by J. R. Trtek
Von Bork flushed ever more crimson. “How dare you speak in such a way!”
“If I didn’t dare things, mister, I wouldn’t be in your service. But I’ll tell you straight what is in my mind. I’ve heard that with you Germans, when an agent has done his work, you are not sorry to see him put away.”
Von Bork sprang toward Holmes.
“You are insolent, Altamount! And look,” he said, his tone suddenly changing as he gestured toward a salver upon which stood a heavily sealed, dust-covered bottle and two high glasses. “I had brought up a bottle of your favourite Imperial Tokay, and you insult me in this manner? You dare suggest that I have given away my own agents?”
“Well, I figure there’s a stool pigeon or a cross somewhere, and I am taking no more chances.”
Von Bork paused and narrowed his eyes, as if appraising the other man.
“I have someone who would be able to discover if the British authorities intended to take you into custody,” he said knowingly.
“And who might that be?” asked Holmes.
“Again, that is no concern of yours. What matters is that from him I have heard nothing concerning the likelihood of you being arrested.”
“But you hadn’t heard anything from him about James, Steiner, and Hollins, either, had you?”
Von Bork frowned.
“You see what I’m saying? It’s me for Holland,” said Holmes at last, “and the sooner the better.”
Von Bork returned to the table, seemingly once more in control of his temper.
“We have been allies too long to quarrel now, at the very hour of victory,” he said diplomatically. “You’ve performed splendid works and, yes, taken risks, and I cannot forget that. By all means go to Holland, Altamount. In Rotterdam, you can get a boat to New York if you like. No other line will be safe a week from now—keep that in mind. Now,” he said, extending his hand, “I will take from you that parcel and pack it with the rest of my things.”
Holmes did not offer the package to Von Bork.
The German cocked his head.
“What about the dough?” Holmes asked.
“The what?”
“The boodle. The reward. The five hundred pounds. The gunner up at Scapa Flow what gave all this to me turned damned nasty at the last, and I had to square him with an extra two hundred, or it would have been nitsky for you and me. It’s already cost me that from first to last, so it isn’t likely I’d give this up without getting my wad. I want to see it with my own eyes.”
Von Bork smiled bitterly. “You don’t seem to have a very high opinion of my honour,” said he. “You want the money before you give up the signals in that parcel.”
“Well, mister, this is a business proposition, ain’t it?”
“Very well, have it your way.”
Von Bork sat down at the table and scribbled a check, which he tore from its book. He refrained, however, from handing it to his guest. Instead, he set it upon the table.
“There,” declared Von Bork. “Your payment now is before you, in plain view. You see, since we are to be on such terms as you insist, Mr. Altamount, I do not see why I should trust you any more than you trust me.”
Holmes shrugged. “And what do you mean by that?”
“I mean that I claim the right to examine that parcel before you pick up this check.”
Holmes appeared to think for a moment and then passed the package over without a word. Von Bork undid the winding of string and then removed two wrappers of paper. He sat gazing with surprise at the object he found within, and as he did so, Holmes quietly but swiftly rose from his chair, cigar clenched between his teeth, and gripped the German at the back of the neck.
From the pocket of his long coat, the detective withdrew a chloroformed sponge and pushed it into Von Bork’s face. Fingers gripped still air, and the foreigner’s writhing spine arched backward before consciousness was lost and the spy slumped forward, guided by Holmes, who settled the German with his cheek pressed against the table top.
“Bravo!” whispered Martha, who had remained beside me. “Bravo, Mr. Holmes,” she repeated as she stepped out from behind a large fern and into the expanse of the study.
Somewhat hesitantly, I followed.
Holmes turned round to face us and gave a slight, playful bow.
“The comedy is finished,” he said, and tossed the chloroformed sponge aside.
“Is he all right?” the housekeeper asked.
“Oh yes,” said Holmes, also dispensing with his cigar. “He has not been hurt at all.”
“I am glad of that, Mr. Holmes. According to his lights, he has been a kind employer. He even wanted me to go with his wife to Germany yesterday, but that would hardly have suited your plans, would it, sir?”
“No indeed, Martha. So long as you were here, I was easy in my mind. We waited some time for your signal tonight, by the way.”
“It was Von Herling, sir.”
“I know. His motorcar passed ours.”
“I thought he would never go, and I was aware that would not suit your plans, either, to find him here.”
“No, indeed. Well, it only meant we waited a half hour or so. I suppose you have everything ready to leave.”
“Yes, sir. He posted seven letters today. I have the addresses as usual.”
“Very good, Martha. I will look into them tomorrow. For the moment, please fetch some straps, if you will.”
“Yes, sir.”
As the housekeeper left to retrieve material with which to bind the German spy, I stepped to the unconscious man and looked over his shoulder to satisfy my curiosity. There, upon the table, nestled within the unfolded wrapping papers, lay a small blue book whose title was printed in golden letters across the cover: Practical Handbook of Bee Culture.
I smiled and reached out to run my forefinger over the gilt words.
“You may take it, Watson,” said Holmes as he stepped over to the safe and opened it with the combination that Von Bork had unwittingly supplied him. “That is the first printed copy and is meant for you. That it has passed through the hands of a German spy may give it some additional lustre.”
