Thirty-Nine Steps from Baker Street

by J. R. Trtek

  “Why? I see that it carries an advertisement.”

  “Yes, one that heralds the advantages of some device known as Gussiter’s Deep-breathing System. Have you heard of the contraption, Doctor?”

  “Perhaps,” I said with a dismissive gesture. “Along with countless other examples of medical quackery. You think it could possibly have significance?”

  “I do wonder that it might,” replied Holmes. “You see, the inside of the cover has a printed display that is intended to be employed to determine which version of the deep-breathing system is best suited for oneself.”

  “I suspect they are all equally effective,” I declared glibly.

  “I do not disagree with that assertion, but you see, Watson, I can envision circumstances in which this array might also be employed to decipher simple coded messages.”

  “Oh?” I said, leaning forward in my chair. “Can you be certain?”

  “No, I cannot,” replied Holmes, tossing the matchbook onto the table. “That is the devilish nature of such tools: they appear innocent while harbouring a secret purpose.”

  “And you cannot discern the latter?”

  “Without another part of the cipher or code system—a message, say—I cannot.” He stared at the open matchbook. “We must store this away and wait to determine its value to our effort. It may be a priceless treasure. Or rubbish.”

  “An uncertain find,” I declared.

  “Yes,” agreed Holmes. “Quite unlike the unquestionable bounty we will be receiving tomorrow.”

  “Oh?” I said, reaching for my pipe and Arcadia mix.

  “Young Sandy Arbuthnot is returning to London, and Bullivant has put him at our disposal.”

  “Where has he been since the Erzurum business with Hannay and Blenkiron two years ago?” I asked, stuffing my pipe. “After Arbuthnot masqueraded as you in Sussex and then engaged in that mission in support of the Russians, I believe all that Bullivant ever said to me about him was that the fellow had been assigned to ‘a warmer clime.’”

  “When informing me of Sandy’s return, Sir Walter filled in the details of the agent’s itinerary during the past several months,” said Holmes. “In the wake of Erzurum, Arbuthnot continued roaming the area at the behest of Bullivant. Apparently, the subsequent Russian victories at Bitlis and Erzincan were in no small part due to his efforts, and he played a role in stopping the Ottoman advance at Gevaş, as well.

  “The revolution in Russia threw the entire Caucusus campaign into turmoil, however, and Sandy was pulled from that assignment to be posted farther south in the Levant, where he performed more than one feat of clandestine magic: I am told that Jerusalem will be ours by winter largely on account of him. The campaign there is now going so well that Sir Walter had no hesitation in bringing our friend back to Britain upon my request, though he had originally intended to send Arbuthnot on to Persia.”205

  “The young man has been busy,” I observed after lighting my pipe. “No doubt, he soon will be even busier.”

  Holmes smiled. “Yes. He is the one I will put on the trail of Frank Farrar’s acquaintance, Dieter Baumann.”

  “Has the German been seen again?”

  “No. Farrar has discreetly frequented diverse locales where Baumann might be expected to show himself, but to no result. However, assuming the fellow truly is the one who was at the German embassy before the war—and Farrar is most certain he is—there can be no doubt that he is wrapped up in the spy ring we seek to uncover. Arbuthnot will be excellent for the purpose of flushing out and observing the fellow.”

  “And what of Richard Hannay?” I said. “Has nothing more been heard from him since he boarded that ship for the Hebrides, alongside Abel Gresson?”

  “Not a word,” admitted my friend. He gazed at the hearth. “One can only hope that Bullivant hears from him soon. I am not inclined to go hunting for the man a second time.”

  The next day, I found myself once more sitting at a council of war with Holmes and Bullivant at Safety House. However, the other participants were not Mycroft Holmes, John S. Blenkiron, and Inspector Magillivray, but rather Frank Farrar, Shinwell Johnson, and a very brown-faced Sandy Arbuthnot.

  “I must confess,” said the new returnee, stiffly moving his arms within a tweed jacket, “these togs take some getting used to after spending years in izaar and thawb.”206

  We had spent several minutes listening to Frank Farrar relate his sighting of Dietrich Baumann to Arbuthnot, followed by a detailed recounting of fruitless efforts to subsequently locate the German. Shinwell Johnson also reported on his own failure to come across the man, or espy anything suspicious in the immediate vicinity of the gasworks.

