The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters

by Michael Kurland

  “Well, what is it?” I finally demanded.

  “Don’t you see, Watson?” he said. “There can only be one answer. We have run into a classic case of two identical organizations colliding. It’s nothing short of a trade war between rival groups of beggar-spies.”

  “You mean there’s a real Secret Mendicant Society still at large?”

  “The very thing!”

  “How is it possible? How could they have survived all these years with nobody knowing about them?”

  “Some people can keep secrets,” he said.

  “It’s fantastic!”

  “Grant me this conjecture. Imagine, if you will, that the real Secret Mendicant Society has just become aware of its rival, the Amateur Mendicant Society. They have thrived in the shadows for centuries. They have a network of informants in place. It’s not hard to see how the two would come face to face eventually, as the Amateur Society expanded into the Secret Society’s established territory. Of course, the Secret Mendicant Society could not possibly allow a rival to poach on their grounds. What could they possibly do but strike out in retaliation?”

  “Attenborough and Clarke and the others—”

  “Exactly! They have systematically eliminated the amateurs. I would imagine they are now in occupation of the secret club under the old furniture warehouse, where Attenborough’s records would have been stored. And those records would have led them, inexorably, to the two Amateurs who got away—Dickie, who they killed at once, and our client, who they have not yet managed to assassinate.”

  “Ingenious,” I said.

  “But now Colonel Pendleton-Smythe is in more danger than he believes. He is the last link to the old Amateur Mendicant Society, so it should be a simple matter to—”

  Holmes drew up short. Across the street from 221B Baker Street, on the front steps of another house, a raggedly dressed old man with a three-day growth of beard sat as if resting from a long walk.

  “He’s one of them,” I said softly.

  Holmes regarded me as though shocked by my revelation. “Watson, must you be so suspicious? Surely that poor unfortunate is catching his second wind. His presence is merest coincidence.” I caught the amused gleam in his eye, though.

  “I thought you didn’t believe in coincidences,” I said.

  “Ye-es.” He drew out the word, then turned and continued on toward our front door at a more leisurely pace. “Let us assume,” he said, “that you are right. What shall we do with the devil? Run him off? Have him locked up by Lestrade?”

  “That would surely tip our hand,” I said. “Rather, let us try to misdirect him.”

  “You’re learning, Watson, you’re learning.” We reached our house; he opened the door. “I trust you have a plan?”

  “I was rather hoping you did,” I admitted.

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” he said. “But I’m going to need your help…”

  * * * *

  Two hours later, I stood in the drawing room shaking my head. The man before me—thick lips, stubbled chin, rat’s nest of chestnut coloured hair—bore not the slightest resemblance to my friend. His flare for the dramatic as well as a masterly skill for disguises would have borne him well in the theatre, I thought. I found the transformation remarkable.

  “Are you sure this is wise?” I asked.

  “Wise?” he said. “Decidedly not. But will it work? I profoundly hope so. Check the window, will you?”

  I lifted the drape. “The beggar has gone.”

  “Oh, there are surely other watchers,” he said. “They have turned to me as the logical one to whom Colonel. Pendleton-Smythe would go for help.” He studied his new features in a looking glass, adjusted one bushy eyebrow, then glanced over at me for approval.

  “Your own brother wouldn’t recognize you,” I told him.

  “Excellent.” He folded up his makeup kit, then I followed him to the back door. He slipped out quietly while I began to count.

  When I reached a hundred, I went out the front door, turned purposefully, and headed for the bank. I had no real business there; however, it was as good a destination as any for my purpose—which was to serve as a decoy while Holmes observed those who observed me.

  I saw nothing to arouse my suspicions as I checked on my accounts, and in due course I returned to our lodgings in exactly the same professional manner. When Holmes did not at once show himself, I knew his plan had been successful; he was now trailing a member of the Secret Mendicant Society.

