A smart, young under-manager greeted us. He proved only too glad to co-operate provided it expedited the departure of the nuisance our investigation represented to him. Tordelli’s suite was on the first floor and we were assured it had remained untouched since the morning of his last departure.
The suite was not particularly well appointed and although the décor was in good order, the furniture was old and worn, despite its undoubted quality.
Disdainfully Holmes observed, ‘I see the bed has been made up, and the room cleaned, and tidied, rendering my search for clues a complete waste of time!’
‘Naturally, Mr Holmes. Since Mr Tordelli’s disappearance was in the evening, the maid was merely carrying out her routine morning duties.’
‘Quite so.’ Holmes grunted as he began his search of the wardrobe. A few moments of rummaging through the clothes seemed to satisfy him and then he turned suddenly, ‘I should like to interview this maid, if she is on duty,’ he announced.
‘Certainly, Mr Holmes, I believe she is cleaning the rooms on the second floor.’ The under-manager replied.
‘Excellent! I shall meet you all in the lobby in five minutes.’ He said speeding from the room and rushing up the stairs, leaving us all as bemused as before.
Once again I found myself shut out of Holmes’s innermost thoughts, my feelings apparently weighing as lightly in his mind as those of our clients or the other observers. My grasp of the case was as inadequate as theirs and Holmes obviously had no intention of enlightening me, even to a small degree. Feeling somewhat put-out and hurt, I left the others waiting in the stuffiness of the lobby and smoked in the relative coolness of the street outside.
So consumed was Holmes by his current problem, that all lethargy had been cast aside. His energy now knew no bounds and he was racing down the hotel stairs before I had even finished my cigarette.
In no time at all another hansom was conveying us back to Covent Garden to deposit Mr Crawford.
Before alighting he asked, ‘Is there any real progress that I can report to Sir James, Mr Holmes? I am sure he will be most surprised to discover that you have not, so far, requested an interview with Tordelli’s fiancée!’
‘I should be glad if you would have her at the hotel no later than six o’clock tomorrow evening. By then, I think your most singular problem will be close to resolution. Cabby!’ Holmes rapped the roof of our cab with the top of his cane.
Our driver responded immediately, so drowning out Crawford’s increasingly distant protestations.
‘Really Holmes! You cannot continually ride roughshod over everyone. Crawford was barely clear of the cab, when you dismissed it and could well have been injured.’ I protested.
Holmes was totally oblivious, however, for he was now transfixed by the poster advertising ‘Don Giovanni’ at the front of the Opera House.
‘I am a witless amateur, Watson, not fit to share your cab. I should have noticed the beard before. Now then, a visit to Savile Row, two wires from the nearest office and the rest of the evening shall be our own. I trust you would not object to dinner at Simpson’s,’ he proposed, knowing full well that Simpson’s was one of my favourite eateries.
‘Yes, that would be most agreeable,’ I enthusiastically replied. ‘I trust however, you will share some of your theories with me before then. I freely admit that I am no more enlightened than I was before we arrived at Convent Garden.’
‘You know my method well, Watson,’ Holmes began. ‘I suggest you now apply it to these few known and relevant facts. A brilliant young baritone disappears from his dressing room after two outstanding performances. He knows no one in this country save the two Covent Garden officials, so both personal and professional reasons for his disappearance can be disregarded. However, his fiancée announces her imminent arrival just hours before he absconds.’
‘Obviously he was trying to avoid meeting his fiancée, if you discount the kidnapping theory.’ I responded.
‘My dear Watson, you surpass yourself! There can be no other explanation. The evidence of the young man at the stage-door totally dismisses any thought of kidnapping. You see, our well-intentioned constabulary continually question the wrong people. Whilst they are wasting time trying to locate an Italian interpreter in order to communicate with Tordelli’s fiancée, I already know she can shed no more light on the matter than that news vendor by the corner. Furthermore, whilst they chose to interview the rather pompous stage-door commissionaire, I prefer to chat to his somewhat younger and far more informative assistant. This assistant just happened to hail a cab for a bearded gentleman at the stage-door around the time of Tordelli’s supposed disappearance.’
