“Cooperate, sir, and it will go easier on you,” the hatted detective said to Sloat.
“I’m the victim of a plot!”
“Yes, yes, do you think you’re the first brigand ever to suggest that? Where is the ring?”
“I don’t know anything of any ring.”
“Perhaps we’ll find it when we search your house.”
No, Goodcastle thought, they wouldn’t find the ring. But they would find a half dozen other pieces stolen by Goodcastle in various burglaries over the past year. Just as they’d find a crude diagram of Robert Mayhew’s apartment — drawn with Sloat’s own pencil on a sheet of Sloat’s own paper. The burglar had planted them there this afternoon after he’d met with the ruffian at the Green Man (taking exemplary care this time to leave no traces that would link him to that incursion).
“Put him in darbies and take him to the jail,” the pale officer ordered.
The constables slapped irons on the man’s wrists and took him away, struggling.
Goodcastle shook his head. “Do they always protest their innocence so vehemently?”
“Usually. It’s only in court they turn sorrowful. And that’s when the judge is about to pass sentence,” said the pale officer. He added, “Forgive us, Mr. Goodcastle, you’ve been most patient. But you can understand the confusion.”
“Of course. I’m pleased that that fellow is finally off the streets. I regret that I didn’t have the courage to come forward before.”
“A respectable gentleman such as yourself,” offered the detective with the notebook, “can be easily excused on such a count, being alien to the world of crime and ruffians.”
“Well, my thanks to you and all the rest at Scotland Yard,” he said to the chief inspector.
But the man gave a laugh and turned toward the pale detective, who said, “Oh, you’re under a misapprehension, Mr. Goodcastle. Only I am with the Yard. My companions here are private consultants retained by Sir Robert Mayhew. I am Inspector Gregson.” He then nodded toward the dark, slim man Goodcastle had taken to be the chief detective. “And this is the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes.”
“A pleasure,” Goodcastle said. “I believe I’ve heard of you.”
“Indeed,” Holmes replied, as if shopkeeper should most certainly have heard of him. The man seemed like a don at King’s College, brilliant but constantly distracted by complex thoughts.
Gregson nodded toward the man who had portrayed the husband and introduced Dr. John Watson, who shook Goodcastle’s hand cordially and asked a few more questions about Bill Sloat, the answers to which he jotted into his notebook. He explained that he often wrote accounts of the more interesting cases he and Holmes were involved in.
“Yes, of course. That’s where I’ve heard of you both. The accounts are often published in the newspapers. So that is you! An honor.”
“Ah,” said Holmes, managing to summon a look simultaneously prideful and modest.
Goodcastle asked, “Will this be one adventure you write about?”
“No, it will not,” Holmes said. He seemed piqued — perhaps because, even though a villain was under arrest, his reading of the clues had led to the wrong suspect, at least in his perception of the affair.
“But where, Holmes, is the ring?” Gregson asked.
“I suspect that that Sloat has already disposed of it.”
“Why do you think so?” Watson asked.
“Elementary,” Holmes said. “He had the other ill-gotten gains on his person. Why not the ring too? I deduced from his clothing that the blackguard lives in the company of a woman; both the jacket and trousers of his sack suit had been darned with identical stitching, though in places that wear through at different rates — the elbow and the inseam — suggesting that they were repaired by the same person though at different times. The conclusion must be that a wife or female companion did the work. His request of Mr. Goodcastle here regarding the secret compartment makes clear that he does not trust people, so he would be loathe to leave the ring in an abode where another person dwells and would have kept it on him until the special music box was ready. Since he doesn’t have the ring on him any longer, we can conclude that he has disposed of it. And since he has no significant sums of cash with him, other than Lord Mayhew’s guineas, we can conclude that he used the ring to settle an old debt.”
“Where did he dispose of it, do you think?”
“Alas, I’m afraid that the piece is on its way overseas.”
When the others glanced at each other quizzically, Holmes continued, “You of course observed the fish scales on Sloat’s cuffs?”
“Well,” said Gregson, “I’m afraid I for one did not.”
“Nor I,” Watson said.
“They were scales unique to saltwater fish.”
“You knew that, Holmes?” the Yarder asked.
“Data, data, data,” the man replied petulantly. “In this line of work, Gregson, you must fill your mind with every fact it is possible to retain. Now, the scales could mean nothing more than that he’d walked past a fishmonger. But you certainly observed the streaks of pitch on his shoes, did you not?” When the others merely shook their heads, Holmes sighed, his visage filled with exasperation. He continued. “You gentlemen know the expression, ‘devil to pay.’”
“Of course.”
“The figurative meaning is to suffer consequences. But most people don’t know its literal derivation. The phrase has nothing to do with handing money over to fallen angels. The ‘devil’ is that portion of a sailing vessel between the inner and outer hulls. To ‘pay’ it is to paint the outer seams with hot pitch to make them watertight. Obviously climbing between the hulls is an unpleasant and dangerous job, usually meted out as punishment to errant sailors. The pitch used is unique and found only around the waterfront. Because of the fish scales and the tar, I knew that Sloat had been to the docks within the past several hours. The most logical conclusion is that he owed the captain of a smuggling vessel some significant sum of money and traded the ring to him in exchange for the extinguishing of the debt.” Holmes shook his head. “The ring could be on any one of dozens of ships and all of them out of our jurisdiction. I’m afraid Lord Mayhew will have to look to Lloyd’s to make himself whole in this matter. In the future, let us hope, he will use better locks upon his windows and doors.”
