Sherlock Holmes and the Folk Tale Mysteries - Volume 2

by Puhl, Gayle Lange

  “There is a sister a man might be proud of, Watson. And a constant reader of yours! Her problem does present interesting features. What was the job that was “a cinch” yet could “go wrong” enough to make a rogue brother worry his sister? What is Dyne’s connection with the other man with the horseshoe cufflink? How did Dyne get that money? And most importantly, where is Alan Dyne now?”

  “What are you going to do, Holmes?”

  “First I shall deposit my check and then take a stroll over to the “Jewel and Bottle”. There must be a beginning for every old hound to follow and the barkeeper there will put me on the scent. No man, even in a city as big as London, goes through his routine of life without leaving traces. I would be a poor investigator indeed if I could not uncover the course Mr. Alan Dyne has been covering.”

  My duties to the patients at the surgery kept me busy until late in the evening. It was after eight o’clock when I returned to 221b Baker Street to find Sherlock Holmes ensconced in his armchair, wreathed in a cloud of grey tobacco smoke. After I opened a window to make the atmosphere tolerable, I noticed that he held his pipe with barked knuckles. There was a cut near his eye and one side of his head was bloody.

  “Good heavens, Holmes,” I exclaimed. “What happened?”

  “My investigation has led me down some dark paths, Watson,” he drawled, as I brought out bandages and antiseptic. He winced as I cleaned his wounds.

  “The moment I walked into the “Jewel and Bottle” I recognized the barkeeper as an associate of the suspected fence and gang leader Jay Farr. Farr was thought to be one of the men involved in the Pyemann swindle of two years back, when Lord Simon Sympell was tricked out of possession of his family’s most precious asset, the famous painting “Pomegranate Heifer” .

  “But that case went to trial and the prosecution’s case fell apart when the witness who saw the transaction on the waterfront never appeared to testify!”

  “And that witness has not been seen since, my friend. Mark that fact. Alan Dyne has gotten himself mixed up with a dangerous bunch.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I was recognized and two other rather bulky gentlemen invited me into the back room. There I was introduced to Mr. Farr. He is tall and has an olive complexion. He was wearing a fine suit. However, his face has a thickness and cruelty about it that will never be concealed by any pretence of gentility. His cufflinks are ruby horseshoes. Ah, yes, just like the man Miss Dyne saw taking to her brother in the “Jewel and Bottle”. We chatted about my career and his for a few minutes, then I was invited to give up my current investigation and leave town for an extended period of time. After a suitable amount of persuasion I pretended to agree, but to make sure I realized the gravity of the situation the head bruiser used his club to knock me out. Yes, that tender spot over my ear. Is it still bleeding?”

  “My God, Holmes,” I murmured as I parted the hair and examined the cut. “No, it is not bleeding now. Here, sit still while I clean it up and apply a bandage. Then what happened?”

  “I awoke on a dirt path near the river behind some decaying warehouses. I was sprawled out in the mud. I managed to reach the nearby home of one of my Irregulars, who helped me back to here. I insisted that he leave me two blocks away, and I got in without alerting Mrs. Hudson. I knew consulting another doctor would raise the alarm so I’ve been waiting for your return. The tobacco acted as a bit of a painkiller. I think my adversary will believe I have dropped the case. Now he will be less likely to guard against me and my search for Alan Dyne may continue.”

  “Continue? Man, you must go straight to bed and stay there!”

  “I’ll rest tomorrow, Watson, I promise, but in exchange you must follow my orders. We need to spread the rumour that Sherlock Holmes has left the country to investigate another case.”

  “That will be simple enough to arrange. You have frequently gone abroad to work for foreign clients.”

  “The underworld must be convinced that I have left London. Jay Farr will attribute it to our little discussion and think that he has scared me off. That is of no matter as long as I am left free to move about the dives and joss-joints near the river.”

  “What is so important about the river, Holmes?”