As I picked up the book, Martha returned with straps to secure Von Bork and then retired to her room to continue packing her bags.
Holmes and I bound the unconscious spy and set him upon a sofa in the study, where he remained sleeping. Then Holmes went to the salver and opened its dusty bottle of Tokay, pouring each of us a glass.
I sat at the table, across from Von Bork’s emptied chair, and sipped as I watched Holmes alternate between drinking his wine and removing dossier after dossier from the safe. Once the files were all piled high, my friend began packing them neatly into Von Bork’s many valises. Finished, he turned round and took notice of my now empty glass.
“More, Watson?” he said, extending the bottle of Tokay in my direction.
“Of course,” I agreed. “It is a good wine, Holmes.”
“It is a remarkable wine, old fellow. Apparently, it is from Franz Josef’s special cellar at the Schoenbrunn Palace. Hum. Might I trouble you to open the window, for chloroform vapour does not help the palate, does it?”
I took one more sip and then rose from my chair.
“We need not hurry ourselves, Watson,” said Holmes as he once more rifled through Von Bork’s papers. “Ah!” he cried. “We have him!”
“Yes, of course,” I said as I opened a window. “He lies there on the sofa, securely bound.”
“No,” replied Holmes. “That is yes, of course, Von Bork is there. I meant that we also have his underling in Whitehall—Bullivant’s mole.”
“Oh?”
“Yes,” said my friend, holding up a sheet of paper. “It is a certain clerk in the War Ministry, identified here.”
“But I thought that the mole was connected with the Black Stone, not Von Bork.”
“He is—was Von Bork’s man, but on rare occasions the information he obtained was passed on to the Black Stone when it
might assist that spy cell, according to these notes. No doubt, this clerk was the one who alerted that group that the meeting with Reyer had been changed.”
“And what about the third head of Cerberus?” I asked. “Is it mentioned as well? Has this mole passed information along to that circle also?”
“No other group, including the presumed third head, is mentioned in any of the papers I have seen thus far,” mused Holmes. “That is perhaps curious, given the several references to the Black Stone, but it is certainly not conclusive. Still, we have discovered that at least two of the spy groups were not entirely independent. Oh, would you mind touching the bell? I have need of Martha once more.”
After a moment, the pleasant old lady again appeared in the doorway and curtseyed with a smile.
“I have told Sandy Arbuthnot about the end of our enterprise, Martha,” Holmes said. “He intends to delay his departure from Sussex until you return to the cottage, so you may leave for there tomorrow. The following day, however, I should wish you to report to me in London, at Claridge’s Hotel.”
“Very good, sir. I’ll spend some time finishing with my packing.”
The woman left us again, and I strode back to the table, where I pleased myself with more wine. I smacked my lips with glee, and Holmes smiled. He stepped over and briefly took me by the shoulder.
“You are a blithe lad this evening, Watson,” he said. “I do not know if I ever saw you in such a humour, even at 221.”
“You know, Holmes, after all that has happened these past weeks, I feel twenty years younger.” I held up my glass of Tokay in salute. “Time be damned, indeed.”
My friend reached for his own glass, which remained half full. “Time be damned,” he agreed, and we clinked glasses together before emptying each.
“And so you will have not one magnum opus, but two,” I said, pointing to the little blue book I had left upon the table.
“Perhaps, Watson,” said Holmes. “If I ever finish my tome on detection. But here, at least, is the fruit of my leisured ease of the past decade, before I set out on my mission to unhorse Von Bork and, for a few days, be preoccupied by the Black Stone.”
He picked up the volume and read out its whole title: Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with Some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen. Holmes smiled. “Alone I did it. Behold the product of pensive nights and laborious days when I watched the little working gangs as once I watched the criminal world of London. Well, sir, I hope that you are none the worse,” he abruptly added, now addressing Von Bork, who gasped and blinked as he regained consciousness.
The Prussian’s face convulsed with passion, and he broke out into a furious stream of invective in his native tongue.
“Be thankful you are not fluent in the language, Watson,” said Holmes primly as he closed up the last of Von Bork’s valises and the Teutonic spy continued to curse and swear. “Though unmusical, German is the most expressive of languages,” my friend observed when our antagonist had stopped from pure exhaustion.
The prisoner raised himself with some difficulty upon the sofa and evinced a strange mixture of amazement and hatred toward his captor.
“I will get level with you, Altamount,” he said deliberately. “If it takes me all my life, I will get level with you.”
“The old sweet song,” said Holmes. “How often have I heard it in days gone by. It was a favourite ditty of the late, lamented Professor Moriarty. Colonel Sebastian Moran has also been known to warble it from his cell. And yet I live and keep bees upon the South Downs.”
Von Bork gave a puzzled look at the man he knew as Altamount and then cried, “Curse you, you double traitor.” The man strained against his bonds and glared murder from his furious eyes.
“No, it is not so at all,” insisted Holmes. “Have you not listened to my speech, now so different from that which, heretofore, you have heard from me? As it shows you, Mr. Altamount of Chicago had no existence in fact. I used him, and he is gone.”
