Thirty-Nine Steps from Baker Street

by J. R. Trtek

  “You believe Hannay may have connections with Berlin?” Sherlock Holmes asked Sir Walter. “That he is perhaps a German agent?”

  “One must admit that there are tantalising coincidences, such as his fluency in the German language.”

  “I grant that it was by chance that the inspector’s barrister friend knew Hannay,” said Holmes, “but that Scudder, an accomplished agent, should fortuitously elect to room with a spy for the Kaiser strains the concept of luck a bit too much, I think.”

  “Perhaps,” admitted Bullivant.

  “I have the impression that Hannay has done quite well by himself,” Holmes said.

  “He possesses a small fortune, yes,” Magillivray declared. “Prospecting and engineering work have both paid off handsomely for him.”

  “Does his CV30 have any other facets?” enquired Mycroft Holmes.

  “Hannay’s military record reveals that he fought in the Matabele Wars,”31 Bullivant replied. “He was a member of the Imperial Light Horse, and he also served with our military intelligence during the Boer War, stationed at Delagoa Bay.”

  Mycroft Holmes raised his brows.

  “And that is the sum total of our knowledge of Mr. Hannay, at least insofar as appears relevant to the situation,” declared Bullivant.

  “Relevant to our perception of the situation,” amended Sherlock Holmes.

  “The question is, how should we act upon it?” his brother asked.

  “We must follow Hannay to Scotland, obviously,” said Sherlock Holmes, pulling a Bradshaw from his coat pocket. He held it up to view. “This I took from the fellow’s flat. There are no markings within, but St. Pancras is the station nearest his Portland Place residence.” My friend began to leaf through the timetables. “We know that Hannay left his building—”

  “Posing as a milkman, I’m told,” said Mycroft Holmes with delight.

  “Yes,” Sherlock Holmes said, not looking up from the Bradshaw. “Disguised as a milkman, he left his building no later than six thirty, given the porter’s story, and there was a train leaving St. Pancras at seven ten, which would put him in, say, Galloway by late afternoon today.”32

  “In other words, about now,” murmured Magillivray.

  “Well, we have no one up there at present,” said Bullivant. “And the local authorities cannot be told of Scudder’s notebook; that information is far too sensitive to share with them, in my opinion.”

  “They’ll already be looking for Hannay in any case,” said Magillivray. “I was not present when the Yard got wind of Mr. Scudder’s murder and the accusations by Hannay’s valet against the milkman.”

  The inspector cleared his throat and then continued, somewhat hesitantly.

  “I am told that the porter in Mr. Hannay’s building complained of a pair of men who invaded the scene of the crime: a Mr. Price and his anonymous agent,” Magillivray said. He glanced knowingly at Holmes.

  “Are these two being sought by the police?” asked the detective with an innocent smile.

  “Yes,” said the inspector. “Indeed, I volunteered to take charge of that portion of the investigation myself.”

  “Good man,” volunteered Bullivant with a mischievous smile.

  “However, my colleagues have since declared the milkman innocent and fixed upon Hannay as the likely murderer,” Magillivray went on. “They have also surmised, as have we here, that he is headed for Scotland. Authorities as far north as Edinburgh have been directed to apprehend the man.”

  “Recovery of the notebook is essential,” said Bullivant. “I suppose one or more of us must board a train and follow him.”

  “Yes,” admitted Sherlock Holmes, glancing upward and then toward his brother with a coy expression. “However…”

  “An aeroplane would be faster,” completed Mycroft Holmes.

  “An aeroplane?” exclaimed Sir Walter.

  “Can you conceive a more rapid method of travel?” asked the elder Holmes brother. He leaned back in the sofa and placed the tips of his opposing fingers together. “I fancy I could easily requisition a Royal Flying Corps pilot from Hulton33 to take one of us north in a two-seater. Well,” added Mycroft, “I should rather say, one of you.”

  “Would the craft need to be fed more petrol during the journey to Galloway?” asked Sherlock Holmes.

  “Yes, but that may be arranged without difficulty,” Mycroft replied. “A route can be mapped out, one that includes refuelling. Are you proposing to go, Sherlock?”