  I had a leisurely tea, then set off to find Inspector Lestrade. He was, as usual, hard at work at his desk. I handed him a note from Sherlock Holmes, which said:

  Lestrade—

  Come at once to 42 Kerin Street with a dozen of your men. There is a murderer to be had as well as evidence of blackmail and other nefarious deeds.

  Sherlock Holmes

  Lestrade’s eyes widened as he read the note, and a second later he was on his way out the door shouting for assistance.

  I accompanied him, and by the time we reached 42 Kerin Street—a crumbling old brick warehouse—he had fifteen men as an entourage. They would have kicked the door in, but a raggedly dressed man with bushy eyebrows reached out and opened it for them: it wasn’t so much as latched. Without a glance at the disguised Sherlock Holmes, Lestrade and his men rushed in.

  Holmes and I strolled at a more leisurely pace back toward a busier street where we might catch a cab home. He began removing his makeup and slowly the man I knew emerged.

  “How did it go?” I asked.

  “There were a few tense moments,” he said, “but I handled things sufficiently well, I believe.”

  “Tell me everything,” I said.

  “For your journals, perhaps?”

  “Exactly so.”

  “Very well. As you headed down the street looking quite purposeful, an elderly gentleman out for a mid-day stroll suddenly altered his course after you. He was well-dressed, not a beggar by appearance or demeanour, so I took this to mean he was now watching us. I overtook him, grasped him firmly by the arm, and identified myself to him.

  “At once he cried out for assistance. Two elderly men—these dressed for business, not begging—rushed toward me from the sides. I had seen them, but not suspected them of being involved because of their advanced age.

  “We tussled for a moment, and then I knocked the first man down, threw off one of my opponents, and seized the other by his collar. I might have done him some injury had he not shouted that I was under arrest.”

  Holmes smiled faintly at my surprise.

  “Arrest!” I cried, unable to contain myself. “How was this possible?”

  “It made me pause, too,” Holmes went on. “He might have been bluffing, but I knew I lacked a few key pieces of the puzzle, and this one seemed to fit. I told him, ‘Very well, sir, if you will call off your men and explain yourselves to my satisfaction, I shall gladly accompany you to police headquarters.’

  “When he nodded, I released him. He straightened his coat as his two fellows collected themselves. Frowning at me, he seemed to be thinking ahead. He had to be sixty-five or seventy years old, I decided.

  “‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Holmes,’ he finally said. “I believe we may have business to discuss. But not at the police station.’

  “‘Exactly so,’ I told him. ‘Are you at liberty to speak for the whole Society, or must we report to your superiors?’

  “‘Come with me.’ He dismissed the other two with a nod, turned, and led me to a quiet building on Harley Street. I had been there once before on business with the Foreign Office, but I showed no sign of surprise; indeed, this piece of the puzzle seemed to fit admirably well.

  “He took me upstairs to see a rear admiral whose name I agreed not to divulge, and there the whole truth of the Secret Mendicant Society became apparent to me.”

  I said, “They no longer work for Rome. They work for us.”

  “Quite right, Watson,” Holmes said. “This r
ear admiral took me into their confidence—as they have a file on me and know I can be trusted. The organization of the Secret Mendicant Society was once quite remarkable, though it seems near its end. Their membership is small and, as far as I can tell, consists largely of septuagenarians or older. The times have changed so much that beggary is dying out; modern spies have much more efficient means of political espionage…for that is the current goal of the Secret Mendicant Society.”

  “But what about the murders!” I exclaimed. “Surely not even the Foreign Office would—”

  “Not only would they, they did. Politics is becoming less and less and gentleman’s game, my dear Watson. For the security of our great country, nothing is above the law for them—laws that must govern the common man, such as you or I—or even poor Pendleton-Smythe.”

  “So there is nothing you can do to help the colonel,” I said bitterly.

  “The admiral and I rapidly reached an arrangement,” Holmes said, “when I explained what I had done with you and Lestrade. With Scotland Yard about to close in on the headquarters of the Amateur Mendicant Society, there was nothing he could do but agree with me that the Amateurs must be exposed. The publicity surrounding them will camouflage the activities of the real Secret Mendicant Society and allow Pendleton-Smythe the luxury of living out the rest of his days in peace. He, for one, never for an instant suspected the Secret Mendicant Society actually existed. That is his salvation.”

