The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part IX

by Marcum, David;

  “This may look particularly ramshackle to you, Watson,” he said as we moved to a rickety door, “but it is one of the most important places in the capital. Here, out of view from our diligent Yardmen, is a venue fit for every purpose - poker tournaments, memorial services. It’s even a place to plan crimes.”

  I stared about in mystification. Surely Holmes was not serious?

  As we moved inside, however, I found myself believing him. The interior could well have been another building entirely. Indeed, we could even have entered a different city. I was quite astonished as I took in the large room with the clean, carpeted floor - even, remarkably, a chandelier hanging glitteringly above us. Sofas and armchairs were positioned at regular intervals, and a long rug of blue damask was unfurled down a wide and welcoming staircase. Men in pressed suits were standing handsomely in each corner, like footmen in some lavish hotel. I certainly felt as though I were in such a place. Even the smell was convincing me. A large hearth in the corner was distributing a sweet and bewitching aroma which, with its warmth, made one immediately forget the chill without. Like Alice before me, it seemed I had fallen through a rabbit hole and into another world.

  Holmes stalked assuredly across the foyer and towards the far corner. He seemed to have been here before. I held grimly onto this impression, as it also meant he had managed to leave. Such an escape was not something I was taking for granted at this point. I followed him, my head swivelling awesomely from side-to-side, taking in the tall paintings adorning the walls. With a Brooking on my left and a Reynolds on my right, I wondered how such masterpieces had come to be here. We curled around a sharp corner and found another man standing militarily beside a set of double-doors. He noticed our approach and, as though recognizing us to be venerable members of the Junior Carlton Club on Pall Mall, pulled the door open and gestured welcomingly with a limp hand.

  I hesitated awkwardly, gripped by a soldier’s intuition. The more we advanced, the harder it would be to retreat. Holmes, for his part, had no such qualms and walked casually into the wide hall with a soft pine floor, long Navajo rug, and rows of mahogany balloon-back dining chairs. Such a scene surprised me, and all nerves were forgotten as I glanced curiously around. More than fifty people were sitting, briefcases and bags at their feet, before a thin-faced auctioneer. Holmes and I took our seats on the third row. I was suddenly feeling quite self-conscious. For the first time, it occurred to me that many in the room where followers of Moriarty and, as such, would not take kindly to seeing Holmes. In their mind, he was a murderer who had killed the man they most admired.

  I had just recognized the curly black hair and athletic build of Arthur Raffles when my friend nudged me in the ribs.

  “The auctioneer,” he whispered, “is Mr. Thorley. He’s a most observant fellow - as much as I am, probably.”

  I was quite surprised by this humble admission but, on witnessing how the esteemed Mr. Thorley had mastered the bidding process, I could hardly disagree. He was a man of perhaps five-and-forty years with black, receding hair combed flatly across an angular head. His small, sharp eyes flickered vigilantly from behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles - a hawk out hunting for prey. Presently, the bidding ended and an antique rifle was awarded to its new owner. It seemed we had arrived just in time, for the next lot was the most interesting of all.

  It was hidden beneath a purple sheet and unveiled with considerable deference. At which point, most everyone recoiled in fascinated horror.

  The head of Professor James Moriarty was bare but for the stringy hair which clutched to the side like a tangle of damp seaweed, his deep-seated eyes staring ghoulishly out from a lined and waxen face. The disgraced academic may have been dead but, as I noted nauseously, he looked much the same as he had in life. I turned to Holmes. He was exhibiting the same insensible stare as the head itself, and I knew not of what he felt.

  It was explained that, much like the other items in the auction, this one would not be purchased with money but exchanged with an antique. Something, I imagined, which had not been purchased either. Without any more preamble, the bidding commenced.

  I peered cautiously about me. I noticed, as the first row terminated, the broad chest and bushy brows of Professor Abraham Van Helsing, his dark blue eyes staring contemplatively ahead as though he were considering whether or not he should bid himself.

