SHERLOCK HOLMES IN NEW YORK

by Braven

  It was clear that I had happened upon an original—or he upon me—and I greatly enjoyed our half-hour of talk. My new friend had a vast fund of information and anecdote upon many topics: the Far West, prison life, revolutions and curious customs in Central America. But his main love seemed to be the city of New York.

  "It's the new Arabian Nights," he assured me. "Haroun-al-Raschid and his Baghdad aren't in the game, alongside Gotham."

  "Well once you've got your Underground completed, I suppose you could call it Baghdad-on-the-Subway," said I.

  "Say, so you could!" said the man opposite me.

  Having regaled me so entertainingly, he now attempted to draw me out in exchange, and I found myself somewhat at a loss. The delicate matter of the kidnapping of Scott Adler, to say nothing of the missing gold from Mr. McGraw's Exchange, were certainly not to be bandied about in idle talk; and the very fact that Sherlock Holmes and his associate and chronicler were in the city would be bound to excite speculation of the most troublesome kind, if it became known. I must, therefore, remain incognito. It followed that much that I had to tell that might have interested my companion could not be referred to. I turned the conversation to my experiences of the day in the city, ordinary though they had been.

  He was fascinated by the story of my encounter with the pawnbroker Hahnzähne, though it seemed to me nothing remarkable that a man in London should have a cousin in New York; his eyes went positively round at the business of the trapped dog; and the sad narrative of the unnatural fellow at the zoo who cheated his brother's rescuer out of his due reward seemed to strike him as hugely funny.

  "Say, if you were a writer," said he, "you'd have just about paid for your trip from England with those. Lord! I don't know when I've come across story material like that!"

  "Well, I do write now and then," I ventured, for a moment forgetting my resolve to avoid revealing my identity. "But I don't see any possibilities in what I've told you. I mean, they're the kind of thing that happens in your city—every day, I'm sure—and nothing to take notice of, unless you're a foreigner wandering about."

  He cocked his head at me and took a sip from his mug of lager. "A writer. What's your line?"

  "Detective stories," I said, with some reluctance.

  Sherlock Holmes might have spun some convincing tale under those circumstances—and would very likely have not got into them at all—but I found it impossible to answer a direct question with an outright lie.

  "Hm. And, sir, your name is . . . ?"

  "Watson."

  "I was beginning to think it might be. Mine's Porter, W. S.—W. for William, which I don't use, S. for Sydney, also retired, and Porter for Porter, which has been scratched at the starting gate. Say, Watson, if that's the straight goods about your doing the 'Lo! the poor Indian' act with those pearls richer than all your tribe you were telling me about, d'you mind if I pick 'em up and string 'em together?"

  As far as I could tell from his odd mixture of slang and literary allusion, he seemed to be requesting permission to make literary use of the banal anecdotes I had recounted. I granted it gladly, and, seeing that the sun had nearly set, rose and prepared to take my leave.

  "I shall scan the magazines with interest to see what you have been able to make of my poor experiences, Mr. Porter," said I.

  "Well, you won't get far if you run your thumb down the index under P," said he. "I use a pen name—and I'm here to tell you that them that lives in the pen can live by the pen."

  This example of American allusive humor escaped me, I confess, but Mr. Porter confided his pseudonym in me, and I left, hastening to arrive at Irene Adler's house in good time, pondering on what curious significance he might place on it.

  Henry is, of course, an honored name, our nation having had eight kings so styled. But what was the point of prefacing it with the single initial, reminding one of nothing so much as the zero, of O?

  Chapter Twelve

  It was but a few moments' walk from the Viemeister tavern in Eighteenth Street to number 4, Gramercy Park West, and I was there before the last rays of the setting sun had ceased from gilding the buildings on the northern side of the square.