“Brilliant deductions,” said Gregson of the white face and flaxen hair.
Indeed it was, Goodcastle noted, despite the fact that it was completely incorrect.
Holmes pulled a cherrywood pipe from his pocket, lit it and started for the door. He paused, glanced around the shop and turned back to Goodcastle, his eyebrow cocked. “Sir, perhaps you can help me in another matter. Since you deal in music boxes…. I have been on the lookout for a particular box a clientof mine once expressed interest in. It is in the shape of an octagon on a gold base. It plays a melody from The Magic Flute by Mozart and was made by Edward Gastwold in York in 1856. The box is rosewood and is inlaid with ivory.”
Goodcastle thought for a moment. “I’m sorry to say that I’m not familiar with that particular piece. I’ve never been fortunate enough to come upon any of Gastwold’s creations, though I hear they’re marvelous. I certainly can make inquiries. If they bear fruit, shall I contact you?”
“Please.” Holmes handed the shopkeeper a card. “My client would pay dearly for the box itself or would offer a handsome finder’s charge to anyone who could direct him toward the owner.”
Goodcastle put the card in a small box next to his till. Reflecting: What a clever man this Holmes is. The Gastwold music box was not well known; for years it had been in the possession of the man who owned the massive Southland Metalworks Ltd. in Sussex. In doing his research into Sir Mayhew’s life in preparation for the burglary, he’d learned that Mayhew was a major stockholder in Southland.
Holmes had asked a simple, seemingly innocent question, in hopes that Goodcastle would blurt out that, indeed, he knew of the box and its o
wner.
Which would have suggested that he might have delved, however subtly, into Mayhew’s affairs.
Surely Holmes had no such client. Yet still he knew of the box. Apparently he’d taught himself about music boxes just in case facts about such items came in useful — exactly as Goodcastle did when preparing for his burglaries. (“Data, data, data,” Holmes had said; how true!)
Goodcastle said to them, “Well, good day, gentlemen.”
“And to you, sir. Our apologies.” It was the amiable Dr. Watson who offered this.
“Not at all,” Goodcastle assured them. “I would rather have an aggressive constabulary protecting us from the likes of Bill Sloat than one that is remiss and allows us to fall prey to such blackguards.”
And, he added to himself, I would most certainly have a constabulary that is candid in how they pursue wrongdoers, allowing me the chance to improve the means of practicing my own craft.
After the men had left, Goodcastle went to the cupboard, poured a glass of sherry. He paused at one of the jewelry cases in the front of the store and glanced at a bowl containing cheap cuff links and shirt studs. Beside it was a sign that said, Any Two Items for £1. He checked to make certain the Westphalian ring was discreetly hidden beneath the tin and copper jewelry, where it would remain until he met with his French buyer tomorrow.
Goodcastle then counted his daily receipts and, as he did every night, carefully ordered and dusted the counter so that it was ready for his customers in the morning.
SURVEILLANCE
The knocking on the door not only woke Jake Muller from an afternoon nap but it told him immediately who his visitor was.
Not a polite single rap, not a friendly Morse code but a repeated slamming of the brass knocker. Three times, four, six…
Oh, man, not again.
Rolling his solid body from the couch, Muller paused for a moment to slip into a slightly higher level of wakefulness. It was five p.m. and he’d been gardening all day — until about an hour ago when a Dutch beer and the warmth of a May afternoon had lulled him to sleep. He now flicked on the pole lamp and walked unsteadily to the door, pulled it open.
The slim man in a blue suit and sporting thick, well-crafted politician’s hair brushed past Muller and strode into the living room. Behind him was an older, burlier man in tweedy brown.
“Detective,” Muller muttered to the man in blue.
Lieutenant William Carnegie didn’t reply. He sat on the couch as if he’d just stepped away from it for a trip to the bathroom.
“Who’re you?” Muller asked the other one bluntly.
“Sergeant Hager.”
“You don’t need to see his ID, Jake, do you?” Carnegie said.
Muller yawned. He’d wanted the couch but the cop was sitting stiffly in the middle of it so he took the uncomfortable chair instead. Hager didn’t sit down. He crossed his arms and looked around the dim room then let his vision settle on Muller’s faded blue jeans, dusty white socks and a T-shirt advertising a local clam dive. His gardening clothes.
Yawning again and brushing his short, sandy hair into place, Muller asked, “You’re not here to arrest me, right? Because you would’ve done that already. So, what do you want?”
Carnegie’s trim hand disappeared into his trim suit jacket and returned with a notebook, which he consulted. “Just wanted to let you know, Jake — we found out about your bank accounts at West Coast Federal in Portland.”
“And how’d you do that? You have a court order?”
“You don’t need a court order for some things.”
