by June Thomson
‘Was Signor Graziani right in thinking you may know who the thieves are?’ I inquired as Holmes returned to his chair.
‘Oh, there is no doubt about that,’ he replied ‘Their modus operandi gives them away as surely as if they had signed their names at the bottom of a confession. It is one of the curious factors about criminals, Watson: they are creatures of habit, especially thieves and burglars. Time and time again they will break into a house by the same means or tie up their victims using one particular type of knot. It is so in this case. The thieves, whom I shall refer to as Mr and Mrs Armstrong, one of their many aliases, always work together and their method never varies. They operate in public places, usually one of the railway termini such as St Paneras or Victoria, or in the foyers of large hotels, and their victims are always people carrying some form of luggage. Having chosen a likely person, Mrs Armstrong approaches their target and makes an innocent-seeming inquiry about the time or the location of the nearest cab rank. As she is very beautiful and well dressed, the victim, almost always a man, has no reason to be suspicious. Placing his valise or portmanteau on the ground, he raises his hat, takes out his pocket-watch or points out the direction. It is at this moment that Armstrong, who has been waiting near by, moves forward and, while the victim’s attention is distracted, picks up the bag and walks quickly away with it into the crowd. Mrs Armstrong then takes her leave and, before the gentleman realises what has happened, she, too, has disappeared.
‘Of course, they have no means of knowing what is in the stolen luggage but, providing they have chosen a suitable target, it will usually contain something of value even if it is only clothing although occasionally they are lucky and find silver-backed hairbrushes or a pair of gold cuff-links. The contents are then sold either to a fence or a dealer.
‘Sometimes there is no need for them to approach the victim directly. He may provide the opportunity himself by putting down his bag to look for a railway ticket or to sign his name in a hotel’s register.’
‘Or, in the case of Signor Graziani, to pay a cab driver,’ I interjected.
‘Exactly so, Watson. Now, having identified the thieves, the next question to be answered is: what will the Armstrongs do once they discover Signor Graziani’s valise contains not dress shirts or even cuff-links but a set of cameos? They are obviously not unintelligent. The fact that they have so far escaped arrest proves that, even though the police know all about their exploits. As soon as they see the cameos, they will realise they are extremely valuable. The leather box alone with the papal insignia stamped on its lid will convince them of that. They are therefore unlikely to approach their usual dealer but will look for a fence who handles the better class of stolen property such as antiques or objets d’art. The dealer will then sell the cameos to a collector or, as I think more likely in this case, he will, as Mr Valentine suggested, approach Signor Graziani through Mr Valentine himself, offering to return them at a price.’
‘But how will the dealer know whom they belong to, Holmes?’ I inquired.
‘My dear Watson, isn’t that obvious?’ Holmes replied a little impatiently. ‘The bag containing the cameos was stolen outside the British Museum where, as anyone who reads a newspaper will know, an exhibition of Renaissance art is due to be mounted. If the dealer knows his subject, and several of them are as knowledgeable about objets de vertu as any expert at Christie’s or Sotheby’s, he may well realise that the cameos belong to the Vatican collection and that therefore he can charge a ransom for their safe return.’
‘Do you have any dealers in mind?’
‘There are several operating in London, any one of whom is capable of handling such a transaction. But first I have two calls I must make, one to the nearest post office, the other to the British Museum.’
‘Why a post office, Holmes?’ I asked in some bewilderment for, although I could see the point of his need to consult Mr Valentine at the museum, the significance of the post office quite escaped me.
‘To send a telegram, of course!’ he replied, much amused by my obtuseness and, seizing up his hat and stick, he strode briskly out of the room.
II
It was several hours before he returned and, as soon as he entered, I was aware of a change in his demeanour. He was abstracted, as if he had something on his mind. Barely acknowledging my presence, he went straight to the window where he stood gazing down into the street, impatiently drumming his fingers on the glass. It was quite clear he was waiting for someone to call, almost certainly in consequence of the telegram he had sent, but I hesitated to question him in case I interrupted whatever train of thought he was following.
