The Baker Street Boys

by Brian Ball

We were completely at a loss.

  We had no way of knowing that poor brave Queenie was just struggling free of her bonds; nor that one of those unexpected turns of fortune which are the downfall of so many villains was even now occurring.

  * * * *

  “I’m glad that’s over!” sighed Mary, as she reached the fatal dressing-room. “And I never want to see this place after tonight.”

  “But we’ve not seen the murderer yet—or at least he ain’t tried to grab you,” said Wiggins. “And Queenie—where’s she?”

  Mary put her hand instinctively to the locket.

  “Poor Queenie—I’d give all the jewels to have her back! But I don’t want this locket with me anymore! I’m scared, Wiggins!”

  “Scared, who’s scared?” called Mr. Trump from the doorway. “Can I be of any assistance?”

  Mary gave a sigh of relief

  “Please put this away in your safe, Mr. Trump—I daren’t go around in it any longer.”

  Mr. Trump took the locket.

  “But of course, Mary—hello, what’s that noise?”

  Heavy boots pounded in the corridor, and a burly police-constable rushed by. He ignored Mr. Trump and headed for Inspector Lestrade.

  “Sir—we’ve spotted him!” he called. “A big, nasty thug, just got in!”

  “Trouble?” said Mr. Trump. “I’ll put this locket away and come up front.”

  Wiggin’s and Mary ran to find the others who were all together on the deserted stage. Everyone milled around trying to find out what was happening, and when the news spread that a thug was loose, there was panic. And then came the sound of a scream.

  “Mary!” gasped Sparrow. “That’s her!”

  “Where?” I snapped.

  “Trump’s office!” Sparrow shouted back.

  “She was here—a second ago!” Wiggins cried; but already he and Sparrow were pushing their way through the yelling crowd. I followed as fast as I could, but one after another of the artistes got in my way.

  “Is it another murder?” cried Madame Pompadour.

  “I don’t know—let me loose!” I yelled back, and I could hear Inspector Lestrade trying to break free of Signor Maccarelli, who was yelling something about his knives.

  “Chaos!” yelled Lestrade. “Chaos!”

  I reached the office a few seconds after Wiggins and Sparrow. Mary was safe, but her attacker was dead.

  He lay on the floor with a knife in his back—just like Marvin.

  “There!” Wiggins said, holding the terrified girl. “It’s all right, he can’t harm you now!”

  And he could not. He was a big, powerfully-built thug with an ugly face and the hands of a prize-fighter. In one of his hands was a silver chain—but no locket!

  “Ah!” cried Lestrade. “We’ve got him!”

  “We ain’t,” said Sparrow. “We’ve got the one that handed Marvin the note with the blood-spot. I recognise him!”

  “Yes,” said Wiggins. “We’ve got the bloke that worked for the murderer, himself—and here’s Queenie!” he yelled as Queenie rushed into the room.

  “Mary!” she cried.

  “Oh, Queenie, you’re back!” gasped Mary, and the two girls rushed into one another’s arms.

  But Queenie detected something that we had missed.

  “Chloroform!” she cried. “He’s the one that grabbed me! I can smell it!”

  I opened the dead man’s other hand and found a chloroform pad.

  “So we’ve got the accomplice,” said Lestrade. “But not the murderer.”

  O’Neill entered the office.

  “And the murderer’s got Mary’s locket,” he said. “Not that that’s going to help him—we weren’t foolish enough to leave the deposit-box ticket in it.”

  “But who is he!” growled Lestrade. “Queenie—did you see anyone, apart from this brute?”

  “No! I was in the other room—I only got a glimpse of this horrible bloke, and the other one kept well out of sight,” she said. “And he kept his voice down too.”

  “But surely you’d recognise something about him?” I said.

  “Anything!” cried Wiggins. “We’ve got to find him Queenie, or Mary’s always going to be in danger!”

  Queenie. shook her head hopelessly.

  “I was lying there for hours trying to identify him I can’t think of anything! Except.…”

  “Yes!” cried Lestrade.

  “Think, please, Queenie!” sobbed Mary. “I can’t live with this hanging over me.”

  “I’ve got it!” cried Queenie, and she held her hand up for silence. “Listen!”

