The Case of the Beleaguered Brothers
July had been a very quiet, hot month. A lack of paying cases had depleted Sherlock Holmes’ bank account. I too, had suffered unexpected financial reverses and payments made to my turf accountant had drained my resources. I had my patients to draw me out of our rooms but a lethargy born of boredom and straited circumstances kept my friend cooped up in the heat. There was nothing in the newspapers. The criminal element of London appeared to have taken a holiday. International news was dull and even the weather was monotonous. At first Holmes spent the time sorting through his many documents and updating his extensive scrapbooks. I grew anxious about him, however, when he dropped even these mild activities and preferred to lay motionless upon the sofa for hours, staring at the ceiling. Even his violin could not engage his interest. His appetite shrank to nothing and Mrs. Hudson gave me many worried looks as she carried away yet another tray of untouched toothsome morsels prepared just for his palate. The atmosphere of the sitting room became gloomy. Each time I returned to 221b Baker Street I made a special effort to greet Holmes in a cheerful manner, but as the days stretched onward I found it more and more difficult to find positive things to say.
Therefore, as I paused outside the sitting room door one Monday afternoon to deposit my hat and cane and put down my medical bag, I was glad to hear lively voices from within. I knocked and heard my old friend’s voice vigorously bid me enter.
“Come in, Watson, come in! Let me introduce you to Mr. Trey Giltglider, of Reading. Mr. Giltglider, this is my long-suffering friend and invaluable colleague Dr. John H. Watson. Watson, pour out a brandy and take a seat. Mr. Giltglider, who is a pipe smoker, an epicure and a traveler in the American West, has favored us with a little problem even Scotland Yard cannot solve.”
Seated in a chair across from our client, I looked him over as I sipped my drink. My eye traveled from the tobacco stain on Mr. Giltglider’s right forefinger and a tiny spot of Béarnaise sauce on his tie to the pointed boot tips showing beneath his trouser legs. He was a stout man of about forty years, a little under the average height, dressed in an expensive suit of summer grey. His American Western boots looked to be made of snakeskin. The sunlight streaming through the windows caused his bald pate to gleam in the center of a straw-colored nest of wispy hair. Large pink ears backed black eyes that peered through a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles. A generous nose hung over a wide thin-lipped mouth and short, almost dainty fingers adjusted the thick gold watch chain that stretched across his expansive waistcoat.
“How do you do, Dr. Watson?” he said, half-rising from the sofa and extending his hand. “I have enjoyed your stories in the Strand immensely. They gave me the courage to put my problem before Mr. Holmes. I don’t know what to do.”
“So you first went to Scotland Yard?” I glanced at Sherlock Holmes, who stood upon the hearthrug before the empty fireplace with his pipe in one hand and a couple of sheets of notepaper in the other. In his eyes I saw the welcomed gleam of the hunt which had been missing for the past few weeks. He handed the notes to me.
“Mr. Giltglider has informed me that he and his two brothers are partners in one of the largest construction firms in Reading. A week ago on Saturday his youngest brother, Mr. Augustus Giltglider, disappeared. The same night one of his warehouses in Reading burned to the ground. An examination of his brother’s apartment uncovered only these notes locked in his desk, and his will found spread out upon the blotter.”
“That does not sound good,” I murmured.
Trey Giltglider nodded. “Indeed not, Dr. Watson! I went to his flat to tell Augustus of the fire and found that no one had seen him since that morning. The story has been in the papers and I have even advertised for him these past few days, but to no avail. My brother is a light-hearted man who loves a good joke but he would never absent himself from the business without explanation. The local police investigated and at my insistence Mr. Lestrade of Scotland Yard came into it, but after all this time they can neither tell me what started the fire or where my brother is. I’m very worried, Mr. Holmes.
Silently I examined the papers in my hand. Each was roughly printed on cheap white paper torn from a tablet. The wide, crudely formed letters were large and legible. I read the messages aloud.
“You’ve got one chance. Use it,” went the first one. The second note was more emphatic. “You’ve got only one more try. Miss it and what happens will be on your own head.” I looked up at Holmes and Mr. Giltglider. “They are undated.”