After about quarter of an hour, I heard him give an exclamation of satisfaction and I guessed his expected visitor had arrived. Seconds later there was a ring at the front door bell, followed by footsteps mounting the stairs, and the boy in buttons showed our caller into the room.
He was a short, stockily built man; a costermonger, I assumed, from his shabby corduroy trousers and the red handkerchief about his neck. But he might have been Holmes’ long-lost brother from the warmth with which he greeted him.
‘Sam Wegg!’ he cried, shaking him vigorously by the hand. ‘I am delighted you could come. Allow me to introduce my colleague, Dr Watson.’
‘I ’ave ’eard of you, doctor,’ Sam Wegg remarked, smiling broadly. ‘I read that story of yours in the Christmas annual. Very enjoyable it was, too, sir.’*
I was flattered by his praise and disarmed also by his frank, good-natured expression.
‘How is the family, Sam?’ Holmes was asking, bustling him into a chair and offering him a glass of whisky and soda.†
‘Flourishin’ like the flowers of May.’
‘And the business?’
‘Couldn’t be better, thanks to you, sir.’ Turning to me, he continued, ‘It was Mr ’Olmes as set me up as a costermonger. Afore that, I was a dip – a pickpocket to you, doctor.’
‘And not a very successful one either,’ Holmes interjected at which Sam Wegg laughed heartily.
‘You’re right there, sir! I’ve had me collar felt more than once and served me time in gaol. And then one day I ’ad the good fortune to try lifting Mr ’Olmes’ pocket-book in Charing Cross Road. I say “good fortune”, ’cos that’s the way ’im and me first got acquainted. No sooner had I slipped me ’and into his coat than he grabbed me by the wrist and marched me into the nearest ’ostelry where he sat me down and struck a bargain with me over a pint of best ale. If I promised to give up dippin,’ ’e’d give me what ’e ’ad in ’is pocket-book to set me up in a respectable line of business. Ten quid it was, doctor! So, as I’d ’elped an uncle of mine out when I was a nipper on ’is fruit and vegetable barrer, that’s the trade I chose. And I ain’t looked back since. In return, I said I’d give Mr ’Olmes any information ’e needed about the East End rogues and villains.’
‘And that is precisely why I asked you to call here today, Sam,’ Holmes said. ‘Who among the dealers would be willing to handle high-class stolen property?’
‘What line in ’igh-class property?’ Sam Wegg inquired.
‘Jewellery, small antiques and works of art,’ Holmes replied with an airy gesture of one hand.
‘Well, there’s old Solly Goldman down at ’Oundsditch and ’Arry Best in Poplar. But I know ’oo I’d go to first and that’s Monty Gimble.’
‘Ah, Gimble,’ Holmes said softly as if the name were already familiar to him. ‘He lives in Hampstead, does he not?’
‘That’s right, Mr ’Olmes, in a big ’ouse in ’Azelwood Road, name of Beaumont Grange. ’Is main interest is jewellery although ’e’s been known to ’andle other stuff as well. The word got about that Lord Eglinton’s table silver finished up in Gimble’s ’ands. ’E’s also known as Uncle to the nobs.’
‘Uncle to the nobs?’ I put in, puzzled by the phrase.
‘Pawnbroker to the aristocracy, Dr Watson. Say a dook’s down on ’is luck or a ladyship owes money to ’er dressm
aker, then ’oo can they turn to for a bit of the ready? They can’t ’ock the family jewels at the corner pawnshop, like you or me would do. So they takes ’em to Gimble ’oo loans them the cash, ’cept it’s generally ’alf of what the sparklers are worth. Or if a client’s really desperate, then Gimble takes the jewels out of their settin’s and replaces ’em with fakes which ’e cuts ’imself to look so like the real thing that only an expert can tell the difference. They say the Duchess of Bexford’s diamond terara is Gimble’s work.’
‘Is that so?’ Holmes murmured with pretended nonchalance which evidently did not deceive Sam Wegg for he glanced shrewdly at my old friend.
