The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Counterfeit Detective

by Stuart Douglas

  “Mmm.” Holmes was too distracted by his own thoughts to hear what I had said. “I should like you to return to the pastor’s one last time, Watson. It is tiresome, I know, but it may be that something will strike you. You may recognise a servant, or identify a means by which we were perhaps overheard in Hoffmann’s office, which, you will recall, was securely locked throughout our conversation.”

  “Of course, Holmes. I’ll leave right away.”

  “As will I,” Bullock added. “I must get back to the station and arrange for the late Mr Rawlins to be collected and transported to the morgue. But what of you, Mr Holmes? Where might I find you, in need?”

  Holmes was already in motion, pulling on his gloves by the door. “I have a couple of small errands to run, Inspector: a trip to the telegraph office, then on to your much-admired Public Library. After that, time allowing, I will catch up with Watson at the pastor’s or, more probably, return to the hotel. Leave a message there and I will be sure to receive it.”

  He adjusted his hat and picked up his cane, then turned back to me as a last thought occurred to him. “Look for new servants, Watson, those employed in the last six months. And ask where that speaking tube connects.”

  With that, he threw open the door and was gone.

  Chapter Fourteen

  My return visit to Pastor Hoffmann’s home had proven frustrating. Having already upset their master once, I was conscious of a wariness amongst the servants as Isherwood escorted me not to Hoffmann’s study, as before, but to an airy upstairs drawing room, where I was left to my own devices. The room was sparsely but well furnished, but there was no sign of a newspaper or periodical with which I might while away my wait. A handsome set of Shakespeare’s plays were displayed behind the glass of an elegant bookcase, but a lock prevented my examining them more closely, leaving a whisky decanter and soda siphon the only available amusement. I poured myself a small drink and stood by the window, watching traffic in the street outside. Almost an hour passed in such a manner – straining my patience to near breaking – before I decided that good manners could only be maintained for a finite length of time. I strode to the door and wrenched it open, intending to demand an audience with Hoffmann immediately.

  The drama of the moment was spoiled somewhat by the complete absence of onlookers outside. I looked along the corridor in both directions, but there was not a soul in sight to whom I might complain or from whom I might request direction. I might have stood there for another hour, feeling increasingly foolish, had a disturbance downstairs not caught my attention and led me to the banister overlooking the front entrance.

  From my position, I had a clear view of the front door. Isherwood stood with his back to me, evidently preventing some unseen figure in the street outside from gaining access to the house. I heard him say that his master was not at home – which I hoped was simply a polite fiction intended to discourage the unwanted caller, else my own time had been utterly wasted – followed by a heated response as the unwelcome guest shouldered past Hoffmann’s cadaverous butler and into the hallway. I had only a moment to stare at the unfolding scene before recognising Sherlock Holmes as the intruder, just as he registered my presence upstairs and shouted a greeting.

  “Just the fellow I was looking for!”

  With Isherwood trailing in his wake, he bounded up the stairs towards me. Up close, it was clear he had hurried here. His face was flushed and he panted with exertion as he approached. His voice, however, was as strong as ever as he glanced through the still-open door of the drawing room, then led me by the elbow inside, though not before shouting down to Isherwood that he would expect to speak to the pastor in the very near future.

  As soon as the drawing room door was closed and Holmes was certain we could not be overheard, he invited me to be seated, while he lit a cigarillo and prepared to explain his unexpected presence.

  “I have a great deal to tell you, Watson, for I have uncovered several points of interest in a very short period of time. First of all, after you departed, Bullock announced he would return to the station to arrange for Rawlins’s body to be collected and, as I was travelling in the same direction, we shared a carriage part of the way. The inspector still had the revolver that was used to kill Rawlins in his pocket and while we were talking he pulled it out in order to remove the four remaining bullets from the chambers. The patterning on the stock happened to catch the light, and I was able to see that it was not entirely decorative. There were initials formed from the winding lines, spelling out ‘HZC’.”

