At last I guessed what had transpired. Clearly, in spite of Bullock’s warnings and my own trepidation, Holmes had decided to visit Hans Piennar in his tenement last night, and had evidently walked directly into trouble.
“He returned to Five Points last night?” I asked, already knowing the answer, and beginning to feel a degree of anger of my own. “Of all the foolish, inconsiderate—” I broke off as it occurred to me that Holmes remained conspicuous by his absence. “But where is he?” I asked the inspector, who responded with a satisfied smile.
“We have him in our cells at present, Dr Watson. Best and safest place for him at the moment, in my opinion, and he’ll remain there until I can release him into your care.”
I could well imagine Holmes’s reaction to that. “Thank you, Inspector, I’m sure Holmes appreciates your concern. But what exactly happened last night?”
Bullock waved for a waiter and ordered coffee. He resumed his seat and I joined him as he recounted his – and Holmes’s – activities the previous night.
“I don’t know if you noticed, but Mr Holmes baulked at my refusal to take action against the man Hans Piennar yesterday afternoon. He said nothing, of course, but I’ve spent enough time around guilty men to recognise when a man is suppressing something he wishes to say. Still – and I blame myself for this – I thought little enough of it. Of course, he would wish to rush to justice and, were he back home in London, perhaps he would have been able to do so.
“But New York is a more lawless city than London. Murder, even of respectable citizens, is not rare here. Perhaps you’ve seen the case which currently fills the front pages of the more sensational rags? A young girl of good family gunned down by her fiancé, of all things. And that is not a unique case, by any means.”
He shook his head sorrowfully. “But Mr Holmes obviously thinks he knows best. Luckily for him, I came here with information for him late last night and found him missing from his room. Guessing that he intended to return to the Points on his own, I dirtied myself up and followed, thinking to grab him before he even got as far as Hans Piennar’s lodgings. He must have left almost as soon as you retired to bed, though, for there was no sign of him in the street outside the tenement. I can tell you, Dr Watson, I nearly left him to his fate, but I remembered I had promised Tobias Gregson to keep an eye on you both, so in I went.
“In his defence, it took me some time to find him, he was so well disguised. I stepped over him twice, in fact, taking little notice of a barely conscious tramp slumped against a wall as I kept a weather eye out for an English detective and anyone who might recognise me as police. Eventually, though, as I came back through the same corridor, I caught a glimpse under his collar as he took a swig from his bottle. No genuine down-and-out has skin so clean. I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him out of there before he could utter a word of protest.”
“Did Holmes say anything afterwards?”
“Oh yes. He said plenty. Mainly about the interference of busybody policemen and the hindrance that caused to his investigations in London – and now in New York as well. I considered bringing him back here, but worried that he might go out again. So he’s in the cells and there he’ll stay for the minute.”
There was nothing I could say. I had had cause many times before to curse Holmes’s impetuous streak, and consequently was unable to criticise the inspector’s actions. Indeed, I was grateful to him for extricating Holmes from a situation that could well have proved deadly. That thought prompted another, which I put to Bullock as a question.
“Did you find Piennar while you were looking for Holmes?”
“Not at the time, no. Well, not since either, if truth be told.” He ran a hand across his face, the tiredness in his eyes unmistakable. “I was concentrating on finding Mr Holmes when I first went in, and so saw nothing of our quarry, but after I dropped him off at the station, I returned to check on the room Bill identified for us. Piennar was nowhere to be seen, and the family who had taken up residency in his absence said he’d not been around for a few days, and might not be back at all.”
“Not back at all? Why not? Does he know that we are looking for him, do you think?”
“No, I don’t believe it’s down to our enquiries. According to the father of the family, the rumour is that our man Piennar is working for the police, and as a result it’s not safe for him to be seen around the Points. The irony is that it can only be the fake Holmes that’s being referred to. A detective, not a policeman.”
He gave a tired laugh. “And now, if you’ve no objection, Doctor, I’ll escort you to the station, where you can take Holmes away with you, and I can go home and get some much-needed sleep.”
“Give me two minutes to collect my coat and hat from my room, and I’ll be with you, Inspector,” I said, rising to my feet, while Bullock settled his bill. Now that I knew that Holmes was not hurt, and that we had made some progress in the case, I was less inclined to be angry with him for his reckless behaviour, and keener to hear what he made of Piennar’s disappearance.
Chapter Eleven
Over the years, I have met, and worked with, policemen on three continents, and on every occasion the men involved have been of similar type: dogged and reliable, intelligent but occasionally lacking in imagination, and with an unflinching determination to catch their prey. At the station, Bullock proved himself to be of similar stripe.
I had expected him simply to pass me on to a subordinate, but instead he arranged for Holmes to be brought to his office, where he and I waited and discussed less weighty matters than usual – primarily points of interest to a traveller in New York, for I had a notion to stay on for a week or so after the case was closed, in order to see the sights. Bullock was just describing a particularly pleasant walk along the coast when the door opened and Holmes was shown in.
