Thirty-Nine Steps from Baker Street

by J. R. Trtek

  The detective then appeared to fall deep into thought. “The question is, where does he seek refuge?”

  “But could it not have been Hannay who put the knife to Scudder?”

  “That is unlikely. I believe Hannay must have come across the body last night, pondered his possible courses of action, and then escaped the building earlier this morning, after deciding that he was in danger as well. This block of flats was being watched now and then from the street side, you say?”

  “Yes. But how can you be certain Hannay merely found the corpse, rather than rendered Scudder into one?”

  “It is not a certainty, only a probability. But come along,” said Holmes, leading me back to the smoking room. “See the ash there upon the carpet, near this entrance? From the shape and nature of the scattered remnants, I would say that a cigar was dropped there, near the door, but hours ago. Why? A strong possibility is that Hannay switched on the light upon entering, saw the body and, in shock, dropped his cigar. Notice, in fact, that an unfinished cigar lies there in a tray upon that table—it is likely the very one that Hannay let go in his surprise. It is the same brand as will be found in the humidor upon that far table.

  “Then, of course, there is the matter of the cloth covering the body. Why would a corpse be so treated? Murderers generally do not shroud their victims, other than to hide them, and this one is all too evident—lying, as it does, in the middle of the room. No, that was a gesture of respect for the deceased. Showing such sentiment after the fact, why would Hannay have murdered the man in the first place? Again, it is not impossible but rather improbable.”

  “And you say that Hannay spent some time weighing his options?” I said.

  “Certainly, he appears to have stayed the night. His bed has been slept in, and I cannot imagine that the evening passed without Hannay contemplating what course he might follow.”

  Holmes gave a quick turn of the head. “Then also, allow me to show you points of interest in the bath,” he said.

  We strode together to the bath entrance, where Holmes gestured toward the tub. “Someone recently bathed here,” he said. “I doubt it was Scudder who took that dip, for he has been dead for hours, judging from the state of the body. And look you here, Watson, in and about the sink.”

  I paused, staring steadily at the porcelain for a moment, noticing nothing. Then I comprehended what I beheld and declared, “There are a few cut hairs visible. What—”

  “You said that Hannay had a drooping moustache,” my friend reminded me. “I suggest he trimmed it here—either removing it entirely or making it shorter.”

  “As disguise?”

  Holmes smiled. “Mycroft was correct, indeed.”

  “What?”

  “The milkman,” he said. “The man whom the valet apprehended claimed to be the milkman. Let us take him at his word. If so, then I expect it was Hannay who talked him out of his accoutrements and left the building in that guise. Recall that my prescient brother had suggested just that strategy for the late Mr. Scudder during our meeting with Bullivant.”

  “Holmes, on my way here, I observed a set of milk cans and overall stashed behind a hoarding.”

  Holmes laughed with enthusiasm.

  “Now I must, at all costs, find Hannay,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Oh, we must certainly rescue him for our nation’s well-being, Watson, but we are also obliged to recover Mr. Hannay because a man of such wit and invention must be saved—for the sake of the world!”

  “But in what part of London do we search?” I asked, as Holmes’s laughter faded and we left the bath for the smoking room.

  “None, for I doubt he remains in town. We should, however, still cast our glances toward the railway stations. St. Pancras is the closest, and I expect that by now he has already departed it aboard a train.”

  My friend turned to me, saw my expression, and then pointed across the room.

  “There is a Bradshaw23 upon that chair, where it has been neatly stacked atop an atlas, rather than casually tossed about as have all the other volumes present. No doubt, Hannay left both there after having thoughtfully consulted them this morning. He is from Africa, remember, and I suppose he may find it easier to hide in remote, wild country. Perhaps he is a master of veldcraft24 in his own land, for all that we know. Indeed,” the detective said, becoming contemplative, “let us concentrate on that phrase, his own land.’”

  I frowned.

  “The atlas is of Britain, and Hannay is a Scot surname, is it not?” Holmes asked.

