“His name is Rufus Isaacs. He’s a young Jew, but he is smarter than all of us in this room put together. He’ll be able to see through everything you say this Wright chap has tried to pull. So, I’ll let him know that you will need several hours of his time early next week. And I might even find the time to come with you. I rather want to meet this fellow. He’s going places, as they say.”
Over the next few days the newspapers continued to cover the story on the front pages. Many titled people in England had lost thousands of pounds. Pension funds and charities that had trusted Mr. Wright with their investments had seen their portfolios reduced to ashes. The Financial Times continued with Simon Woodhouse’s stories about the overstating of the value of the shares in the various mines around the world, but these stories were old news.
Now the attention was turned on the highly respected members of the board of directors of the London and Globe Company. How could they have been so incompetent?
And our large friend, Mr. J. Whitaker Wright, was being pummeled daily. He met each accusation with bluster and aggressive attacks in return. Mining was a gamble, he kept reminding the public. You win some and you lose some.
“And real gamblers don’t weep into their tea,” he was quoted as saying over and over again.
The furor had not diminished at all by the following Monday, when Holmes, Lestrade, Hall Pycroft and I met on the Strand outside the entrance to the Royal Courts of Justice.
“Inspector,” said Holmes to Lestrade. “Who is the Isaacs chap that you have us meeting with? Please tell me about him and do try to be concise and precise.”
Lestrade ignored Holmes’s haughtiness and delivered his short lecture.
“He’s certainly not like one of those toffs from Oxford or Cambridge. To begin with, he’s Jewish. His father was one of those fruit merchants in Spitalfields. He attended the local primary school like all the boys from that part of the city. He had high enough marks to gain entrance into University College School and after that he entered the Middle Temple and studied law. Worked his way through the Temple by selling fruit and being an office boy at the London Stock Exchange. Called to the bar in 1887. Again, unlike all those twits from Oxbridge, he did not join a rich law firm but became a Crown. And a good one. Just a couple of years ago he got his QC. They say he knows every statute and every case for the past one hundred years and can run circles around most defense lawyers. I have not dealt with him, but some of my friends in the Yard have and they warned me that we had better be on our toes. He has a reputation for not suffering fools. So be ready, Holmes.”
Holmes was smiling. There were few things he enjoyed more than matching his enormous intellect and wit against a worthy opponent.
An orderly appeared and we were led through the musty corridors and into the office of Mr. Rufus Isaacs, Crown Prosecutor.
He was not a particularly impressive man to look at. He had a high forehead and a straight hairline that had begun to recede. His eyes bulged somewhat but his jaw was firm and square. As expected, his nose was unmistakably from the line of God’s chosen people. His attire was unremarkable and, given that he spent much of every day wearing a robe and a wig, this was also not surprising. The office was modestly furnished but the entire right-hand wall was packed with books, many of which had small scraps of paper extruding from their pages with handwritten notes scribbled on them.
He rose as we entered and gestured toward a small meeting table in the corner of the office. Once we were seated, he joined us and began immediately into the matters at hand, not bothering even to introduce himself or request that we do the same.
“Good morning, gentlemen. I am frightfully busy and I have only a few minutes to discuss this matter with you. Before you say anything to me, I must warn you that what you have stated in your letters to me had better have some substance, otherwise you leave yourselves open to accusations and successful actions against you for libel and slander. This Whitaker Wright chap may be a blowhard, but he is exceptionally wealthy and will not hesitate to crush you and bankrupt you if what you have accused him of is without substance or merit. And, quite frankly, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, your popular reputation will not count for a speck of dust in such a lawsuit. As for you, Inspector Lestrade, you are apparently seeking to have my office secure a conviction that you have failed to even attempt, with the hope of then bargaining with Mr. Wright to give evidence against his colleagues and employees. That manner of dealing with criminal cases strikes me as contemptible and unseemly and I cannot guarantee the cooperation of my office. Please, now. State your case. Mr. Holmes, pray begin.”
I could see that gleam in Holmes’s eyes as he began and I was ready to kick him under the table if he started to rub his hands in glee. He was, however, entirely prepared and very sure of himself.
“Sir,” he began, “we are claiming that the Wright group of companies, all twelve of them, have intentionally committed massive fraud. Rather than examine all of them, I will concentrate on only one. We will follow the money and show you how this one company has engaged in nefarious deception. If you are not satisfied with what we present, then we shall desist and not bother you again. If, however, you agree with us, then we shall move on to show you how all twelve companies colluded and twenty banks, stock exchanges in six countries, and over a thousand investors have all been deliberately misled and defrauded.”
Holmes, with assistance from Hall, produced one page after another and demonstrated, in a manner that I and even Lestrade could easily follow, what had happened to the money that should have been paid out to investors. The few minutes Mr. Isaacs had granted us soon stretched into thirty. Without giving any direct indication of his being convinced one way or the other, he asked endless very specific questions that I was very happy Hall Pycroft was able to answer. As they were both men who had cut their teeth in stock exchanges, they spoke each other’s language.
After an intense three hours, Rufus Isaacs put down the file he was holding along with his pen and addressed Holmes directly.