  “During my meeting with Mr. Farr I noticed that the soles of his shoes were marked with the oily black ooze that is left by the retreating Thames. He had recently walked along some boardwalk or steps that are regularly submerged by the high tide. There was also the faintest odour of decayed fish, not something often encountered near St. Christopher’s Church, located as it is so far from the water. It is a clue that bears following. Give me your shoulder, old fellow, and I’ll rest now. Tomorrow will be a busy day.”

  I determined that Holmes had no serious injuries besides some smaller cuts and bruises. I left word at the surgery that I would be unavailable for the next few days and spent the night on the sofa in the sitting room, ready to assist if I was called upon. With the thought of what my friend had endured, I made sure my trusty service revolver was near at hand.

  The next morning Sherlock Holmes stayed in his bed. He sent for Wiggins, the clever little lieutenant of the gang of street urchins he sometimes employed to assist him on some of his investigations. Mrs. Hudson had been told that no one was to learn of his injuries or current location and fussed over him, bringing up hot soup and allowing Wiggins open access to Holmes’ room.

  The little street Arab was in and out, reporting by late afternoon that the rumour of Holmes’ departure to the Continent was common currency in the haunts of the criminal element of the city. The afternoon papers carried a short squib about Mr. Sherlock Holmes’ engagement by the family of Mr. Thomas Tucker, the promising young tenor who was reported missing after a concert given the week before at La Scala. According to Wiggin’s report, this story alone seemed to reassure the criminal element that he had left for Italy by boat-train early and was safely away from them.

  At Holmes’ direction I travelled to Empire Square that evening and was given a cup of tea by the kitchen staff while I waited for our client to descend from the nursery. The housekeeper offered the privacy of her sitting room for our meeting. Miss Dyne, dressed neatly in a black uniform and white collar and cuffs, poured the tea. I noticed the glint of a silver chain around her neck as she leaned forward to hand me my cup. I was able to reassure our client that her case was progressing without giving her much information. . When I returned to Baker Street the street lamps were just being lit. Holmes was dressed to go out.

  He was wearing black, including a worn fisherman’s sweater and old boots. He motioned to similar garb laid out for me.

  “Change into that old slop, Watson, and don’t forget your revolver. Our adventures lead us to the river tonight, and we must be able to blend in with the population as well as the darkness. No cab, I fear, but a healthy stroll will invigorate us. Wiggins is below, ready to guide us. The Irregulars have been busy. Here, man, wear this.”

  He shoved an old tweed cap into my hand and covered the glaring white bandage on his head with another. Down in the street Wiggins saw us come out on our step from across the street and casually strolled away.

  We followed, giving no sign that we knew of his existence. We trod a serpentine path through the London streets, doubling back on ourselves and taking several dodges through public walkways and dark and noisome alleys to evade any followers. Big Ben had tolled eleven before the boy ducked into a shadowy doorway only a few yards from the Thames. I could hear faraway raucous music drifting across the water and smell the stench that rose off the river.

  “Where are we, Holmes?”

  “We are in Blackyards, at the top of a set of steps that will take us down to a rowboat. Here is a light. Wiggins has descended and is down there waiting for us. Watch your step.”

  The work of a few moments had the three of us down the rough st
one staircase and into the little boat. With Sherlock Holmes at the oars we pulled out from the landing and proceeded across the Thames to the southern shore. The tide was only an hour from its height and the banks were lined with various shadowy vessels preparing to raise anchor at midnight. Lights from swaying lanterns gleamed in broken lines across the estuary and the murmuring waters carried the sound of anonymous men as they shouted to each other while the last preparations for casting off were completed. Raucous but muted music sounded from some place on the other side. We remained silent as our boat approached the far bank and crept along the soggy, moss-covered stone barricades that protected the ancient foundations of the buildings above us from the water. Finally Holmes shipped oars at the bottom of another set of stone steps that rose out of the river to a square structure that loomed overhead. The hurdy-gurdy music I had heard earlier was now loud and with it blended the sound of men talking and women laughing. It was coming from the building above our heads.

