I had barely wondered whether I should confront the man or simply return to the hotel, when the decision was made for me. The figure stepped backwards into the gloom and was gone, and by the time I arrived at the spot he had vacated, there was nobody to be seen. I took a few steps down the alley, but was acutely aware of the filth under my feet and the looming tenements that seemed to lean towards me the further I progressed down the path. Behind me on Broadway, the sun was shining and industrious people buzzed around like bees, pushing this fledgling country forward by sheer willpower and hard work. Here, though, mere yards from the main thoroughfare, a different world emerged to greet me, one spawned in poverty and nurtured in filth and violence. Even the light seemed dimmer, as the tenements crowded together at their peaks, leaning in like drunkards and blocking the light.
I confess I stood on the spot for several minutes, so shocked was I by the sudden change. Of course, I had been in the slums of London on many occasions, but though Limehouse, Holborn and the rest were as hideous as anything New York had to offer, they stood relatively distinct in their deprivation, separated from the better areas of town by more than just a dozen feet of paving stone.
In any case, it appeared that whoever had been watching me was gone. The only person in sight was a pale-faced child of indeterminate age (somewhere between twelve and seventeen, I would hazard) – a girl, with large grey eyes and short-cut, greasy hair which visibly crawled with vermin.
“Excuse me, young lady. Did anyone pass you in the last few minutes?” I asked her, for the position in which she stood, in the only doorway in sight, facing out into the alley and commanding a view of both the archway through which I had just come and the corner ahead of me, was an ideal one for observation.
She must have heard my words, for her head turned slowly in my direction. She blinked heavily several times but said nothing in reply, though her mouth opened and closed again as if there was something she wished to say. I repeated my question, but this time she turned away, suddenly uninterested in me.
The new focus of her interest was swiftly made clear. A group of grimy toughs rounded the corner in front of me and stood directly in my path. The girl shuffled inside the doorway, pulling the door shut behind her as the men walked towards me, but I could see her face indistinctly at the nearest window. The gang came to a halt a few feet in front of me, and the man foremost – the leader, I assumed – reached inside his jacket and slowly removed a wicked-looking razor, which he opened and allowed to rest casually in his hand. Recognising that I was not welcome in the alley, I made discretion my byword and beat a retreat back into the light of the main street.
Nobody followed me and so, with a sigh, I began to walk towards the hotel, occasionally casting a glance behind me. After a hundred yards, and with no sign of pursuit, I was able to relax and consider what had just happened. I was certain that the man standing in the entranceway had been watching Holmes and me, but for what reason? Though we had made no attempt to hide our identities, neither had we advertised them, and we had only been in the country for a day and a half. In fact, the only people we had spoken to at any length had been Bullock, and the two ladies, Mrs van Raalte and Mrs Lockhart. The latter could be ruled out, I thought, on the grounds that we had only just left her, and she could hardly have arranged for a confederate to have us under observation so quickly, even if she knew our intended destination. Which was all very well, but I could not envisage the other two potential suspects being involved either. Bullock was on our side, I was sure, and I did not imagine that a boarding house landlady had the resources to have us followed. The question must perforce wait for Holmes’s input.
With this thought in mind, I doubled my speed, keener than ever to speak to my old friend.
* * *
To my annoyance, the hotel turned out to be a good deal further away than Holmes had claimed, and it took me over an hour to walk there. My mood was not improved by a steady, if light, drizzle that set in some ten minutes after I began walking and which clung to my trousers and jacket and left me sodden, nor by the discovery that Holmes had found Mrs van Raalte absent and so had taken the cab straight back to the hotel. As I arrived wetly at the entrance, I could see both him and Bullock in front of a roaring fire in the lobby, enjoying a glass of whisky and a pipe apiece.
I wasted no time in interrupting them. “Well, I am glad to see you so comfortable, Holmes!” I began, but I was allowed to go no further in my outburst before he leapt to his feet and ushered me into his seat in front of the fire. Before I could say a word he had called over a waiter, ordered a fresh set of drinks and offered me a cigarette from his case. In light of his solicitude, it would have been churlish to continue to lambast him for his thoughtlessness, so I contented myself with lighting the cigarette and basking in the heat of the fire while he explained himself.
“There was, sadly, no sign of the good lady. I waited ten minutes or more, in the event that Mrs van Raalte might return from whatever errand had taken her away, but when she continued to be absent, I saw no purpose in remaining and ordered the cab to bring me back here. The inspector was already ensconced where you see him now, awaiting our joint arrival.”
“I was wondering how you’d manage with Mrs Lockhart, if truth be told. But Mr Holmes has already brought me up to date. I’m only sorry that she wasn’t of more help.”
Holmes rushed to demur. “Not at all, Inspector. Mrs Lockhart was exceedingly helpful in her own way.”
Bullock cocked a quizzical eyebrow in Holmes’s direction at this, nor could I hide my own confusion. It had seemed to me that the meeting with Mrs Lockhart had been a disappointment, seeing as we had garnered only the bare fact that Holmes had a companion. I said so to Holmes, and asked – with some vigour I admit, for I was not entirely placated for my long walk in the rain – what vital clue had I missed?