  My incomprehension must have been readily apparent, for Holmes hurried to expand.

  “You have not heard the name of Henry Craggs before?” he asked. “I confess it was unfamiliar to me, too, though the case in which he is involved is not. Indeed, you yourself first brought that crime to my attention. You recall the newspaper you purchased when first we arrived? The article on a young socialite shot in the street, and her fiancé the prime suspect for the killing? That man is Henry Zachary Craggs. The police have been searching for him since the lady – Millicent Crane, by name – was slain, but not caught so much as a glimpse of him. But this is his gun, I am sure of it.”

  As an explanation it left much to be desired, and I own that I was almost as confused as before. “How then did it make its way to Rawlins’s residence? What has Inspector Bullock to say on the matter?”

  “He described it, if I recall correctly, as their first real progress since Miss Crane was killed. As to the other matter, I cannot say, for the moment. It is a fascinating conundrum, though, is it not?”

  “It would seem so, certainly,” I allowed. “You said that you had a great deal to tell me though? What else have you discovered in the mere two hours we have been apart?”

  At this, Holmes’s face fell. “I have acted like a fool, Watson,” he admitted with a furrowed brow.

  “An utter fool,” he repeated and struck his hand on the wall in anger. “Remind me of this moment when next you feel I have become too cock-sure of myself. Rub this idiocy of mine in my face, should I ever give you the impression that I believe I know all there is to know. Sherlock Holmes is not infallible, and I would do well to remember that.”

  “Are you going to tell me what makes you such a fool, Holmes, or am I expected to guess?” It was never helpful to encourage Holmes in these moments of theatrical self-doubt; better by far to force him to explain himself, as proved to be the case on this occasion.

  “After leaving Bullock with the gun at the station, I was left in the carriage with little to occupy my mind, save the list the inspector supplied that I had stuffed in my jacket pocket. You recall it – the list of all Rawlins’s known clients? In re-reading it, I hoped that one or other name would leap out at me. If the mute did not kill Rawlins, then we must perforce construct a new narrative in which a furious former client – a victim of Rawlins’s vile blackmailing business – decided to take his revenge on the man who tormented him, and so shot him dead. It was my belief that an examination of those very victims would, at the absolute minimum, allow us to narrow down our cast of potential murderers.”

  “And that has not proved to be the case?”

  “Far from it, Watson! I have managed to rule out half a dozen people on the grounds they have alibis for last night and early this morning.”

  “In which case, what has prompted this bout of self-flagellation?”

  Holmes made a pained face at my description of his activities. “An unpleasant and inaccurate image, Watson. I say I have been a fool because I have. Inspector Bullock saw it, and even said so to me, but I failed to listen. It is only with the list before me that I recollected his words and realised what I had missed.”

  “Enough riddles, Holmes! What did you miss? What did Bullock say?”

  “He said that one wealthy New York socialite is very much like another.”

  “And? That hardly qualifies as one of the great observations of our times, Holmes.”

  “But think of the i
mplications, Watson. It is true that all socialites are much like one another – and unlikely to spare a glance for the Rawlins who first arrived in New York. So how did he identify his victims and ingratiate himself with them? Even if he had somehow stumbled across a single misdemeanour, that still does not explain how he so quickly identified the person he blackmailed next.”

  “Obviously you know the answers to these questions, Holmes. For once, might we not avoid the tortuous process of teasing that information from you?”

  Holmes shrugged. “Society in New York is a small and enclosed world after all – like a series of overlapping circles, in which individuals come together in clubs, societies and numerous other social gatherings. In such a claustrophobic society, there is plenty of scope for people to discover one another’s darkest secrets. I believe that just as Donaldson provided the name of Hoffmann, so Hoffmann in his turn supplied Rawlins with his next victim!”

