“Perhaps the young woman owns the car.”
“My thoughts as well,” Holmes said. He moved his finger to the automobile’s license plate number. “Please ask Mr. Martin to rejoin us with a magnifying glass.”
Holmes pointed to the photograph of the young woman leaning against the automobile. “Mr. Martin, why did you take this photograph? Do you know this young woman?”
“No,” the young man allowed. “My instructions were to take crowd photos. Crowd shots are boring.”
“I see,” I chuckled. “You were bird watching.”
Mr. Martin blushed. “I am afraid you have me there, Mr. Watson.”
Holmes held the magnifying glass over the photograph. “Jot down these numbers, Watson.”
We thanked Mr. Martin for his help and made our way to the Dayton department of motor vehicles. After waiting an inordinately long time, we pled our case to a skeptical clerk who noted our request was highly irregular. As we were seeking restitution for damage to my vehicle while parked at the local A&P, and as a concerned witness had provided us with the license plate number of the offending vehicle, the clerk waived protocol this time and provided us with the name and address of one Jessie Brandon.
Later that afternoon we arrived at Miss Brandon’s home. The young woman’s mother answered the door. After explaining the purpose of our visit, Mrs. Brandon confirmed her daughter did indeed know the young woman in the photograph. However, she was not comfortable releasing the young woman’s address. The young Miss Brandon saw no harm in providing the address of the friend she knew as Clare Simmons. Mrs. Brandon was adamant. She would not permit her daughter to accede to our request. At that point Holmes was forced to turn on the English charm. He resorted to a vulgar display of flattery in which the elder Brandon turned to putty. After agreeing to coffee, cake, and casual chitchat about England, we were finally in possession of the information we sought.
“Good lord, Holmes,” I said on our return trip to the hotel, “you were positively shameful.”
“Yes,” Holmes remarked. “I did not enjoy that. The cake wasn’t very good, either.”
The following day over lunch, Holmes and I mapped a strategy for meeting Jenny Winston. According to Miss Brandon, Jenny Winston was employed and usually did not arrive home until sometime after six. Before embarking on our trip, we had previously selected several family photographs from Miss Ransom’s portfolio. We knew to expect some incredulity on the part of Miss Winston. Our hope was to minimize the shock as much as possible. How Miss Winston would wish to proceed would be entirely up to her. If she wished to return to England to be reunited with her aunt, we were willing to serve as her escorts. Should she choose to remain in the U.S., we would honor that request and pass along whatever information she wished to share with Abigail Ransom. Of paramount importance was obtaining the assurance that she was not being held against her will.
By the time we arrived at Jenny Winston’s house on Oak Street, daylight had turned to dusk. Unsure of how long our meeting would take, Holmes decided against having the cab driver wait.
Jenny Winston lived in a quaint little house on a picture-perfect street. A blue two-door 1941 Ford was parked outside. It was a Norman Rockwell painting of a quiet and sedate post-war America on the rebound.
Holmes pressed the doorbell. A figure appeared behind a pane of prism glass in the front door. The door opened to reveal Jenny Winston.
“You must not have read the sign,” Miss Winston said discourteously. “No solicitations. Take your pamphlets and peddle them elsewhere.”
“We are not soliciting,” I replied. “I am Dr. John Watson, and this is Sherlock Holmes.”
The young woman’s eyes widened. “What?”
“May we come in, Miss Winston?” Holmes asked.
“No, you may not.”
“We have some important information, Miss Winston,” I said.
“I am afraid we must insist,” Holmes said.
“Insist?” Miss Winston said indignantly. She reached into a small alcove to the right of the door and withdrew a baseball bat. “I don’t know you from Adam, so you need to hit the road before I hit a home run on your heads.”
“We’ve come at the request of Abigail Ransom,” I said.
“Who?”
“Your aunt in England, Abigail Ransom,” I added.
“Should you desire, we are here to convey you back to England,” Holmes said.
Miss Winston’s mouth fell open. “Good God! Tell me this is a practical joke.”
Holmes produced his identification. “I assure you it is not. May we?”
Miss Winston leaned through the front door and looked both ways up and down the street. “Quickly!” She said, ushering us inside and slamming the door behind us. She pointed the way to her living room. “Don’t bother taking off your coats, you won’t be staying.” She reached for a cigarette case above the mantle. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said, shakily lighting the cigarette she had withdrawn from the case. “Please leave!”