‘Now see ’ere, Mr ’Olmes,’ he said. ’I don’t know what you ’ave in mind but if you’re thinkin’ of tryin’ anythin’ on with Gimble, then you’d best think again. That ’ouse of ’is is like a fortress – bars on every winder and bolts on every door. Not even a cat could get in. And ever since the Potter gang tried burglin’ ’is drum,* ’e’s taken on a bodyguard, name of Billy ’Obson, ’oo frisks everyone afore they’re let in. Know ’im do you, Mr ’Olmes?’
‘Battling Billy, the heavyweight bruiser from Bermondsey?’
‘The very one, sir.’
‘I have seen him in the ring.’†
‘Then you’ll know ’e ain’t the sort to trifle with. And it’s not just ’is dooks* as wants watchin’. ’E’s armed as well; a Smith and Wesson, so I’ve ’eard, which ’e ain’t afraid of usin’ neither.’
‘Thank you for the warning, Sam. I shall certainly bear it in mind. What else do you know about Gimble?’
‘Only that ’e lives like a ’ermit in the one downstairs room opening off the ’all; works there, eats there, sleeps there.’ Giving Holmes a knowing, sideways glance, he added, ‘If you’re interested, Mr ’Olmes, that’s where ’e also keeps ’is safe.’
If Holmes was indeed interested in this piece of information, he gave no sign, his lean features remaining as inscrutable as a Red Indian’s.
‘What about servants?’ he inquired.
‘None ’cept for Billy ’Obson. Gimble’s as tight as a clam over ’is business affairs. ’E don’t trust nobody. And that’s all I knows, Mr ’Olmes. I ’ope I’ve been of use.’
‘You have indeed, Sam,’ Holmes replied, rising and holding out his hand. ‘I am most grateful to you.’
‘I’m only payin’ back what I owes you,’ Sam Wegg replied as, shaking hands with both of us, he took his leave.
‘Were you thinking of breaking into Gimble’s house?’ I inquired after the door closed behind him.
‘Not any longer,’ Holmes replied cheerfully. ‘I shall have to devise some other stratagem instead. Perhaps a direct approach might be the best solution. I shall put my mind to the problem. And now, my dear fellow, if you care to pass me the Morning Post, I shall continue with the report on the trial of Emily Moorhouse which Signor Graziani’s arrival interrupted.’
With that, I had to remain content. For the rest of the day, Holmes made no further reference either to the Vatican cameos or to any plans he might have made for their recovery.
III
It was not until breakfast the following morning that Holmes spoke again of the inquiry and that was only in a negligent manner.
‘I suppose, Watson,’ said he, rising from the table, ‘that before I go any further in the case, I should call on Signor Graziani at his hotel and find out if our little enterprise has the blessing of the Pope.’
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ I asked.
‘There is no need for that,’ he replied. ‘It will not take long. I should be back within the hour.’
In the event, it was nearly half past four in the afternoon before he returned with the well-satisfied air of a man who has completed an excellent day’s work.
‘We have crossed one hurdle, Watson,’ he announced, rubbing his hands together with evident relish. ‘The Pope had indeed given us permission to proceed with the inquiry. I have also prepared a lure which I believe will draw Gimble into our net.’ Taking a small, velvet-covered jeweller’s box from his pocket, he placed it on the table and opened back its lid. ‘And there is the bait! What do you say to that? Magnificent, is it not?’
Approaching the table, I saw lying in the box a most beautiful brooch in the shape of a butterfly, with sapphires for its eyes and the coloured markings on its wings picked out in an intricate pattern of diamonds, rubies and emeralds.
‘It is exquisite, Holmes!’ I exclaimed. ‘How on earth did you acquire it?’
‘Shall we say that a former client of mine, a titled lady of great distinction for whom I was once able to render a small service, has agreed to lend it to me? And here,’ he continued, taking a visiting card from his pocket and laying it down beside the box, ‘is the hook on which the bait will be hung.’
I picked it up to examine it and saw that it was engraved with the name Sir William Fox Hardy, with an address in Maidstone, Kent.
‘I asked a printer I know in Clerkenwell to run it off for me this afternoon,’ Holmes explained.
‘Who is Sir William Fox Hardy?’ I inquired.