  “That is the notorious public house called the “Camel’s Breath”. It is another of the many enterprises in which Mr. Jay Farr holds an interest. If you had a shilling, Watson, for every smuggled jewel and every poor man shanghaied to foreign lands that has passed through the back doors and secret hatches of the “Camel’s Breath”, you could write your little romances from a mansion next door to the Duke of Denver.”

  “You amaze me, Holmes!”

  He gave me a hand up and we stood on the lowest step above the water. Wiggins was left in the boat, tying the boat’s rope to a ring set into the wall. Holmes held up his lantern and showed me a set of worn limestone steps going upwards. I listened to the sound of river water lapping around our frail vessel as he whispered to me.

  “The tide has been coming in for some time. These stairs lead to a stone wharf that runs most of the length of this building, the “Camel’s Breath”. I believe these steps, exposed in a few hours by the retreating tide, and covered with the resulting slime, supplied the mud that Mr. Farr carried on his boots.

  “There is a narrow extension build onto the back of the public house, supported by posts fixed to the wharf below it. Have your revolver ready, Watson. Now, up we go.”

  The steps we had to mount to reach the wharf were indeed slippery and coated with a noxious film. Carefully we reached the flat expanse of the wharf and silently stepped on the worn surface. The stone staircase continued upward to the street.

  We found ourselves among crates and barrels and coils of rope. Obviously this platform was used to load cargo and receive shipments from other vessels when the tide was full. There was a solid brick wall against the back of the wharf. An iron ladder led up to a door on the end of the extension over our heads, and I could detect several lines of faint light that revealed square holes cut into the floor of the edifice above, covered by crude hatches. Lights showed across the water from the back windows of the “Camel’s Breath” and the unseen hurdy-gurdy player started up another tune.

  Holmes silently mounted the ladder and swiftly picked the lock of the door at the top. I followed. In an instant we found ourselves standing in a large room. It was filled with boxes and casks stacked against the walls and extending into the floor space. Strong pulley systems equipped with ropes hung from the beamed ceiling over the hatch covers. In the middle of the space was a man huddled on a dirty divan, a single candle burning on a crate beside him. Sherlock Holmes bent over the prisoner and released the gag and metal bands that bound him. A grey-hair man with a familial resemblance to our client looked at us in amazement. I helped him to a sitting position.

  “Who are you? Are you from Farr?” the man stammered.

  “No. Your sister sent us. Are you Alan Dyne? Then come along.”

  Willingly he stumbled down the ladder, his muscles stiff from the fetters, and we headed for the stone steps. Suddenly there was a commotion above us, and a furious voice was heard from the room overhead.

  “He’s escaped! The door is open! Lift the hatches! There they are! Get them, boys! Bring me back Dyne alive and toss the others in the Thames! Go! Go!”

  These orders were followed by a string of horrible oaths.

  Bodies dropped from the hatches, armed with cudgels and knives. Holmes, Dyne and I found ourselves cut off from the steps and faced with four ruffians, each armed to the teeth. As we backed up against the blank brick wall of the structure I pulled out my revolver and pointed it at the largest attacker. My handgun was clearly visible from the light that streamed through the hatch above us.

  “Stand back, man, if you value your life! I’ll shoot if you come any nearer!” I exclaimed. Besides me cowered Dyne but on his other side Sherlock Holmes displayed another revolver to the crowd. The sight of two determined men pointing pistols at them made the brutes hesitate. Above us I could hear one last man climb down the iron ladder and join our pursuers.

  “What’s this? What’s this? Why are they still standing?” A tall, well-dressed man with ruby horseshoe cufflinks pushed his way to the front. At the sight of our weapons he stopped. He started when he recognized Holmes and his aggression faded away. He gave my friend a sickly smile.

  “Why, it’s you, Mr. Holmes! I thought you were in Europe.”

  “That is what I wanted you to think, Mr. Farr,” said my companion. His voice was smooth and unhurried, as if he had just met the criminal on a street corner. He motioned to the other men with his revolver. “You needn’t introduce me to your friends. In fact, I think this wharf is getting crowded, don’t you?”

