The Whitehall Papers: Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

by Maurice Barkley

  “I think I know, Sherlock,” said Mycroft, who had all the while been looking over my companion’s shoulder. “I’m reluctant to lean out of that shabby window for verification.”

  Holmes glanced in his direction. “There is a thread Watson and I must follow. It may well lead to a blank wall, but we shall see. What I do not want is a curious policeman following Watson and me. Your task will be to go down to our friends on the street and tell them I am hard at work, but paint a gloomy picture as regards our progress. You might even imply I am reluctant to come down and admit defeat. Do your best to get them in a cab and take them back to Whitehall. Watson and I will wait here for a time then make a dejected exit.”

  Mycroft wished us well and departed. I immediately turned to Sherlock and said, “Now we are alone and have a few minutes to wait, tell me what it is you have discovered.”

  “You can see it all in, and just outside either room,” he replied. “First—the table. Why place both of them by open windows? It was obvious their placement served some purpose. Now, the film of dust on each table is sufficient to show the imprint of a wicker basket. Indeed, if you look closely here in the centre, you can see a faint, but perfect impression of a wicker bottom. We know the first basket was in place, for the messenger placed the money in it. I am certain that even this morning, as we read the message from the blackmailer, both baskets sat here. This table held the one with the photographs and negatives and in the other apartment the one in which our quarry placed the money.”

  “But why?” I asked. “Why would he do such a thing and how on earth did he recover them without being seen?”

  “Look here, if you will,” said Holmes. “Just outside this window and to the left you will see a pulley wheel and cable fastened to the wall. These are common to almost every tenement in the city. Used of course by housewives to hang their wash. The interesting thing about this device and the one outside of apartment 9 is that the cables are almost new and the pulleys have had a recent and generous oiling. A most curious item to find in a long abandoned building, don't you think?”

  “Great Scott,” I cried, how incredibly clever. That is why we were not to move the baskets and to secure the lid. The man had a wire or cord running from the basket to the cable. From an apartment across the alleyway he could observe and retrieve either or both baskets at any time by just a strong pull on the cable. Small wonder he was not seen.”

  “Yes, Watson, that is exactly what he did. There is a faint scuffmark on the window ledge which was probably made when he retrieved the basket of money. How beautifully worked out. Since he saw or someone informed him that the police were laying a trap, he simply retrieved both baskets at the proper moment and went on his way. He never had to enter this building. Had the people at Whitehall cooperated and followed his instructions, he would have observed the man place the money in the basket. Then, after the courier had retired to the front apartment he would haul in that basket, check to see that the money was there, and then depart. If at any point he saw an attempt at trickery, he could recover the other basket instantly—which of course he did. This proves by the way, he would have surrendered the photographs and negatives. If not, why bother with the second basket?”

  “I hope,” I said, “that I am present when you tell this tale to the people at Whitehall.”

  Holmes moved toward the door. “Yes, but we have a way to go yet. I think we may leave now. Just be sure to look hang-dog and say nothing.”

  We made our exit to a virtually deserted Stainsby Road. Two solitary constables near the entrance were all that remained of the large force. They watched in silence as we boarded a cab Mycroft had thoughtfully left for us. Holmes gave the driver our Baker street address in a voice loud enough for the policemen to hear, but they showed no interest. Once we were well out of sight, Holmes signaled the driver to stop. He stood up, leaned round the top and had a short conversation with the man.

  “I've hired him for however long we need his conveyance,” said Holmes, as he sat back down. “As you may have guessed we are now going to the deserted block of buildings at the other end of the cables. You may not have noticed at the time, but the cables from both apartments ran to the same hook on the far side. I have noted the position of that apartment. We should have little difficulty locating it once inside.”

  Minutes later we were traveling up Richard Street, which parallels Stainsby Road to the east. Holmes waved us to a stop in front of the building that held our interest. Deserted, it was in much the same condition as the one we had just left.

