by Brian Ball
* * * *
In the thick fog, Wiggins led the little band to Merriman’s.
“Why didn’t Sparrer come along?” Shiner asked Beaver, as they walked shivering along the dimly-lit alleys.
“Dunno,” said Beaver. “Sparrer’s an odd kind of cove at times—he has his secrets, does Sparrer.”
Queenie agreed. “He looked crafty, did little Sparrer,” she said. “He’s got something up his sleeve.”
Shiner thought about it for a while. “Sparrer was staring at that handkerchief the old girl dropped,” he said. “What do you think, Wiggins?”
“I dunno about Sparrer,” said Wiggins as they reached Merriman’s shop and peered through the window, “but I know there’s been some dirty work going on here—see!”
And he pushed on the door, which had obviously been jemmied, for splinters and the wreckage of a lock littered the doorway. Great force had been used, and for a moment Wiggins held back.
Then he pushed forward.
“Mr. Merriman?” he called. “You all right, are you?”
He went ahead cautiously, trying to see into the gloom.
The others crowded behind him pushing him forward but unwilling to slip past him. Then there was a creaking, groaning sound from inside the shop, and Wiggins could make out a weird, swaying figure.
“What’s that?” shrieked Queenie
Wiggins flinched, but a hollow voice came from the darkness. “—came back!” the voice cried, and it was Merriman. “I saw the same—but not the same!”
And with those barely-audible and totally mystifying words, the tobacconist crashed to the ground and was silent.
“It’s Merriman!” yelled Wiggins, striking a match. “Here—see, the place has been done over!”
“How’s Mr. Merriman?” asked Beaver.
Queenie screamed as she saw the pale face and the blank stare.
“He’s a goner,” said Wiggins. “Poor old Merriman—see, he didn’t get a chance to blow his whistle,” he went on, disentangling the silver whistle from the tobacconist’s fingers. “Go on,” he told Beaver. “The Law has to be brought into this.”
He lit an undamaged oil-lamp and looked around the shop, whilst Queenie and Beaver summoned help. Drawers had been pulled from cupboards and hurled about in a frenzy, tables were overturned, and bowls and jugs smashed open; Wiggins, however, had been at the scene of a number of burglaries, and be saw something wrong about this one.
“They wasn’t after his takings,” he said.
He pointed to the shine of gold and. silver in the cashdrawer.
“Then what was they after?” demanded Beaver, who had returned after energetically blowing Merriman’s police whistle.
“P’raps he knew!” whispered Queenie, indicating the corpse. “What was that he said just before he pegged out—something about it was the same and not the same, wasn’t it?”
“And about someone coming back,” agreed Wiggins.
“Mr. Holmes would puzzle it out if he was here,” said Beaver. “He’d smoke his pipe, then he’d have a think, and he’d have it all worked out.”
“So he would,” admitted Wiggins. “An’ that’s what I ain’t been doing!” he exclaimed, startling the others. “What—smoking?” said Queenie.
“I ain’t been thinking!” said Wiggins. “I ain’t been thinking about what they was after, that’s what! Queenie, you and Shiner stay here to see the Law. Beaver, you’re coming with me.”
“Why?” yelled Queenie. “I don’t want to stay with a body!”
“You do as you’re told, girl,” said Wiggins firmly. “Beaver and me are going after Sparrer, and if I’m right there’s going to be more rough work tonight. No, Queenie, you talk to the Law when they get here.”
“What if it’s Inspector Lestrade?” said Queenie. “How can I tell an Inspector of Constables as you’ve gone out when there’s a murder been done here, Arnold Wiggins?”
Wiggins could hear the clash of heavy boots on the pavement, and he knew he hadn’t much time.
“Tell him Wiggins has a clue, that’s what! Come on, Beaver!”
“But where are we going?” puffed Beaver, as they ran into the darkness.
“After Sparrer,” said Wiggins.
“But where’s Sparrer gone?” Beaver gasped.
