by David Marcum
“Oh yes, well now there’s a job for young Lees. Lees... go and find the place in Poland Street now... immediately, and report back to me at the Yard. Doctor Watson, I will see you there tomorrow at seven, right?”
Young Lees left in some haste, muttering the name of the inn, and then Lestrade did a little bow before putting his hat on again and saying, “Oh, and... bring your revolver, would you, old mate?”
The truth is that, after Lestrade left, I pondered the letter and I decided that it was probably written by some deranged anarchist, or perhaps a drunken poet, some person of that category. After all, why would a member of the royal family visit a rough place in that part of the city? I was not convinced by Lestrade’s thoughts on the Prince of Wales. The thought of the Prince turning up there was ludicrous. But whatever the truth of the situation, I could not let him down; he was an old and valued acquaintance, when all said and done.
At five minutes to seven the next day, I turned into Poland Street off Oxford Street and looked around for the Old Charger. I thought I knew most London drinking-places, but that was a new name to me. However, to my surprise, after a steady walk of a few hundred yards I stepped across the road, having seen an inn-sign, and there it was: a splendid though well-worn picture of a grand old black horse swinging in the breeze.
The main saloon was packed with what were clearly the flotsam and jetsam of society: most were dishevelled and loud, some of them swaying around as if already worse for a superfluity of alcohol in their ravaged bodies. One or two young women were ensconced by the one long window, and a gaggle of stolid old men, ruddy faced and miserable, sat in one corner. Nobody appeared to notice me at all, and I ordered a glass of beer, with a polite enquiry to the landlord, who was a fat, happy soul with a greyish apron swathed around his middle and a wet beard. I asked if there was another room.
“Oh yes, upstairs of course, sir... we tends to get the more better types of coves what sits up there.” As I listened, I could see no Lestrade or Lees anywhere in the mass of people milling around. “Tonight, as a matter of fact, it’s occupied by a private club of gentlemen... leisure after their labours, as you might say.”
“This must be a new establishment?” I asked. Holmes would have wanted facts, so I emulated his approach.
“You’re quite right, guv’nor. We been here just free weeks. Is it free weeks, Lizzie?”
He addressed the question to a beautiful young woman who was serving a man with a pint of best mild. “Yes, about that father. Seems longer.”
“You’re very popular,” I followed up, “Do you own the place?”
“Oh no... a foreign gentleman has it. German cove... Kurs... Kust... what’s he called, Lizzie, the German mister?”
“Kunstlich” she said, with a smile that would have been alluring to the most steadfast gentleman out for a frisk, as Dr. Johnson would have put it. “Maurice... He’s Maurice to me anyway. A very pleasant man he is, cultured!” In fact, I could have been out for a frisk, as there seemed to be nothing to disturb the gaiety of the place. It hardly appeared to be a site for an assassination.
I sipped my beer and started to look around when a bearded, middle-aged man came next to me and gave his name, holding out his hand as he spoke. “Good evening, sir... I am Harry Devaney!” He was square and solid, every inch the well-to-do city type, I thought, and it was strange to see him in a rough-house like that. His handshake was strong and firm, and as his drew back his hand, I noticed some inky stains on the fingertips. For a second, I felt a thrill of satisfaction as I considered that I had produced a Holmesian deduction. He would have been proud of me. Ink stains on the finger tips would suggest a literary man perhaps, or a man in a clerical position in the City of London; but surely, I recall reflecting, an investor would not tend to acquire such black marks. He was not, I concluded, what he seemed to be. I was a little discomfited and at that moment, thoughts of some kind of threat to a royal personage appeared to be a little more possible.
I gave my name. “Oh, a doctor... well, I feel comfortable in the company of a medical man... I have a weakness of the heart, sir. Too much strenuous work in my youth, when I was a railway manager... out in the shire I was. But now I’m not so active...”
“What is it you do?” I asked, determined to make a mental note of it, in case there were to be developments. If any criminality was to emerge, then, as experience told me, it was the more educated characters one had to watch closely.