  “You are braver than I thought, Mr. Holmes,” said a female voice quietly beside us. “Entering a room in which most everyone wants you dead.”

  “I could say the same to you, Miss Henderson,” Holmes replied, without the briefest glance to his right. “Wanted on three continents, with no less than eight bounties on your head.”

  “Nine,” the lady corrected him with pride. “Though it isn’t my head you’re interested in, is it? It’s the one over there.”

  Mr. Thorley had established a rhythm as bidders sought to outpace each other. A tall, high-shouldered Asian man in robes seemed particularly keen, his unblinking green stare never leaving the auctioneer’s face.

  Tilting forward, past my friend, I looked curiously at the lady who had spoken. She was a brunette of perhaps seven-and-twenty years in a wool tweed dress with puffed sleeves of silk crepe and a wide skirt. A round emerald glimmered attractively from her necklace. I had heard Holmes speak of the lady - sometimes, in terms which he had only previously reserved for Irene Adler. An international thief of much distinction, Emma Henderson was considered to be as wealthy as any aristocrat and, for this reason, was known as “The Countess”.

  “Will you be competing yourself, Miss Henderson?” Holmes asked with polite interest.

  “I never bid for anything,” she responded wryly.

  Behind us, a slim dandy of a man with glossy black hair and olive skin was sitting languidly, a black cat perched on his shoulder. He raised a small hand to bid, and I noticed a gold ring on his little finger in the shape of a snake. Most bidders, by this point, had fallen away and it was now a duel with another man in front.

  The excitement was reaching uncomfortable proportions. Perhaps I am particularly susceptible to such things, but I was watching the spectacle with shallow breath. I had never had the means to visit an auction house before, but I had certainly attended horse races and was experiencing much the same exhilarating charge.

  Finally, with the cruel abruptness which often characterises such moments, all bidding ceased. “Commiserations to Dr. Nikola,” said Mr. Thorley respectfully. “The bid goes to the man on the front row.”

  Voices babbled as the winner approached the auction block. He was a short, pale young man with curly red hair and the look of a peevish public schoolboy. I watched as he lifted a valise and produced from within it a grey ornate vase. A briefcase, containing the head of Moriarty, was handed back in exchange. With a satisfied nod, the young man stepped away and cut a path through the middle aisle. I noticed a bitter glare from Emma Henderson, but did not anticipate what was to happen next.

  Her face set dourly, the lady lowered her hand to her waist and pulled out a Belgian Pocket Revolver.

  Several startled cries went up. People around her stared - some annoyed, others surprised. A restless young man with floppy brown hair and a red bowtie seemed delighted by the drama.

  “Stop!” she trilled.

  The young man carrying Moriarty’s head paused immediately, somehow knowing the order was directed at him alone.

  “Either I take that head, or I shall have yours,” said Miss Henderson, her voice cold and definite.

  I could see past the lady’s shoulder and braced as three separate guards took out their own pistols and aimed them fixedly upon her.

  Miss Henderson’s resolve, quite suddenly, softened. With irritated surprise, she loosed a finger from the folding trigger and lifted the gun in surrender.

  The chatter was even louder now. The two guards flanking the young man
twisted him around and hustled him out through the tall doors.

  The lady had a look of fierce frustration as her gun was taken from her.

  “It’s all right,” said Mr. Thorley, walking down the aisle towards her, his hands lifted in soothing reassurance. “There is no need to throw her out. I am sure this was Miss Henderson’s idea of a jest. Am I correct?”

  He smiled amusedly, she rather less so.

  “Yes,” said Miss Henderson stiffly. She seemed too despondent to utter anything else.

  “I appreciate the humour,” said Holmes and, throwing back his head theatrically, released a quick, full-throated laugh. He was trying to help but, I fancied, caused more alarm than the sight of the gun.

  “That head should have been mine!” protested Miss Henderson. “I’m the only one who has come anywhere close to what Moriarty did.”