  “In truth, I was going to suggest the doctor.”

  I turned my head in disbelief toward my friend.

  “Well,” said the detective with a defensive air, “an aeroplane really cannot be that many steps removed from an automobile, can it? And you are on quite good terms with motorcars, so you say. I’m not demanding that you pilot the contraption, Watson.”

  I could think of nothing in response.

  “Will you not go to Scotland instead?” asked Bullivant of Sherlock Holmes.

  “Oh, I am going to Scotland, Sir Walter,” replied the detective. “However, I propose to follow Hannay’s route there by train, as you initially suggested. If everyone is correct in assuming he is off to Scotland, the man’s departure from St. Pancras is a near certainty, but we cannot yet be sure of his exact movements from that point onward.

  “I believe the Scottish moors are his eventual destination, but circumstances may force a change in that plan. I will follow his supposed initial route and pick up any information about his subsequent path that I can, however difficult or improbable that task might seem.

  “At the same time, we do need a man in Galloway as quickly as possible. That must occur by means of an aeroplane. Do you propose to go, Sir Walter—or you, Inspector Magillivray?”

  “Magillivray is needed here, to help shepherd the police investigation of Scudder’s murder,” said Bullivant. “It has already gotten somewhat out of hand, and for our purposes, it must not become more so.”

  “And I shall require you to remain in London for at least the next day,” said Mycroft Holmes to Sir Walter, “There are matters with Section 5 that require a degree of finesse, and I believe only you can supply that touch.”34

  Sherlock Holmes frowned at this reference, and Magillivray looked steadily at the sitting room carpet, while Bullivant appeared to ignore the comment.

  “There is that special agent in the south,” Sir Walter said cryptically to Mycroft, who shook his head as his brother raised his brows. “Not enough time for him to get here?” asked Bullivant.

  “There is that obstacle, yes,” agreed Sherlock Holmes, “but the obvious disadvantage is that removing that man from his present duties leaves no one else to perform them.”

  “Granted,” said Bullivant, glancing discreetly at Mycroft Holmes, who nodded.

  I looked to my friend for explanation of these last comments, but none was forthcoming.35 Instead, the detective said, “The doctor, after all, is rather familiar with Galloway, having angled there for the elusive trout on more than one occasion.”

  “So you’re a fly-fisherman, are you?” asked Bullivant with seeming interest.

  “Yes,” I told him. “Since my youth.”

  He emitted a pleasant grunt and then said, “Well then, Doctor, are you willing to play the game with us? Will you fly to Scotland to fish for Hannay?”

  I looked the spymaster squarely in the eye.

  “Are you certain, Sir Walter, that you would wish to entrust me with that task?”

  The man sat and thought for a moment, his eyes glazing over as he contemplated some unspoken thought. Then, after briefly bowing his head, Bullivant said, “I’m afraid I hadn’t got your limits earlier, Dr. Watson. Perhaps I’m not the first to admit to that, and such confessions from others are not uncommon.”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Sherlock Holmes gently nod.

  “That failure of judgment aside,” Bullivant went on, “for my past failings are irrelevant at the moment, I agree with Holmes th
at you should be the one to fly north. You among us are the only one who has set eyes upon Richard Hannay, after all, and I now appreciate the dogged skill that you can bring to this endeavour. Will you accept the charge, sir?”

  “There is no one else?” I asked. “Young James? Hollins or Steiner?”

  Bullivant and Mycroft Holmes looked uncomfortably at one another, while Magillivray glanced innocently about the room.

  I saw the hint of a smile on the lips of Sherlock Holmes as he said, “They are true and faithful underlings, but as capable as they are in their way, they nonetheless do not possess the particular resources that reside in you, Watson. It took me a while longer,” he added, speaking to Sir Walter, “but at last, I too got Watson’s limits, and rather vast those limits are.”

  “There is the matter of my age,” I offered as a final objection.36

  “And who was it recently declared that time be damned?” asked Sherlock Holmes, leaning back in his chair. “Watson, the die was cast when you first accepted my offer to visit Portland Place.”