  The next hour or so was one of the least comfortable periods of my life. Though calm, Irene Adler was keyed up to a kind of tense stillness, and was in no mood for conversation. Her whole being seemed concentrated on awaiting the issue of Sherlock Holmes' efforts that day. I sat in one chair, then another; looked at a newspaper and at a magazine; admired a vase on the mantel and a porcelain shepherdess on a small table; and consulted my watch each half-hour or so, as it seemed, although the hands usually proved to have moved no more than ten or twelve minutes each time. Heller's appearance with a pot of tea and some sweet biscuits cheered me up, after an hour of this atmosphere, as much as might one of those roistering banquets Dickens describes so vividly.

  It was close upon eight o'clock when the jangle of the doorbell brought Irene Adler and myself to our feet. As I descended the stairs, I saw Heller opening the door to admit a tall fellow in chauffeur's livery and peaked cap, sporting a giant handlebar moustache.

  As though he entertained doubts of Heller's hearing, he boomed at him in a voice loud enough to carry into the street, "Mr. Holmes' and Dr. Watson's luggage from the hotel! Come on and give me a hand with it!"

  I descended the stairs and inquired, "Good heavens, what's this about?"

  "I said," bawled the man, "I've got Mr. Holmes' and Dr. Watson's luggage, like you ordered, and I need some help getting it in the house!"

  Heller looked questioningly at his mistress.

  "Help the man carry in the luggage, Heller," said she, calmly.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  The butler joined the uniformed man on the steps outside.

  "What's our luggage being brought here for, anyway?" I wondered.

  "I'm sure we'll find out very soon," said Irene Adler.

  Peering outside into the street, I saw a carriage by the curb—and, beyond it, I fancied, a light blob against the darkness of the park trees that might well have been our checked-suited spy. Through the open door of the carriage I observed a number of familiar suitcases and a large trunk that had not, I knew, formed part of our effects on the trip from England. As I watched, the uniformed man pulled out two of the suitcases and handed them to Heller, who trotted up into the lobby with them and set them down.

  I looked at the nearest.

  "Mine, right enough," said I, and picked it up. "Bless my soul—it's empty!" Now quite alarmed at this turn of events, I turned to the uniformed man as he entered with two more suitcases, and cried, "Look here, my good man—"

  "There's quite a large trunk in the carriage, Watson." Sherlock Holmes' precise tones cut off my protest. "As soon as Heller and I have it halfway across the sidewalk so that it's blocking the view of that chap across the street, I want you to get into that carriage as fast as you can and lie on the floor. Under no circumstances allow yourself to be seen."

  "Holmes!" I exclaimed, dropping the empty suitcase.

  "Remember to do exactly as I say!"

  He turned and descended the outside stairs once more. I looked in perplexity at Irene Adler, who appeared, as always, calm—and now ready to play her part, whatever it might be.

  I turned to look again through the outer door. Holmes and Heller were now removing the trunk from the carriage.

  I heard Holmes call out, "Careful now, buddy."

  Irene Adler placed one hand firmly on my arm. As they reached the bottom of the steps, she tightened her grip for an instant and said, urgently, "Now, Dr. Watson!"

  Crouching low and using the trunk as a screen, I scuttled down the steps and flung myself into the carriage, stretching out facedown upon the floor, where I stayed during stirring events of the next few moments within the house, of which I learned only later.

  Once the trunk had been brought into the foyer and the door tight closed behind it, Holmes lost no time in unlocking and opening it.

>   As the lid rose, revealing the sleeping boy, Irene Adler's eyes widened, and she gave a low cry of relief and joy: "Scott!"

  She fell to her knees beside the trunk, her head bowed, as Holmes quickly undid the straps that had kept the boy secure during his jolting journeys. As he did so, Scott stirred and opened his eyes.

  "Mother?" said he bewilderedly. "How'd I get here?" He felt the metal edges of the trunk in wonder and confusion. "What's this? Where's Nicole?"

  His mother was now weeping and clasping him to her. "Oh, Scott, Scott, Scott!"

  Holmes, still on his knees beside the trunk, regarded them gravely for a moment, then stood up. Irene Adler looked into his face, and seemed about to press him for an explanation of the miracle that had befallen her and her son.

  "Sherlock . . . ?"