  The room was emptying, but I lowered my voice anyway. “Why worship him so?” I asked with genuine concern. “The man was a murderer and everything else besides.”

  “But his genius!” she countered. “The way he assembled his plans and executed them with such precision. He controlled everything because of his intellect.”

  “A spider in a web,” agreed Holmes, with almost the same admiration.

  I shook my head without comprehension. “To me, such evil dispels all else.” I looked sternly upon Holmes. “This building is making me feel ill. May we leave?”

  It was true. For all that I had been impressed with the place upon our arrival, I had now seen all the sickening depravity with which it contained. It was the opposite of a church, built in worship to all that was wrong in the world, with a golden calf at the altar.

  “I pray your indulgence, Watson,” said Holmes. “There is someone with whom I would like to speak.”

  He turned around and observed the tall auctioneer as he headed across to a side door.

  “Wait!” called Holmes, raising a hand.

  Mr. Thorley paused. He had already, of course, noticed my friend in the rows and did not bother to feign surprise upon seeing him now.

  “There is a matter I wish to address with you,” said Holmes politely. “Perhaps you have an office here?”

  The other man looked at him for a long moment. He seemed to be wondering whether to make an excuse or accept the inauspicious offer. “Of course,” he said finally. “It’s at the end of the corridor.”

  Holmes smiled, apparently delighted at the organization of the building’s proprietors. “Come, Watson.”

  I nodded farewell to Miss Emma Henderson and followed Holmes.

  Mr. Thorley’s office was almost indistinguishable from that of any provincial solicitor. A wide desk stretched across the middle of the room, a bookcase had been pushed against the far wall, and a grandfather clock was standing authoritatively in the corner. It was lit well, with a fire burning beneath a Gauguin. I had decided that such paintings must be fakes, though it was only the disreputable occupants of the place which had caused me to believe so, for each work was without any apparent fault of its own.

  The auctioneer took a seat behind his desk and beckoned for Holmes to sit opposite, while I remained standing.

  “This is my associate Dr. Watson.”

  The man nodded. By this point in his career, Holmes’s fame was such that even I received a little of it.

  “Now observe, Watson, one of the greatest antique experts in London,” said Holmes grandly. “Norman Thorley worked in Sotheby’s for six years, but had his time there end abruptly when he was caught ignoring bidders. He was thereby forbidden to work in every respectable auction house in the country.”

  “Must you, really?” the man said blandly. He seemed tired of Holmes already, but I got the impression he treated most people with a weary contempt.

  “He now finds work authenticating stolen antiques so they can be auctioned off to other criminals.”

  “Impressive,” Mr. Thorley said, though did not seem to mean it. “You know about me. So, I must ask, what do you need?”

  His little demonstration over, Holmes turned to business. “I wonder,” he said with friendly curiosity, “if you knew the winning bidder. I did not recognise him myself.”

  Mr. Thorley cocked an eyebrow, but that was all the effort he could give his surprise. “I do not know,” he said evasively.

  “Oh, I think you do,” said Holmes, smiling at the man’s gumption. “This sale has been a fraud.”

  The auctioneer’s thin face split into a smile of its own. “You remember, Mr. Holmes, that the vase in question was closely examined and authenticated.”

  “I have no interest in the vase,” said Holmes dismissively. “That was certainly real. It was the head which was fake.”

  I turned to Holmes with a perplexed frown. “How can you say that, Holmes? We saw it ourselves!”

  “Come, come, Watson. The real head was already sold. After the auction was announced, Mr. Thorley was approached by a particularly determined buyer and one who did not wish to risk losing it at auction. The sale we have just witnessed was a charade put on for the benefit of all others who wanted it.”

  “So there are two heads? In effect, multiple Moriartys?” A problem occurred to me. “But why,” I asked, “would the head be sold outright when it could have raised more money at auction?”

  “Because Mr. Thorley was paid handsomely for a private sale.”

