The Criminal Mastermind of Baker Street

by Rob Nunn

  After investigating where the body was found with Watson and Lestrade, Holmes wrote a telegram to Mycroft. “See some light in the darkness, but it may possibly flicker out. Meanwhile, please send by messenger, to await return at Baker Street, a complete list of all foreign spies or international agents known to be in England, with full address. –Sherlock”

  Once on the train and away from Lestrade, Holmes turned to Watson. “There is material here. There is scope. I am dull indeed not to have understood its possibilities.”

  “Even now they are dark to me,” Watson replied.

  “The end is dark to me also, but I have hold of one idea which may lead us far. The man met his death elsewhere, and his body was on the roof of a train carriage.”

  “On the roof!”

  “Remarkable, is it not? But consider the facts. You told me that the body was found at the very point where the train sways as it comes round on the points. Is not that the place where an object upon the roof might be expected to fall off? Either the body fell from the roof, or a very curious coincidence has occurred. But now consider the question of the blood. Of course, there was no bleeding on the line if the body had bled elsewhere. Each fact is suggestive in itself. Together we have a cumulative force.”

  “And the ticket, too!”

  “Exactly. We could not explain the absence of a ticket. This would explain it. Everything fits together.” Holmes relapsed into a silent reverie, which lasted until the train drew up at Woolwich Station. There he called a cab and drew a piece of paper from his pocket.

  “Mycroft has jotted down the more essential names upon this sheet of paper, together with a few addresses which may be of service. I think that Sir James Walter, the official guardian of the papers, claims our first attention.”

  When they arrived at the fine villa of Sir Walter, a butler answered their ring. “Sir James, sir!” he said with a solemn face. “Sir James died this morning. Perhaps you would care to step in, sir, and see his brother, Colonel Valentine?”

  “Yes,” answered Holmes. “We had best do so.”

  Holmes and Watson were ushered into a dimly lit drawing room and were soon joined by a very tall, light-bearded man. “It was a horrible scandal,” Valentine Walter said. “My brother, Sir James, was a man of very sensitive honor, and he could not survive such an affair. It broke his heart. He was always so proud of the efficiency of his department, and this was a crushing blow. I know nothing myself save what I have read or heard.”

  Leaving the house empty-handed, Holmes and Watson turned their attention to the arsenal office. There, Holmes questioned the clerk and examined the safe, the room and its shutters, which hardly met in the middle, allowing anyone to see through them. Moving outside, Holmes became excited once next to the window to the office. Watson had hardly seen his friend thrilled with a keener zest when they were defiers of the law instead of its defenders. There was a laurel bush outside the window, and several of the branches had been twisted and snapped. After looking at some vague and dim marks on the earth, he turned to Watson. “I do not think that Woolwich can help us further. Let us see if we can do better in London. If Mycroft has given us the list of addresses, we may be able to pick our man.”

  A note awaited Holmes and Watson at Baker Street. It read, “There are numerous small fry, but few who would handle so big an affair. The only men worth considering are Adolph Mayer, of 13 George Street, Westminster; Louis La Rothiere, of Campden Mansions, Notting Hill; and Hugo Oberstein, 13 Caulfield Gardens, Kensington. The latter was known to be in town on Monday and is now reported as having left. Glad to hear you have seen some light. The Cabinet awaits your final report with the utmost anxiety. Urgent representations have arrived from the very highest quarter. The whole force of the State is at your back if you should need it. - Mycroft.”

  Holmes spread out his big map of London and leaned over it eagerly. “Well, well, things are turning a little in our direction at last. Why, Watson, I do honestly believe that we are going to pull it off after all.” Holmes stood and slapped Watson on the shoulder. “I am going out now.”

  “Why not send an employee?” Watson asked.

  “A matter of state importance must be handled with discretion.”

  “Then I will go with you.”