  No one was about as we boldly entered and made our way to the top with the aid of my pocket lantern. We easily located the apartment where the cables terminated. I looked out of its window and had a perfect view of the tables and interiors of apartments 9 and 11, empty and aglow from the lights of the police lanterns. The room we stood in was as empty as the others. It had but a single old chair placed by the window and next to it a small wooden box. Holmes spent a good quarter hour going over the room.

  When finished, he turned to me with a slight frown and said, “The trail grows cool, Watson. The man left practically nothing. No footprints, no ashes, just a few cake crumbs there on the crate.”

  “This is terrible,” I cried. “To have it all come to nothing so soon.”

  “No, Watson, we are not quite finished. Those cake crumbs give us a slight chance. They look to be of the variety of cake sold at coffee stalls all over the city. As we came in I saw an open stall on the corner. I suggest we pay the owner a visit.”

  It seemed hopeless to me, but there were no alternatives. The side curtains of the coffee stall were down against the damp night air, serving to obscure our view of the interior until we stepped up to the counter. This gave me no time at all to prepare for our meeting with the most overwhelming proprietor. The material that went in to the making of this man was sufficient, if equally divided, to construct two good sized humans. His was the body of a fighter, hard and well-muscled, but of giant proportions. His face, marked and scarred, carried a nose the size of my fist, but all hammered flat. A large, black patch covered one eye. My mind boggled at the thought of any man who could stand against him. None of his scars were fresh though, for he was past fifty. His hair had departed long ago and lines so deep they made their own shadows creased his cheeks and forehead.

  “Well bless me,” the giant rumbled, “if it ain't Mr. Holmes his own self.”

  Holmes shook hands with this amazing creature and said, “Dr. Watson, I'd like you to meet The Crusher. Sometime, when we are more at leisure, I'll tell you some stories about this man, but they must wait.”

  Holmes turned back to the giant, “My friend, Dr. Watson and I are here on a matter of great importance and time is not on our side.”

  “How can I help you then?” The Crusher asked.

  “Sometime within the past day or two, has a man possibly carrying two wicker baskets purchased cake from you?”

  “Sure, yesterday and every day for almost two weeks before that—though not always with his baskets. Short little feller he was. Black hair all slicked down, pasty thin face, mebby thirty year old.”

  “Was yesterday the last you saw of him?” Holmes asked.

  “Naw. I been here the whole night and about one o'clock or so he came walkin' up, but not to buy cake. He went off in a hansom, parked here while the driver was takin' on coffee. Could be the driver was waitin' for him cause the little feller hopped in without a word and off they went at a good clip.”

  “Did he have his baskets?”

  “Yessir, had' em both.”

  “Do you happen to know the identity of the driver?”

  “Course I do. I knows everyone on these streets. His name is Old Jake. This time o' night you'll find him at the Brown Boar havin' a coffee on the table and a pint under the bench. That is if he ain't out with a fare. Just ask for Old Jake and mention my name.”

  “I know the place,” said Holmes. “We can be there in five minutes.�
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  I didn’t wonder that my companion knew of this more than obscure establishment, His knowledge of the city was to say the least, remarkable. Again in our hired hansom we continued our quest, following an ever more faint and twisted trail. Surely, our good fortune could not last. The Brown Boar, a place not particular about observing closing hours, sat black and forbidding in one of those nameless dim alleys that run off Stainsby Road. We found Old Jake in genial conversation with two of his friends at a rough plank table near the street window. For all the light that filtered through the sooty glass, it may as well have been a wall. The trio immediately accepted our credentials on mention of The Crusher. Holmes stood a round of drinks for all as they made space for us at the table.

  Holmes looked Old Jake square in the eye. “I'm trying to locate a man who hired your cab tonight. At about one this morning you picked him up at The Crusher's coffee stall. He was carrying two wicker baskets.”