  “There is a Clan Hannay, I believe, yes.”

  “Hum,” said Holmes. “Our man may be a distant relation. Nonetheless, if he has Scottish roots…”

  “The porter outside told me the other day that Hannay is skilled in mimicking Scottish characters.”

  “He may have acquired that skill in childhood,” said Holmes. “Perhaps he was born and spent his early years in Scotland, and if he has retained some familiarity with his presumed ancestral homeland, then perhaps he may have taken a fancy to escaping northward, to the Scottish moors. Given his background, he may find it easier to remain hidden there than here in London. However,” the detective said, “there is one item we must try to locate before we begin the search for Hannay. And we must do it before the police arrive, Watson.”

  “What item is that?”

  “We must find whatever it was that the intruders were seeking, for recall that I do not believe they uncovered it.” Holmes stood in the centre of the room and slowly turned round. After rotating three-quarters of a circle, he stopped.

  “Halloa, there is an anomaly.”

  Holmes stepped to a table that sat by the fireplace and looked down at a tobacco jar whose lid lay beside it.

  I came to his side and stared at the open jar, noticing that the contents had been slightly disturbed. I watched as Holmes reached down and poked his fingers into the tobacco. His hand, however, came away empty.

  “Alas,” I said in disappointment. “There is nothing in the jar, Holmes.”

  “Oh, you are quite mistaken, old fellow.”

  “Truly?” I replied. “What is inside the container, then?”

  “Tobacco.”

  “But it is a tobacco jar.”

  “Yet not an empty one! If the intruders had searched this jar in the same style by which they rummaged through the rest of this flat, they would have simply spilt the contents onto the table.

  “That did not occur,” declared Holmes. “Yet the lid is off the jar, and tobacco remains within, though disturbed even before I touched it. Fingers have dipped into the container, as mine just did. I expect they were not those of an intruder, but rather Hannay’s fingers, perhaps innocently seeking to fill a pipe, and I believe he must have found something buried within the jar, for otherwise he would not have been so distracted as to not put back the lid.”

  “If he did discover anything,” I observed, “it would have been rather small.”

  “Yes,” answered my friend. “It was small, in order to fit inside the jar. And, of course, you have noticed that books were the principal items scattered about during the search.”

  “Are you suggesting they were looking for a small book?” I said. “You mean, perhaps, a small notebook?”

  “Yes. I believe that is what the intruders were seeking: Scudder’s notebook. They did not find it, however. And, in overlooking the tobacco jar, they allowed Hannay to recover it instead.”

  We then heard, from without, the door to the flat being opened.

  “Mr. Price? Sirs?” called the porter’s voice. “I think the police are coming now. What will we—?”

  “Thank you!” shouted Sherlock Holmes as he stepped toward the sitting room. I followed quickly behind, past the chair where Hannay’s atlas still sat.

  The porter stood at the open door. “I said I think—”

  “On behalf of Mr. Price, I thank you,” repeated Holmes. “We have recovered the documents and will now depart.�
��

  “But—”

  Holmes strode past the porter and into the hallway. I followed right behind. The porter closed the flat door and turned to explain further as he walked quickly after us.

  “I did as you asked, sirs,” he said. “I went down and stood on the pavement to watch from there, Mr. Price. I have seen the police approaching from up the street just now. Do you not think that—?”

  “My man has already thanked you,” I said, glancing back as we rapidly trod the staircase between the first and ground floors. “And I thank you, sir. You have been of inestimable assistance.”

  With the porter descending behind us, Holmes and I reached the bottom of the staircase and rushed across the lobby. My friend turned left and headed toward the rear of the building. I still followed immediately upon his heels.

  “But, sir,” called the porter, who had now also stepped from the staircase and continued to dog us in earnest. “Should we not—”

  “Excellent work,” I told the man as Holmes reached the rear door and opened it. “However,” I said, pausing, “your previous reference to Doyle was entirely irrelevant.”