‘Supposed?!’ I exclaimed, now totally bemused. ‘Now Holmes, whatever …’
‘I used the word “supposed”, Watson, for I am now almost certain of his present whereabouts, and am equally sure he will remain there until tomorrow evening.’
At this moment our hansom pulled up at the northern end of Savile Row and Holmes immediately alighted.
‘Be a good fellow,’ he said, handing me two sheets of paper, ‘send off these wires and make your way to Baker Street where I will meet you in time for dinner.’
Holmes was as good as his word and we both enjoyed an excellent meal. The only blemish on the evening, as far as I was concerned, was Holmes’s absolute refusal to discuss the case and especially his work of that afternoon.
The fact that I knew the contents of his wires did nothing to enlighten me, indeed, the inmost singular lines of enquiry served only to intensify my sense of frustration. The first was to an operatic festival in Bavaria, which merely required an affirmation of the presence of the two gentlemen from Covent Garden. The second requested a list of any unsolved murders and disappearances that had occurred recently in or around Milan.
Despite all my pleas, Holmes refused to be drawn onto the subject but eventually I found myself being calmed by his most eloquent and informative analysis of recent Bruch and Brahms violin concertos. Despite my ignorance of the finer points of violin works, I found my future appreciation of these particular pieces was greatly enhanced as a result of Holmes’s analysis.
At the evening’s close, my last attempt at extracting information from Holmes met the same fate as my earlier ones.
‘I think, my dear Watson, an early night will be of greater benefit to us, for I am sure by morning the game will, most certainly, be afoot.’ The faint trace of a smile played briefly on his thin lips, as he perceived my failed attempt at concealing my annoyance and with a shrug, I bade him a curt goodnight and returned to my room.
Despite Holmes’s sound advice, I found myself unable to sleep and I soon realized that Holmes was in a similar predicament, for a glimmer of light continued to creep under my door and the faint aroma of tobacco played at my nostrils.
When I eventually surfaced in the morning, Holmes still sat as I had left him the night before and his haggard face bore every sign of a night totally bereft of sleep.
‘Holmes!’ I exclaimed, ‘I must protest at this flagrant and, as far as I can tell, unnecessary abuse you have subjected yourself to. All your plans are well in hand, so why the all night vigil?’
His tired eyes looked up at me, his head moving slightly and unnervingly slowly. ‘You are quite right Watson, as far as I was concerned all the pieces were coming together splendidly and yet, it occurred to me as I was about to retire, that all my theories will either stand or fall on the results of the replies to my wires. If they should now prove contrary to my expectations I may well have put lives at risk. I have instructed Mrs Hudson to bring up the replies as soon as they arrive. I shall have only coffee for breakfast.’
I realized that any protest about his non-partaking of food would fall on deaf ears and reluctantly I went on my errand.
After we had breakfasted, Holmes on coffee, I on toast, marmalade and tea, we spent some of the most torturous hours that I have yet experienced.
The lines of frustration and impat
ience contorted, still further, his already tired and exhausted features and his consumption of cigarettes was almost incessant as he continually paced up and down the room.
I sat in anguish watching the inner turmoil of Holmes reveal itself as it ate away at him. Again and again, as he passed the bureau, I saw him fingering the handle of the drawer, the one I knew to contain his syringe and cocaine bottle. Yet on each occasion his stronger, professional intent prevented him from feeding his terrible habit and dulling the faculties he knew would soon be needed at their sharpest.
The vigil finally ended at about half-past-one when Mrs Hudson arrived, somewhat breathlessly, in our rooms. With a bound Holmes was across the room to meet her, snatching the telegram from her hand as he hustled her out. Over the years Mrs Hudson’s tolerance of such behaviour and abuse had never ceased to amaze me.
‘Watson, quickly, see here, how my line of enquiry is at last bearing fruit. Ha!’ He exclaimed, ‘it is exactly as I thought.’
Yet by the time I had reached his side he had already crumpled the paper in his hand and nonchalantly deposited it in the waste-paper basket.
‘Now really Holmes, you go too far!’ I exclaimed.