  At a gesture from their leader, the other men retreated up the ladder. Above I could hear the hatches being replaced and their footsteps fade away as the men re-entered the “Camel’s Breath”. The only source of light now came from Holmes’ lantern. He shown it into Farr’s eyes and the big man blinked. His face was indeed thick. His nose, his lips, even his eyelids were turbid and protruding. His fingers were like sausages as he clenched his hands in stifled fury. Holmes kept his revolver trained on Farr as he addressed Alan Dyne.

  “Is this the man who kidnapped you, sir?”

  “Yes. The entire plot was his idea.”

  “Will you testify to that in a court of law?”

  Jay Farr turned his furious gaze to Dyne. I could see murderous promises in those hooded eyes. I felt the little man shrink back farther into the shelter of my shoulder.

  “I…I…I must think of my sister, Mr. Holmes. She would not be safe if Scotland Yard was brought into the case and neither would I. That has been made abundantly clear to me during the past few days. I’m sorry, sir, but I have made plans to move to America and the wait for a trial would only delay me.”

  I could see the beginnings of a triumphant smile creep across Farr’s lips. He relaxed and thrust his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. He rocked back on his heels and crowed at Sherlock Holmes.

  “You have no case, Mr. High and Mighty Detective. I suppose Mr. Dyne will want to leave with you and your friend, but we two have no more business together. Good night, sir. Next time you visit the “Camel’s Breath”, come in the front door and I’ll treat you to a proper drink.” With a sinister laugh, he turned and climbed up the ladder. A moment later, we could hear him enter the pub accompanied by a great gust of laughter from its denizens.

  Sherlock Holmes said nothing as we descended the stone steps and rejoined Wiggins at the boat. Again Holmes took the oars and our craft crossed the river to our starting point. It was more difficult now, as the tide was nearly full and many ships, large and small, were making their way down the water toward the sea. Mocking hurdy-gurdy music followed us across the water. In the uncertain lights bobbing on the river’s surface I studied Holmes’ shadowed face, trying to see how the escape of his enemy had affected him.

  He was disappointed, I was sure. But the rescue of his client’s brother from prolonged imprisonment must have given him solace. Alan Dyne had spoken
of a plot. What could it possibly have been? Why had Jay Farr kept one of his own operatives captive? What else did Mr. Dyne have to tell us? And I wondered if he would even tell us anything, after seeing his marked reluctance to talk to Scotland Yard?

  We landed at the other set of steps and Holmes hailed a cab, leaving Wiggins to see to the rowboat. Within an hour the three of us were seated before a fire at 221b, drinking coffee Holmes brewed over his Bunsen burner. I checked Mr. Dyne for injuries and found nothing serious. As he was supplied with a plate of meat and bread from the ever-ready sideboard supply, the little man looked immensely more comfortable than he had first appeared to us in that crowded, candle-lit room.

  He dug into the food with relish. Obviously his rations had been short since Saturday. When he finished and I removed the plate and water glass, I put a glass of brandy before him. He eagerly drained it. Then Sherlock Holmes began.

  “You have been hard-used the past few days, sir, but it is still evident from your appearance that you began as a second story man. You were never apprehended, but became proficient as a safe-cracker about three years ago, feeling it was a safer way to make a living. Within the last year you developed a small business as a turf accountant. Slowly and surely you are transitioning into a legitimate businessman. But your unsavoury past wouldn’t let you go. Jay Farr, leader of a ruthless gang and one of your former employers, told you he needed a safe to be opened. Since it wasn’t his safe, you were reluctant. But he forced you, possible holding your sister’s safety over you, and Saturday night you broke into that safe. Where was it?”

  “How did you know all that about him?” I wondered aloud.

  “You know my methods, Watson, and my sources. Despite his efforts to keep a low profile about his career, Alan Dyne has left a history among his fellows. Nothing Scotland Yard can use to their advantage, but enough to make him a person of interest. Now, Mr. Dyne, who’s safe did you open and what did you take from it?”