  As the porter opened his mouth, I stepped outside and closed the door sharply behind me.

  “This way, Watson,” said my friend, and I followed him out to the side street and then on along its quiet pavement, rapidly taking one corner after the other until we both had reached a location just off a farther portion of Portland Place.

  “Should I not separate from you?” I asked. “You have not wished that—”

  “Yes, Watson. We must gather our forces and meet again at Safety House. Go back to your residence and wait there for me to ring you up, or for Jack James to fetch you. By that time, I hope to have roused Sir Walter and Mycroft. Where did you say you found the milk cans and overall?”

  I gave Holmes directions to the site, which was but a short distance away.

  “Good,” said my friend. “I doubt that examining them will yield anything of value, but one never knows.”

  And with that, my friend rushed on alone.

  I stood for a moment on the deserted pavement, before a chemist’s shop, and then began to walk briskly back to Queen Anne Street. I stoked my courage with every step, hoping to find the nerve to ask my housekeeper to convince the cook to prepare a second breakfast.

  * * *

  18 This is a now old-fashioned way of referring to the act of washing and dressing for the day.

  19 At the time, the bureau later known popularly as MI-6 was headquartered in Whitehall Court, constructed in the 1880s.

  20 “But we will see.”

  21 A hoarding is what Americans usually call a billboard.

  22 Watson is referring to the regiment in which he originally served: the 5th (Northumberland Fusiliers) Regiment of Foot. He was later attached to the 66th (Berkshire) Regiment of Foot during the Second Afghan War.

  23 George Bradshaw published the most popular railroad timetables during the Victorian era. By the late nineteenth century, his name was applied to any such set of schedules.

  24 Veldcraft is another word for fieldcraft: the methods of living, travelling, and making observations in the field, especially without being seen.

  CHAPTER FOUR: COUNCILS OF WAR

  “I regret that I was travelling these past two days and therefore away from London,” declared Mycroft Holmes from the sofa in the sitting room at Safety House late that same afternoon.

  “An act that is rather out of character,” murmured Sherlock Holmes from his armchair. He glanced at me and added, with a faint smile, “But such appears to be the prevailing style with many in this room.”

  “Blenkiron had expressed a wish that I show him Scapa Flow25 before he left for Paris,” replied the elder Holmes brother. “Unfortunately, I did not return until late last evening. It was a journey I was loath to take, as my dear sibling has noted, but Blenkiron is somewhat my counterpart in the American government,26 and I could not refuse his request. Moreover, over the past few years of corresponding with him, I must admit that I’ve taken a bit of a liking to the man.”

  “Yes,” said Sherlock Holmes. “He is one after your own mind.”

  “And yours as well, in fairness,” replied the elder brother. “Still, I wish I had been at the Diogenes Club when you called, Dr. Watson, or stopped here to find your note. Had that been the case, Mr. Scudder might still be alive, and we would have in our hands his secrets—whatever they turn out to be.”

  “I believe they are contained in a missing notebook,” said Sherlock Holmes. “That notebook, at present, is most likely in the hands of Richard Hannay.”

  “And Hannay, you suggest, is on his way to Scotland.” Mycroft shrugged and then smiled wistfully. “Perhaps I should have remained at Scapa Flow a bit longer and thus met him on the way down.”

  Just then, we heard the back door open.

  “Ah,” said Mycroft, “that should be our fourth: Sir Walter.”27

  It was not only a fourth but a fifth as well, for seconds later, Bullivant entered in the company of Inspector Magillivray.

  “After some thought,” Sir Walter said immediately, before anyone else could speak, “I have decided to take your advice, Mycroft. Inspector Magillivray,” he told his companion, “this is where many of our councils of war, so to speak, are conducted. You are now admitted to that circle. I believe you have personally met everyone here, except Mycroft Holmes.”

