I stood. “Kindly arrange for my immediate return to Baker Street.” I wagged an admonishing finger at my captors. “You should be aware that my friend Mr. Sherlock-”
The bald man had also stood, and he and his young companion engaged in a whispered conference by the fireplace, ignoring me. I subsided onto the sofa, and I waited, with what patience I could muster, until their discussion ended.
The bald man turned to me. “Doctor Watson, I would be grateful if you would examine my friend. He has been the victim of an accident.”
I stood again. “Certainly, but I do so without prejudice and with no obligation to treat him. You should apply to your own doctor or, if as I surmise from your accents, you are visitors from America, you will find that the American Exchange in the Strand publishes a list of gentlemen offering professional services to tourists. I am sure they could direct you to an able physician.”
“This way, if you please, Doctor.” I followed the bald man into a cramped hall where a pair of bruisers stood guard, and upstairs, along a gloomy corridor and into a small bedroom simply furnished with a narrow bed and a bright oil lamp on a table beside it. A young man lay in the bed with his arms on the counterpane, his right wrist wrapped in a bandage encrusted with dried blood. His face glistened with sweat, his eyes were shut, and he breathed irregularly through parched and cracked lips.
I examined him as well as I could without the instruments I usually carried in my medical bag. I unravelled the bandage and the smell of decay that had assailed me as I entered the room grew stronger. I elicited a low groan when I lifted the man’s arm to examine a puffed and fiery-red bullet wound in his wrist, surrounded by black and yellow-stained skin. His lower right arm was severely bloated compared to his left. I put my arm around the man’s shoulder, lifted him and gave him water from a cup on the bedside table.
“A bullet entered the wrist, ploughing up almost to the elbow,” I informed the bald man. “I see no exit hole, therefore the ball is still in the wound, possibly with patches or threads of clothing. Judging by the powder burns on his skin, the gun was almost in contact when it was fired. If the ball had been extracted earlier, and the wound cleaned-” I shrugged. “But now, this man is very ill. The stink of putrefaction tells me that gangrene is setting in. I smelled enough of it in Afghanistan during my Army service to last a lifetime. Unless very decided and immediate measures are taken, this man will die.”
The bald man held a handkerchief to his nose. “Can you not remove the bullet?”
“Matters have gone too far for that. Sepsis is marked by the colour and temperature of the skin. You can see its effects above the wound, past the elbow and halfway to the shoulder. It will continue to spread. There is but one course of action left, if he is to be saved.”
“Amputation?”
“Above the elbow, where the flesh is yet untainted,” I answered. “You need a surgeon. I strongly advise you to admit this man to a hospital immediately.”
* * *
“The bank was expecting a delivery of bullion later that morning, and the commissionaire at the door had been reinforced with an armed guard,” the manager of the London and Counties Bank, Oxford Street branch, informed his visitors in hushed, measured tones.
Holmes, Sir Henry, and Inspector Lestrade sat before his desk as he described the discovery of the forged note, and the gang’s attempt to escape. Holmes listened, tense as a coiled spring, tapping his gloved fingers on his knee.
“According to witnesses,” the bank manager continued, “the guard drew his pistol when he realised that the man at the counter was making for the door, chased by me and the cashier. He was shot by one of the companions of the fraudster, who witnesses aver was a person of African complexion. The guard managed to return fire before he fell, and several onlookers swear that the shorter of the three robbers, the lookout by the door, was wounded in the exchange, possibly in the arm or hand.”
“Very well.” Holmes took off his gloves, pulled an empty leather sack and his revolver from his pockets, and laid them on the counter. “I shall require money. Kindly furnish me with five-hundred guineas in gold, preferably half-sovereigns.”
The manager gaped at Holmes, and Inspector Lestrade leaned forward in his seat and murmured in Holmes ear. “If you intend to rob the bank, Mr. Holmes, I would appreciate a few minutes’ grace while I pull the coppers off guarding the front doors and make myself scarce.”
“Eh? I intend nothing of the sort,” Holmes replied stiffly. “I am requesting a deposit on my fee for collaring the forgers.”
