Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine 11

by Jack Grochot

  “What do you make of the mental state of the two Home Office emissaries?” I implored. “Could it be they were the unwitting victims of a devious trick that would cause them to forget their purpose—or could it be, heaven forbid, bribery?”

  “Watson, I must congratulate you for your deductive prowess,” Holmes shot back. “But, as I have said before, it is a capital mistake to theorise before you have all the facts. It biases the judgment. I must have data so as not to twist facts to suit a theory.”

  Eventually, the conversation drifted toward mundane topics.

  * * * *

  After dinner, we occupied two armchairs at his apartment, pulling them close to the fireplace, with our stocking feet resting on the warm bearskin hearthrug. I took up a copy of that evening’s Standard and Holmes became engrossed in his Index, an encyclopedia he had compiled with docketed information on criminals, arms dealers, luminaries, spies, underworld characters, scientific experts, things, and subjects. He was researching his entries without a word for at least two hours, when: “Watson,” he intoned, “for one reason or another I have eliminated all possibilities but one.” He said no more.

  The hour drew late, so I prepared to leave for my quarters as Holmes began to pace up and down the room, his hands clasped behind his back, his chin on his chest, and his brows furrowed, as was his custom when lost in thought.

  In the mid-morning of the following day, in my consulting room, I treated an elderly gentleman, a new patient, who complained of a continuous pain in his rectum. After a few simple queries and an examination, I diagnosed the ailment as a prostate infection and prescribed a medication along with hot soakings in the tub. In a matter of a few minutes after he was gone, grateful that his problem was not too serious, there came an agitated knocking at the door.

  It was Sherlock Holmes, breathless.

  “Once again, the game is afoot, Watson,” said he. Next came an entreaty. “Watson, I need you to accompany me on a trip to Peking, where the two Home Office agents encountered their trouble. Could you please contact Dr Anstruther and ask him to take over your practice for a time, because we may be away for a considerable period? We should leave this evening.”

  I did not hesitate. “I can clear my schedule and be ready by this afternoon,” I responded.

  “Very well indeed,” he said in reaction to my eagerness, adding: “I anticipated your cooperation and booked passage for us on the Queen Victoria, which is sailing for Hong Kong at six o’clock. From there we will board a series of trains to our destination.”

  Holmes explained he already had enlisted the cooperation of Deputy Secretary Yant, who would dispatch yet a third emissary to Peking, this time making no secret of his objective. That would entice another attempt at thwarting the talks. Holmes and I were to team up to observe the agent’s every move and apprehend the provocateurs.

  Sherlock Holmes left in a rush, preoccupied with a task, about which he gave me no particulars.

  Dr Anstruther, who regularly filled in for me when I was off on an adventure as Holmes’s confederate, was enthused as usual to take my place. And so I made further preparations to leave, later riding a cab to Metropolitan Station for the Underground to the harbour at the end of Broad Street, where the Queen Victoria was docked.

  Earlier, Holmes had been introduced discreetly at the Home Office to Robert LeRoch, the third agent, and late that afternoon followed him all the way to the steamship.

  After my baggage was stowed in our cabin, which was one door from LeRoch’s, just as Holmes had reserved them, I joined Sherlock Holmes on deck. He pointed out LeRoch to me and I made a note of his attire and description. He was distinguishable in a crowd, about five feet, nine inches tall with a pot belly and a swollen red face. Probably around fifty years old, he had a full white beard that was neatly clipped, and large, dark eyes that were set far apart. His hair, cropped short, was also white and parted in the centre. He wore a grey wool overcoat with the collar pulled up to his protruding ears, and heavy brown boots with a broad metal heel. That he didn’t don a hat or a cap in this inclement weather was worth marking down in my memory. If anyone else was watching him I could not detect it.

  Thick, black smoke began to billow from the funnels, and the steam engines whined—the Queen Victoria had embarked on our voyage, about fifteen minutes late.