“Into more trouble than he can handle!” said Wiggins, increasing his pace.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Wiggins ain’t the only one who knows Mr. Holmes’s methods,” Sparrow assured himself as he reached the side door of the Alhambra music-hall. “I was the one what found the clue, so I’m the one what’s going to follow it up,” he went on, forgetting Rosie’s part in obtaining the white silk handkerchief with the odd pocket.
“What do you want?” demanded the doorman as Sparrow entered the side-door. “This door’s for artistes and such—hop it, you.”
“I’m Sparrer,” said Sparrow. “Don’t you remember me, Bert?”
Bert the doorman looked closer, and saw that beneath the swathings of ragged scarf and the over-large cap was an old friend.
“Yeh,” he said. “What do you want, then?”’
“You know about magic things, don’t you, Bert? See ’ere—what’s this, then?” said Sparrow, passing Bert the bloodstained handkerchief.
“Had a nosebleed, Sparrer?” asked Bert, examining the square of silk.
“Nah—accident. How about it, Bert? That pocket thing in it—recognise it?”
“Easy,” said Bert. He demonstrated for Sparrow. “I’ve seen it done a hundred times on stage. The illusionist holds the egg or whatever in his hand, over goes the trick handkerchief, a wave of the other hand to distract them, and away goes the egg. He calls it magic, but it’s the oldest trick in the book.”
“Who does?” said Sparrow.
“Who does what?” said Bert.
“Who calls it magic?” Sparrow persisted.
Bert sighed. “Didn’t you see who’s on at the hall this week? Orlov! The Great Orlov he calls himself. And he’s not bad either, isn’t Orlov, even if he does use the oldest trick in the book with this here handkerchief. See—it’s got his initial on—‘O’ for Orlov.”
Sparrow was staggered. He had followed up a clue, but here was more than he had expected, far more. He had expected the doorman to give him some ideas about who might have used the handkerchief, and here was Bert telling him that its owner was now appearing at this very music hall!
“Wiggins’ll be sick!” he couldn’t help saying.
“How’s that?” said Bert.
“Nothing, Bert!” Sparrow told him. “Is this bloke—the Great Orlov—still here?”
Bert shook his head. “Finished and gone. Tonight was his last appearance. D’you want me to hang on to his hankie in case he comes back?”
“Nah,” said Sparrow, his heart beating faster. “Tell me where he lives and I’ll take it to him—maybe it’s worth a tanner to him, it being part of his act.”
Bert laughed and gave Sparrow an address a few streets away.
“There’s no flies on you, me old cock-sparrer!” he called as Sparrow ran out into the thick swirling fog. “I hope he does get his tanner, but I don’t fancy his chances. Orlov ain’t full of the milk of human kindness, but then he’s a foreigner, ain’t he?”
Sparrow pelted through alleyways and down narrow, cobbled streets, and dodged the occasional cab that splattered mud over him. And all the time he found himself getting nearer to a particular alleyway which he knew.
“I’ve been here before!” said Sparrow, peering into the ill-lit alleyway at the rear of the street where Orlov lived.
Sparrow’s heart pounded as he approached the end house.
“That’s the one Bert said he lives at,” thought Sparrow. “And round the back is where that red-bearded bloke vanished—it’s like Rosie said, it’s all magic, only nastier. I wonder if Orlov’s in?”
He peered through the windows at the front of the small, terraced house, but thou
gh there was a candle guttering in the parlour, he could see no sign of the illusionist.
“I’ll go round the back,” Sparrow decided.
Quietly and stealthily Sparrow slid down the alleyway until he located the yard door of the end house. It was open. Sparrow hesitated. Should he investigate, or should he report to Wiggins and the others?
Sparrow peered inside. There was a patch of light from the back door of the house—the back door was open too. He shivered with more than the cold of the swirling fog. “Nah,” he thought. “I’ll go back for—what’s that?”
Heavy footsteps rang on the cobbles of the alley.
Someone was coming!
Sparrow almost passed out with terror. He felt his heart fluttering madly and he was sure that the big figure that loomed nearer and nearer could hear it. Without another thought, Sparrow darted through the yard and into the house—there was no time to look for a hiding place: he was into the house as the metal-tipped boots rang in the backyard.
“Where!” groaned Sparrow as he surveyed the bleak little room.