  "I've no time now," said Holmes. "If I'm in here too long—" He gave a meaningful jerk of his head in the direction of the spot where Moriarty's spy kept his vigil. Then he patted Scott Adler on the head and smiled. "Lad's as fit as a fiddle. But, Irene, matters remain grave. I must ask you under no circumstances to stir from the house or let the boy be seen, until I give the word."

  "Of course."

  Sherlock Holmes turned to Heller.

  "Open the door," he instructed. The butler did so, and Holmes, standing out of any view from outside, called, in his own voice, "Thank you, my man! Here's something for your pains!"

  He then moved smartly out on to the front steps, replying to himself in his deliveryman's boom, "Thank you, sir. Thank you very much!"

  In a moment he had clambered up on to the driver's seat of the carriage, whipped up the horse, and driven off. As the vehicle began to move, I eased myself from the floor and looked cautiously out the back window. I could see the man in the checked suit moving hastily away from his post, and, opening the hatchway at the front of the carriage, I passed this news to Holmes.

  "Naturally enough, Watson," said he. "He is even now getting word to his master that you and I have moved, bag and baggage, into the house of Miss Irene Adler—and it is there that his attention will be focused for the next few all-important days!"

  ———«»——————«»——————«»———

  "By George, you're right, Holmes," said I a short time later in our rooms at the Algonquin, as I looked out the window into the street. "Not a sign of anyone watching us!"

  Sherlock Holmes, rubbing briskly at a last wisp of false moustache clinging to his upper lip, emerged from the bedroom.

  "I assumed as much, Watson," he replied. "We have them round now—and they don't know it. It's our game from here on."

  "What's the next move, then?"

  "Dinner, I should say. It's almost on nine; and I have not dined, Watson, I have not lunched, and I've only the vaguest memory of having breakfasted. I suggest we make up for that lapse in the Algonquin's most estimable restaurant, and look up Inspector Lafferty as soon after that as we're able."

  "Hear, hear!" said I. "I suggest you ask for some pastromy. It's a remarkable local dish, and certainly a hotel named for one of the aboriginal tribes ought to be able to provide the native foods."

  ———«»——————«»——————«»———

  We found Inspector Lafferty at his office, and, to his credit, he wasted no time in further recriminations or in requiring explanations of Holmes' decision to reverse his stand on participating in the investigation of the gold theft. He quickly arranged for us to meet Mr. Mortimer McGraw the next day at the Bouwerie National Bank, to inspect the scene of the crime.

  ———«»——————«»——————«»———

  It certainly seemed an unlikely crime to have taken place. The entrance to the lift leading down to the vaults was secured by a combination lock, as were the controls of the lift itself.

  Holmes inspected the lift with keen interest as he and I, McGraw, and Lafferty entered it, and said, "I presume the lock on the controls has a different combination from the one that unlocks the main door?"

  "It does, sir," said McGraw.

  "How many people know these combinations?"

  "Only the six employees of the exchange and myself. I might also add that the tumblers are changed every three months."

  The controls unlocked, Mr. McGraw tugged on a handle, and the lift began to move downwards.

  "Admirable," said Holmes. "If in this case futile. Is this the only way in which the vaults can be reached?"

  "Up until five days ago it was," Inspector Lafferty observed bitterly.

  With the Inspector and McGraw sunk in gloom, and myself at sea, only Holmes seemed perfectly at ease, looking about the lift as if memorizing the details of its operation.

  "What sort of lift is this?" said he.

  "Drum and cable," replied McGraw. "Works from above."

  "And how far do we descend?"

  "One hundred and fifty feet."

  "At what rate of speed?"

  "Two hundred feet a minute."

  Not for the first time, I felt a sense of impatience with Sherlock Holmes' passion for facts. It was all very well for him to be able to know the number of steps in any staircase he used, and similar parlor-tricks, but to continue this jackdaw accumulation of statistics whilst his mind should have been puzzling out the means of the theft of milliards (if that is what billions are) of dollars' worth of gold—that smacked of frivolity.

  A jolt signaled the end of our descent.

  "Ah, we appear to have arrived," said Holmes.