  We waited for LeRoch to exit the deck and go to his cabin, both of us never letting him out of our view, acutely aware that an attack could come at any moment. Instead of making his way to the cabin compartment, however, LeRoch found the dining room and seated himself at a small table, for it was the peak of the supper hour. Holmes and I occupied a table for two within earshot of LeRoch before any more of the numerous passengers came in. Before long there was a waiting line. Holmes, who habitually deprived himself of food when intense on a case, nonetheless ordered a bit to eat—a grilled ham sandwich with a salad of mixed greens. I had skipped lunch and was famished, so I chose a slice of baked ham, scalloped potatoes, broccoli with cheese sauce, and a portion of apple pie for dessert, topped with custard.

  We shared a carafe of half-and-half before we were served our meal, and the waiter brought us our plates at the same time he cheerfully placed one in front of LeRoch. I noticed no other person sitting alone, except for a lovely young woman, producing no indication that LeRoch was the target of our enemy’s attention. Regardless, Holmes was pensive. That night he was restless and he rejected my offer to stand watch while he got some sleep, fitful though it might have been.

  I rested soundly for almost six hours, and in the morning Holmes listened for the sound of LeRoch’s door closing on his way to breakfast. Afterward, we spent a few minutes on deck, but the nasty headwinds were so chilling they chased us back to our cozy cabins.

  Days of boredom set in, I sporadically perusing medical journals that had been overlooked for some time and Holmes full-heartedly polishing a magazine article he was writing about the differences in fibers when viewed through a magnifying glass. The entire journey was uneventful, save for some rough seas and my attending to a middle-aged stock broker who had symptoms of lung disease. He was on his honeymoon and my prognosis ruined his and his bride’s outlook for the future. I recommended a specialist I knew in London if the broker wanted a second opinion that might on the off-chance disagree with mine.

  Finally, our steamship arrived at the port of Hong Kong, not long after Holmes was convinced an assault of some nature could occur on the trains or in Peking, but more likely in the capital city. We learned after disembarking from the steamship that we had to wait in the teeming metropolis for two days to catch our transportation through much of the expansive country. The narrow-gauge railways to Peking ran only on odd days for the day and-a-half trip. So, we rode the new Rising Star ferry across the choppy bay to Kowloon and bought our train tickets at Hung Hom station. On our return to Hong Kong, we took a rickshaw behind LeRoch’s to the nearest decent hotel. Little did we know there was another rickshaw in back of ours that was en-route to the same place, the Qang Si Palace, built by the Bombay opium exporter Dorabjee Naorojee. Foreigners in Hong Kong for the first time, both Holmes and I were infatuated by the bustling activity on the immaculate streets. Throngs of tiny people criss-crossed in front of us, dashing to colourfully-decorated shops and hum-drum dwellings, outside of which hung laundry and linens on balcony clotheslines.

  When the coolie pulling the rickshaw deposited us at the doorstep of the hotel, Holmes paid him with shillings, which he was satisfied to earn, and we entered the sparsely-furnished lobby to register for a room next to LeRoch’s. The desk clerk obliged and gave us a key to accommodations with one bedroom on the second floor. So far we had experienced no language barrier, because the merchants were accustomed to British guests, Colonial Hong Kong being a multi-ethnic crossroads of commerce and tourism.

  After we all dined on a seafood menu at a
restaurant kitty-corner from the hotel, we retired for the night, but I couldn’t help but notice the lovely young woman from the ship at a far corner of the establishment. She was finished with her supper, lounging at a table with a newspaper spread in front of her.

  The wait for the first of the connecting trains to Peking passed without incident, and so we climbed the steps to a busy carriage toward the rear, the same attractive lady taking a seat next to LeRoch just as the locomotive wheels began to screech and grind. The pair engaged in casual conversation when the train picked up speed. It was not difficult to guess that she had shown a keen interest in LeRoch, without appearing to be uncommonly forward. She dressed provocatively: a tight-fitting tan blouse with pearls on the cuffs under her unbuttoned waistcoat revealed an ample bosom. A pleated green skirt accented her shapely hips and thighs, and pastel patent-leather boots with a moderately high heel matched the skirt. It was obvious LeRoch was impressed by her beauty.