“They are also written with dirty fingers in pencil by a right-handed man with access to a rough wooden surface on which to rest the paper. Note the smudges on the notes from the handling of the paper. Yet there are no useable fingerprints,” said Holmes. “The angle of the letters show he was right-handed and the messages show the grain of the underlying surface wood. But it is the pencil that shows the most interesting indications.” He lit his pipe.
“They look like ordinary pencil marks to me, Holmes.”
“Do they, Watson? Mr. Giltglider, where were the notes found?”
“I found them tucked into my brother’s diary,” said Mr. Giltglider. “The first was between the pages for Tuesday of two weeks ago and the second for that Thursday. The fire alarm was given Saturday night and the warehouse was completely destroyed in a few hours.”
“Lestrade has had those notes for a week and has discovered nothing,” said Holmes. “Now it is Monday and Mr. Giltglider has come to us. Much time has been lost. Is there anything else you can tell us, Mr. Giltglider?”
“Only that Giltglider Construction is jointly owned by my brothers Augustus and Bernard and me. The warehouse was one of the assets of the business. We have been in business together for nearly twenty years.”
“Are any of you married?”
“No. I never found the right woman. My brothers have escorted many ladies over the years, but they never settled down. I must confess, Mr. Holmes, that both my brothers, while doing their duty for the business, have spent their free time and money in what I consider frivolous pursuits like entertainment and pleasure.”
“Where is your brother Bernard?” asked Holmes.
“He was in the United States on a lumber buying trip,” replied Mr. Giltglider. “I used to do those trips, but twelve years ago he asked to do it and proved to be even better than I. I telegraphed him as soon as I found Augustus was missing after the fire. He set out immediately for home on the steamer Pegasus. I expect him to arrive in Reading by rail from Southampton tonight.”
“We shall meet you and your brother tomorrow morning at 10 o’clock at your place of business,” Sherlock Holmes declared. “Watson, can you come with me? Your assistance may be invaluable.”
“Of course, Holmes.”
“Excellent! Pack a bag and bring your revolver. Two final questions, Mr. Giltglider, and you must forgive me if the first is painful. You are sure that no sign of your brother’s remains were found in the ashes of the warehouse?”
“So the police have assured me, Mr. Holmes.”
“What were the contents of the warehouse that was destroyed by fire?”
“It was completely filled with a recent shipment of straw, Mr. Holmes. We use straw in our brick-making operation.”
A few words to my helpful neighbor obtained his cooperation about my practice. The next morning, carrying a bag and with my old service revolver in my coat pocket, I left for the train station. I found Sherlock Holmes seated in a first class carriage, wearing his usual traveling garb of tweeds and ear-flapped cap. He was sprawled out in his seat staring at the tips of his steepled fingers. By the restraint in which he returned my greeting I could tell he did not wish to be disturbed, so it was in silence that we traveled to Reading. When we arrived Holmes led the way as we descended from our carriage into a cloud of locomotive steam. We were met not by Mr. Trey Giltglider or his br
other, but by an alert messenger clutching a slip of paper.
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes? Dr. Watson? Your description was given to me by Mr. Giltglider. This message is for you, Mr. Holmes.” The man handed the paper to my friend. He then picked up our valises and led us through the crowds.
Holmes read the note and handed it to me. I felt a thrill of horror as I perused its contents:
“BERNARD ATTACKED AT HOME LAST NIGHT. ADMITTED ROYAL READING HOSPITAL. AWAIT YOU THERE. TREY GILTGLIDER.”
We dismissed the messenger, hurried into the waiting cab and set off for the hospital. Holmes and I left our bags with the porter at the door and hurried down the indicated white-tiled corridor to find our client.
Trey Giltglider met us at the door to his brother’s private room. I was shocked at the change in his appearance. His face had lost its rosy pink of the day before and was pale and drawn. His halo of fair hair was flying about over tired eyes anchored by heavy bags. He wordlessly wrung both our hands on the threshold and brought us to his brother’s bedside.