Holmes looked at me furtively from the corner of one eye.
‘Very well Watson, you are quite right. We may have yet, I think, a little time before my second reply arrives. Time perhaps for a pipe and a chance for me to air my thoughts on this affair, such as they are.’
Holmes reached for his Persian slipper containing his tobacco, and we each took our customary chairs as he began.
‘As you know, Watson, at the start I was somewhat reluctant to take up this challenge. Sir James’s arrogant manner and the apparent tedium of a missing person case had almost caused me to choose the boredom of total inactivity to the drudgery of such an undertaking. One most singular point and none other, brought about my change of mind.’
‘It was when Sir James mentioned Tordelli’s fiancée,’ I interrupted excitedly, ‘the more so when he mentioned that her imminent arrival had been announced before Tordelli’s disappearance. However, I fail to see …’
Holmes gave a long draw on his pipe, and then pointed his left finger as he spoke, as if conducting one of his beloved violin concertos! ‘Two things occurred to me at once. The fiancée was convinced her arrival would be most welcome; why else should she announce it by telegram. Obviously there were no difficulties between them when she left Italy and obviously none occurred in this country for they had still to meet.
‘No, without doubt the problem lies within Tordelli. His reluctance to greet his fiancée is so great that he has put at risk a potentially brilliant career. The reason for this aversion to his fiancée is the one aspect of the case that raises it above the distinctly ordinary. In such a situation, bathed in the warm glow of triumph, yet amongst strangers and away from home, there was no feasible explanation for Tordelli’s avoidance of her. So, therefore, having discounted all impossible and improbable theories, I was left, finally, with the truth. The man we are searching for is not Roberto Tordelli!’
I sat bolt upright at this statement and became conscious of my mouth gaping open. ‘Then who,’ I began, admittedly with a trace of sarcasm in my voice, ‘has been singing Don Giovanni these past two nights, at Covent Garden. I am sure Sir James is aware of the identity of his stars.’
‘Ah, but that is the point Watson, neither Sir James nor Crawford had ever laid eyes on Tordelli and merely assumed the young baritone with the brilliant voice was who he claimed to be. The reply to my first telegram confirms that only one of Sir James’s agents arrived at the festival in Bavaria, the other has, I fancy, been bribed rather handsomely. I must admit I became curious as to the true identity of Tordelli when I examined the trousers from his theatrical costume. You may not have noticed, but around the waistband were deep and pronounced creases of the type usually associated with an over-tight fit. As a rule, these are produced over a long period of time, as with your own.’
I peered down with some embarrassment at a waistline, which, although quite trim, had increased by some half an inch, since the suit had been tailored for me. Unsuccessfully hiding his amusement at my obvious discomfort, Holmes continued …
‘These lines were produced in only two nights, therefore, Tordelli’s trousers must have been most uncomfortable, to say the least. Curious when you consider they were tailored from the exact measurements wired from Italy. To confirm my theory, I examined the trousers in Tordelli’s hotel wardrobe. They all had perfectly flat waistbands. My visit to Savile Row this afternoon, confirmed that no mistakes had been made with the measurements.’
‘As usual, your chain of logic is flawless, Holmes, but at the beginning you mentioned two singular items which were drawn to your attention. I recall your examination of the trousers and seem to remember your mentioning further evidence in the dressing room.’
‘I must confess, I nearly missed it myself, yet as we were leaving …’
‘Of course!’ I interrupted, ‘the ash tray. I presumed there must have been signs of its recent use. Smoking, of course, is unheard of in an opera singer.’
‘Excellent Watson, your powers of observation will soon be surpassing my own.’
For a brief moment these words filled me with overwhelming pride, until I realized there were traces of sarcasm in that familiar voice.
‘Someone had taken some care in removing any traces of ash, but they were not entirely successful. I found the faint remnants of a cigarette tobacco unique to Southern Italy. This discovery soon led me down two separate lines of thought, which eventually converged in a most illuminating and yet sinister manner.
‘My interview with the lad at the stage-door and the maid at the hotel, together with the question of the beard all point to one final and clear conclusion, do they not?’