  In the morning, she was nowhere to be seen, but LeRoch glanced around the car in an apparent effort to locate her. We could see out the window the fast-moving landscape. It was replete with verdant rice patties and lush farmlands, purple snow-capped mountain ranges, and yellow rocky plateaus.

  The fourth train we had ridden pulled into the station in Peking late in the evening, and we found a swank hotel, The Chang Su Son, which displayed an ornate fountain out front and an elaborate vegetable garden along the side. It was there that she surfaced again, just after we had signed in. LeRoch and she greeted each other cordially, like long-lost acquaintances, and they took more than a few minutes to renew their relationship on a flowery sofa that provided privacy. Holmes and I aimlessly meandered through the lobby, pausing at the foot of all the magnificent paintings, until LeRoch’s comely companion politely excused herself, checked in, and went up to her room. LeRoch remained on the divan, gazing at her fondly until she disappeared from sight. Holmes peeked at the register to learn her name: Laura Cable—if that was her true identity. Miss Cable, as it turned out, had selected a suite across the hall from LeRoch.

  Once we were settled for the night, Holmes cracked open our door so he could have a perfect vantage point to take in any activity at Miss Cable’s room and LeRoch’s. Holmes slid a desk chair to the opening, sat down, and pushed the chair onto its back legs against the wall, letting his feet dangle. In that semi-reclining position he could both relax and observe anything in the hallway that stirred. “I dare not doze off during this vigil, despite a tiring day,” he remarked, and promised to allow me to relieve him at two o’clock in the morning.

  But it never got that late before something sinister occurred.

  About midnight, Holmes gently shook me out of dreamland to say in a hushed tone that Miss Cable, carrying a brandy decanter, had rapped softly on LeRoch’s door and gone in. For certain he had been expecting her. The partitions between the rooms were paper thin and we could hear the two giggling next to us. There was conversation, but we couldn’t make out the words, only the voices of a woman and a man, in addition to the tinkle of glass when they poured more drink. The frivolity went on for a quarter of an hour until we heard LeRoch groan briefly, after which came the ominous sound of a heavy body collapsing onto the floor with a thud.

  My initial instinct was to rush over to assist, but Holmes stopped me in my stride. “Wait to see what transpires,” he insisted quietly, “for I believe we are at the onset of a subversive plan.” He presumed correctly, because it wasn’t long before Holmes beckoned me to the slit in the door and together we watched Miss Cable tip-toe out of LeRoch’s room to make her way down the hall to the back stairs. There, she waved her hand and was joined by four Chinamen who had been waiting on the landing for her signal. They scurried silently behind her toward LeRoch’s suite and quickly walked in, single-file. We heard muffled sounds of their struggle to lift LeRoch and soon saw them convey him, unconscious, by the legs and arms back toward the end of the hallway leading to the stairs, Miss Cable trailing.

  “On the double, Watson, fetch our coats and hats before we lose this gang,” Holmes commanded as they vanished at the top of the steps. “She slipped him a drug in his brandy,” Holmes surmised as we descended the curving stairway and heard the kidnappers reach the bottom. They paused at the rear entrance while Miss Cable held open the door and made sure the coast was clear. The short, narrow alley outside was deserted and the Chinamen clumsily carted the limp torso to a horse-drawn hearse. It was stationed at the end of the passage near the intersection of a street full of activity even at that hour. The stamina of these slightly-built miscreants astounded me as they raised their cumbersome cargo and shoved LeRoch into the tail section of the hearse, not very gently. Meanwhile, Miss Cable climbed aboard with the driver as Holmes and I hailed a sedan chair, borne by four coolies, to continue our pursuit. Holmes instructed our bearers in perfect Chinese, which Holmes had studied in college, for each one of them shrugged his shoulders and gave us a blank stare when the sentences were spoken in English.