  “But what of the new Amateur Mendicant Society? Surely they did not agree to surrender so blithely!”

  “Indeed, they offered no objection, since with the exception of our client, they are all dead.” Holmes paused a second. “After I left Harley Street, I proceeded at once to the warehouse. There I found the proper building, knocked twice sharply, and pushed my way inside when the door opened a crack by a man dressed as a beggar.

  “‘Here now—’ he began. He pulled out a knife and pointed it at me. In earlier days he might have hurt or even killed me, but his reflexes had dulled with age. I caught his wrist, bent it back until he gave a moan of pain, and the knife fell to the floor with a clatter.

  “‘We have no time for that,” I told him. ‘The police have been summoned. You have ten minutes to gather your organisation’s papers and vacate the building, or you will be captured and implicated in murder.’

  “‘Who are you?’ he demanded, rubbing his arm.

  “‘A friend. Now hurry!’

  “He hesitated, looking to the two other men in the room: both were elderly, and both were dressed as gentlemen. They had been going over papers spread out on a table halfway across the room.

  “‘This must be Mr Sherlock Holmes,’ one of them said.

  “‘True,’ I said. ‘You now have nine minutes.’

  ‘Without another word, he began to gather up papers and stuff them into a case. His assistant did likewise.

  “‘Where are Attenborough’s files?” I demanded.

  “‘In the back room,’ he said. ‘They were useless to us. Most deal with murder and blackmail.’

  “‘Do you object to the police obtaining them?’

  “‘No. You may do with them as you see fit. And thank you for the warning. It might have been embarrassing to be found here.’

  “When they had gone, I checked the back room and found Attenborough’s files. They seemed a complete record of his blackmail schemes. I also found Attenborough’s body, tucked away behind a filing cabinet. He had clearly been dead for some months.

  “‘I arranged the body to look as though an accident had occurred—a bookcase had fallen on him—then came out just as you and Lestrade arrived. To the untrained eyes of Lestrade and his men, it will look as though Attenborough suffered an unfortunate accident.’“

  “‘What of Attenborough’s files?’ I asked. “Surely they will ruin what remains of Colonel Pendleton-Smythe’s reputation.”

  “‘That will be handled by the Foreign Office. Lestrade will uncover the records of the Amateur Mendicant Society, which reveal their wrongdoings in excruciating detail. Their speciality was blackmail and extortion, as we had surmised. The records will be doctored to include, I dare say, the full catalogue of murders by Dr Attenborough, as he desperately tried to maintain control of a crumbling criminal empire.

  “The newspapers will, I am certain, find much scandalous material in it—and the colonel will have little choice but to deny his participation and suppress that part of his memoirs, should he still choose to write them. All the Foreign Office wants, at this point, is to maintain the Secret Mendicant Society’s anonymity while contributing whatever small gains it can to the war effort.”

  “It would seem, then,” I said, “that everything has sorted itself out remarkably well. You’re fortunate they didn’t try to kill you,” I commented.

  “I believe the admiral considered it. However, I do make my own small contributions to the Foreign Office, as you well know. You might say we have friends in common.”

  “Your brother for one,” I said.

  “Just so,” he said.

  “Then we gave reached a successful resolution to the case—after a fashion.”

  “After a fashion,” Holmes agreed with a half smile. “After a fashion.”

  THE ADVENTURE OF THE HAUNTED BAGPIPES, by Carla Coupe

  “Ah, Watson, there you are!”

  Sherlock Holmes stood at the table that held chemical apparatus. His shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows, baring muscular forearms, his fingers stained and sooty. He tipped a small amount of a vile green liquid into a retort and quickly capped it. As he held the retort over a gas flame, the solution turned brown and filled the glass with curling smoke.