I had brought Holmes a change of clothing, so that he at least resembled a gentleman, but there was no hiding the stench of cheap alcohol, tobacco smoke and dirt that surrounded him. His face and hands too retained the grime of his erstwhile disguise, and I fancied I spied a small twig entangled in his hair.
In spite of this, he seemed quite cheerful, and he strode into the room with a grin on his face and his hand outstretched in greeting. Soon he was sitting in a chair beside me, opposite the inspector, a cigarette lit and a look of intense interest on his face.
“So, Inspector,” he began without preamble, “you said last night that you had some information for me? In connection with the man Donaldson, regarding whom Pastor Hoffmann was so helpfully vocal.”
I felt sure that Bullock would take this opportunity to lecture Holmes on his actions of the previous evening, but either he had already done so, or he knew Holmes well enough by that point to understand that such a speech would have no effect on his future activities. For whatever reason, he simply opened the file that sat in front of him and began to read.
“James Donaldson. New York-born businessman, primarily dealing in precious gems, with a side interest in expensive artwork. Took his own life, at home, on February last: a single bullet to the temple. No suicide note was found, and it says here that his business was doing well, he was in good health and had no family issues that the officer investigating could discover. His sister claimed there had been no warning signs; he had been in good spirits in recent months and they had even been discussing a forthcoming trip to Europe.”
“Last February!” The date was, I felt, the key fact in Bullock’s recital. How could the imposter be linked to a death that occurred some months before he even arrived in the city? “You said that the fake Holmes first came to your attention a year ago, Inspector. And Mrs van Raalte said he had been renting from her for the same length of time. So how can he have anything to do with Donaldson?”
“That remains to be seen, for the present,” Holmes replied, leaning forward to turn the file towards him, with Bullock’s nodded permission. “But Pastor Hoffmann would not have shouted his name in my face had the
re not been some connection.”
“I admit I can see none,” Bullock interposed with a yawn that he tried unsuccessfully to stifle. He chuckled in self-deprecation. “Though I may be less than at my best this morning, I grant you.”
“At the moment, I too fail to spy a connection,” Holmes admitted, “but there is no obvious reason why a successful man such as Donaldson should suddenly kill himself. No, to be driven to such a step would require the insertion of some new and disturbing factor into his life. In light of the pastor’s admonition, it is a reasonable inference that the imposter was responsible for introducing this new element.”
Perhaps it was the night in the cells, or perhaps Holmes had imbibed more cheap alcohol than he had intended, but he seemed to me to be in danger of building his case on rather unsteady foundations.
“An unexpected diagnosis of terminal illness has caused men to take similarly drastic steps in the past, Holmes,” I warned.
“A burly, well-built man, in good health,” Holmes replied, stabbing a finger at the file in front of him.
“Perhaps his business was about to fail…”
“Thriving then and still thriving now,” Holmes responded. “A nephew took it over when he died, according to the report.”
“And he was unmarried, in case you were about to suggest infidelity,” Bullock added, unnecessarily I thought.
“He had some other secret then!” I countered with exasperation.
Holmes had been about to light a cigarillo, but as I spoke his hand froze half to his face. The match burned down as he sat, immobile, until he dropped it in an ashtray then continued to sit with the unlit gasper in his mouth.
“You’ve thought of something?” I asked after two full minutes had passed and Bullock had begun to make enquiring gestures in my direction.
“Perhaps, Watson…” Holmes was distracted by whatever had sprung to mind, and I knew of old that there was no point interrogating him about it. He would reveal himself when he chose to do so, and not before. My query had been enough to break the spell, however. Holmes shook himself like a dog waking from a deep sleep and stubbed the unlit cigarillo out in the ashtray. “I need to know more about Mr Donaldson before I can advance anything other than a very preliminary and incomplete theory. Do the police have more on the case than these few pages?” he asked, turning to Bullock.
“There are the statements from his friends and the maid who found the body, but nothing else. It was viewed as a straightforward enough case of suicide.”
“Did Donaldson have his newspaper delivered?”
Bullock was caught unawares by Holmes’s question. “Did—? I confess I’ve no idea, but I had a constable making further enquiries this morning. I’ll check if you’ll excuse me for a second.”
He rose and left the room but, true to his word, was soon back.
“No, he did not. His usual habit was to leave for work very early, around six a.m., some time before any newsboy delivers in that area.”
“Yet it says here that a newspaper was found at his side? And the time of death was…” Holmes flicked over a page and ran his finger down the next, “…in the early hours of the morning, but certainly before eight, when he was discovered by the maid?”
“That’s right. He was last seen alive the previous day when he left his office at around eight thirty.”
“An industrious man, indeed.”
“It would seem so.” He held Holmes’s gaze with a puzzled expression that I recognised from the faces of Lestrade, Gregson and the other Scotland Yard inspectors Holmes had assisted. “Is any of this important?” he asked, finally.
“That remains to be seen, Inspector. For the moment, it is simple curiosity, no more than that.”
At this, the force that had kept Bullock functioning in spite of his lack of rest seemed suddenly to abate, and he sagged a little in his seat.