  We kept at a safe distance to avoid being spotted, moving slowly, as if in a funeral procession. The journey covered several kilometers. When we reached a warehouse district near the Changpu River, the hearse pulled up to the front of a dilapidated brick structure that apparently had been abandoned, because the ground floor and first storey windows were boarded up, save for the ones on the door to the left and around the corner. Holmes and I jumped from the litter, paying the lead porter with a sovereign, and telling him to go on his way with his crew. We went on foot toward the concealment of an adjacent building and saw a large tin door in the front swing open, worked by someone inside, a tall, stout Caucasian. A more detailed description I couldn’t manage at this juncture because the lighting at the front of the warehouse was insufficient. Miss Cable alighted from the hearse and had a few words with the stranger, then motioned to the driver to proceed. The hearse turned and went in, the bay door closing instantly behind it, the horse never shying.

  Holmes and I crept up to the side door to catch a glimpse of the action inside, careful not to be seen through the filthy windows. The interior was vacant, except for the occupants, the hearse, and the oddest-looking object in the centre of the floor. It was a small chamber, with enough space in it to house a human being. In the shape of a pentagon, it was constructed of polished steel framework and glass walls, with a megaphone embedded to carry sound inward. A wooden office chair was visible, as was a pinwheel at eye level directly in front of the chair.

  “We’ll stay here and watch what goes on before we make our move, Watson, but surely before any harm comes to LeRoch,” said Holmes as he stood aloof from the situation, much like a surgeon who coolly restrains his emotions when ready to use the knife. “I trust you brought along your old service revolver,” he added as an afterthought. I nodded and brought the grip end out of my overcoat pocket to reassure him.

  In short order, Miss Cable and her ally went to the back of the hearse and began to coax LeRoch out of the conveyance. He was conscious now but unsteady, groggy. They placed their hands under his armpits and escorted him to the chamber. He more or less fell into the chair, perspiring profusely. They secured the latch and left him to recover further while they opened wide the bay door to permit the hearse to exit. There was ample space in the deserted building for the hearse to make a 180-degree turn and move out onto the dirt street. Miss Cable and her co-conspirator then closed the bay door. And the man went right to work, Miss Cable positioning herself in the background. Now we were able to discern his features under the glow of lanterns along the upper rim of the booth. He was about sixty years of age with a gaunt, wrinkly face and sunken eyes. His nose was bulbous and he had wide side whiskers that extended below his ear lobes. He wore a constant frown, and on the top of his head was an unkempt shock, reddish-brown flecked with grey. His clothing was that of a businessman.

  He spoke into the megaphone—we could not hear
what he was saying—and as he did, he operated a crank that sent the pinwheel spinning. The circular design on it turned like the threads of a screw. LeRoch stared at the pinwheel and wiped his forehead with his palm.

  Holmes had witnessed enough. “Sound the bugle, Watson! Charge!” he bellowed, and abruptly flung open the side door to burst inside, I right behind him.

  Startled, the man stood erect and confronted us. Miss Cable was motionless.

  Before either could utter a word, Holmes, shouting, announced our intentions: “I am Sherlock Holmes and this is Dr John H Watson, here under the authority of the British Crown. Both of you are under arrest!”

  The two were speechless as Holmes continued loudly. “We demand to know who you are and what you are doing.”

  The old criminal answered, stammering and making a feeble attempt to throw Holmes off course. “I am D-D-Doctor G-G-Geoffrey T-T-Tombe, hypnotherapist and British subject; the chap in the cubicle is my patient, and this is my nurse assistant. What are the charges?”

  “Abducting a government agent and retarding his mission,” Holmes retorted as he approached the chamber and sprung the latch to set LeRoch free. I, meanwhile, maintained a guard over our two prisoners, my right hand on the butt of the pistol. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed above the latch a small bronze plaque with raised letters, reading “1879 PARADOL Bros, Ltd, USA.”

  “You both have some explaining to do,” said Holmes in a calm manner, “but I must warn you that anything you say will be taken down and could be used against you in court.” He went on: “You, particularly, Miss Cable, are in a legal morass because of the premeditative nature of your conduct. It would be in your best interest to make a clean breast of this matter. Tell us with whom you are in league. I believe I already know the answer—the second most lethal villain in London.”