“Not a clue as such, Watson. More an unwillingness to speak, which in itself spoke volumes on the lady’s behalf.” He knocked the ashes from his pipe and placed it on the table at his side before continuing; Holmes, I suspect, enjoyed these moments of anticipation almost as much as the revelation itself. “No? You do not see it? You did not remark on the lady’s almost violent desire not to speak of the case undertaken by the imposter on her behalf?”
“I considered it no more than a natural embarrassment at having her dirty laundry aired in public. I don’t doubt that most women would have reacted in a similar manner.”
“To a simple matter of a dishonest servant? Come now, Watson, did the lady strike you as so shrinking a violet?”
I could not deny that Mrs Lockhart had appeared a woman of strong personality. “Perhaps not. But even so, what does her reticence tell you?”
“That the matter was not one of petty theft, for one thing. And that whatever service this faker provided for Mrs Lockhart, it was one that filled her with shame, not gratitude. You heard her say that she hoped to see neither myself nor the other Holmes ever again?”
Now that I thought on it, I had indeed heard her say those very words, but until that point it had entirely slipped my mind. It was certainly an unexpected thing to hear about someone who had done the lady a service.
“She is unlikely to do so.” Inspector Bullock was emphatic in his interruption. “As far as I can tell, no client has ever engaged the man’s services a second time.”
Holmes’s eyes lit up at this information. “Do you say so? Not a single client? That is a fact particularly worthy of thought.”
He fell silent and stared pensively into the fire for several minutes, absent-mindedly tapping his fingers on his knee as he did so. “A possibility suggests itself, but we must speak to his other clientele, I think, before we can be certain.”
I recalled what Bullock had said previously regarding the unofficial status of our investigation, fearing that his further assistance would prove impossible, but I need not have worried. Clearly, the mystery had piqued his interest and, in consequence, he was more than happy to re
main involved.
“I will put together a list of all the imposter’s known cases and have it ready for you first thing in the morning,” he offered immediately.
“All known?”
“I’m afraid I can be no more accurate than that, Mr Holmes. The truth is that nobody knows for sure how the other Mr Holmes comes by his cases, since he does not advertise and – unlike your good self – is neither affiliated with, nor keen to help, the police.”
“Nobody makes use of the man’s talents within the police force?”
“Not that I know of, Mr Holmes, no.”
“And he has never approached your department and offered his services?”
“Again, I’m not aware of it if he has.”
“And would you be?” I interjected. “Aware of it, I mean.”
“I’m senior officer at present, Doctor, so yes, I would be informed if a civilian was involved in any of our cases.”
“Don’t you consider that odd, Inspector?” asked Holmes. “In my experience, while police officers are prone to a lack of thought, a paucity of foresight and an absence of deductive powers, they are always keen to take what help they can from a gifted amateur.”
“The credit too,” I added with a smile.
“There is that,” Holmes agreed. “Perhaps one of your number has availed himself of the imposter’s services but kept that fact to himself, the better to impress his superiors? After all, whatever other failings he might have, the man appears to have pleased all his clients and may, therefore, be a formidable investigator.” He sniffed pointedly. “Though it pains me to admit as much.”
I had felt Bullock tense beside me as Holmes rather thoughtlessly denigrated his profession, and now he rushed to its defence. “No, no, Mr Holmes, I refuse to believe that. No man in the New York Police Department would ever filch credit for another man’s work. Nor would he employ the services of – forgive me, Mr Holmes – an untrained amateur detective.”
Holmes’s thin smile spoke volumes to one who knew him well, but for all his perceived prickly nature, no one could accuse Holmes of allowing personal feelings to impinge upon his work, and he did not rise to the bait. Instead, he was at pains to placate the inspector.
“He has been doing rather well for an untrained amateur, has he not, Inspector? But I take your point. Personally, I have spent a lifetime studying crime and criminals, but I believe it no great self-flattery on my part to state that no other detective has done the same. An experienced police officer would find little assistance from such an untutored fellow, I’m sure.”
Mollified by Holmes’s words, Bullock relaxed and, as is often the case when a painful disagreement has been narrowly averted, was, if anything, even more well-disposed to us than previously.
“Give me until tomorrow morning and I’ll drop a list in with the concierge,” he declared, adding, “It may not help, however. One wealthy New York socialite is much like the next, I’m afraid.”
“Even so, we could not hope for more, Inspector,” I replied gratefully. “It is good of you to give so much of your time to two visitors to your city.”
“No matter, Dr Watson. I would fain help a countryman, and a friend of Tobias Gregson more than most. Now,” he said, rising to his feet and beckoning for his overcoat, “I must be away. Eager as I may be to assist you, I must also look to those other, more official cases I have currently in hand. My captain is a good man, but a stickler for the rules, and he would not look kindly on any unauthorised activities on my part.”
“He shall hear nothing but praise from us, should the opportunity ever arise,” Holmes assured him, while I shook his hand in farewell. “Your assistance has been invaluable already, and should you be able to provide the names of further of the imposter’s clients, we will be in your debt.”
We stood and watched as Bullock disappeared into the street, then resumed our seats by the fire.