  “It is only a reconnaissance. I will do nothing serious without my trusted comrade. Do stay here, and the odds are that you will see me again in an hour or two. If time hangs heavy, get foolscap and a pen, and begin a narrative to tell future generations of how two gentlemen thieves saved the State.”

  Shortly after nine o’clock, a messenger arrived with a note for Watson. “Am dining at Goldini’s Restaurant, Gloucester Road, Kensington. Please come at once if convenient - if inconvenient come all the same. Bring with you a jemmy, a dark lantern, a chisel, and a revolver. –S.H.”

  Holmes sat at a little round table near the door of the garish Italian restaurant. “Have you had something to eat? Then join me in a coffee and curacao. Try one of the proprietor’s cigars. They are less poisonous than one would expect. Have you the tools?”

  “They are here in my overcoat,” Watson answered.

  “Excellent. Now it must be evident to you, Watson, that this young man’s body was placed on the roof of the train. That was clear from the instant that I determined the fact that it was from the roof, and not from the carriage that he had fallen.”

  “But how was he placed there?”

  “That was the question which we had to answer. You are aware that the Underground runs clear of tunnels at some points in the West End. Now, suppose that a train halted under a window, would there be any difficulty in laying a body upon the roof?”

  “It seems most improbable,” Watson said, skeptically.

  “We must fall back upon the old axiom that when all other contingencies fail, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Here all other contingencies have failed. When I found that the leading international agent, who had just left London, lived in a row of houses which abutted upon the Underground, I was very pleased. Mr. Hugo Oberstein, of 13 Caulfield Gardens, had become my objective. Not only do the back windows of Caulfield Gardens open on the line but the Underground trains are frequently held motionless for some minutes at that very spot.”

  “Splendid, Holmes! You have got it! Should we share this information with Mycroft the officials?”

  “And stop shy of our goal? Pshaw, Doctor! No, my dear fellow, we will not leave this halfway finished.” Holmes sprang up. “It is nearly half a mile, but there is no hurry. Let us walk.”

  In short time, the men came to Caulfield Gardens. Holmes set to work upon the door and it soon flew open. He led the way up the curving, uncarpeted stair. “Here we are, Watson - this must be the one.” He threw open a low window as a train dashed past them in the darkness.

  Noting where the soot covered window sill was rubbed, Holmes pointed out, “You can see where they rested the body. What is this? There can be no doubt that this is a blood mark. Perhaps we may find something which may still help us.”

  Swiftly and methodically, Holmes turned over the contents of every drawer and cupboard, but no gleam of success came to his austere face, until he came to a small tin cash box upon the writing desk.

  “What’s this Watson? A series of messages in the advertisements of The Daily Telegraph agony column. No dates, but a complete conversation between Oberstein and an unknown agent named Pierrot. A fairly complete record, Watson! If we could only get at the man at the other end!”

  Holmes sat lost in thought for some minutes before springing to his feet. “Well, perhaps it won’t be so difficult after all. There is nothing more to be done here, Watson. I think we might drive round to the offices of the Daily Telegraph, and so bring a good day’s work to a conclusion. Sometimes the press can be a most valuable institution if only you know how to u
se it.”

  The next morning found Watson sitting at the breakfast table by himself when Mrs. Hudson showed up Mycroft Holmes and Inspector Lestrade.

  “Good morning, Doctor,” Mycroft greeted. “Where is Sherlock? He requested we appear this morning.”

  Before Watson could answer, Holmes’ voice echoed from the hall. “Ah, Mycroft! And Lestrade, thank you for joining us. Have you seen Pierrot’s advertisement today?”

  “Who is Pierrot?” Lestrade asked.

  Holmes gave the two newcomers a quick overview of the previous day’s activities.

  “We can’t do such things as burglary on the force, Mr. Holmes. No wonder your brother requested your help. Hoping you don’t make a habit out of such unlawful behavior.”

  “Never, Lestrade! But for England, home and beauty - eh, Watson?” Turning to his brother, Holmes continued. “Here is the advertisement.”