“In which case I hope you will both excuse me, but I think I’ll go home and put my head down for a few hours. There’s nothing else I can tell you just now, and last night’s jaunt with Mr Holmes has left me in need of sleep.”
If Holmes felt any guilt regarding his behaviour the previous night, he gave no sign of it. Instead, he enquired if it would be possible to visit Donaldson’s home.
Bullock pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyes before replying. “I don’t see why not. It’s stood empty since Donaldson died. People aren’t keen on buying property with such a bloody history. I’ll have someone write down the address for you and directions to get there. I’d offer you transport, but this enquiry is some distance from that of the death of Mrs van Raalte, and you have, I’m afraid, strayed back into unofficial territory.”
Holmes’s brow furrowed at this, but I hurried to assure the inspector that we understood entirely. The address and a hansom would suffice, I felt sure.
* * *
James Donaldson’s home occupied a central position in a long street of similar three-storey buildings in what was clearly a good area of town. From the front, it presented an imposing façade; a dozen dark stone steps ran up to a black-painted door, with a large, many-paned window to the right-hand side. The curtains were closed, as they were in the smaller windows on the upper floors, and it was impossible to make anything out from the street, which was lined on both sides with tall trees. The aura of patrician wealth was unmistakable.
Closer to, however, Donaldson’s house showed signs of neglect commensurate with having been locked up for over a year. The base of the door was scuffed and scratched, as though various people had entered with their hands full, requiring them to push the door open with their feet, and a small golden plaque was so dirty that it was difficult to make out the owner’s name. Holmes took a moment to examine it, then opened the door with a key supplied by Bullock, and made his way inside.
The front door opened directly into a short, open hallway, with stairs in front, and two doors to the right-hand side. The second of these, which stood ajar, proved to be a cupboard, empty save for two jackets hanging from pegs and, on the floor, a pair of wellington boots. The first door, however, led to the drawing room where Donaldson had died, a large, square area that took up most of the ground floor. Bullock had warned us that the rest of the house had already been stripped of furniture, so we knew that any clues we might find would have to be discovered within this single space.
The room was dim and musty with disuse and, as Holmes crossed to the window and threw open the curtains, dust billowed in his wake. As soon as the window was propped up to allow fresh air to circulate, it was possible to make out pale green wallpaper decorated with images of parakeets, in the style of William Morris, and a selection of good quality oak furniture, comprising a pair of matching high-backed chairs, a long sofa and several fine sideboards. In the centre of the room a dark red rug covered the polished floorboards between the chairs and sofa.
A landscape painting that even I could recognise was of the highest quality had been hung on the wall facing the fireplace, though currently partially obscured by the open door. The only other decoration was a small photograph of a youngish man, presumably Donaldson himself, on the mantelpiece. In the picture, he was smiling – a blond-haired man of about thirty, wearing a striped blazer and a straw boating hat.
Holmes barely glanced at the photograph, but instead took to his knees and, with his magnifying glass in hand, began to crawl along the floor, examining the skirting boards and the areas underneath the chairs and sofa with particular interest. That process complete, he first crossed to the fireplace where he ran his hand across the wall directly above it, then asked me to help him to lift down the painting opposite.
A large, irregular stain marked the wall behind the painting. I did not need to be a doctor to know that this was blood, nor did I need to be Sherlock Holmes to surmise that the painting had been moved from its more regular position above the fire to its current location in order to hide the most obvious sign of the tragic event that had occurred in this room.<
br />
“Someone must have tried to sell the house at some point,” Holmes remarked, “though they were apparently unwilling to pay for a proper redecoration.”
“Donaldson’s nephew, perhaps?” I suggested.
“Perhaps. It is not important. What it gives us is a position from which… aha!” He bounded across the room to one of the chairs and threw himself down in it. Then, placing a finger against his temple, he turned his head to stare directly at the stain on the wall. “Donaldson sat here to carry out the deed. See, small marks, here and here,” he said, pointing to several indistinct discolourations of the fabric. “Again, someone has attempted to clean rather than repair or replace.” He shifted in the seat and laid a hand on a dusty occasional table to his left. “This must be the table on which he placed his whisky and newspaper.”
“Newspaper?” I said, recalling Holmes’s question to Bullock earlier.
“Did you not notice? Of course – you did not read the police report, did you? Donaldson was found in a chair in this room, with the remnants of a glass of malt whisky and an unread copy of that morning’s newspaper on a table at his side.”
“Is the exact position significant?”
“Everything can be significant, Watson. Surely you have grasped that fact by now?”
With that, he slid from the chair and crouched down in front of it, much as he had done at the imposter’s office four days before. “I must congratulate you, Watson,” he continued, as he slipped his fingers underneath the heavy rug and began to pull it towards him. “I noticed you taking stock of the room when you entered. You are improving, there is no doubt of it. So, having done so, what strikes you about this rug?”
I confess I had paid it little attention before now and could see no reason for his sudden interest. I said as much to Holmes, who shook his head in mock sadness and requested some help in moving it out of the way. I willingly, if not gladly, grabbed one corner and, ignoring the twinges from my old wound at the unwonted effort, helped pull it to one side.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Counterfeit Detective Page 12