“Could he have left the city, do you think?” I asked, the question having played on my mind for some time. “The fake Holmes,” I clarified. “Could he have moved on altogether, assumed a new name and shifted his base of operations elsewhere?”
Holmes shook his head decisively. “Why should he have? He had no expectation that we would ever discover his duplicity, far less that we should make our way across the Atlantic to confront him. And with no reason to run, he has even less cause to change his name. No, he remains in New York, I am sure of it. Besides,” he concluded, “if we assume he has gone and so leave ourselves, what is to prevent the blackguard from returning the very next day and re-establishing himself as ‘Sherlock Holmes’?”
“Bullock would be looking out for him,” I protested. “Far more difficult for him to work his tricks with a police inspector watching over his shoulder.”
Holmes tutted impatiently. “Bullock himself said that the police do not have so much as a complete listing of the imposter’s cases, suggesting that he has never been of interest to them in any meaningful sense. And while you are quite correct that the inspector would take more of an interest in any future sighting of the man, he has in all likelihood committed no crime – leaving the police impotent to act and, in a busy city such as this, unlikely to spare a thought for a fake detective who, it seems, makes their lives a little easier by solving every case presented to him. No, Watson, I cannot look to anyone else to safeguard my interests. I must find this man myself.” Before I could protest, he corrected himself with a smile. “Rather, we must find this man ourselves.”
That decided, we called a waiter over and ordered dinner. There was nothing else to be done until morning.
Chapter Six
Bullock proved as good as his word. When we made our way downstairs at nine o’clock the following morning, the concierge approached and handed me a note giving the details of six people. I showed the note to Holmes as we breakfasted, but, like me, he confessed to recognising none of the names.
“Wealthy enough – the addresses are in good areas of the city – but not famous, and with no hint of celebrity about them. Solid citizens, I imagine, who would wish no breath of scandal to taint their reputations.”
“Just the sort to engage the services of a private detective.”
“Perhaps.”
“Only perhaps?” I was puzzled by Holmes’s apparent lack of certainty, given that he had made the initial statement that discretion would be a byword for such people, but he would be drawn no further and turned his attention to the kippers and excellent coffee that a waiter had placed in front of him.
While he ate I smoked a cigarette and once more marvelled at the tide of humanity on the streets outside. Lace curtains covered the bottom three-quarters of the dining room windows, so all I could make out were the tops of heads and the upper portions of hats, but even with the view so curtailed, I was struck once more by the impression of vitality that the bustling passers-by created. London, busy though it was, somehow failed to conjure up quite such an impression of constant motion, much as a middle-aged gentleman might have many interests, yet never appear as energetic nor as dynamic as a younger man. I was musing on the differences between the populations of the two cities when, to my surprise, Inspector Bullock hurried across my line of sight and, having entered, made directly for our table.
It was plain before he spoke that he was the bearer of bad news. It did not require Sherlock Holmes to notice the flush in his face or the beads of sweat on his forehead, indicating he had rushed to the hotel, nor his hang-dog expression.
His first words confirmed my somewhat amorphous fears, though they were not at all what I had expected. “The landlady from yesterday, Mrs van Raalte? Her body’s been found in a stale beer shop in Bayard. Luckily, an officer chased a dipper – a pickpocket – into the building and literally stumbled over the body, or we might never have found her.”
Though Holmes was not the unemotional man that the poorer sort of newspaper occasionally claimed, neither was he one unthinkingly to pander to conventions. Consequently, he
wasted no time in expressing his horror at the crime, nor his sorrow at the death of Mrs van Raalte. “Have you discovered anything of note yet? It would be useful to send someone to look around her home as well as the hostelry in which the body was found. She did not strike me as a woman likely to have many enemies, but you’ve obviously considered the possibility that this killing is linked to the man posing as myself?”
“Indeed, Mr Holmes, the thought had crossed my mind.”
“Where was she found?”
“Bayard Street is part of a larger area known as the Five Points,” Bullock explained. “During the day the street itself isn’t so terrible, just a wide, dirty road between tenement-houses six and seven storeys high, and filled with carts and tables and stalls along its length, selling all sorts of rubbish.
“At night though… then it’s a different matter. In the dark, the tenements are like high walls, trapping the unwary between them and forcing those who know no better to brave their interiors or cut through one of the alleyways that separate them one from the other. Either way, any innocent caught in so desperate a situation would swiftly find himself in trouble. Hundreds of souls crowd each tenement, all of them dirt poor and desperate, and many of them not so fussed what they need do to survive. Rare’s the morning in the Points when there’s not half a dozen corpses to be moved to a pauper’s grave.”
The description was vivid and relayed with unexpected emotion. Clearly the Five Points was a problem close to Bullock’s heart, but I had remembered something else the inspector had mentioned upon which he had not elaborated. “And a stale beer shop?” I asked. “What does that involve?”
“Not so much what, Doctor, as who. There’s no lower level to which a New Yorker can sink than the stale beer shops. The opium dens of the Chinaman are palaces compared to the average stale beer joint, and once a man ends up drinking in one, his fate is sealed. There’s no way back.”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Counterfeit Detective Page 7