  Mycroft read the advertisement out loud. “Tonight. Same hour. Same place. Two taps. Most vitally important. Your own safety at stake. –Pierrot.” Mycroft lowered the paper. “Very clever, Sherlock. And what time shall we meet you tonight?”

  “I think if you could both make it convenient to come with us about eight o’clock to Caulfield Gardens we might possibly get a little nearer to a solution.”

  By nine o’clock, the four men were sitting in Oberstein’s study, waiting patiently for their man. After two hours of waiting, Holmes raised his head with a sudden jerk. “He is coming.”

  Two sharp taps came from the knocker. Holmes rose but motioned for the others to remain seated. The gas in the hall was dim. He opened the outer door, and then a dark figure slipped past. Holmes motioned for the man to move further into the room, and the man entered the study.

  Holmes followed him closely, and as the man turned, he caught him by the collar and threw him to the ground. Before the prisoner could recover, Holmes shut and bolted the door. The man glared around, and Holmes turned the light up in the room to reveal the handsome face of Colonel Valentine Walter.

  “Gentlemen,” Holmes said, “this is the younger brother of the late Sir James Walter, the head of the Submarine Department.”

  From his horror-stricken face, Sir Walter stammered, “What is this? I came here to visit Mr. Oberstein.”

  “Everything is known, Colonel,” said Holmes, motioning for him to move from the floor to the sofa.

  The man groaned and sank his face in his hands as he sat on the sofa. Holmes and the others waited, but he remained silent.

  “I can assure you,” said Holmes finally, “that every essential is already known. My companions here are dangerous ruffians and together we are going to hear you confess. We know that you acquired a copy of your brother’s keys; and that you entered into a correspondence with Oberstein, who answered your letters through the advertisement columns of the Daily Telegraph. We are aware that you went down to the office in the fog on Monday night, but that you were seen and followed by young Cadogan West. He saw your theft, and leaving all his private concerns, like the good citizen that he was, he followed you here. There he intervened, and you murdered him.”

  “I did not! I did not! Before God I swear that I did not!” cried the prisoner. “I confess that I did the rest. It was just as you say. A Stock Exchange debt had to be paid. Oberstein offered me five thousand. It was to save myself from ruin. But as to murder, I am as innocent as you.”

  Holmes stared at Walter with his cold, grey eyes.

  “The young man rushed in after me when I arrived and Oberstein struck him on the head with a life preserver. The blow was a fatal one. He was dead within five minutes. Oberstein examined the papers which I had brought and said that three of them were essential. The rest he stuffed into the pockets of the young man. We waited half an hour before a train stopped outside his window and we lowered the body on to the train. That was the end of the matter as far as I was concerned.”

  “And your brother?” Holmes asked.

  “He knew. I read it in his eyes. The shame led to his death,” Walter answered with his head lowered.

  “Where is Oberstein with the papers?” Mycroft asked.

  “I do not know. He said that letters to the Hotel du Louvre, Paris would eventually reach him.”

  “Sit at this desk and write to my dictation,” Holmes ordered. Walter obliged. “’Dear Sir: With regard to our transaction, you will no doubt have observed by now that one essential detail is missing. I have a tracing which will make it complete. This has involved me in extra trouble, and I must ask you for a further advance of five hundred pounds. I will not trust it to the post, nor will I take anything but gold or notes. I would come to you abroad, but it would excite remark if I left the country at present. Therefore I shall expect to meet you in the smoking room of the Charing Cross Hotel at noon on Saturday.’ That will do very well. I shall be very much surprised if it does not allow Lestrade to fetch our man.”

  And it did.

  Oberstein, eager to complete the coup of a lifetime, came and was safely engulfed for fifteen years in a British prison. In his trunk were the invaluable Bruce-Partington plans, which he had put up for auction in all the naval centers of Europe.