  “Well, based upon your description of him,” Arbuthnot said to Farrar, “I am certain I can pick out Dieter in a crowd, should I be fortunate enough to cross his path. All I needs do now,” he added, “is to follow your lead in frequenting the right crowds.”

  “We will meet here according to the schedule I have given you,” Holmes told Sandy. “I do not wish to have you coming anywhere near Queen Anne Street, however.”

  “You believe Von Bork is watching the residence?” I asked.

  “We must admit it as a possibility, though I do not know that such surveillance would be worth the trouble in the German’s eyes,” Holmes replied. Smiling, he added, “Were I Von Bork, I would let me come to me, so to speak.”

  “And so you no longer wish me to pursue Dieter Baumann, Mr. Holmes?” asked Farrar.

  “Not intentionally. Rather, you will join Johnson in regularly scouring the area surrounding the gasworks, widening the radius of search.”

  “That has yielded nothing thus far, sir,” Johnson gently reminded the detective. “I’ve seen nothing but routine comings and goings.”

  “Of that I am all too aware,” admitted Sherlock Holmes. “At present, however, we have few other locales with which to associate Herr Baumann, and Sandy will be responsible for those. I suggest you two continue to discreetly enquire among various building agents whose concerns lie near the gasworks.”

  “We will do so,” Johnson replied wearily.

  “And that barge master, Tatty Evans—he has still not espied the presumed German motor launch again?” asked Sir Walter Bullivant.

  “No, he has not,” admitted Holmes. “He began his search in the eastern reaches of the river and has been gradually moving closer to central London. I do have hopes he will sight the Nemesis at some point, and when he does, we will begin to narrow the choices for the endpoints of her travels.”

  “Do you believe Baumann may serve as part of the crew of the Nemesis, at least from time to time?” I asked.

  “I think all our items of interest are part of the same animal,” Holmes declared. “However, their anatomical relationships to the whole and each other remain to be uncovered.”

  “Well, until that motor launch comes to light again, I suppose it’s the gasworks and vicinity for the pair of us,” said Johnson to Farrar.

  “And it is the hunt for Dieter Baumann that is for you, Sandy,” interjected Bullivant. “But you are an old hand at flushing out a quarry, are you not?”

  “It’s a familiar assignment,” said Arbuthnot. “But my guise in this endeavour will be a new experience for me, I suppose. But it is always good to expand one’s repertoire, eh, Mr. Holmes? I must be certain to watch my back.”

  Frank Farrar appeared slightly uncomfortable and Sir Walter Bullivant showed not a small bit of embarrassment.207

  “I trust in your abilities,” Holmes said quickly. “We can, however, only wait to see what your efforts yield. I thought John Blenkiron would be in attendance,” he remarked abruptly to Bullivant, a comment I perceived as an effort to deftly change subject.

  “The man is spending an increasing amount of time on the Continent,” Sir Walter explained. “The first American troops are beginning to arrive here in Britain, and Blenkiron is focussing his energy on strengthening his own network of spies in France and beyond
. Indeed, part of his mission is to attempt to coordinate his agents with ours—including our prime man in Belgium, the one we are hoping may provide us with advance warning of future German air raids.”

  “And I need not ask for news from the Hebrides concerning Hannay?” Holmes said.

  Bullivant sighed and shook his head gently. “No, for I would tell you that nothing has yet been heard from him. The man’s silence has gone on quite longer than I had anticipated. Something has no doubt happened—we can only hope something in Hannay’s favour. And we can only pray that when we eventually learn of events up north, they will gladden us.”

  “Here’s to that,” said Arbuthnot. “I know that old Dick Hannay will come through for us, though. He brought down Ulric von Stumm and Hilda von Einem, and he’ll help do the same to Abel Gresson and Moxon Ivery.”208

  We all expressed agreement with that sentiment.

  “For the moment, however, Sandy,” said Holmes after a pause, “we must see to our own obligations.”