  I gave a great sigh, nodded philosophically at my friend, and then said to all present, “If it is the consensus that I should, then yes—of course, I will go.”

  “Well done,” murmured Mycroft Holmes.

  “For King and Empire,” was Magillivray’s homely pronouncement.

  Bullivant paused for a moment and then asked Mycroft Holmes, “He’ll be despatched from Hulton, you say? Where would he be deposited?”

  Sir Walter’s clinical phrasing led me to cautiously eye my friend’s older brother.

  “Hum,” grunted Mycroft. “Well, we want him to begin in Galloway, I suppose. Dumfries might be a good choice. I believe there’s a plain near the town that the flying corps boys fancy. And Dumfries is on the rail line.”

  “It is one of the stops of the train I believe Hannay has boarded,” noted Sherlock Holmes.

  “You know, I have a godson in that region,” said Bullivant. “Sir Harry Christey. He’s an ambitious young politician, though a bit of a black sheep in that regard: a Free Trader, I must confess.37 He might be available to render you some assistance, Doctor—provided, of course, that you don’t disclose the true nature of your mission. I can write a brief letter of introduction—he is not aware of my actual post and believes I’m Secretary to the Foreign Office or some such. If nothing else, he may be able provide a motor for your use.”

  “And I will have one of my agents, Hollins or Steiner, send word to Herr Von Bork that I am off to Scapa Flow to scout its defences,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I cite your recent sojourn there with Blenkiron as inspiration for the ruse, Mycroft. In the eyes of the Germans, it should serve as a handy pretext for my train journey north.”

  “And the two of you will employ the usual methods to communicate with Sir Walter by telegram?” asked the elder Holmes brother.

  I looked warily at Sherlock Holmes, who smiled reassuringly as he said, “With your permission, Sir Walter, I shall take the doctor to Mr. Macandrew to review code and cipher protocols.”

  “There should be no difficulty with that,” Bullivant replied. “I will ring up Macandrew and make arrangements. I take it you wish to see him presently?”

  “If possible,” said Holmes. “I believe Dr. Watson will prove a quick study.”

  “Yes,” said Sir Walter, once more eyeing me with an expression of confidence. “Yes, I am certain he will be. Well then,” he said, slapping one knee of his trousers, “we all have our assignments, it would seem.”

  “I will arrange the doctor’s transport by air to Galloway,” Mycroft Holmes declared. “Brother Sherlock will pack for his great rail expedition after taking Dr. Watson to visit your Mr. Macandrew, and I will manage the bureaucratic matters here in London, with your assistance. And you, Inspector Magillivray, will attempt to restrain your colleagues in the Metropolitan Police.”

  “As best I can, sir,” the man from Scotland Yard replied. “As I said earlier, others took command of the Scudder murder case before I could become involved, but I believe I have convinced them to not yet publicly declare Hannay the prime suspect, though they continue to view him as the guilty party. Regardless, both they and the police up north will be pursuing him vigorously.”

  “As will the Germans,” said Sherlock Holmes.

  “But which Germans?” asked Mycroft. “I refer to the phrase The Black Stone, Sherlock.”

  “I understand your allusion, dear brother.”

  “But we do not know what Scudder meant by that,” said Bullivant.

  “Taken in the context of all that has happened, Sir Walter,” said Mycroft, “I and my younger brother think we have evidence of another circle of German operatives at work on our island, a spy ring distinct from and perhaps independent of Von Bork’s.”

  “It would fit the imagery of Scudder’s cryptic note,” added Sherlock Holmes.

  “Cerberus,” I murmured. Then, after a pause, I added, “But there were at least three heads on that beast, and therefore, should we not have, in turn, Von Bork’s spy ring, this Black Stone group, and…”

  “And one more after that,” said Mycroft Holmes, nodding glumly. “Aye, there’s the additional rub, indeed.”

  Within another quarter hour, I left Safety House through the house door, while Sherlock Holmes departed by way of the back. After walking a roundabout path of a few blocks, I waited at a specified intersection, where Jack James pulled up in his taxicab. Hopping aboard the vehicle, I found Holmes leaning back in his seat, his brows furrowed.