‘You, Watson,’ he replied to my great astonishment. ‘On your behalf, or rather on Sir William’s, I took the liberty of sending a telegram to Gimble, requesting an urgent appointment with him at six o’clock this evening. As I omitted to include an address to which he could send a refusal, you will duly arrive at Beaumont Grange at the stated time on the assumption that Gimble will see you, as I have no doubt he will.’
‘I shall arrive?’ I repeated in some alarm. ‘You mean I must go alone?’
Holmes gave a chuckle.
‘Have no fear of that, Watson,’ he assured me. ‘In order for it to succeed, my plan involves the two of us. However, you shall take the leading role in the drama. Like Fortinbras in Hamlet, I shall be merely a supporting player who arrives on the scene shortly before the curtain falls.
‘And now for the play itself and its main character – you, my dear fellow. In view of your predilection for betting,* I thought it most suitable to cast you as Sir William who, because of your losses at the race course, are in urgent need of money. Several creditors are pressing you for payment, in particular your bookmaker who is threatening you with bankruptcy if you fail to settle your debts by the end of the week. Having heard that Gimble is willing to lend money, you have come to London this very afternoon, bringing with you your late wife’s diamond brooch as security against a loan.
‘As for the details of the plot, you will take a cab to Beaumont Grange, dismissing the driver at the front door. Having rung the bell and given your card to Hobson, you will then be ushered into Gimble’s presence. It is at this point that we have to improvise for we do not know if Hobson will remain in the room while the transaction is taking place or whether he will retire to the hall and keep guard on the door. The latter seems the more likely: Sam spoke of Gimble’s love of secrecy. I am therefore inclined to think that he will prefer to conduct his business in private. Although Sam also told us that all the exterior doors are locked and bolted, it seems improbable that, having let you into the house, Hobson will go to the trouble of rebolting the front door behind you when he knows that you will shortly be leaving and he himself is standing guard in the hall. You follow my reasoning, Watson?’
‘Yes, indeed, Holmes. But I still do not understand your part in all this. A little earlier you said that you will enter the scene only in the last few minutes …’
‘And that is still my intention. I shall accompany you in the cab as far as the gates of Beaumont Grange where I shall alight and make my way on foot to the house. Once there, I shall quietly pick the lock on the front door and let myself into the hall.’
‘Just a moment, Holmes!’ I expostulated, seeing a major flaw in his stratagem. ‘As you yourself have just said, Hobson will be on guard. How will you get past him? He will be armed, don’t forget.’
‘I am well aware of that. The simple answer
is he will not be there,’ Holmes said coolly.
‘Not there? Then where will he be?’
‘In Gimble’s room, attending to Sir William who has unfortunately collapsed with a heart attack.’ Seeing my expression, Holmes burst out laughing. ‘Don’t look so astounded, Watson! You are, after all, a doctor. It should not be past your capabilities to fake the symptoms. As Gimble, who now must be in his seventies, will not be strong enough to lift you by himself, he will therefore call on Hobson to assist him. While the two of them are thus engaged, I shall enter the house, the scurry and confusion resulting from your collapse covering any noise I might make in doing so. As I do not know what type of lock is fitted to the front door, I may take several minutes to open it. I trust you can keep up your charade long enough for me to do so.’
‘You may rely on me, Holmes,’ I assured him. Now that he had explained the plan, I felt much easier in my mind. Indeed, I was almost looking forward to the adventure. However, one small doubt remained which I hastened to put to him.
‘How will you know when Hobson has left the hall?’
‘Oh, that will pose no problem,’ said he carelessly. ‘Every front door, however stout, has its weak places where one can hear, and indeed see, what is going on behind it. I am referring, of course, to the keyhole and the letter-box. The latter gives one a clear, if narrow viewpoint, once the flap is opened.’
‘And then, I assume, you will enter Gimble’s room and force him to hand over the stolen cameos?’ I asked, still unsure about this part of the plot. ‘Do you wish me to go armed?’
‘Certainly not! Have you forgotten Sam’s warning that Hobson searches all visitors before they are allowed to enter? Besides, it will not be necessary.’ Consulting his pocket-watch, Holmes added, ‘No more questions, Watson. There is not time. I must look out my set of pick-locks and then we must shortly set off for Hampstead.’