  There was a slight metallic clicking sound from outside. Queenie pointed to the door.

  “That’s what I heard!”

  “What is it?” cried Lestrade, as Sparrow flung himself through the door, followed by Wiggins, Beaver, Shiner, and myself—in that order.

  “Trump!” cried Sparrow, as he darted after the owner of Trump’s Music-hall. “He always clicks his heels like that!—get him!”

  It all began so quickly that the police-constables were bewildered; and only the Baker Street Boys were fast enough to spot him.

  Trump knew his own theatre better than anyone. He fled into the deep gloom and was lost from sight until Sparrow spotted him.

  “There he goes!” he yelled. “See, he’s making for that balcony—there’s an exit to the roof! We’ll never find him if he gets up there!” Trump leapt for a trapeze.

  He turned and grinned savagely at his pursuers; he knew he had only to swing up on to the balcony to be free.

  Then Wiggins spotted someone above him: “It’s up to you, sir!” he yelled.

  “Who’s up there?” cried Lestrade. Queenie laughed.

  “Mr. Holmes!”

  At that moment, Mr. Sherlock Holmes leant forward and slashed the ropes; and the heavy bulk of the murderer crashed to the stage!

  Dr. Watson peered down:

  “Ah, Lestrade,” he said. “I see you’ve got your man?”

  “Damnation!” hissed Lestrade.

  “Maybe we should offer our thanks to Mr. Holmes,” I suggested. “It would be tactful, sir?”

  “Yes, yes!” conceded Lestrade. “Many thanks, Mr. Holmes, sir!”

  “And to Queenie?”

  “If I must!”

  “And the rest of the Baker Street Boys, sir?”

  Lestrade forced himself to make a speech of congratulations and thanks, in which the artistes and stage-hands joined. O’Neill came forward to thank Mr. Holmes and the Boys on behalf of his clients, and also to make sure that Mary—and Queenie—were recovering from their ordeal.

  Later, the American talked to them about the case—and Mary Ashley’s future.

  “I guess that wraps it up,” he said. “Mary’s going back to the States. I’m going to collect the loot. The mystery’s finished and the case is solved. I had a few words with Mr. Holmes before I came here, and he said that Wiggins was right to call him in, though he’s sorry he came so late. I guess you know that he’s still trying to find Moriarty?”

  “Of course,” said Wiggins. “But Mr. Holmes came the right time, didn’t he.”

  “Just like the Baker Street Boys,” said O’Neill.

  “Ah,” said Wiggins. “We have our methods.”

  THE CASE OF THE DISAPPEARING DESPATCH CASE

  CHAPTER ONE

  I had been recording the exploits of the Baker Street Irregulars, which is how Mr. Sherlock Holmes referred to the gang of street urchins he occasionally employed, for only a few months when one of their most hazardous adventures took place,

  I have called it “The Case of the Disappearing Despatch Case,” though Sparrow suggested that a better title would be “Things ain’t always what they seems.” He should know, since he was present at the start of the adventure.

  There is no doubt that Mr. Holmes would have taken over the case had he not been desperately ill; but he had just been seriously wounded by the evil Professor Moriarty, and the
poison from Moriarty’s sword-stick still ran in his veins.

  He was able to help in the affair when it seemed that the bizarre mystery would never be solved, however, though as Mr. Holmes said later, the entire credit must lie with the Baker Street Irregulars for its successful outcome.

  It all began one vile midwinter evening at a time when most of the shops had put up their shutters and the only people to be seen in the thick, yellow fog were either hurrying home to a fireside—or trying to earn a few pence.

  Even those few had had enough of the raw, dank, chilly fog.

  “Let’s pack up, Rosie,” Shiner called. “Look at me hands. They’re dropping off. There ain’t no one wanting shoeshines, not at this time of night. Let’s pack up.”

  “Here,” said Rosie, who was no bigger than Shiner. They were both small, undernourished children of about twelve years of age, wearing all the clothes they possessed. Rosie held a couple of hot chestnuts in her ragged mitt.

  “What’s that?” shivered Shiner.

  “Hot and good,” said Rosie. “Got them from the hot chestnut man up the street. One each.”

  “It’s hot!” yelled Shiner, juggling the chestnut from hand to hand.