  Holmes’s excitement was palpable and, as is often the way with such things, I found myself becoming more positive simply by being in his company. I quickly explained the situation I found myself in vis-à-vis meeting Pastor Hoffmann, and the hour-long delay to which I had been subjected. In return, he explained that he had rushed to the pastor’s house as soon as he had recognised Hoffmann’s potential new role in Rawlins’s operation.

  “I cannot help but think that everything we have seen so far is linked in some way. Pastor Hoffmann may have information that will shed light not just on the murder of Rawlins, but also on that of Miss Millicent Crane.” He flicked the remnants of his cigar into the fire, favouring me with a small smile as he did so. “But time is short, and I would prefer not to have to explain myself more often than is needed. Shall we find the pastor, Watson?”

  With that, he swept out of the room, already bellowing for Isherwood. There were few things, I reflected, strong enough to withstand Holmes in the full flow of an investigation.

  Within five minutes, we were ensconced in Hoffmann’s study once more, with the pastor glaring at us over the desk. There was no doubt that the passage of a full day had emboldened him, and the man who now coldly asked why we troubled him a third time more closely resembled the arrogant bully we had first encountered than the troubled man we had left the previous day. Even when Holmes attempted to wrong-foot him by asking, without preamble, about Henry Craggs, Hoffmann did not flinch, but continued – as he had since we first entered the room – to claim that we were wasting our time on a wild goose chase, that he had paid Rawlins, and had hoped never to hear his name again.

  If my patience was wearing thin, Holmes remained utterly calm.

  “Very well, let us put Mr Craggs to one side and concentrate on other areas of enquiry with which you may have more familiarity. You say that you did not follow Rawlins in your carriage after meeting with him in your study earlier this year? On the second occasion, when he left with a bag full of your money…”

  “Exactly so, Inspector, as I have now told you several times. I paid the sum demanded and wished only to place the matter far behind me!”

  Holmes nodded, as though Hoffmann had confirmed some important point. “Which is entirely understandable, of course.”

  Across the table, I thought I saw Hoffmann’s shoulders relax a little and a more natural colour return to his face. If he thought that he had weathered the worst Holmes had to throw at him, however, he was soon to be disabused of that notion.

  “One thing does still puzzle me, however. I wonder if you could help me with it?”

  Hoffmann, his confidence rapidly returning, sensed no trap and murmured graciously that he would be happy to assist in any way possible.

  “My query is this,” said Holmes. “There was no need for Rawlins to kill Donaldson if all he desired from you was money. You would pay willingly to avoid a scandal – and he knew it. But he wanted something else in addition, did he not? Money in exchange for keeping your terrible secret, certainly – but the death of Mr Donaldson? That is a poor fit for such a scheme. Rawlins wanted something else from you, and used Donaldson’s fate as a terrible warning?”

  It was as though Holmes had struck Hoffmann a heavy blow. He sagged in his chair, his eyes darting from Holmes’s face to my own, and back again.

  “Yes,” he said finally, in little more than a whisper. “There was more. There was a second letter, which Rawlins carried in his coat pocket. He showed it to me when I had him brought upstairs, after I had seen the photographs. It was a suicide note… written by Donaldson, which explained that he had been instructed to take his own life. The note was short, Lestrade, and failed to say what hold Rawlins had over him. Even so, there was no denying that Donaldson had been terrified enough to kill himself at the behest of the man who now stood before me in my study. And now that man wished… he wished…”

  “He wished you to provide him with a new victim.”

  Holmes’s words brought Hoffmann to a sudden halt. He flinched and stared across the desk at Holmes with what I can only describe as dread. “Yes,” he sighed, “a new victim.”

  Even forewarned as I was, the leap from Donaldson’s suicide note to Holmes’s apparently accurate assertion was one I followed only with difficulty. Fortunately, a more comprehensive explanation was swiftly forthcoming.