The bank manager wrung his hands. “I am sorry, gentlemen, I have no authority to-”
“But I do,” said a commanding voice from behind them.
The bank manager shot to his feet and bowed to a stout, white-whiskered gentleman in a frock coat and top hat. “May I introduce Sir Solomon Hammond, the chairman of the London and Counties Bank?”
“There is not a moment to lose,” Holmes said, turning to the chairman. “I am on the trail of the forgery gang who targeted your bank and several others in the City.”
“I have just returned from a meeting with the Governor of the Bank of England,” Sir Solomon said, heaving himself into the manager’s seat. “This American devil’s promissory notes are indistinguishable from genuine ones. He has defrauded British banks of enormous sums, and we have news of similar exactions in Chicago and Santiago.” He lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “Between you and me, gentlemen, he has fleeced London banks of almost fifteen-thousand pounds, and if it weren’t for his eccentric dating of a single page in one of the documents, and a sharp-eyed clerk spotting the mistake, he could have netted even more colossal sums. He has done significant damage to our liquidity as well as our reputation. The Governor was obliged to bring the matter before the Prime Minister, who suggested that Parliament might consider legislation requiring external scrutiny of our banking operations. It does not bear thinking about.”
He snapped his fingers at the bank manager. “Chequebook.” Sir Solomon filled in the details and handed the cashier’s cheque to the manager. “In gold, I think you said, Mr. Holmes.”
Sir Henry, Inspector Lestrade, and Holmes, carrying his heavy sack, pushed through the revolving door of the bank into Oxford Street. “Contrary to public opinion,” Holmes said, “not more than a dozen or so cab drivers risk their badges by consorting with criminals. Those who do, know me, and I know them, or most of them.” He followed his companions into their waiting four-wheeler. “We have plenty of witnesses: The cabbies at both Piccadilly Circus and Trafalgar Square who were cut off by the errant growler will be telling their tale in the cab shelters. If the driver of the cab into which Doctor Watson was dragged is a real cabbie, they will know him. Our problem is time.” He called an address to the driver, and they set off at the trot.
* * *
I was escorted back to the sitting room. “Gangrene is ineluctable,” I informed the bald man. “Unless that arm comes off within three or four hours, the gentleman upstairs will soon be past all human aid, and very likely dead before morning.”
“His death would be a severe inconvenience to me, Doctor,” the bald man said, frowning. “He is a genius. His hands are those of a great artist. He can take a slab of steel and tickle from it the printing block for a five-pound note that would fool the King of England.” He poured himself a whisky and offered me a glass that I accepted. “We have worked together for several years on three continents, shoving the queer, as you have it in this country-”
He smiled a question, and I answered coldly. “Passing counterfeit money and notes.”
The bald man’s smile broadened, then he scowled. “But what good would he be to me without a right arm? Is there no hope it can be saved?”
“As I said, if he had been treated earlier, something might have been done, but it’s been a week since the shooting. Th
ere are treatments, some involving the use of maggots to debride the necrotic skin, but I say again, this is not my area of expertise. I have no instruments, nor maggots for that matter, to hand.”
The Negro man wrinkled his nose in distaste.
“You are very exact, Doctor,” the bald man said in a musing tone. “You said our man was shot a week ago. I believe you know who we are.”
“I read of the matter in the papers,” I answered. “You are Augustus Lowe - at least, that is how you styled yourself at the London and Counties Bank. The police have issued a warrant in that name, and blank warrants for your associates.”
Mr. Lowe glanced at his companion, who shrugged, then he turned back to me. “You were an Army Doctor, you say?”
“I was, years ago in Afghanistan.”
“You must have dealt with bullet wounds. You amputated limbs.”
“As I said, many years ago. Since then, when I have been in general practice, I have dealt with coughs and sneezes, varicose veins, stomach complaints, and pregnancy. No, no, you must let me take him to the nearest hospital. They will have the facilities and expertise he needs.”
“We will pay you well.”