  “I will get on with searching for Dieter this very day,” replied Arbuthnot. He smiled at Frank Farrar and offered his hand. “I’ll do my best to follow up on your excellent spotting. If this fellow is still about London, I promise I shall find him.”

  As Farrar and Arbuthnot shook hands, Shinwell Johnson wistfully said, “Hope piled onto hope.”

  “Yes, and there are so many irons in the fire,” remarked Bullivant. “Baumann, the Nemesis, tungsten, sulphur. And that matchbook that you have mentioned,” he added to Holmes. “Not to speak of Ivery and Gresson—”

  And, possibly, Heinrich von Bork, I thought.

  “Can they all be related, as you claim, let alone mastered?” Bullivant asked.

  “They are but portions of the same elephant, I assure you,” replied Holmes. “And when at last we glimpse the full pachyderm, we shall know the answer to your quandary.”

  After the meeting at Safety House had concluded, Holmes and I returned to Queen Anne Street in a taxicab. Upon paying the chauffeur, I immediately bombarded my friend with a series of questions I had dared not ask in the vehicle.

  “Please, Watson,” cried the detective in mock protest as we stood upon the steps. “I beg you to wait until we gain the sitting room before unleashing your curiosity upon me.”

  “My apologies,” I said as I opened the house door. “Had it been the old days, with Jack James driving, I should not have hesitated to raise these points in the taxicab. But in the presence of that chauffeur, I could not say a word, of course.”

  “Your discretion is admirable, Watson,” replied Holmes, who was now chuckling.

  “You find something amusing?” I asked as I placed my hat and coat in the wardrobe and stepped back to allow Holmes to do the same with his garments.

  “It was your characterisation of the time when Jack James was here as the ‘old days’ which prompted my laughter,” he explained before heaving a great sigh.

  “What mirth lay hidden in that remark?”

  “For most who might consider it, I suppose none. However, you use ‘old days’ to refer to a period of but three years ago, while to me that phrase describes what you, perhaps, may think of as the ‘even older days.’”

  “Baker Street, you mean?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  I nodded with understanding and looked at my friend expectantly, waiting for further elaboration. Holmes, however, merely strode down the hallway toward the sitting room. “Yes, indeed,” I thought I heard him murmur again, his back to me.

  I at once followed Holmes into the sitting room, where he was already taking stock of the great masses of maps, newspapers, and documents that were heaped in piles from one corner to another.

  “You seem to have recreated Baker Street here, to no small effect,” I observed, attempting to prolong the jest.

  He gave a gently bitter smile. “Do pardon the mess I have created,” he said without humour. “Rather,” he amended, “I should say messes.”

  I shrugged and then strode to the breakfast table, where Martha had left our mail.

  “Here you are,” I said to Holmes, holding out two letters that had arrived for him. “I suppose you may pin these to the mantel with your jackknife, should you wish.”

  Holmes turned toward me with a wan smile and accepted the letters. “You are kind to grant me that permission. And would you complain were I to engage in target practice against that wall?” said he wearily, reluctantly joining in my whimsy as he pointed in the direction of the DéGousses painting.

  “I should think that my neighbours would not be pleased, though I might tolerate such disruption,” I said. “Especially if you aimed at the painting rather than the wall itself.”

  Holmes gave a pained expression.

  “I cannot predict Martha’s reaction, however.” I continued. “In any event, I believe that ‘GVR’ would be more difficult to successfully achieve than a mere ‘VR.’”209

  “Granted,” said he, opening one letter. “And I am quite out of practice. Moreover, my revolver is not presently loaded, while the jackknife now rests at the bottom of the Chicago River.”

  “You dropped it into the water?”

  “As it was embedded in the back of my would-be murderer at the time, I had no recourse but to allow it to fall through a layer of ice, along with the body. Time was in short supply, you see.”

  I stared at Holmes for a moment, my mouth open.

  “And no, Watson,” he said as while reading the letter. “It is an episode about which you shall never write. Now, may I trouble you to ring Martha?”

  * * *

  200 The periodical in question is the September 1917 issue of The Strand Magazine, which included the first appearance of the short story “His Last Bow,” based on events chronicled in chapter 10 of this narrative.