  “Ah. Yessir, yessir, I remember well,” said Old Jake, while wiping his white beard with the sleeve of his jacket. “Little feller he was. Nervous as a chigger. Took him all the way over to Stanford Street. Ain't been back, but a little while.”

  “Where on Stanford Street did you deliver him?” Holmes asked.

  “Corner of Cornwall Road it was.”

  “Now, I ask you to think carefully and. tell me exactly where you stopped on that corner.”

  “Well, sir,” said Old Jake, pulling at his beard, “I was heading east off Waterloo Road and just after crossin' Cornwall he called for me to stop. I pulled to the curb not more than thirty feet from the corner.”

  “Did you see which way he walked?”

  “For certain I was busy countin' my money, but it seems I remember him walkin' back toward Cornwall.”

  Holmes stood another round, thanked the old driver, and we took our leave.

  “Interesting,” said Holmes, as we bounced over some particularly rough cobblestones in the early morning light. “From our new destination on Stanford Street, one can drive over Waterloo Bridge or take a train from Waterloo station to Charing Cross Station and be at Whitehall in five minutes. It may or may not be significant.”

  “That's all very well,” I said. “It is amazing we've come this far on so little information, but I fear the blank wall you mentioned is waiting for us at Stanford and Cornwall.”

  “You may be correct,” said Holmes, with a thin smile, “but pray do not despair so soon. Our precarious position adds a great deal of zest to our little adventure. The satisfaction comes from surmounting these obstacles.”

  Holmes then lapsed into silence, eyes closed, puffing slowly on his pipe. Nor did he move again until our cab brought us to the next stop on our strange journey.

  The area to which our driver delivered us was very commercial. Signs of every description, large and small, squeezed in random fashion among, over or under a multitude of shops, professional offices and small factories. The buildings ran to three and four stories with a haphazard mix of apartments. Holmes and I strolled almost leisurely back toward Cornwall Road, looking at anything and everything.

  “If I were our mysterious traveler,” said Holmes, conversationally, “feeling certain no one could trace my movements, I'd not hesitate to have my driver deliver me to a spot quite convenient to my destination. However, being cautious I might make sure the particular address to which I was going lay just beyond his view. For those reasons we shall just step around the corner on to Cornwall Road and have a look.”

  One not intimately familiar with the neighborhood could easily confuse Cornwall Road with Stanford Street. The same frantic designer created the jumble of establishments. Holmes stopped suddenly, and then walked briskly part way down the block.

  “This is it, Watson,” he said, while nodding toward a small storefront. “A most interesting fact is that on this busy street, early on such a fine morning, it is the only place not open for business. Yes, I think we must investigate.”

  The sign overhead read FOOTE & COMPANY - MANUFACTUERS & DISTRIBUTORS OF QUALITY PHOTOGRAPHIC EQUIPMENT & SUPPLIES - RETAIL OUTLET.

  I quite unnecessarily pointed. “See that, Holmes? ‘Photographic equipment’. By George we may be on to something here.”

  “Quite so, Watson, quite so,” said Holmes, as we approached the storefront.

  A small sign in a grimy display window crammed with their products stated they were open to the public daily. Holmes pulled the bell and knocked repeatedly, but all remained dark and silent within.

  “One moment,” Holmes said, as he leaned his back against the door, his hands hidden behind his back. In seconds I heard a soft click and the door swung inward. A few more seconds found us safely inside, the door closed and re-locked behind us.

  Like its window, the interior of the small shop suffered an excess of merchandise. Shelves on all four sides sagged with the weight of goods packed so tightly as to obscure the walls. A glass counter full to overflow stood at the rear, directly in front of a small, low door.

  “They sell a bit of everything here,” I observed. “Cameras, chemicals, plates, accessories—anything you could want for photography.”

  “Yes,” said Holmes. “A legitimate business is an excellent cover. Now let us see what lies beyond the door. Keep one hand on your pistol.”