  “I might ask if you were deep in thought,” I said lightly. “But then, when are you not in deep thought?”

  “These days, more often than I care to admit,” my friend replied with a wan smile. “To Lime Street, Jack.”

  “Ah,” said the American. “Mr. Macandrew’s office.”

  The motorcar turned a corner and headed south. We had travelled in that direction but a short time before something caught Holmes’s attention most dramatically.

  “Halloa!” he exclaimed. “Jack, fall back if you will, but keep that car ahead in view!”

  “The light brown one with black trim?”

  “That is the one, yes!”

  “Oh, of course, sir,” said the American after a moment. “We’ve seen that one before, haven’t we?”

  “Many times,” said Holmes, leaning back. “Not along this route, however. I fancy trailing him, Jack, as long as it does not take us out of our way.”

  “As good as done, sir.”

  I looked expectantly at my friend.

  “That is the automobile of Baron Von Herling, chief secretary of the German legation,” he said. “He is the man who oversees Von Bork’s espionage activities. Indeed, one can observe him through the rear window of the vehicle.”

  I leaned forward and saw the backside of a man’s head, topped with a homburg, through the somewhat dingy pane.

  “And you find his presence in this district unusual? It appears to me that he is being driven toward the City, which I should think would be a common destination for a diplomat in this metropolis.”

  “Oh yes, I have followed him there many times, Watson. While claiming to be collecting secrets for Berlin, I have often instead been clandestinely observed my Teutonic bosses, in order to better grasp the workings of their apparatus. Von Herling is a not infrequent visitor to the heart of London, but his usual route there is not this one, suggesting that he is coming from a location different from his usual haunts.”

  “And that suggests he is engaged in business of a non-diplomatic nature?” I suggested.

  “Just so. Be careful, Jack!” Holmes suddenly admonished. “You approach too close to Von Herling’s motor. Leave the recommended minimum distance, if you will, and vary the distance between ourselves and the other automobile on occasion.”

  “Sorry, sir,” replied the young man, allowing the other vehicle to gain ground on us.

  “You have rules for this game of follow-the-leader?” I asked with
a bemused air.

  “Very much so, Watson, for I have written a short monograph on preferred methods of automotive pursuit,” said Holmes in a distracted tone.

  “And so you have some acquaintance with motors yourself,” I observed.

  “It is a professional interest only,” Holmes replied primly. “Of course, my piece exists at present as a classified Secret Service document, unavailable to the public. Perhaps after the war, I will have Blenkiron publish a limited edition. In addition to his bookstore, the man possesses a small press, you know.”

  I watched our quarry ahead.

  “Do you think Von Herling may be on business related to Scudder?” I asked.

  “Who can say?” Holmes replied. “If the baron manages Von Bork’s apparatus, it is not inconceivable that he has his hands in the affairs of the Black Stone as well.”

  At length, we entered the City by way of the Whitechapel Road, following Von Herling’s vehicle past Finsbury Circus and on to Meerston Street, where the motorcar we had so doggedly followed finally pulled to the kerb.38

  “Drive past, Jack,” Holmes ordered. The detective leaned back. “Sadly, we have not the time to determine who or what Von Herling is pursing here. I will note the address, however.”

  We rambled on southward, veering somewhat east, and in time arrived in Lime Street, a short distance from Leadenhall Market. Holmes and I separately left the motor and in our individual ways trod a neighbourhood with narrow houses on which were emblazoned lists of names, mostly attorneys and notaries public. Some distance ahead of me, my friend entered a building where the last name displayed was a J. N. Macandrew, identified as an average-adjuster.39 After a moment, I followed.

  Once inside, I was briskly led by Holmes up steps to the door of a small, dingy office on the first floor. There we were received by a pale boy who nodded to my friend and then escorted us up a maze of wooden stairs and dark passages that ended in a cluttered, grim waiting room lit by one dingy window.

  “I’ll fetch him for you, sir,” said the boy, who vanished through the door.

  “Pray, Watson, have a seat,” said Holmes, motioning toward a worn table around which sat three chairs.