessary to gain entrance to the building. Let us wait out the hours there.”
It was almost two o’clock in the morning before Homes gave the signal to move. He had been standing behind the curtain of the room watching the building across the way, and he finally turned.
“I believe it is safe now,” he said, pulling on a pair of dark gloves. “Remember! No noise! Transfer your pistol to your right-hand pocket for easy accessibility, and do not hesitate to use it should the necessity arise!”
We stole across the street carefully, and Homes tackled the lock on the door while I kept a careful watch in the street against the possibility of a constable passing. A soft exclamation from Homes and I hurried up the steps to join him. A moment later we had entered the darkened room and softly closed the door behind us. Homes lifted the shutter of the bull’s-eye lantern and directed the beam across the empty covered tables toward the corner I indicated.
“Come, Watney,” he whispered, stealing forward quietly. “Lift away the extinguisher and let us see what is behind it.”
I picked the heavy metal tube away from the wall, and Homes gave a grunt of satisfaction. Neatly placed beneath the bracket was a small keyhole, and Homes applied himself to it at once. A moment later a section of the wall swung smartly back, revealing a set of steps leading down to the cellar.
We quickly descended, stepping carefully on the wooden treads. A turn at the bottom of the steps allowed us to send the beam of the bull’s-eye flickering over shelves of playing cards and stacks of new bank notes. But what was of greater interest to us was that there, in the center of the room, as Homes had so accurately predicted, stood a complete printing plant.
We were at breakfast the following morning in our rooms, for Mrs. Essex had returned, when a heavy step announced the arrival of a visitor. Before we could arise, the door burst open and in strode Professor Marty, shaking with rage.
“It was you, you foul busybody!” he cried. “Did you think for one moment that I did not recognize you the first time you stepped into Johnson’s Warehouse? I have had you followed every minute since, and had my men not lost you while you were crossing the street last night, you would never have lived to uncover the secret of that cellar room!”
Homes smiled coldly. “Pray be seated, Professor,” he said. “You are a man of intelligence, and should know when the game is up. Had you not called upon me, I had every intention of stopping by to speak with you, and even bringing Printing Guild officials with me. You are finished, Professor Marty, as you should have known you would be when first you chose Schlock Homes as an opponent!”
Professor Marty fell into a chair, his face twitching. “Homes,” he rasped, “you are a devil! What do you want?”
“First,” said Homes, laying the leaflets on the table, “you must guarantee to never again practice this filthy crime of plagiarism! Through your unauthorized use of the good names of these men you have been responsible for much unhappiness. Second, I never want to see any product of your printing plant come to my attention without the mark of the Printer’s Guild upon it!”
The Professor sat before us, a puzzled, broken man. “I have no choice,” said he. “It shall be as you demand.” He arose and limped dejectedly from the room.
Homes lit a cigar and leaned back relaxed. “I suggest, Watney, that you contact Mr. Good and inform him that neither he nor his friends will be troubled in the future.
“And now, Watney, what is new in the newspapers which might be used to occupy our talents for a while?”
“Very little, Homes,” I replied, scanning the morning journal carefully. “Of course there is much publicity being given to the embarrassing position of the Government because of the large amount of counterfeit banknotes which recently has been flooding the city.”
“Counterfeit money?” Homes mused. “It seems to strike a chord. Counterfeit money? Of course!” He suddenly burst into hearty laughter, as hilarious as ever I have seen him.
“No, Watney,” said he, choking with laughter, “I fear that this is one case which I shall not take!”
“But, Homes,” I remonstrated, “why not?”
“The Professor!” he gasped, doubled over and wiping the tears from his eyes. “The Professor! You recall the stacks of new money in the warehouse? These counterfeiters have victimized Professor Marty himself! And much as I disagree with their mètier, I cannot find it in my heart to pursue them!”
The Adventure of the ADAM BOMB
I had been pursuing an errand for my friend Mr. Schlock Homes in the small village of Elbow Twisting, Herts., when the fateful telegram arrived. I do not have it before me as I write but it is not necessary, since its tragic message is engraved upon my memory. It read: “MR. HOMES PASSE
D AWAY YESTERDAY. INTERMENT AT 4 P.M. PORTLAND CEMETERY,” and was signed by our housekeeper, Mrs. Essex. It was in complete shock that I threw my few possessions into my bag and caught the first train for London. There I transferred to a hansom and proceeded directly to the cemetery, my mind a blank.
As we rattled through the dismal streets, I remembered that Homes had insisted upon doing research on a rare virus; so rare, he had informed me, that no known case of the disease had as yet been discovered. I had warned him of the dangers of such investigation, but he had passed it off with his usual disregard for either personal danger, or the advice of others, and had now apparently fallen victim to the very germ he had been seeking. It was with heavy heart that I descended at the cemetery, barely able to think coherently.
There was a large group gathered about the open casket, and I forced myself to step forward for a last look at the frozen profile I had known so well. His brother Criscroft came forward and grasped my hand wordlessly. In silence I stepped back and observed the crowd about the grave. There I could see many police agents whom Homes had assisted in past cases; many persons of high estate who owed a great deal to my dead friend for their present state of well-being; and included in the crowd I could also see the smirking faces of many criminals to whose downfall Homes had been dedicated. I could not help myself; tears formed in my eyes and fell unhindered to the ground. Feeling more alone than at any time in my life, I watched the undertaker’s men bolt the cover into place and begin the sad task of lowering the casket into the waiting earth.
A sudden elbow in my ribs caused my attention to turn to a short, stocky figure at my side. He was a cockney, poorly dressed, and with a long scarf wrapped about his neck, and a huge straggling mustache covering half of his face.
“Good riddance to bad rubbish! Eh, wot, Guv’nor?” said this vile apparition in a high whining voice, once again nudging me with his sharp elbow.
The Incredible Schlock Homes Page 3