‘Well,’ I began, ‘I am not sure, Holmes. There are still one or two points that need clarification.’
‘Once again, Watson, you have demonstrated, with great effect, your talent for stating the obvious, but any further enlightenment will have to await our meeting with Sir James and Bradstreet at Tordelli’s hotel. For unless I am very much mistaken Mrs Hudson is hastening up the stairs with my second reply.’
Such was his eagerness, that Holmes had already opened the door before Mrs Hudson had reached our landing.
‘A cab, if you please, Mrs Hudson and some cold supper for seven o’clock, if that is agreeable to you, Watson?’
I merely shook my head in disbelief, ‘I am still no closer to solving the problem in my own mind, yet you are already planning the time of your first meal after its conclusion.’
I turned to see that Holmes was oblivious to my words. He read through his telegram, and then screwed it into the pocket of his jacket, which he was already pulling on.
‘It seems my worst fears are confirmed, Watson, please make haste and I think your revolver may be of use this evening.’
At these words my heart skipped a beat and the thrill of adventure was upon me once again.
In a moment, we were down the stairs, into a cab and careering down Baker Street towards the great thoroughfare of London.
We reached the hotel lobby a few minutes before six, our appointed time, yet found Bradstreet, Crawford and Sir James already present.
‘Gentlemen!’ Holmes called loudly, as he raced ahead and up the central stairs, ‘to the second floor!’
‘Second floor?’ Bradstreet muttered and we all exchanged questioning glances. Then, not wanting to appear ignorant of my friend’s motives, I confirmed the order. ‘To the second floor then!’ And led the way for the rest of them.
We found Holmes and the young assistant manager at the door of suite number twenty-four.
‘Bradstreet, you and Watson follow closely behind me with your firearms at the ready.’ Then turning to the assistant manager, ‘I trust you have the pass key? Surprise is crucial if we are to avoid bloodshed.’
With a shaking h
and the young man nervously produced the key from an inside pocket and handed this to Holmes before slowly backing away. Holmes motioned to Bradstreet and myself to close ranks behind him as he silently inserted the key and for Sir James, Crawford and the assistant manager to hold back until the room was rendered secure.
No sound was audible from within, as we waited for Holmes to open the door and for one awful, but inconceivable moment I feared Holmes had miscalculated and that his prey had flown the coop. For what seemed an interminable length of time, though it was in fact little more than five minutes, Holmes stood there listening, with his left ear pressed firmly to the door. Bradstreet and I stood as statues, weapons at the ready and prepared to answer Holmes’s bidding. However, I overheard from our companions, positioned further along the corridor, a few peppery, and impatient mutterings that threatened the success of our mission. I motioned them to silence as I saw Holmes finally turn the key.
Suddenly, upon noticing the open door, one of the room’s occupants shouted excitedly to his companion in Italian. Holmes’s next movement was as rapid as it was direct. Bradstreet and I barely had time to draw breath, let alone take action, before Holmes had leapt into the room and into a tackle with a large, bearded man on his way to the door.
The surprise as much as the force of Holmes’s attack, floored the bearded man with ease, but the man was both large and strong and was soon back on his feet. Then the two men began circling each other, the large bearded Italian assuming the pose of a bare-knuckle boxer, while Holmes readied himself in the time honoured position of the Baritsu wrestler. As these two prepared for combat, Bradstreet and I were deciding on how best to intervene, when events took a further, unexpected turn. A most singular looking couple now appeared at the door to the suite.
The man’s appearance was decidedly continental, bedecked as he was in an uncomfortably tight-looking grey suit and a dapper light grey bowler perched on top of his tiny head. A huge black moustache completed the bizarre appearance of the man, I was soon to discover, was his companion’s interpreter. His companion was most striking indeed. She was tall and slim, in fact, she towered over the interpreter and her facial beauty was almost classical in its intensity. Her most striking feature, however, was her wondrous jet-black hair, which framed this beauty; her full red lips completed her marvellous countenance. She was flushed with fear and excitement at the events now unfolding before her and gabbled incessantly in her native Italian.
The Lost Files of Sherlock Holmes Page 7