  “What did I tell you?” said Rosie, grinning at him. “Ain’t it just come off the stove?”

  Shiner stopped his complaints as he heard footsteps a few yards away. He slipped the hot chestnut into his pocket and seized the tools of his trade.

  “Shoeshine, sir?” he called, as a distinguished-looking elderly gentleman came into view through the swirling fog. “Do you a good one, best in London for two-pence.”

  The man hesitated as he saw Shiner and Rosie, and the two children saw he had a look of compassion on his face.

  “Loverly flowers, sir?” said Rosie, trying to smile in spite of the freezing fog that chapped her lips and rasped in her throat. “Only tuppence a bunch, sir.”

  Shiner held his breath. He had been out on the streets since before dawn, and all day he had taken only sevenpence. Rosie’s stock of flowers was still almost untouched, since she had not been able to afford the best and freshest blooms in Covent Garden that morning, and it was a sad-looking display of wilted flowers that she offered so hopefully to the customer.

  But her smile was perfection.

  “Here’s threepence,” said the elderly gentleman, taking the bunch she offered. “Keep the penny change for that smile of yours, my dear. I won’t wait for a shoeshine,” he added to Shiner, “but I’ll remember your face when I come this way again, boy.”

  He went on his way smiling, leaving Rosie looking at the silver threepenny piece and Shiner packing up his brushes.

  “I ain’t got a lovely smile, Rosie,” he said, “but never mind. Threepence is threepence, and that’s enough for one night—Here!” he yelled as someone charged into them, sending them flying.

  “My threepenny—where’s it gone?” cried Rosie. “Who was that? Clumsy great bloke!”

  A big figure vanished into the mist and the two children yelled until the sound of his heavy footsteps was lost in the fog. They scrabbled about searching for the silver coin which had been sent spinning from Rosie’s hand. Neither of them had seen where it had fallen.

  They were still peering at the ground when two more of the Baker Street Boys joined them. They were Beaver, a biggish boy of about fourteen, and Sparrow, who at eleven or so had much in common with the quick-witted town-bird he had been named after.

  “What have you lost?” called Sparrow. “Dropped your diamonds, have you, Rosie?” he asked her, though Rosie ignored him.

  Beaver dumped the pile of newspapers he had been carrying. “What we looking for, Rosie?” he too asked.

  “A thrupenny piece,” said Rosie. “A big bloke with a stick in his hand just knocked me and Shiner flying.”

  “I saw him,” said Sparrow. “Six-foot and more, and a big red beard. He looked as though he was after something going along like the clappers, he was. He wasn’t the one what gave you the thrupenny, was he?”

  “Don’t be daft,” said Shiner. “He’s the kind what’d give you a crack with his stick, that’s all. Found it!” he cried.

  Beaver inspected the threepenny piece.

  “Got it from an old fellow,” said Rosie. “He gave me the penny extra ’cos I smiled at him—he said I’d got a loverly smile. Then he walks off grinning to himself. A toff, he is.”

  “I saw him too,” said Beaver. “Tall and thin, that him?”

  “Yeh,” said Sparrow. “He was carrying a little case, wasn’t he? I saw him go off into a tobacconist’s at the end of Baker Street—old Merriman’s who buys a paper off of us.”

  “How about the big bloke with the stick?” said Shiner. “Where did he get to?”

  “Sparrow saw him, not me,” said Beaver.

  “Why?” asked Sparrow, grinning at Shiner. “You going to give him a piece of your mind for knocking into you? I’d say he’s big enough to put you into his pocket, and your brushes too, Shiner!”

  The dispute might have gone on a little longer if Rosie hadn’t stopped it by walking off into the fog saying that she had heard enough and she was hungry, and if some smartalecks wanted to stand around the street arguing, that was their lookout. But she, Rosie, was going home.

  She hadn’t been walking for long when the others joined her, and no sooner had they caught up with her than the incident occurred which was to set off the whole series of events of the Disappearing Despatch Case. It began with a cry from the direction of Merriman’s shop.

  “Oh, do help me someone!” quavered what sounded like an old woman’s voice. “Help!”

  “Here!” called Beaver, who was ahead of the others. “Come on!” They all ran after him, with Shiner and Rosie struggling with their belongings towards the sounds of a fierce struggle and more terrified calls for help.