  “You appear perplexed, Watson,” my friend said, cocking an amused eyebrow. “And yet my reasoning is straightforward enough. Why should Rawlins dispose of Donaldson, a man of substantial means, only to move on to the pastor, a man – and you will forgive me for saying this, I hope – of far lesser financial standing? The only logical conclusion to draw is that Donaldson was but the first link in a chain, an example with which to encourage others yet to fall into Rawlins’s snare, who might prove less amenable to blackmail. And just as Donaldson handed the pastor’s name to Rawlins, so he in his turn would be expected to provide a further link, another soul to be bled dry by Rawlins’s infernal business.” He turned his attention back to Hoffmann. “That is the way of it, is it not, Pastor?”

  Hoffmann nodded and ran his tongue across his lips. “He said that people confided in their minister, even those dark secrets they would tell nobody else. And he said that if I did not pass on at least one of those secrets, he would go straight to the police and ruin me. How could I let that happen?” he asked plaintively. “I have responsibilities to my parishioners. Without me, who would guide my flock, not to mention the shock many would feel to their very faith, to see their minister brought so low?”

  I knew that Holmes would usually give the benefit of the doubt to anyone who had fallen prey to a blackmailer, but the self-serving nature of Hoffmann’s words was enough to eradicate any sympathy I felt for him. I could see Holmes frowning from the corner of my eye, and I knew that he too found Hoffmann wholly unsympathetic. His next words confirmed it.

  “Be that as it may, Pastor, the fact remains that, in order to save yourself from public disgrace, you sacrificed another. Hardly the most Christian of actions.”

  Hoffmann began to protest, but I believe he could see the anger in Holmes’s eyes and chose instead to forego whatever excuse had been on his tongue. “We will agree to disagree then, Inspector,” he muttered bitterly.

  Holmes, however, gave him no quarter. “Our disagreement will not make you any less wrong, Pastor. But that is of vanishingly small interest at the moment. You have still not answered my question – though, in truth, I ask more for my friend’s sake than my own. I already know the answer. Even so, I ask again – did Rawlins demand you betray someone else into his clutches before he would allow you to go free?”

  Miserably, Hoffmann nodded.

  “And the name of this poor unfortunate?” Holmes snapped.

  “That I will not tell you, Inspector Lestrade. Perhaps I have done wrong, but if I have I will not exacerbate the offence by inviting the police to involve themselves in his business. The gentleman in question has been visited by Mr Rawlins, has been shown the true meaning of terror and has paid the price of
his indiscretion, just as I have. There is nothing to be served by raking the matter up afresh, or by involving you and your colleagues in his affairs.”

  There was cold fury in Holmes’s eyes as he placed his hands on the desk and leaned in towards Hoffmann. “I should tell you now, Pastor, that my name is not Lestrade, and I am not a policeman, though I do work with them. My name is Sherlock Holmes. I believe you were kind enough to say that you had heard of me? Then you know that I am a consulting detective, and have doubtless additionally surmised that I am in the United States working on a case with my colleague here, Dr Watson. There is no reason, therefore, why you should not divulge the name to me. But you will not, will you? Instead you will remain in silence, protecting yourself at all costs. For I’d wager that whoever it was that you betrayed to Rawlins, he is unaware that you are his Judas. That, and no other, is the real reason for your refusal to speak, is it not?”

  Hoffmann covered his face with his hands. Holmes repeated the question, and waited patiently for an answer. It quickly became clear, however, that he waited in vain. Hoffmann was a broken man.

  In the end, Holmes rose to his feet and, above the sound of sobbing, addressed himself to the pastor. “I believe that answers all of our questions. The New York Police Department thanks you for your patience and assistance, as do Scotland Yard and myself. I do not think we shall have cause to trouble you again regarding this matter.”

  He moved towards the door, apparently keen to depart, but as he stood in the doorway, he turned back to Hoffmann and loudly asked a final question.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, “I have one last question. Your speaking tube – to where exactly does it connect?”

  The question was sufficiently out of the blue that Hoffmann broke off his lamentations long enough to look up at Holmes as though he had taken leave of his senses. “Speaking tube? Where does it connect to?”