“Oh I’m an investor. I now invest in the locomotives, rather than arrange for their tracks and their routes across this fair land!”
That was an elusive nomenclature, I reflected. An investor could be anyone, from a member of the new rich to an outright swindler. But he talked volubly and entertainingly, and I listened, and in the course of that conversation, I spotted Lestrade and Lees. They came in separately, Lees perhaps ten seconds after his superior. The young man melted into the crowd, and Lestrade walked to the bar and had to force his way to a spot where he could order a drink.
Mr. Devaney still wanted our talk to continue, and I was struggling to think of a reason why. Surely, I thought, such a man would be drawn to other men of finance in his out-of-office time, and not to a medical man. He continued with his talk of the time when he organised the extension line from East Grinstead to Lewes, and he had no thought that I might find that subject tedious. However, as he spoke, I scrutinised his features further, and it struck me that his beard and full moustache were a deep grey everywhere except for a strange hue across the tips of his moustache which suggested black, wiry texture, as if frayed or damaged. I pondered on what activity might cause such a strange shade and banding across the hairs.
Here was a man who appeared to be a penman of some kind, and indeed also a man whose mouth and lips were subject to some kind of discolouration. He was, in short, a puzzle.
Then my reflections were disturbed by an almighty commotion, as there was a crack as a table overturned and crashed onto the floor-tiles, and there were shrieks of anger. Someone called out, “Hands off my gal, you young scab!” I looked across, to see a bullish, squat man grabbing hold of Lees’ collar, though he had to stretch somewhat, being a foot shorter. He then let go and swung back an arm ready to strike. But Lees blocked the jab and the man was pushed back. A young woman squealed, “Jim... he touched me... He’s a foul swine he is... you get him!”
I went over, but hands held me back and someone shouted, “Let ‘em fight!” The crowd moved back and created a space large enough for the two men to face each other. I couldn’t see Lestrade anywhere, and I assumed he was stuck fast in the crowd, as I was. Voices screamed encouragement and insults, and the muscled man, who looked like a navvy, squared up to Lees, who crouched a little and put up a guard with his arms and fists. I could see immediately that the young detective was familiar with the pugilist’s skills, and my surmise was soon shown to be correct. As his opponent approached, looking fearsome and swinging another punch at his man, Lees again blocked, but this time he brought an uppercut to the man’s jaw and the fellow reeled back, with a scream of pain.
A voice called out, “Four to one the bull!”
Another echoed, “Even money the tall one... even money!”
I was disgusted at the corruption and depravity of mankind that they could take bets in such a demeaning situation, but of course, it was nothing new; I had seen such despicable low behaviour out in Afghanistan, and my time with Holmes had confirmed my opinion that there is a degenerate class beneath any scrap of decency and right-thinking in our dear Queen’s realm.
Another assault from the shorter man ended in his taking a fist directly in the face and blood spouted from his nose. He yelled like a stuck pig, and a crowd of men gathered him up and restrained him from any further injury; he was patently second-best. A tall man was elected to go to Lees and raise his arm. “I declare this young fellow the winner!” he shou
ted. Everyone needed more drinks and there was a press against the bar. As this happened, I saw Devaney go to a door and walk through, with Lestrade by his side. The latter looked back and he saw me. I could tell by his demeanour that he wanted me to follow.
But this was followed by a deep frustration; the landlord saw me and stood in my way. “No, sir, as I said, there’s a private party up there. The German gentleman has the room.”
“But I have just now seen two men go through, and I assume walk up the stairs!”
“They are his friends, sir... now please... have a drink on the house!”
Terrible fears infested my imagination then. He ushered me to the bar, and he poured me a drink. Not far from me now, Lees was being offered drinks by a dozen men, and he had to refuse. I could see that he also wanted to be upstairs, knowing his Inspector was up there, and perhaps in trouble.