I sniffed “Money is not the issue. I have taken an oath of care, and I would treat this man if I could. But he needs a competent surgeon.”
“What’s the point?” The Negro man accepted a whisky from Mr. Lowe. “Without an arm, Benny’s useless to us.”
“No names!” cried Mr. Lowe.
The young man smiled a cold smile. “It’s time we got to know each other, Doctor. I’m Dark Harry.” He pulled a revolver from his belt. “Benny’s no use to us now - he’s a liability. As are you, Doctor Watson.”
* * *
Holmes emerged from under the tarpaulin of the cab shelter by Trafalgar Square, closing the drawstrings of the leather sack. “Harker, known as ‘Bear Harker’, is our man, and well known as a bad lot. He’s not been seen all week. Likely on a binge, they say, as he came into money recently. I’ve had no dealings with Harker. Have you, Inspector?”
“No, Mr. Holmes. Not by that name at least. He’s the driver?”
Holmes nodded. “His stand is by the American Exchange. Like any London jarvey, he knows every nook and alley in the city. I’d wager the forgery gang hired him last week to ferry them from bank to bank, and again for the abduction.” He led his companions into Trafalgar Square. “Gentlemen, take care with your notecases, watches, and handkerchiefs. Some of the best dippers in the realm operate within a hundred yards of here.”
Sir Henry frowned.
“If you ever have need of a pickpocket, Doctor,” Holmes continued as he leapt onto the plinth of Nelson’s Column, “here is your employment exchange.” He clapped his hands, held up a gold half-sovereign that glittered in the lamp light, and soon had a circle of excited street Arabs gathered about him. “You know Harker, the jarvey?” Holmes asked. The boys yelled their answers and jumped for the coin, and Holmes smiled at the cacophony. He held the coin higher. “This to the boy who finds Harker or his growler.”
One boy, a tousle-headed, malodorous young rascal with a squint, held back while his peers scampered away. He waited until the other boys had disappeared along the pavement or among the cabs and carriages, before he braced Holmes, bold as brass. “Which, Harker is in the Coal Hole, same as always when he’s got a few bob. He leaves his cab at the mews in Savoy Row.”
Holmes called the four-wheeler. “Come, time is short, and we have much to do.”
Inspector Lestrade and Sir Henry piled into the cab, and Holmes joined them, pulling the tousle-haired street Arab in after him.
“To the Coal Hole?” Lestrade asked.
“First we have a more urgent task in Burleigh Street, off the Strand.”
The cab was parked outside the offices of The Strand Magazine for no more than ten minutes before Holmes came out at the run. Lestrade had kept hold of the boy’s collar, trying not to breathe in his foetid aroma. “The Coal Hole,” Holmes called to the driver.
“Mr. Newnes was most helpful, as I expected,” Holmes said as he settled himself opposite Lestrade. He smiled. “My name on the cover of The Strand is worth an extra hundred-thousand in circulation. He is in telephone communication with the offices of most major publications, and the rest he will reach by express messenger. My ultimatum will be on the desk of every editor in London within a half-hour. The news of the guard’s death will still get out, but we have gained a little valuable time.” Holmes turned to Sir Henry. “If you were treating a gunshot wound, what medicines or other materials would you employ?”
“By now the wound may be severely infected,” Sir Henry mused, “Amputation might be necessary. In which case I would require the following: A saw, preferably a surgical saw, forceps, tongs, sutures, bromide solution, or better carbolic spray, phenol, scalpels, bandages, needles, and thread. And anaesthetic, of course.”
Holmes slammed his fist into his palm. “Watson knows my methods. If he is forced or cajoled into treating the wounded man, he will recognise an opportunity to compile a long list of items with few and specialised manufacturers and agents. He will use that as a flag to alert me. Where can these instruments be obtained?”
“A doctor could get them from Surgeon’s Hall,” Sir Henry replied. “And any member of the public may purchase them from the manufacturers - mostly, as you’d expect, in the Midlands, or through specialist shops in London.”
“Such as?”
“I’m afraid there are a dozen, usually in the streets near major hospitals.”