  The door had no lock. We passed through to a large workshop and storage area. On the left I saw goods piled up on sturdy shelves. Long workbenches lined the wall to the right. At the rear there was a small walled off area.

  Although he could surely see it as well as me, I cried, “Holmes—look there!”

  On the floor near one of the benches a man was lying face down. A small, but long wooden box lay near his right hand. Holmes approached and knelt down at his side. With one hand he took hold of the man's shoulder and gently rolled him over.

  “If Old Jake and The Crusher are at all accurate in their descriptions,” said Holmes, “this is our man. He is short of stature, pale complexion, black slick hair and unfortunately, quite dead. No wonder Old Jake thought he was nervous, the poor fool was in over his head on this one and likely knew as much.”

  His physical condition was immediately apparent when I had my first glimpse of his face. He had received a terrible blow on the temple which I am sure fractured his skull. The impact also lacerated his scalp resulting in the loss of a considerable amount of blood.

  “Watson,” said Holmes, “tell me what you think may have happened here.”

  “From the blood trail,” I said, “it looks as though someone attacked him in the centre of the room.” I walked to the indicated spot. “He lay here unconscious for a time and then revived enough to drag himself over to the bench.” I pantomimed dragging him across the floor. “With his last remaining strength, he tried to stand up by grabbing here. At that point he collapsed, knocking the box from the bench.”

  “Excellent analysis, Doctor, you’re getting better at this business by the day.” He finished examining the body and the floor with quiet efficiency. “Nothing to add to your observations,” he said, while picking up the box. “What a curious little device. Look at this, Watson. All though it doesn't look it, this is a most unusual camera. See here, at this end there is a slot for inserting the plates. It has a round collar at the other end where the lens should be. Just inside we have a standard shutter, but the strange thing is that a few inches beyond is a small lens. I have made a little study of the photographic art and most cameras I know of have the lens in front of the shutter. Except for the shutter it looks more like a telescope. Could it be he was deliberately grasping for this to provide us with a clue that would lead to his murderer?”

  “A good possibility,” I said. “Perhaps somehow the dead man used it to obtain photographs of the documents?”

  “Yes, but it is not enough,” Holmes replied. “He died too soon.” Holmes stood in silence for a few moments then said, “We must take this camera with us.”

  “Where are we going?” I asked
.

  “To Whitehall. I must see that conference room. We can inform the police of this murder after we finish.”

  As our cab swung into the lines of traffic flowing toward Waterloo Bridge, Holmes said to me, “The master of this whole affair is leaving no witnesses, if our net falls on him, it must be swift and strong. He is evidently a very dangerous man.”

  At Whitehall, we went directly to Mycroft' s office. Sherlock briefly outlined our activities since leaving Stainsby Road and then requested entrance to the conference room. Mycroft extracted a large brass key from his wall safe.

  “I've become number seven,” he said. “Lord Bethnal gave me his key a short while ago. He is so distraught he does not trust himself to guard it.”

  We left the office with Mycroft. He led us to a long corridor where a guard in uniform sat reading a book. In addition to a chair he had a small desk, all of which sat on a raised platform.

  “Good morning, Paul.” said Mycroft. “This is my brother Sherlock Holmes and his associate Dr. Watson. They are here at my request to assist on a matter of concern to the government and I find it necessary to grant them entry to the conference room.”

  “A bit irregular, sir,” said the guard, “but with you along it will be all right.”

  Our little party then moved about forty feet down the corridor to the large door protecting the conference room from the rest of the world. It was a massive and most handsome construction of large mahogany planks secured with iron rivets. In the centre, at eye level, the craftsman had inset a small decorative glass panel. Although the window was a clear glass casting, it was quite impossible to see into the room. Round and oval blobs of glass covered its entire surface, which completely diffused and distorted all light passing through in either direction.

  Just as Mycroft inserted his key in the lock I heard a shout from the end of the corridor. I turned and saw Mr. Franken striding swiftly toward us. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded in a very unpleasant manner.