  “Well, of course I know of you through Sir Walter,” Magillivray said to the elder Holmes sibling, as the latter rose with us to shake the inspector’s hand. “Never before made your acquaintance in the flesh, however, as I have your brother and Dr. Watson.” He turned to Bullivant. “I’m flattered, Sir Walter, to be part of this august group.”

  “Yes, well, just go ahead and sit back down, all of you,” said the spymaster with a slight bit of embarrassment. “I defer to you, Mycroft,” he added in a humble voice. “You are senior here, after all.”

  “Are you certain, Sir Walter?” asked the detective’s brother. “I did not mean to pull rank on you the other day, you know. Nominally, you are under my supervision, but of course, I consider myself more properly just an observer and go-between for Squiddy.28 Please assume the lead, as has been our tradition. I insist.”

  Bullivant shrugged.

  “Very well,” he agreed, becoming the last of us to take to chair or sofa. “At the outset, I apologise for being here later than you requested, Holmes,” he told the detective. “I thought it best to be tardy but with all the information I could gather on our man, rather than arrive promptly and empty-handed.”

  “I understand,” replied Sherlock Holmes.

  “It was, of course, Dr. Watson who first identified Richard Hannay as an individual of interest to us,” Bullivant said, with a tone that suggested some odd, newfound respect for me. “I think we must surmise at this point that the American agent Scudder, having created the false impression of his suicide, took up residence in Hannay’s flat, only to be murdered by persons unknown, but persons whom we suspect to be in the employ of, shall we say, a certain Teutonic power.”

  “Shall we say Berlin?” interjected Mycroft Holmes.

  “We shall say Berlin,” agreed Sir Walter. “In any event, I—with some valuable assistance from Inspector Magillivray—have been able to collect several pieces of data on Mr. Hannay.

  “He is a native Scot, age thirty-seven. His father was a man of business whose affairs led him to reside in the Cape Colony some time ago. Hannay accompanied him there as a child and subsequently spent much of his adult life in Rhodesia. Though he has visited Britain before, his current stay has been for only the past three months.”

  “Scotland would be the place of his earliest memories,” said Holmes. “There is a suggestion that he retains a strong sense of that background.”

  Bullivant glanced toward Magillivray, who smiled nervously.

  “Oh yes, I believe he does,” the inspector said. “A prime sour
ce of information on Mr. Hannay came to me quite by chance: a barrister whom I will not name, a man who has become acquainted with Hannay through business connections.”

  Sherlock Holmes made as if to speak, but Magillivray continued without pause.

  “I had worked with this individual a while ago, on a rather curious missing person case,” he informed us, “and after Sir Walter rang me up a few hours ago to speak of Mr. Hannay, I thought I might contact the barrister and see if he were acquainted with our Scottish South African. And, low and behold, he had indeed crossed paths with the man. Quite a fortunate coincidence.”29

  “Inspector,” Mycroft Holmes said gently, “I believe we were considering whether Hannay has any conscious sense of his Scottish heritage.”

  “Oh yes, of course,” Magillivray said. “Well, according to this barrister, Hannay often entertains acquaintances with wonderful impersonations of Scots characters. The man recalled in particular a marvellous pantomime of a harried gamekeeper from Dunbar who—”

  Sherlock Holmes cleared his throat and then said, “Dr. Watson also heard testimony to that effect at the Portland Place flat.”

  “Yes, I see,” said Magillivray. “Well, I am happy to corroborate it. He can certainly mimic his fellow native Scots, and that suggests a familiarity with the culture, does it not?”

  Bullivant gently raised his hand and resumed. “Hannay became a mining engineer and, among other activities, prospected for copper in Damaraland.”

  “That is a part of South-West Africa,” explained Mycroft Holmes for my benefit.

  “Which is German territory,” supplied Sir Walter with a thoughtful look. “Indeed,” he added warily, “Hannay is reputed to speak German rather fluently.”

  “Well, I was told that many of his father’s business associates were German, you see,” Inspector Magillivray declared.