I put my mind to work, and thought more upon the man, Devaney. My poor brain battled to apply the ratiocination Holmes had spoken of when I first met him, in his talk of the writer Poe. What would stain a man’s fingers and make that mark on his moustache? I pictured the moustache and the odd colour on the band through it, and the realisation came, like a rising sun. By heavens, he was a scientist... the marks were burns! A man who had such ink stains permanently on him, and burn-marks on his facial hair - well, that man experimented with something dangerous. He could be the anarchist, I concluded. He had to be stopped. He would be, logic suggested to me - a man who manufactured bombs!
As I determined on drastic action, I was aware that the landlord had been called over to the window by one of his friends, and I moved smartly to the door again, only to find that, as I opened it and walked through, there was a large, sturdy man in my path.
There is a slight shiver of regret when I record this in this account of such a difficult and testing case, but at that instant I had to make a quick decision to apply some violence. This is not my habit of course, but I was sure that Lestrade was in danger. I took my revolver from my side-pocket and brought up the stock heavily on the man’s temple. He fell over, and I struck him once more, so that he was unconscious.
Behind me, to make the atmosphere of fear and disquiet even worse, I heard another furore, as if a second fight had ensued. But I could do nothing but run upstairs. My heart thumped so that I felt the beat in my throat, and as the gun was still in my hand, a part of me felt certain that I may have to use it, and perhaps do so to save a life.
However, when I reached the top of the stairs, the door was partly ajar and I heard conversation. My immediate impression was that the talk was civilised, and so I stopped to listen and to observe through the space between door and jamb. A handsome, tallish man was speaking, and with a German accent. That was, I concluded, the Herr Kunstlich the young lady had spoken of. He was speaking to someone nearer to the door, at the side of my vision, and I squinted, just able to make out that the man was Devaney, and he was bending over a tripod on which was perched a photographic camera.
As my eyes switched to see the right-hand side of the room, I felt a start of astonishment as I saw Lestrade with a man by his side who pointed a gun at the detective’s head. Between them, sitting on a couch, was a woman with long, rich, black hair and bared breasts, slouched in a most indecent position. Why, I thought, she could be one of the worst harlots who haunt the Haymarket, and here she is, involved in a group of characters who want to kill Lestrade.
“Mr. Lestrade, my offer is a generous one. I am the sort of man who buys everything he wants, and on this occasion I wish to buy a policeman. In fact, I wish to buy you. My dear friend with the camera here, now he will take this picture. It will be a very tasteful carte de visite, showing your good self having a little recreation... and enjoying it of course. If you don’t act at your ease and give this young lady some of your favours... for our lens... then I’m afraid tonight will be your last night on this earth, and a bullet will despatch you into eternity.”
“No, you can’t do it! This is wrong... I’m an officer of the law!” Lestrade was hardly presenting the most gallant and admirable qualities of the British gentleman who gained an empire for us. “Who the devil are you anyway, you German fiend!”
“Ah, no matter,” the man said, walking gracefully a few steps away from Lestrade. “Let’s simply say that your friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes knows very well who I am... he is, in fact, the one person in the world I most wish to see flourish, for he brings the kind of excitement that life very rarely offers one... this kind of excitement I would say, naturlich, a scene in which Death flutters his black cape and makes the shivers of fear run through your intestines, nicht wahr?”
I recall the devil’s words most perfectly. My mind worked hard to try to define who he was, and why he spoke of Holmes. I still clutched the gun, but I expected at every second to have someone rushing behind me to clutch at my legs and drag me back, away from any opportunity of saving poor Lestrade from his imminent fate.