“What are we to tell your aunt?” I asked, baffled by the young woman’s hostility.
“I can’t explain. All I can tell you is you have made a mistake. You need to leave immediately. There is a back way out that leads on to an alley.”
Before Holmes and I could press our case further, the front door blew open. Two men burst in and set upon all three of us. A moment later, the back door exploded open and a huge man rushed us from the opposite direction. The events of the moment proceeded so quickly I could not determine if guns were present. The two men who had entered through the front door grabbed Miss Winston while the big man who had come from behind hit me with such force he sent me reeling against the fireplace. Fireplace tools scattered across the floor as I collided with the mortar surround. Immediately the big man went for Holmes. The girl kicked and screamed as her assailants pulled her from the living room and through the front door. The man on Holmes was so much bigger that he easily overpowered my colleague. He threw a punch so hard that Holmes’s legs turned to jelly. The brute began dragging my barely conscious friend to the front door. Outside a car horn blared anxiously. Shaking off the effects of my collision with the fireplace, I grabbed a poker from the set of tools that had spilled onto the floor. As the big man attempted to pull Holmes outside, I smashed the poker across the giant’s face. He recoiled in agony, releasing his grip on Holmes. Holmes crashed to the floor with a thud. With blood streaming down the front of his face, the brute reached inside his coat for a pistol. One does not forget the lessons one learned in war. Before the hellhound could produce his weapon, I bore down on his arm with the full force of my fury. Bone cracked under the force of the poker and a shot rang out. Instantly a spray of crimson issued forth from the assailant’s leg. The wounded man screamed and staggered through the front door toward the waiting car, its horn continuing to shriek its anxious alarm. With the girl and her odious malefactors aboard, the car sped away.
I helped Holmes to his feet, addressed his injuries, and poured two stiff whiskeys from the bottle the girl kept above her refrigerator.
“That was a rum go,” I said after we had gathered our wits.
“Indeed,” Holmes said. “Almost as taxing as our visit to the DMV.”
Minutes later more visitors arrived. This time they were friendly.
A Bigger Picture
Washington D.C.
Holmes and I were conveyed to Wright-Patterson, interrogated extensively, and then shuttled onto an unmarked military transport plane and flown to Washington D.C. the next day. Without a proper night’s sleep, neither of us felt particularly chipper. Upon arriving in Washington, we transferred to a drab green government vehicle, threaded our way through morning traffic, crossed the Potomac and approached the capitol building. Our armed escort pointed through the window, “The United States Capitol, gentlemen. I guess you
chaps - it is chaps, right? I guess you chaps aren’t used to such regal and elegant sights like this.”
Holmes and I turned slowly toward each other. I shook my head; Holmes could do no more than roll his eyes. Neither of us had the energy to suffer this fool.
Shortly we arrived at a long flight of steps behind the Capitol Building. “Here we are chaps.”
Our escort exited the vehicle and stood on the passenger side with a hand placed carefully inside his coat under the left lapel. Holmes and I joined him. The man nodded for us to go up the steps. We ascended the steps and entered the large double doors. There another escort met us.
“This way, gentlemen.”
The escort led us down a long hallway to an unmarked office. He knocked and then opened the door.
Holmes and I entered the large office. The door closed behind us. Inside were three men. One man was standing, another was seated at a desk, and the third was seated in the corner of the room with a notepad. The third man was present to ensure an accurate record of the meeting. He would not be introduced.
The man standing extended his hand. “Colonel Hawker, Mr. Holmes.” He shook Holmes’s hand enthusiastically. And then to me he said, “It is a pleasure, Dr. Watson.”
“And the gentleman behind the desk?” Holmes asked pointedly.
Before Colonel Hawker could make the introduction, the man answered for himself.
“McCarthy,” the man said rising. He walked from behind the desk and planted himself directly in front of Holmes. The two men were standing so close I thought their noses might touch. “Senator Joseph McCarthy.” He stared directly into Holmes’s eyes. I gathered the senator’s stance was intended to assert his power, the object of which was to intimidate Holmes. I had to look away, fearing I might laugh.
“You may wish to go easy on the drink, Senator,” Holmes said.
“What?” McCarthy said, stepping back as if he’d been struck. Reflexively he put his hand to his mouth and blew into it.
“No that is not alcohol on your breath, but something equally disagreeable.”
“It is the pallor of your skin, the puffiness under your eyes. I would say you are in the advanced stages of liver disease.”