  201 This disclosure answers a question which has long puzzled Sherlockian experts: the authorship of “His Last Bow,” which is one of two Holmes stories written in third person, rather than narrated in first person by Watson—two others are supposedly written by the detective himself. From Holmes’s explanation, it is apparent that the author of “His Last Bow” was John Buchan, though credit was given to A. C. Doyle.

  202 The play in question is The Crown Diamond, written by Doyle and produced after the war in 1921. That same year saw first publication of the short story adapted from it, “The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone.” The latter is one of two Holmes tales written in third person—the other being “His Last Bow”—and is often considered the weakest of all of the stories in the Sherlockian canon. Some may argue that is because it is pure fiction by Doyle rather than true memoir by Watson.

  203 It cannot be absolutely proved, but one of these names probably refers to the matter of James Phillimore, who vanished after stepping back into his house for an umbrella, a case to which Watson refers in “The Problem of Thor Bridge” but apparently never did chronicle after all. Meanwhile, the other reference may be to Robert Ferguson, Holmes’s client in “The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire,” published in 1924.

  204 Holmes apparently kept his word, though it took almost a decade. In 1926, the October and November issues of The Strand Magazine featured, respectively, “The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier” and “The Adventure of the Lion’s Mane,” both ostensibly penned by the detective.

  205 Bitlis,Erzincan, and Gevaş are cities in present-day Turkey, and the sites of battles in 1916 between Russia and the Ottoman Empire. The Russian Revolution, actually a series of revolts, began in early 1917 and disrupted that country’s campaign against the Ottomans, as noted by Holmes. Jerusalem, meanwhile, was captured by British forces under the command of Edmund Allenby in December of that year.

  206 An izaar is a lower garment akin to a sarong, while a thawb is an ankle-length robe. Both are traditional wear in Arab countries.

  207 This is possibly another example of implied content which may cast doubt on the narrative’s authenticity, for the nuances of this exch
ange are perhaps beyond the spectrum found in Watson’s authenticated writings.

  208 Ulric von Stumm and Hilda von Einem were German adversaries of Richard Hannay during the mission that culminated in the Battle of Erzurum, as related in John Buchan’s novel Greenmantle.

  209 “VR,” for Victoria Regina, was used as postmark on British mail during the queen’s reign. While George V was monarch, the corresponding mark was “GVR.” In their Baker Street lodgings, Holmes once fired his gun at the sitting room wall so that the bullet holes spelled “VR.” Meanwhile, mention of Holmes’s jackknife refers to his habit of affixing unopened mail to the Baker Street mantel with the blade.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: TERROR & FLIGHT

  As my stay in the Cotswolds receded into the past and the experience of Isham became only memory, I chafed at the paltry duties I bore as a staff secretary of the Royal Army Medical Corps, finding those inconsequential obligations matched by my seemingly superfluous role as assistant to Sherlock Holmes. I understood that I was too old for the Western Front itself, but my new assignment at a London desk—and my own desk in my own home, at that—produced in me a sense of guilt far worse than that which I had suffered that day in 1914 beneath the banner spanning Agar Street, in the shadow of Charing Cross Hospital.

  Though I granted that it was of upmost importance that Holmes uncover the organisation, methods, and goals of the presumed third German spy group, my role in that effort hardly seemed that of an active collaborator. What progress that Holmes might achieve would, I thought, owe more to the efforts of Frank Farrar, Shinwell Johnson, and Sandy Arbuthnot, and perhaps Inspector Magillivray and his Sergeant Scaife, rather than mine.

  Though the man originally known as Dietrich Baumann was nowhere to be seen in the metropolis, Arbuthnot began a systematic survey of several East End neighbourhoods in hopes of finding evidence of the young German, when he was not inhabiting various focal points of the London demimonde. A the same time, Farrar and Johnson cast their nets across a wider span centred about the gasworks, reaching to the docks and river embankments beyond the facility, even as Magillivray and his colleagues continued to stand alert for more incidents such as that which had drawn us to Eversholt Street. And all the while, Tatty Evans maintained a quiet vigil afloat, plying the river for signs of the Nemesis, though also to no avail.