  “Hold on!” yelled Sparrow. “We’re coming!”

  Beaver and Sparrow arrived simultaneously at the source of the cries, and they were in time to see what happened. Outside Merriman’s shop, a struggle was taking place.

  “It’s him with the red beard!” yelled Sparrow to Rosie and Shiner. The big man was struggling with an old woman who was trying to keep possession of a shopping-basket by flailing with her umbrella at him. As he grabbed at the basket, she countered with a blow at his face, but he gave a snarling cry and then he had her by one huge hand around the throat.

  “Get him!” yelled Sparrow, pushing the larger boy forward.

  Beaver rushed towards the man with his fists raised, but already help was on the way. From inside the well-lit tobacconist’s shop, a tall figure emerged, blinking against the sudden gloom of the drifting yellow fog but quickly grasping what was happening.

  In a loud and commanding voice, the elderly gentleman who had given the threepenny piece to Rosie called out:

  “Why, you villain—leave her alone! Merriman, sound your whistle for the police!”

  And without any further reflection, he dropped his parcels and despatch case and raised his silver-mounted cane as he approached the burly ruffian and his struggling, gasping victim.

  Beaver and Sparrow were already engaged, but not for long.

  “Knock his legs from under him!” yelled Sparrow to Beaver as they dodged both the umbrella and the burly man’s wide, sweeping blows. “He’ll have that poor old lady dead, strangled, so he will—aaaah!”

  And Sparrow found himself hurled into the cobbled street as the red-bearded man snarled and caught him with a hard blow to the head. Beaver too was unable to give much assistance, for the ruffian could easily handle a terrified old woman and a couple of ragamuffins at the same time; in a moment, he had knocked Beaver too out of the fight, so that when Rosie and Shiner appeared through the gloom the first thing they saw was the two members of the Baker Street Boys struggling to their feet and wailing that they were bleeding to blinking death.

  “Now, you villain, try fighting a man!” they heard the distinguished-looki
ng elderly man call, and they saw him cut at the attacker’s head with his cane.

  Had the blow landed, it would have taken much of the fight out of the robber, but somehow it missed—perhaps by chance, perhaps by a fortunate glance from the poor old woman’s umbrella; certainly, it was a powerful and well-aimed blow in true cavalry style. It was, however, ineffective, and worse than that it served to enrage the burly robber even more.

  “Yaaargh!” he snarled, turning to face his new adversary, and Rosie quailed as she saw the beetling brows and the wild-eyed stare of the robber, whilst it took all of Shiner’s resolution to begin his own attack, hacking at the man’s shins.

  That too was ineffectual, for before Shiner could attempt to kick the red-bearded man, the latter had dashed the stick from the elderly gentleman’s hand and knocked him to the ground. Shiner saw the attacker scrabble for the cudgel at his belt to finish off the fallen old man, so he pressed home his own attack and kicked him hard on the ankle.

  “Teufel!” howled the attacker, shocked by the blow. “Aaaarh!” he cursed, the cudgel now in his hand, his mad eyes promising revenge, and his whole face a mask of such rage that Shiner fled. A loud blast on a whistle stopped him.

  It was the call which would summon any nearby police-officer, and the attacker clearly knew its meaning. He looked around him and saw both Beaver and Sparrow on their feet, both with a look of fierce determination on their faces. He looked further and saw that his victim was by no means completely cowed, for she still retained her umbrella in her hand.

  And when he glanced towards the tobacconist’s shop, he could see that Merriman had taken the opportunity of arming himself with a sturdy truncheon. The odds were too much for him, and without another moment’s delay, he turned and ran into the fog, with Merriman’s cries ringing after him:

  “Stop that man—stop, thief!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Beaver and Sparrow needed no prompting, nor did Shiner now that he was in the company of two of the bigger Baker Street Boys. Hearts pounding and lungs aching with the cold, they rushed along the alleyways after the red-bearded villain.

  Rosie decided that her place was with Mr. Merriman and the victims of the robber’s attack. The old woman was moaning and clutching her neck where she had been grabbed; whilst the distinguished elderly gentleman lay in a pool of blood, glistening in the flickering gaslight.