On a battered table were gleaming tools and bundles of brownish-looking candles, together with a number of iron canisters; three chairs and a chest made up the rest of the furniture. And, from another part of the house—from somewhere at the front—Sparrow heard a thick foreign voice calling.
“Bukovsky?” it called, then there was a gabble of some weird language that sounded as if the speaker had his mouth full of cabbage.
“In there.” Sparrow told himself, moving swiftly.
It was a built-in cupboard, large enough for Sparrow and not much more. Sparrow had it open in a second, and then he was wriggling into an assortment of illusionist’s equipment and old clothes, certain that he must be found and murdered within seconds.
In his last glimpses of the back room, however, he had noticed a number of things. One was a large revolver on one of the chairs, together with a box of ammunition. Another was that the cupboard which sheltered him contained some familiar items, including a red beard and a ladies’ winter outfit; and there was one more thing that in itself convinced Sparrow of the danger he was in.
It was a shiny black leather despatch-case, and on it was the golden insignia of a Crown.
“It was him!” Sparrow whispered. “The old girl—it was him!” Everything began to fall into place, although it was several minutes before Sparrow was calm enough to work it out.
Even then, he found himself listening to a long, monotonous conversation in a language he didn’t understand; all the time, sweating with terror and with the red beard finding its way under his collar as he burrowed into the Great Orlov’s equipment!
Sparrow wished ten thousand times that he had not been so adventurous. He told himself that he had been stupid to be jealous of Wiggins and go off on his own. He promised himself faithfully that if he didn’t sneeze and alert the big man, he would never, never try to be a detective again.
But after a while, even terror became boring, and Sparrow listened more carefully to what the two men were saying. Their conversation seemed to last for hours—days.
Every so often, Sparrow heard a name or a phrase repeated, so he was able to work out the men’s names. Orlov wasn’t Orlov, he was Orlovitch. And the big bloke was Bukovsky.
Then Sparrow grew more alert.
“What?” he thought, as a familiar-sounding name, which a foreign accent couldn’t entirely conceal was repeated. “He said Sir Alfred Connyngham!”
And then, amazingly, the two men began to converse in English!
“In one week,” said Orlovitch. “And when he dies, we will make the Revolution!”
“When who dies?” wondered Sparrow, concentrating harder now. “Are they going to do Sir Alfred again?”
Sparrow stored every word as gradually the men went over the details of their plan. The trouble was, however, that he was becoming sleepy.
Whether it was—the lack of air in the cupboard combined with the build up of body-heat, or whether Sparrow was just plain tired after being out in the bitter cold since dawn that day—the fact was that he fell asleep.
He heard a great. deal, but he was fortunate enough to miss the worst threat to his continued existence.
“And the props from your act?” said Bukovsky, who was packing away the tools and apparatus on the table. “The despatch case and the clothes—what of them?”
Orlov shook his head.
“Leave them. From tonight, Orlov is finished. Dropping the handkerchief marked me as Orlov, and the trail must lead to here. A few more clues of the same kind won’t harm us—we leave here now for good. Come!”
Bukovsky blew out the candles,
Then his sharp hearing almost led to the finding of the sleeping boy. “You hear something?” he said to Orlovitch.
Orlovitch listened. “Nothing.”
“Something like—like a cat purring?” persisted Bukovsky. Orlovitch shook his head impatiently.
“We’ve waited long enough—delay is dangerous. Come!”
All of this passed Sparrow by as he dozed for another hour or so—the time it took Wiggins and Beaver to find him. Sparrow snored gently, and the streets around him grew quieter until there was absolute silence in the dark old house.
Sparrow heard Beaver’s voice first.
“Ouch!” he cried as he crashed into a fallen chair, for the house was in darkness.
“Shut up!” whispered Wiggins.
“Why? There ain’t no one here,” said Beaver.
“You hope!” said Wiggins, striking a match. “No, they’ve scarpered.”
“And how about poor old Sparrer?” whispered Beaver, as he thought of what might have happened to his friend.
“Yeh,” agreed Wiggins, lighting a pair of candies. “What’s that?” he gasped, as he heard a faint, regular sound.