  “You look pleased, Holmes,” I said. “What are you working on?”

  “Oh, nothing much.” He gently tilted the vessel, coating the sides with the brown liquid. “Merely a method to preserve burnt paper so that it may be subject to further analysis without disintegrating.”

  “Very useful, I am sure.”

  I consulted my pocket watch. It was almost four o’clock, the hour at which Holmes had requested my presence. I had quit my surgery in response to his note, although in truth it was no hardship to abandon my quiet rooms.

  “What is this about?” I settled into a chair by the fire. The day was chill and grey, one of a long procession during the cold, wet weeks late in 1889. The warmth of the coals eased the ache from my old war wound.

  Holmes carefully placed the retort on the table and turned toward the door, his eyes bright. “Let us await explanations, for I believe our visitor has arrived.”

  Only then did I hear the front door close and Mrs Hudson’s gentle murmur. Holmes snuffed out the flame of the burner and wiped his smudged hands upon his equally filthy handkerchief. He rolled down his sleeves and donned his jacket before moving to stand beside the fire.

  After a soft knock, Mrs Hudson entered, ushering in a tall, broad-shouldered young man. The young man paused inside the door and thrust the fingers of his left hand through his black hair. It had been pomaded and now erupted into a halo of curls. His gaze moved between Holmes and me for a moment, then settled on my friend.

  “Mr Holmes?” His voice was a light baritone.

  “I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague, Dr John Watson.”

  “Gentlemen.” The young man sketched a bow before taking the chair Holmes indicated. “My name is Albert McMahon, and I have a most curious problem.”

  Holmes settled on the settee, crossed his legs, and drew out his pipe. “You intimated as much in your letter, Mr McMahon. Before you explain your difficulty, however, please tell us how a man who worked in the timber industry in Canada came to reside in Edinburgh for the past six months?”

  Although familiar with Holmes’s deductive powers, I was still surprised at the quickness of his observations. McMahon’s brows rose comically, and his mouth hung open for a moment before he let loose a piercing whistle.

  “I must admit I had my do
ubts about you, Mr Holmes.” He smiled. “But if this is an example of your abilities, I know I am consulting the right man for the job.”

  “This is hardly a taxing matter.” Holmes waved a negligent hand. “When a man retains his distinctive Canadian accent and sports a Canadian penny on his watch fob, the location of his origin is clear. Your hands show the callusing peculiar to those who wield axe and saw on a daily basis, and you are missing the very tip of your left forefinger, another injury common to the trade. Your clothing, although recently purchased, is not unworn, and the cut of your coat is popular among the Scots these days. In addition, the slight burr and intonation atop your native accent are those of Edinburgh … Old Town, I believe?”

  “You are correct on all counts,” McMahon said, his smile broadening. “My father and mother emigrated to Canada before I was born. My great-uncle Fergus McMahon was a man of considerable wealth, and unfortunately he could not forgive my father for leaving Scotland. He informed my father that neither my father nor his heirs would ever benefit from his fortune.”

  “Not an uncommon attitude,” Holmes said, puffing slowly on his pipe. “Although regrettable for the innocent heirs.”

  McMahon nodded. “Imagine my surprise, therefore, when, eight months ago, I was in receipt of a communication from my great-uncle’s solicitors, informing me I was to receive half his fortune, including a town house in Edinburgh. My cousin, James Knox, benefitted from the remainder. Following the solicitors’s instructions, I wound up my affairs in Vancouver and arrived in Edinburgh a little over six months ago.”

  “All this is very interesting,” said Holmes. “But what of your problem?”

  “I’m working my way up to that, sir.” McMahon rubbed his hands together—a nervous gesture—and I could see the calluses that Holmes had remarked upon, as well as the missing tip of his finger. An old injury, by the colouration.

  “I took up residence in my great-uncle’s home, which is situated in Hangman’s Lane, behind St Giles, in the shadow of the Castle. It is a tall, narrow stone building, several centuries old. I now own the tenements in the lane, as well.”