Sitting back, Muller wondered if they’d put some kind of tap on his computer — that was how he’d set up the accounts last week. Annandale’s Major Crimes Division, he’d learned, was very high tech; he’d been under intense surveillance in the past several months.
Living in a fishbowl….
He noticed that the tweedy cop was surveying the inside of Muller’s modest bungalow.
“No, Sergeant Haver—”
“Hager.”
“—I don’t look like I’m living in luxury, if that’s what you were observing. Because I’m not. Tell me, did you work the Anco case?”
The sergeant didn’t need the glance from his boss to know to keep mum.
Muller continued, “But you do know that the burglar netted five hundred thousand and change. Now if — like Detective Carnegie here thinks — I was the one who stole the money, wouldn’t I be living in something a little nicer than this?”
“Not if you were smart,” the sergeant muttered and decided to sit down.
“Not if I were smart,” Muller repeated and laughed.
Detective Carnegie looked around the dim living room and added, “This, we figure, is sort of a safe house. You probably have some real nice places overseas.”
“I wish.”
“Well, don’t we all agree that you’re not your typical Annandale resident?”
In fact Jake Muller was a bit of an oddball in this wealthy Southern California town. He’d suddenly appeared here about six months ago to oversee some businesses deals in the area. He was single, traveled a lot, had a vague career (he owned companies that bought and sold other companies was how he explained it). He made good money but had picked for his residence this modest house, which, as they’d just established, was nowhere close to luxurious.
So when Detective William Carnegie’s clever police computer compiled a list of everyone who’d moved to town not long before the Anco Armored Delivery heist four months ago, Muller earned suspect status. And as the cop began to look more closely at Muller, the evidence got better and better. He had no alibi for the hours of the heist. The tire treads on the getaway car were similar to those on Muller’s Lexus. Carnegie also found that Muller had a degree in electrical engineering; the burglar in the Anco case had dismantled a sophisticated alarm system to get into the cash storage room.
Even better, though, from Carnegie’s point of view, was the fact that Muller had a record: a juvenile conviction for grand theft auto and an arrest ten years ago on some complicated money laundering scheme at a company he was doing business with. Though the charges against Muller were dropped, Carnegie believed he was let go only on a technicality. Oh, he knew in his heart that Muller was behind the Anco theft and he went after the businessman zealously — with the same energy that had made him a celebrity among the citizens of Annandale. Since Carnegie had been appointed head of Major Crimes, two years ago, robberies, drug sales and gang activities had dropped by half. Annandale had the lowest crime rate of any town in the area. He was also well liked among prosecutors — he made airtight cases against his suspects.
But on the Anco case he stumbled. Just after he’d arrested Jake Muller last month a witness came forward and said the man seen leaving the Anco grounds just after the robbery didn’t look at all like Muller. Carnegie asserted that a smart perp like Muller would use a disguise for the getaway. But a state’s attorney decided there was no case against him and ordered the businessman released.
Carnegie fumed at the embarrassment and the blot on his record. So when no other leads panned out the detective returned to Muller with renewed fervor. He kept digging into the businessman’s life and slowly began shoring up the case with circumstantial evidence: Muller frequently played golf on a course next to Anco headquarters — the perfect place for staking out the company — and he owned an acetylene torch that was powerful enough to cut through the loading dock door at Anco. The detective used this information to bully his captain into beefing up surveillance on Muller.
Hence, the interrupted nap today with the stop-the-presses information about Muller’s accounts.
“So what about the Portland money, Jake?”
“What about it?”
“Where’d the money come from?”
“I stole the crown jewels. No, wait, it was the Great Northfield Train Robbery. Okay, I lied. I knocked over a casino in Vegas.”
William Carnegie sighed and mom
entarily lowered his lids, which ended with perfect, delicate lashes.
The businessman asked, “What about that other suspect? The highway worker? You were going to check him out.”
Around the time of the heist a man in a public works jumpsuit was seen pulling a suitcase from some bushes near the Anco main gate. A passing driver thought this looked suspicious and noted the license plate of the public works truck, relaying the information to the Highway Patrol. The truck, which had been stolen a week before in Bakersfield, was later found abandoned at Orange County’s John Wayne Airport.
Muller’s lawyer had contended that this man was the robber and that Carnegie should pursue him.
“Didn’t have any luck finding him,” the Annandale detective said.
“You mean,” Muller grumbled, “that it was a long shot, he’s out of the jurisdiction and it’s a hell of a lot easier to roust me than it is to find the real thief.” He snapped, “Goddamn it, Carnegie, the only thing I’ve ever done wrong in my life was listening to a couple of buddies I shouldn’t have when I was seventeen. We borrowed—”
“‘Borrowed’?”
“—a car for two hours and we paid the price. I just don’t get why you’re riding me like this.”
But in truth Muller knew the answer to that perfectly well. In his long and varied career, he’d met a number of men and women like self-disciplined William Carnegie. They were machines powered by mindless ambition to take down whoever they believed was their competitor or enemy. They were different from people like Muller himself, who are ambitious, yes, but whose excitement comes from the game itself. The Carnegies of the world were ruled solely by their need to win; the process was nothing to them.
More Twisted: Collected Stories, Vol. II Page 7