  McGraw slid back the iron-mesh inner doors of the lift, revealing yet another door of solid steel. This, too, was equipped with a combination lock, which he proceeded to manipulate while Holmes watched.

  "I take it that this combination also differs from its fellows, and is altered every ninety days as well?"

  "Correct, sir." McGraw pushed open the heavy door, and gave a mournful sigh. "And now, Mr. Holmes, I ask you to see for yourself what I can only describe as the most dismal sight the world has ever seen."

  It was certainly a strange spectacle. On either side of a central corridor hewn from the living rock stood rows of cells, uncannily like those in a jail, with their barred doors all standing open, as though there had been a mass release, or escape, of prisoners. A row of electric bulbs set into the ceiling of the corridor formed a line that led to the far end and revealed a jagged patch of blackness in the back wall: the hole that had been blasted in it. Holmes made his way to this, and fell to examining it with his magnifying glass.

  After a moment, he looked at McGraw, and remarked, "Extraordinary. More than a foot of rock and concrete had to be cut through. The noise must have been deafening."

  "Since they've been working on the subway, you could set off dynamite and no one would hear it," said McGraw.

  "A condition that doubtless was taken advantage of."

  Holmes stepped through the hole into the tunnel leading to the subway excavation, and moved slowly along it. Lafferty, McGraw, and I stared after him, able to make him out only vaguely in the darkness as he descended at a distinct angle.

  He called back to us over his shoulder, "Two pieces of bullion were left behind, you say? Where?"

  Inspector Lafferty pointed past Holmes and shouted, "One in the tunnel just ahead of you, the other about fifty feet south of the main excavation."

  Sherlock Holmes turned and started back toward where we stood. As he approached, I ventured a comment. "Well, that makes it clear enough, doesn't it, Holmes? They made off in that direction with their boodle."

  "One would immediately accept that conclusion, Watson, I quite agree," said he, stepping through the breached wall once again. "I should like a closer look at these vaults now."

  We stood aside and he prowled along the opened cells like a terrier questing among rat-holes in a barn to see if any of them holds a quarry. He ventured into one of the cells in the middle of the line, and his voice, given a hollow, echoing quality by the confined space, came out to us: "How
many actual bars of gold were stored here, do you know?"

  Mr. McGraw answered, "Just prior to the theft these vaults held eighteen million pounds of gold, consisting of three hundred and sixty thousand fifty pound blocks, each valued at twenty-eight thousand dollars."

  Holmes' head popped out of the cell he was inspecting. He stared hard at the president of the Exchange. "Three hundred sixty thousand blocks? And they were shifted out of here without anyone noticing it? I believe I would not be putting it too strongly to say that is a remarkable circumstance, gentlemen!"

  I looked at him closely. When that mild, almost playful tone came into his voice, it was a clear sign that Sherlock Holmes believed he had a card or so up his sleeve.

  Inspector Lafferty's reaction was to snort, while Mortimer McGraw said impatiently, "Remarkable! If we weren't standing here looking at these empty vaults, I'd say it was impossible!"

  "Yes" said Holmes. "I should say so, too." He gave a final look around at the vaults. "I should like to return to the lift now."

  Once there, he pointed to a small trapdoor in the ceiling of the lift.

  "That hatchway there. Does it provide access to the overhead drum and cable?"

  "Yes," answered McGraw.

  "Watson, might I trouble you for a leg up?"

  "Of course. Here you are," said I, and formed a stirrup with my hands.

  Holmes stepped on to it, and with the increased distance from the floor, was able to open the trapdoor, then hoist himself partway through the hatchway by grasping its sides. His voice, muffled by the ceiling, came back to us. "Very sensible of you, Mr. McGraw, to have the drum housing illuminated by electricity. Very convenient for repairs, I'm sure; and it always helps to shed light on things."

  McGraw was beginning to have a sour look, as though he had come to question the value of Sherlock Holmes' help in the case. Meanwhile, the detective dropped back to the lift floor.

  "Thank you. I think I've seen everything I need to see, gentlemen. I have one final inquiry to make elsewhere, following which I believe I shall be able to fit all the pieces together and provide you with a satisfactory solution."