  A few days after the Oberstein capture, a package was sent from Mycroft to Baker Street. In it lay an emerald tie-pin with a note from Mycroft saying that they were from a certain gracious lady. Holmes merely smiled and returned to his monograph on the Polyphonic Motets of Lassus.

  Chapter 15: The Worst Man in London

  For the next three years, Mr. Sherlock Holmes was a very busy man. It is safe to say that there was no crime of any difficulty in which he was not consulted. There were scores of private cases, some of them of the most intricate and extraordinary in character, in which he played a prominent part. Many startling successes and a few unavoidable failures were the outcome of this long period of continuous work.

  Over this time, Watson had gradually been able to wean Holmes off his cocaine habit, knowing that it was not dead but sleeping. Once Holmes’ artificial stimulant had been removed, Watson dutifully worked to keep his friend occupied. Operations such as the fraudulent giant rat of Sumatra and the falsified two Coptic patriarchs were unmitigated successes. Holmes’ day to day operations also hummed along nicely, and some employees became captains in their fields, such as Arthur Staunton, a rising forger that Holmes took a special shine to, and Vanderbilt the safecracker.

  But others, such as the Randall gang, were ordered to leave London when they did not live up to Holmes’ strict code of conduct. And once, a private detective from the Surrey shore by the name of Mr. Baker began to look closely into an art forgery Holmes was behind, causing a slight stir in the organization. But contingencies were in place, and any threads the detective may have collected led nowhere, causing him to return to Surrey emptyhanded.

  Holmes continued to write his monographs, but after completing his latest on the Chaldean roots in the ancient Cornish language, he sulked about the rooms at Baker Street for two days. Finally, Watson could take it no more.

  “What do you say to a ramble through London?” the doctor offered.

  Holmes waved away the suggestion contemptuously. “Bah! I do not see the need to take exercise for exercise’s sake. No, I crave mental exaltation. My dear Watson, you know how bored I have been. My mind is like a racing engine, tearing itself to pieces because it is not connected up with the work for which it was built. Life is commonplace, the papers are sterile; audacity and romance seem to have passed forever from the criminal world.

  “I while away my days writing these trifles on ancient languages and secret ciphers, but my true passion lays dormant to my pen. The thrill of a perfectly executed crime - that! That is a feat worthy of my talents. But I sit here, pretending to be some eccentric while no opportunities arise. And, so few know what I am truly capable of!”

 
A change had come over Holmes’ manner. While working on his latest academic monograph, he had been restless. Now that he was raging against boredom, a light shone in his keen, deep-set eyes.

  “You could turn your attention to the missing pearl of Borgias,” Watson ventured.

  “Hardly. The official force is crawling around that problem like ants at a picnic. And what they do not know is that a member of the Italian Mafia is in London pursuing the same prize. I am bored, Watson, but not foolhardy enough to call the attention of the Mafia to our organization.”

  “Then why not put your thoughts on crime down on paper?” Watson asked.

  Holmes chuckled. “That is an idea, but one I’m afraid that the case-book of Sherlock Holmes would consume me once I start. No, I am, at present, too busy with the running of my little empire to become an author. But I propose to devote my declining years to the composition of a textbook which shall focus the whole art of crime into one single volume.”

  Looking out the window, he continued. “But until my retirement years, I shall strive to entertain myself. In fact, I believe we may have a delightful new tool in our arsenal soon. Stoke the fire, and let me tell you about the devil’s foot root which I have recently come into possession of. And after that, now that you have pulled me out of my dejected mood, perhaps we shall escape from this weary day by the side door of music. Carina sings tonight at the Albert Hall. Yes, let’s plan to dress, dine, and enjoy.”

  But the quiet times did not last forever. Shortly after the New Year in 1899, Holmes and Watson returned home one cold, frosty evening to find a calling card waiting for them. Holmes read it, and with a swear of disgust, threw it on the floor.

  Watson read the card, “Charles Augustus Milverton, Appledore Towers, Hampstead. Agent.” Looking at Holmes, he asked, “Who is he?”