  I turned back to the auctioneer. “Is this true?” I asked with righteous indignation. Such were our respectable surroundings that I was somehow shocked by the revelation.

  The auctioneer lifted his hands in a reasonable gesture. “You forget, Doctor, I’m a criminal now, too.”

  I felt rather foolish. “That just leaves us with the identity of the buyer,” I realised. “Who do you suppose it was? I didn’t recognise him either. And I knew at least some of them out there.”

  “I dare say the man was a courier,” said Holmes, “paid to bid whatever it took. That vase, I noticed, was worth a great deal.”

  “I meant to ask,” I said to the auctioneer, “why don’t you accept money?”

  “Our bidders are not necessarily the moneyed type,” he answered patiently. “Exchanging stolen goods is the best they can offer.”

  “As we know, you sold the head yourself,” said Holmes, returning to the more relevant topic. “Are you willing to tell us the name of the real buyer? We could, after all, inform the unsuccessful bidders of your little ruse. I know from personal experience just how angry they can be.”

  Mr. Thorley smiled condescendingly. He seemed to think he was one of the wealthy gentlemen who had attended his auctions at Sotheby’s. “I cannot do that, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “The buyer wishes to remain anonymous. We respect such sentiments here.”

  Holmes paused, as though pondering his next tact. “What if we paid you more?” he offered.

  My friend surprised me. Usually, deduction was his only method, but now he was considering bribery. I could not help but feel disappointed.

  “I would never be trusted again,” Mr. Thorley pointed out. “Among criminals, I mean.” He seemed to enjoy Holmes’s problem.

  Holmes, however, shook his head. “That’s another lie. You are an avaricious man, Mr. Thorley, who is willing to sell his principles for practically nothing. If you knew something of value, you would be bargaining with me right now. As it is, I probably know more than you do. I know, for example, that the private buyer corresponded with you anonymously, that it was Miss Emma Henderson, and that she is listening to this very conversation from behind the door.”

  “I might have known you would realise that, Mr. Holmes,” said a female voice at our backs.

  Holmes did not even have to turn. “Miss Henderson,” he said suavely.

  The lady entered, beaming. “You realised the auctio
n was a charade?”

  “Another charade,” he pursued, “was the business with the gun.”

  Emma Henderson’s smile remained as she crossed towards the desk and stood behind a faintly bewildered Mr. Thorley. “How so?” she prompted, as though indulging a child.

  “Someone could well have stopped the winning bidder from leaving,” said Holmes. “There were enough thugs in the room to do so, after all. If anyone tried it, and acquired the head, they would discover that it was a fake which could easily fall apart. The sale would be revealed as similarly false. To prevent that from happening, you had to demonstrate the ineffectiveness of such a heist, so you tried it yourself and had the guards disarm you.” He looked at her levelly. “I knew it was an act the moment you pulled that gun. Someone of your intellect, Miss Henderson, would never resort to the petty intimidations of a highwayman.”

  I frowned, trying to understand all that was happening. “You mean to say, Holmes, that Miss Henderson is the person who has bought the head, but that she did so with such discretion that not even Thorley knew it was her?”

  “She sent him a letter, suggesting a private sale and that the real head be substituted for one made of alabaster, so no one would discover the arrangement. I dare say that the winning bidder was in her employ, and that the vase he exchanged it for was already owned by Thorley. I do not, however, believe that you bought the head for yourself, Miss Henderson. Despite what you said outside, you are no admirer of Moriarty’s. You admire only yourself.”

  Her coy smile betrayed the truth of his words.

  “Therefore, someone hired you to buy it,” Holmes went on. “I will, of course, uncover his identity. Any man who wishes to own such a macabre relic must undoubtedly be positioning himself as Moriarty’s successor, and I mean to stop him.”

  Emma Henderson looked almost pleased. “You will not do that, Mr. Holmes.”

  Behind his eyes, I noticed my friend bristle at her confidence.

  The lady turned to Mr. Thorley expectantly. “Shall I take possession of the item now?”