“Inspector, all I ask for is a little information. This is a very big city, and any businessman such as I has to have feelers out in every little back alley, as well as in the grand thoroughfares. You would be the perfect man to supply such information. So, my friend, if you wish to live, and walk into Scotland Yard tomorrow in this beautiful June weather, you must vow to be one of my little purchases, and this gentleman here will take a picture of you with Lisette here, my little female entertainer. She spends all her time learning how to please sporting young men, the sons of lords... oh yes, your fate will be in safe hands. Lestrade and the Siren Lisette. That will be written under the picture. ‘Lestrade and the Siren Lisette enjoying each other’s charms’, it will be written. All the world will know, Inspector... time for you to decide now!”
The German voice, precise and menacing, was eating into my sensibility now, and I was caught between action and sheer paralysis. As he spoke, he was moving more and more to the left, well away from my line of sight.
There was a cacophony behind me, in the downstairs room, and then I heard shouts indicating that there was another fight in progress. I distinctly heard Lees’s name shouted yet again. At this stage in my account, I must confess to a certain degree of dithering on my part, but when there was the sound of footsteps behind me on the lower stairs, necessity dictated my action, and I burst into the room. At that very instant, there was a horrific explosion and a dazzling spasm of light across the room, emanating from my right. I lifted one hand to protect my face and the other was free to pull the trigger of my revolver.
The second I saw Lestrade dive to the ground and the gunman beside him move, I fired; astoundingly, in the moment it took to make that decision, someone grasped my legs in a rugger tackle and down I went, hitting the floor hard.
I must have passed out momentarily, because when Lestrade’s face was above me, shaking my shoulder and asking if I could see him, I sensed that all was comparatively tranquil again. When I managed to sit up, I looked around and asked the officer where the people were.
“Oh, they hopped it out. The German... he went downstairs, and the others went after him... the lady is still cowering behind the couch, and she’s sobbing, sir... if you’re up to it, you should attend to her, like.”
The transformation was beyond belief. The room was bare except for a camera and tripod and the couch. I managed to look at the young woman, and happily she was merely in a state of shock and nervous alarm - not at all surprisingly. When she was sitting up and relatively calm, I saw that Lestrade had gone downstairs and I followed him.
In all my days working against the criminal fraternity of our great capital city, I have never been so astounded. The room downstairs was completely empty, except for Lestrade bending over Lees, who was severely injured, lying on the floor by the window. “Dr. Watson, come and have a look at the boy, quick!” Lestrade called.
The young detective was badly bruised and cut about his
face, but I could detect no evidence of fractures; he had been, as I was, unconscious, and was muttering about there being “three of them... in the fighter’s gang. Too... too much for me...”
I insisted that Lees be taken to hospital, and Lestrade went to find constables and attend to that. I looked around, and it was as if there had never been a human presence in the place; where there had been the bar, there was simply a wall and a table; the seats and small tables by the window were gone also; I ran outside and expected to see the sign, indicating the Old Charger, but there was nothing to see. There was Poland Street, as it always was, except for the inn I had visited the previous night.
Lestrade came back with several policemen, and Lees was carried outside to a cab. Lestrade directed one of the policemen to go upstairs and comfort the young woman.
“He was a regular hero, our Detective Constable... should be commended!” Lestrade said.
“Inspector,” I asked, still dumbfounded at what was around me, “Who was the German?”
“Wish I knew, sir... him and that photographer cove, they was very close. My God, Dr. Watson, the man said he wanted to buy me... oh by Heaven! The camera...”
His face had the appearance of a man in sin who had seen the revelation of some mighty truth, and he ran upstairs. I followed, full of curiosity to see what had alarmed the man.
“Here we are. The camera... there’s still the plate in it! What relief, Dr. Watson. “
I inspected the camera and when I looked around I saw what had been the source of the blinding light. It was the flash powder of course, and that explained Devaney’s inky fingers and singed moustache. I explained that to Lestrade.
“Oh yes, I seen these before today, sir, the flash powder is very dangerous. Burns you, it does. This is a most risky business, this picture-making. I don’t hold with it.” He went to the machine and slid out a plate. “On this fiendish thing there’s a picture of me with that... that young lady over there.” We looked at her, now wrapped in the constable’s cloak and trying to smile.