“Very well, Mr. Holmes. You have convinced me. I am ready to take this case forward. There is, however, one outstanding matter.”
Holmes knew he had been successful and was trying not to appear overly pleased. So, he answered with feigned sincere interest.
“And what, sir, is that?”
“What is your position in this matter? Are you an interested party? Are you an investor? What standing might you have on this matter before the courts?”
Holmes nodded and replied. “I have none. I have refrained from investing a single farthing in any of Mr. Wright’s companies.”
“Well, sir, that was wise from a business point of view, but useless from a legal one. I need to bring this case forward on behalf of investors who have been defrauded, and you are not one. So, I must ask you to find me several fools, now parted from their money, who are willing to admit their stupidity and swear that they were defrauded by Mr. Wright. Find those chaps and we can move forward. The ball is now in your court, sir.”
The four of us gathered again on the pavement of the Strand after departing from the Courts. I was at a loss as to how to proceed and suggested that we might begin by putting a note in the agony column of The Times, and perhaps in several of the other daily papers.
“Doctor, sir,” said Pycroft, “that will not be necessary. We have records at my brokerage of many of the institutions who invested and, if Scotland Yard will allow me to inspect the papers and effects of Kenny Arkell, I am sure that we can find the names of many working people who also bought shares and who will not be too proud to come and testify.”
By Friday afternoon we had selected some twenty-two parties who all appeared to have invested their funds into the Wright group of companies. Some had lost thousands of pounds. One widow from Birmingham had lost a hundred. Her mite would be as important to a jury as the riches of a wealthy lord.
On January seventh in the year 1901, charges were announced against Mr. James Whitaker
Wright. He was accused of many instances of fraud and false filings and could, if convicted, be sent to prison for up to twelve years. Again, the press had a field day and the story was all over the front pages. He was everywhere.
Chapter Twelve
Escape to Paris
UNFORTUNATELY, Mr. Wright was nowhere. When Lestrade accompanied an officer of the Royal Courts to Lea Park, he was informed that Mr. Wright was no longer in England, but a message could be forwarded to him if he were to make contact with his staff. So far, he had not done so.
I sent a note off to Holmes asking, “Where has he gone?”
A reply was returned almost immediately, stating, “Ask me again in three days.”
And so I did. This time the answer was more specific.
“France. High probability of Paris.”
My curiosity got the better of me and, on the weekend, I made a point of dropping in to visit Holmes quite early on a Saturday morning.
“Come. Now, Holmes,” I said. “The man has the means to go anywhere in the world. How did you conclude Paris?”
“While Lestrade and his subordinates at Scotland Yard may be lacking in imagination, they are highly reliable when it comes to grinding, slogging, methodical police work. Within three days they had reviewed the passenger manifests of every ship that departed from Southampton, Liverpool, London and all other major ports where people embark for overseas locations.”
“That must have been thousands of passengers,” I exclaimed.
“Not in the first-class cabins,” said Holmes. “If Mr. Wright did not depart for overseas, then his most logical choice would be a ferry to the Continent. I cannot imagine a man of his tastes wanting to spend a day in Spain or Portugal, or even an hour in Greece or Turkey, so the most logical place to assume is France. And assuming France means assuming Paris, and further assuming one of the select hotels.”
“Can you find him there?
“It should not be difficult.”
“Will the French gendarmes send him back?”
“That may be a problem,” Holmes said. “The French, as you know, do not care what a person does as long as he pronounces it properly. Our only hope will be their taking grave offense at Mr. Wright’s bastardization of their sacred language. However, I should be able to track him within two weeks. I will let you know, and perhaps you would fancy a short journey to the City of Light.”
Two weeks later I found myself standing beside Sherlock Holmes on the ferry from Dover to Calais. He quietly puffed on his pipe while fixing his gaze on the rolling hills of the French horizon.
“Our man is staying at the Hotel du Louvre,” he said. “I sent twenty packages by post to each of the select hotels in Paris. All were addressed to Mr. Wright and all bore instructions to be returned to sender if the addressee was not a current guest. Those directed to the Ritz, Le Meurice, the St. James, the Scribe, and Le Crillon all arrived back within the week. Some of the less diligent took several more days. However, as of yesterday all had been returned with the exception of the one I sent to the Grand Hotel du Louvre. By process of elimination, that is where he must be staying.”
I did not realize that my friend had acquired such an intimate knowledge of the fine hotels of Paris and must have given away my wonderment by the look on my face.
“My dear, doctor,” he said. “Whilst studying coal-tar derivatives in Montpellier, I discovered that there is nothing that is intellectually satisfying to do there on a weekend. Hence, I made many jaunts into Paris and became acquainted with every possible hotel to which our Mr. Wright was likely to have patronized.”
“But you have alerted him,” I said, “to your pursuit, have you not? Will he not just flee the coup?”
“I am inclined to think not. That would be the sensible thing to do, but it is contrary to his enormous personal pride. I am convinced that he will not be able to resist sitting across from me, smirking, and claiming victory. He knows that France will not agree to send him back to England for defrauding the gullible English investor. He will be treated as somewhat of a celebrity and praised for tweaking the English nose.”