“What?” yelled Beaver, jumping away from him.
“I can hear something—low and horrible!”
“Orlov!” whispered Beaver. “’Orrible Orlov!”
“It’s coming from in there,” whispered Wiggins.
“Let’s get out of here!” yelled Beaver.
“Let me out first!” yelled back Sparrow.
“Yowwww!” roared Wiggins and Beaver, heading for the back-door.
“It’s me!” yelled Sparrow. “Me—Sparrer!”
“Where?” cried Beaver.
“Where do you think!” yelled back Sparrow. “In the blinking cupboard!”
It took only a moment or two to disentangle Sparrow from Orlov’s stage props and Bukovsky’s beard, and not many minutes for Sparrow to tell his tale, and an alarming story it was.
It raised as many questions as it answered, but at least one part of the mystery was explained.
Wiggins examined the female clothes, then the shopping-bag, and the red beard, and, finally, Sir.Alfred Connyngham’s despatch-case.
“It was all a trick,” he said. “Illusions, as you would say.”
“’Course it was!” said Sparrow. “That’s what the Great Orlov does for a living, ain’t it? He dressed up as an old girl, then his pal Bukovsky comes along with his red beard and his cosh to make it look as if he’s knocking her about.”
“But he ain’t,” said Beaver.
Wiggins agreed. “Then when Bukovsky runs off, the old girl gets taken into Merriman’s—but she’s Orlovitch, so when he’s alone, he gets his own clothes out of the shopping-bag, does a quick change, then he hops it outside.”
“Wiv the despatch case in the carpet-bag he had all the time folded up,” finished Sparrow.
“And now it’s empty,” said Beaver.
“’Course it is,” said Sparrow. “They was after the papers inside it, wasn’t they? And now they’ve got them, and there’s going to be all kinds of trouble!”
Wiggins and Beaver listened to what Sparrow could remember of all he had heard. It was a story of violence and outrage, bloodshed and revolution, anarchy and war.
“And it st
arts,” said Sparrow, “when they blows up this Archduke. That’s what Orlovitch said when he wasn’t speaking in that heathen language. ‘Bukovsky,’ he tells this big bloke, ‘we will dynamite the Archduke in just one week’!”
“Dynamite him!” breathed Beaver.
“Yes,” said Sparrow. “Somewhere near a chimney or something, but I didn’t gather much about that, it was all in heathen.”
“And what else did you hear?” demanded Wiggins. “Before you fell asleep, Sparrer.”
“You’d have been stifled in there too, Wiggins!” exclaimed Sparrow.
“Didn’t I listen till I was nearly choked—and wiv a red beard tickling me neck all the time? What if I’d have sneezed? That big ugly bloke would’ve murdered me, he would!”
Wiggins soothed the angry little Cockney and got the rest of his incredible story. Sparrow had been drowsy for much of the time, and Orlovitch and Bukovsky had only occasionally spoken in English. But Sparrow had heard over and over again the same phrases.
“‘Three tons’, so Orlovitch said,” Sparrow recalled. “Him and Bukovsky said it maybe half-a-dozen times. And they’re going to do him today week.”
“Next Monday,” said Beaver. “Cor!”
“Near a chimney?” said Wiggins.
“Yeh,” said Sparrow. “Wiv three tons of dynamite. Then he said, clear as you like in English, ‘They’ll not be looking for us, disguised as we will be, Bukovsky—Long Live the Revolution!’”
In turn, Wiggins described how he had used Mr. Holmes’s methods to find Sparrow, and they were all about to congratulate themselves on solving the case of the Missing Despatch Case when they heard loud sounds from the front and back of the house.
“It’s that big bloke what done Merriman in!” gasped Beaver.
“What coshed Sir Alfred!” groaned Sparrow.
“What Orlovitch pals up with!” cried Wiggins.
Then Wiggins recognised a loud, authoritative voice ordering men to have their revolvers ready.
“Lestrade!” said Wiggins. “The Law’s here!”
“Just when we found who really stole the despatch case,” said Sparrow.
“And why,” added Beaver.