Mr. Bernard Giltglider laid in the bed on his back, propped up by pillows, two wrapped hands resting on the coverlet. A gauze bandage was wrapped around his brow and bruises on his cheek and left eye gave him a battered look. It was obvious by his position in bed that his ribs were sore and bandaged. My practiced eye could tell, however, that while painful, his injuries were not life-threatening. His resemblance to his brother was startling and for a moment after we were introduced I stared at the invalid in disbelief.
“I hadn’t realized that you and your brother were twins, Mr. Giltglider,” I stammered.
Bernard Giltglider looked up at me through his silver-rimmed spectacles and grimaced with the effort to talk. “It is worse than that, Dr. Watson,” he murmured. “My two brothers and I are triplets, alike as three peas in a pod. Of course, it will be easier to tell us apart now for a while.”
“I wish to Heaven that Augustus were here to prove our similarities,” groaned Trey Giltglider.
“Then you have not heard from your brother?” Holmes asked. Trey and Bernard Giltglider both shook their heads. Our client drew up a couple of chairs and we sat down next to the sickbed. Trey helped his brother to a sip of water from a glass tumbler on the nearby table and then nodded to my companion.
Sherlock Holmes gently inquired as to the particulars of the attack. Bernard answered as best he could, but when he showed signs of pain or weariness, his brother endeavored to assist.
Slowly the story took shape. Mr. Bernard Giltglider had arrived in Southampton the day before and proceeded at once by rail to Reading. His brother met him at the station and they went to Bernard’s flat where Trey told him everything that had happened. The brothers agreed to meet in the morning and Trey left to go home. Travel-weary, Bernard went to bed soon after.
“When I awoke, it was dark. I groped for the candle to check my watch, Mr. Holmes, but I was stopped by a hoarse whisper from the blackest corner of my room. ‘Don’t strike a light, Mr. Giltglider,’ I heard. ‘Just listen. I’m giving you the same chance I gave your brother Augustus. I have contract papers here that give me your share of Giltglider Construction. Sign them and I’ll let you live. You will leave England tonight. Refuse and you’ll lose everything you value, including your worthless life.’”
“I could not believe the cheek of the fellow. It had to be a joke. ‘Why in the world would I do such a thing, man? You must be mad,’ I replied. I swung my legs out of bed, ready to pounce on the shadow, but his next words stopped me cold. ‘Don’t move, Mr. Giltglider. I’m armed. If you want your brother to live, you will do as I say. I broke in here with no trouble, and I can do it again, any place, any time. Believe me, Mr. Giltglider, I’m quite serious.’”
Bernard Giltglider turned his gaze from Sherlock Holmes to me and back again. “I felt that he meant every word of his threat, gentlemen. I have never heard such a cruel, merciless voice in my life. A chill wind seemed to blow over me and without thinking I launched myself off the bed and reached out for him. I think I grabbed rough cloth lapels before I found myself taking a terrific beating. It was like being mauled by a wild animal. Whoever he was, he was much larger and stronger than I. I must have lost consciousness because the next thing I remember the room was flooded with sunlight and I was on the floor with Trey kneeling next to me, calling my name.”
“I got him to hospital at once,” Trey Giltglider said. “I reported the attack to the police and they met us here. Just before you arrived the local police came back and told me that they had examined Bernard’s rooms and found nothing, not a broken lock or a cracked window, to explain how anyone gained entry. There were no signs of struggle. Even the bedroom furniture, which had been knocked about, had been put back in place. That must have happened after we left for the hospital. In fact, the policeman intimidated that my brother may have gotten himself involved in some brawl in a low dive and to protect his reputation told me this wild story.”
Bernard Giltglider fixed his glaze on Sherlock Holmes’ face. “I swear everything I have told you is the truth, Mr. Holmes,” he said earnestly. The detective nodded.
“I believe you, sir. Your brother Augustus’s situation confirms your own story. Obviously he was offered the same deal, but chose to handle it differently. The notes he received indicate he decided to disregard the danger.”