From the port of Calais, we boarded a train and traveled quickly through the snow-covered farmlands of Picardie. By the end of the day we had arrived at the Gare du Nord and secured a cab to the first arrondissement. The magnificent Hotel du Louvre was located immediately across the street from the famous museum and I indulged a thought that if we had a few hours to spare I might pay a visit to the famous smiling lady or perhaps find a quiet café and enjoy a madeleine dipped in tea.
Sadly, those pleasant possibilities vanished the instant Holmes approached the registration desk. He was handed an envelope, which he opened and read. I could see by the scowl on his face that he was not pleased with the contents.
“I have over-estimated my adversary’s pride and under-estimated his cunning. He departed from Paris this morning,” he said, and he handed me the note. It ran:
My dear Sherlock:
You cannot imagine how sorry I am to have missed the opportunity to meet with you. A pleasant dinner of fine French cuisine together would have been such a delight. My only suggestion is that next time, buy gold.
J. Whitaker Wright
Holmes stuffed the letter into his suit pocket and took a quick glance around the ornate lobby.
“Come, Watson. There is no reason for us to remain here. By now he is on board a ship to America, I imagine. We may as well return to London.” He turned and started walking to the door as he spoke.
I sighed and followed him. Mona Lisa and my memories of Proust would have to wait.
On the return ferry Holmes did not stand serenely against the rail and enjoy his pipe. Instead, he paced up and down the deck is obvious anger and frustration.
“Come, now, Holmes,” I said cheerily. “America does have an extradition treaty with England, does it not? What with all the evidence you have assembled, they will send the fellow back, won’t they?”
“They will,” he said. “But the wheels of justice grind very slowly and it may take months. It may take an entire year.”
Chapter Thirteen
The Wheels of Justice
IT TOOK three years.
Whitaker Wright had managed to shift most of his wealth into cash and gold and move it to banks in America. He hired some of the most skilled lawyers and fought for every possible delay in being extradited to Great Britain. His generous donations to the Republican Party and the successful campaigns of Theodore Roosevelt may have been useful. Throughout these years he continued to live lavishly in New York and Philadelphia. His estate at Lea Park was managed by a skeleton staff and no more elegant events were hosted in the folly under the lake. Construction on the Bakerloo Line was halted. No investor had any interest in “throwing good money after bad.”
Fortunately, Mr. Rufus Isaacs was every bit as skilled and tenacious as Mr. Wright’s phalanx of Philadelphia lawyers and responded astutely and quickly to every roadblock that they placed in the way of extraditing him to England. Unfortunately for Mr. Wright, he was born in England and remained a British subject. Doing so was very useful to him when he had returned to his native country over a decade ago. It would now prove to be his undoing.
Sherlock Holmes, of course, was far from idle during these intervening years. He took on many new cases and was able to use his unique and extraordinary abilities to solve the majority of them. I wrote and published the story of what has become his most famous accomplishment, The Hound of the Baskervilles. It was published in both England and America and sold unprecedented numbers of copies. Both Holmes and I became increasingly famous and wealthy.
Yet there was no comfort to be had. Five people had been murdered during the early days of this terrible adventure. Three promising young men who had somehow discovered the duplicity of the Wright empire had been killed and their deaths were still officially recorded as accidental or suicide. Two otherwise unassuming working people who happened to be in the wrong plac
e in the wrong rooming house at the wrong time had given their lives in an instinctive effort to protect a fourth young man who had come to know too much.
Every few weeks Holmes would pay a visit to the Royal Courts and converse with Rufus Isaacs. When I joined my friend for one of our irregular meals or quiet chats, he expressed his frustration at the delay, but couched it in glowing admiration for the brilliant young Crown prosecutor.
On December 28, 1903, the headline in The Times read:
WHITAKER WRIGHT BROUGHT BACK TO LONDON
Mr. Wright, however, had no intention of returning in the manner of a captured criminal, slinking back to England with his tail between his legs. He had no sooner landed than he announced a splendid reception at Lea Park for all of the nearby residents. They were thrilled to see his return, knowing that there would be restored opportunities for employment both on the estate and in all of the local shops and inns that fed off the estate activities.
Wright was a master at playing the press and he immediately launched a counter-attack on his accusers, calling them every name in the book and claiming that they were trying to scapegoat him for their own lack of business acumen. It worked. Popular opinion, which should logically have deemed him a pariah, was now divided. His bluster and bravado won over many citizens who shrugged and decided that the rich investors had been taken down a peg or two. Right up to the start of the trial, Wright proclaimed over and over again that he had done nothing wrong and that the mines would have turned a handsome profit if only the greedy vultures had not panicked.
On 11 January 1904, the trial began with Mr. Justice Bigham presiding. Hall Pycroft, Sherlock Holmes, my wife, Mary, and Inspector Lestrade all had seats in the crowded courtroom. As the room filled to capacity I chanced to look back into the group of those standing at the back. I gave a poke to Holmes.
Sherlock Holmes Never Dies - Collection Five: New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries - Second Edition Page 8