“Then who are you?” asked Von Bork.
“It is really immaterial who I am, but since the matter seems to interest you, sir, I may say that this is not my first acquaintance with members of your family. I have done a good deal of business in Germany in the past, and my name is undoubtedly familiar to you.”
“I wish to know it,” said the Prussian grimly.
“It was I who brought about the separation between Irene Adler and the late King of Bohemia when your cousin was the Imperial Envoy. It was I also who saved from murder, by the nihilist Klopman, Count Von und Zu Grafenstein, who was your mother’s elder brother. It was I—”
Von Bork sat up in amazement.
“There is only one man,” he cried.
“Exactly,” said Holmes.
Von Bork groaned and sat back on the sofa. “And most of the information that I sent on to Berlin came from you and the men you recruited,” he moaned. “What have I done?”
After that, our prisoner spoke no more and, at length, we took to moving him to the motorcar outside. That proved no easy task, for he was a strong and desperate man. Finally, however, by holding either arm, we walked the German very slowly down the garden walk and, after a short final struggle, hoisted him into the spare seat of our motor, where we rebound his feet. The valises were wedged in around him.
“I trust that you are as comfortable as circumstances permit,” said Holmes when the man and his case were arranged in the automobile.
All the amenities, however, were wasted upon the angry German.
“I suppose you realise, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said he, “that if your government bears you out in this treatment, it becomes an act of war.”
“What about your government and all this treatment?” said Holmes, tapping each valise in turn.
“You have no warrant for my arrest. The whole proceeding is illegal and outrageous.”
“Absolutely,” said Holmes.
“Kidnapping a German subject—”
“And stealing his private papers,” chimed in my friend.
“Well, you and your accomplice here understand your position, then,” said our captive. “If I were to shout for help as we pass through the next village—”
Holmes smiled. “My dear sir, if you did anything so foolish you would enlarge the limited titles of our village inns by giving us The Dangling Prussian as a signpost. The Englishman is a patient creature, but at present his temper is a little inflamed, and it would be as well not to try him too far. No, Herr Von Bork, you will go with us in a quiet, sensible fashion to Scotland Yard, whence you can send for your friend, Baron Von Herling, and see if even now you may not fill that spot on the diplomatic list that he has reserved for you. Perhaps your new status will make you immune from prosecution, and you will simply be returned to your homeland.”
The German bristled.
“Wir werden sehen,” declared Holmes.101
Von Bork turned from us, and Holmes took my shoulder to direct me back to the house and into the study, where I retrieved the blue book, depositing it in my coat pocket.
We finished the small amount of remaining Tokay and then stepped out upon Von Bork’s terrace. The lights in the sky were even brighter than before, as were the earthbound stars attached to ships or, in the distance, the town of Harwich. By now the vault of night was graced by the presence of the moon, which cast its own shimmering web of soft brilliance upon the sea, and Holmes pointed to the rough waters limned by its celestial glow.
“Your east wind, Holmes?” I asked as we leaned against the stone parapet.
He nodded. “It is hard to imagine at this moment, but it will be cold and bitter, Watson, and I fear its consequences more than words can convey.”
I stared into the warm August night alongside my friend of over three decades and put my hand upon his shoulder.
“A good many of us may wither before its blast,” I told him. “But it’s God’s own wind none the less, and we must believe that a cleaner, better, stronger land wil
l no doubt bask in the sunshine when the storm has cleared. Let us go, Holmes, and I’ll start up the motor.”
“Yes, Watson,” said he, his mood lightening. “It is time that we were on our way, for I now recall that I have a check for five hundred pounds that should be cashed early, since the drawer is quite capable of stopping payment if he can.”
* * *
92 Though employed as early as the Renaissance to denote such a double agent, the term “mole” regained currency in the twentieth century. Bullivant’s remark appears to have presaged the word’s renewed use in this context.
93 Holmes’s eyes were gray.
94 Arbuthnot, a major character in John Buchan’s novel Greenmantle, also appears in many other books by that author. Bullivant’s suggestion in chapter 4 that an agent in Sussex be sent north in search of Richard Hannay is no doubt a reference to Sandy.
95 Greats is the course on Classics: Ancient Rome and Greece, and the languages and philosophy of those cultures. As noted in Greenmantle, Arbuthnot attended Eton and New College before going to Oxford.
96 As Holmes admits, his explanation omits several details, but what few are there suggest that the detective may have been guilty of serious lapses in Chicago. Perhaps, someday, that part of the story may come to light. Meanwhile, as mentioned elsewhere in this book, it is the belief of the editor that “Jack James” was actually Sam Spade, some of whose later exploits were eventually chronicled by Dashiell Hammett.
97 Situated in Dorset, the Isle of Portland—actually tied to the mainland by a strip of land—was a Royal Navy base at the time.
98 Many commentators have supposed or wished that Martha was actually Mrs. Hudson, the landlady of 221 Baker Street. However, there is nothing in the accepted Sherlockian canon to seriously support that conjecture, and Watson’s treatment of Martha in this narrative argues rather strongly that the two women were entirely different people. Indeed, later portions of the text confirm without doubt that such was the case.