Holmes sat in thought for several minutes as we waited silently. After a while an orderly brought in a note for Trey Giltglider. He ripped open the envelope and cast his eye over the brief message. His horrified face looked wildly around the room. “I must go to Giltglider Construction at once!” he cried. “Another warehouse is on fire!”
Holmes and I scrambled to follow the excited man out of the room. “Mr. Giltglider! Mr. Giltglider! What’s in that warehouse?” shouted Holmes as our client scurried down the hospital’s hallway.
His voice bounced off the tiled walls back to us. “It’s lumber, sir, a whole warehouse full of the finest sticks of English walnut available!”
Holmes clutched my shoulder. “Stay here, Watson. Do not let Bernard Giltglider out of your sight. Our opponent is cunning and ruthless and never has the danger been greater than now. I shall return as soon as I can.” With that he ran down the hall after Trey Giltglider.
I returned to the injured man who was now agitated and restless. I tried to calm him, but his anxiety was such that finally I had to apply to the house physician to give him a sedative. After he fell asleep I sat by the bedside, musing on the case and Holmes’ last words to me.
I confess that I was baffled. Obviously this new fire was in response to Bernard Giltglider’s refusal to sign that odd contract his mysterious visitor had presented to him the night before. Holmes had said that he thought that Augustus Giltglider had been presented with a similar contract but had ignored the threat. Then the first warehouse fire had broken out. What could it all mean? What had happened to Augustus? Had he become a victim of the assailant? Did that explain his absence for the past week? Or could it be possible that he was behind these fires? Was Augustus’ disappearance only a ploy to divert suspicion from his own actions? Could Bernard Giltglider have been attacked by an agent of his own brother?
I looked at Bernard Giltglider’s form under the white hospital coverings. Was he vulnerable even in his hospital bed to this assailant? Holmes must think so. I took out my revolver and checked its contents. As I returned it to my coat I realized that somehow the weight of it in my pocket was a comfort. Alone in the hospital room with that quiet figure I felt that I was in the center of what now seemed a huge trap, full of whispers.
The hours passed slowly and there was no news of Sherlock Holmes or Trey Giltglider. A sympathetic nurse brought me a sandwich and a cup of coffee for my lunch. The normal sounds and movements of a large city hospital flowed past the hall door, but within the room all was quiet. I remained tense and
on guard. Everyone who entered was scrutinized closely and I kept a sharp eye on their movements. More than once I was grateful that my medical training let me understand their activities for I am sure a less informed man would have burst out with suspicion at each normal action.
In the middle of the afternoon a noise at the door made me tighten my grip on the weapon in my pocket, but it was only Holmes himself, followed by Trey Giltglider and Inspector Lestrade. I suddenly realized how relieved I was to see them and to be no longer solely responsible for Bernard Giltglider’s protection.
Our greetings were muted for Bernard was just waking up. After a moment Holmes motioned Lestrade and me out into the hall and left our client with his brother.
Both the detective and the Scotland Yard inspector showed signs of having been clambering over burned timbers and trudging through ashes. The unique stench of wood smoke clung to their persons and smuts of charcoal marked their clothing.
“What have you been doing?” I asked.
“We have been investigating the numerous scenes of the crimes, Watson,” Holmes replied. He nodded to Lestrade, who flipped open the pages of his official notebook with a bemused air. “We met Inspector Lestrade at the Giltglider Construction yard. He had just been summoned from London, from where he thought he had put the nonexistent Giltglider case to rest.”
“Now, now, Mr. Holmes,” muttered the Inspector. “A respectable businessman gone off on a spree and an accidental warehouse fire don’t always add up to a case for Scotland Yard, you know.”
“But the fire wasn’t accidental, Lestrade. If you had read my monograph on arson fires and examined the accompanying plates, you would have recognized the unique accelerant burn pattern I found on that beam by the first warehouse’s back door.” Sherlock Holmes turned to me. “Of course, with the other fire still active, I couldn’t examine how it started, but I have no doubt that it will be the same. Two unrelated warehouse fires at the same location within days of each other would be too great a coincidence.
Sherlock Holmes and The Folk Tale Mysteries Page 7