“Very well. We need to narrow down the location. Ah, here we are.”
The cab wheels ground to a halt against the kerb before the entrance to the Coal Hole public house, a few doors from the entrance to the Savoy Hotel. They jumped down and Holmes addressed the boy. “Tell Harker there’s a top-hole passenger for Paddington Station waiting outside, all of a quiver, willing to pay double fare, in gold.” The boy pursed his lips, and Holmes signalled to Lestrade to open the leather bag. After a lingering look at the contents, the boy smiled and disappeared into the public house.
“Doctor,” Holmes said, addressing Sir Henry, “let me have your scarf for a moment. I don’t know Harker, but he may know me, and judging by his nickname, he may be a difficult customer.” He wrapped the scarf around his neck, covering the lower part of his face. “You will act the top-hole fare, and the inspector and I will stand to one side.”
A bedraggled, heavy-built man in a battered, concertinaed stovepipe hat staggered out of the doors of the Coal Hole followed by the street Arab. The man looked around, and addressed Sir Henry. “Paddington, is it then?” he leered. “A hurry, is it?”
Holmes grabbed the driver by the arm, and he and the inspector hurtled him across the pavement, forcing him into the cab. Sir Henry climbed in after them.
Holmes pushed Harker to the floor between Sir Henry and the inspector and pressed his knee into his back. “I know about the fare you took to the London and Counties, Harker. The same men grabbed the gent outside Charing Cross Station. Who were they?”
“How should I know?” Harker cried, his voice muffled by his position and thick from drink. “It was a pick-up.”
“No, no, Harker, they did not come upon you by happenstance. They knew you, and knew that you were open for every kind of mischief.” Holmes drew his revolver from his overcoat pocket and pressed the barrel into Harker’s temple. “I have no time for finesse. I will offer you a simple proposition. If you give me the names and an accurate description of the men who hired you for the London and Counties job, and the exact location where you picked them up and dropped them, I will let you go. One or more of them may escape my net and exact retribution upon you: Yes, there is a chance of that. But if you do not oblige me, I will shoot you with this revolver, loaded with .44 Boxer cartridges. You mus
t therefore weigh a chance against a certainty. It may be a clean kill, it may not-” Holmes cocked the action with a loud click. “Inspector, kindly turn your back. I intend to murder this man.”
“Excuse me for a moment,” Lestrade said, patting his pockets. “I’m out of matches.” He opened the cab door.
“Foreigners,” Harker gasped, “Americans.”
Holmes pulled Harker up and slammed him onto the bench beside him, and Lestrade softly closed the cab door and sat back in his seat.
“No need for violence, gents,” Harker said, brushing at his clothes. “I met them in the Duke of Sussex in Lambeth, through a mate. They give me twenty pound to take ’em round the City, then another ten to dog a top-hole gent.” He frowned at Sir Henry.
“Where did you drop them after the London and Counties last Friday?” Holmes asked.
“St. George’s Circus. One of ’em was took poorly, and I had blood all over the seat.” He described the leader of a gang of five, a bald man with half-moon glasses, and his companions, a young dark-skinned man with a fiery temper, a quiet, short man who had been wounded at the bank, and two or more local thugs.
A knock came at the window, and the street urchin pressed his face against the glass. At a nod from Holmes, Lestrade opened the door and threw the boy a couple of coins from the sack. Harker watched with a glint in his eyes. “They left a Gladstone bag in the cab when they went into the last bank.” He smiled and gave the sack a meaningful look. “I had a quick gander while they was mucking about in there, and I saw some letters. From America, they was.”
Holmes grabbed a handful of gold coins from the sack, and threw them to the floor.
“Addressed to Nordstrom, initials J and N.” Harker scrabbled for the coins.
“Get out.” Holmes opened the cab door, pushed the cabbie onto the pavement, and kicked out the remaining coins. “I hope you are a praying man, Harker, for I would advise you to petition Divine Providence that I find Doctor Watson well and hearty. If not, you shall hear from me.”
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part X Page 13