“I don’t care what you tea-sipping limeys think. Whoever you think you are, it cuts nothing with me. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve committed an act of treason. In this country treason is a capital crime. And I’ll be more than happy to pull the lever.”
“In the strictest sense, treason is a betrayal of one’s own country. Dr. Watson and I are British subjects.”
McCarthy literally bristled. “We don’t take kindly to foreigners.”
Colonel Hawker raised his hand. “I’ll finish up, Joe. You go on.”
McCarthy had more to say, but the colonel occupied a position of influence well above that of a senator. McCarthy barreled through the office door, punctuating his indignity with a substantial slam.
“What a pugnacious fellow,” I offered.
“His being here was a courtesy and nothing more.” Colonel Hawker gestured for us to sit. “Joe is on a mission.”
Holmes opted for a maroon winged back chair. “His reputation precedes him.”
“Oh, that McCarthy,” I said somewhat slow on the uptake. The long flight and lack of sleep were catching up with me.
Colonel Hawker pressed a button on his desk and spoke into what appeared to be a small radio. “Pauline, coffee for our guests. Please!”
“Does the senator believe we are communists?” I inquired.
“The senator thinks everyone is a communist. He sees them everywhere. I fear he may do a great deal of damage.”
“Why allow him to continue?” I asked.
“He has a large constituency. In the current climate, opposing McCarthy is akin to supporting communism.”
“Let us put your mind at rest,” I said.
“No, Doctor, you and Mr. Holmes are not here because you are suspected of being communists.”
“That’s a relief,” I said.
“No, I am afraid it is something far more serious.”
“Excuse me?”
There was a knock at the door, followed by a young woman pushing a service cart with fresh coffee on it. “Will that be all?” The young woman asked.
“Yes, thank you Pauline.” The young woman exited. “Help yourselves, gentlemen.”
Holmes and I each poured a cup of strong, black coffee.
“My compliments, Colonel. Sumatra. Your dossier on me is quite accurate.”
“We pride ourselves on having the best intelligence.”
“Whitehall might disagree,” Holmes said.
“What exactly are we being accused of Colonel?” I asked.
“First allow me to invite two other guests to join us.” Colonel Hawker pulled open a section of bookcase that revealed a hidden door. A moment later two familiar figures entered Colonel Hawker’s office: Mycroft Holmes and Abigail Ransom.
“I believe everyone has previously been introduced,” Colonel Hawker said.
“Hello Sherlock,” Mycroft said with his usual air of disdain for his brother
“Mycroft.” Holmes met his brother’s disdain with an equal amount of detachment.
“John, it’s lovely to see you again as well,” Mycroft said. “You remember Miss Ransom.”
“Hello,” Miss Ransom said, appearing slightly embarrassed.
Colonel Hawker gestured for Mycroft and Miss Ransom to sit.
“As to the matter at hand, I’ll let Mycroft handle the British end.”
“It seems, John, you and Sherlock have managed to assist the Soviets in kidnapping an American agent.”
I turned to Miss Ransom. “Jenny Winston is an American agent? Did you not tell us the girl in the photograph is your niece?”
Miss Ransom glanced at Mycroft.
Holmes interceded. “We have been roped into a scheme, Watson.”
“It is a wonder to me you didn’t see the machinations behind all of this before now,” Mycroft said.
Holmes chose to ignore his brother.
“He had misgivings from the start,” I replied. “After our initial visit with Miss Ransom, Sherlock sensed something unusual about this case. All along he felt there was more to it than Miss Ransom was allowing.”
“Watson, it isn’t necessary to defend me.”
Miss Ransom addressed herself to me. “I apologize for deceiving you and Mr. Holmes. I had no choice. Jenny Winston is my niece, but she is not the young woman in the photograph.”
“She is one of ours,” Colonel Hawker broke in.
Miss Ransom continued. “The young lady in the photograph bears a striking resemblance to Jenny. I haven’t seen Jenny in five years. I could easily believe it is she. If I had any doubt, the ring was unmistakable. But I knew the girl wasn’t Jenny.”
“If you hadn’t seen your niece in five years, how could you be sure?” I asked.
“Because I had spoken with both my sister and Jenny two days earlier.”
“I am confused,” I said. “You told us your sister died.”
Ever impatient, Holmes was eager to move the narrative along. “Following the incident at Roswell, your sister and your niece were provided with new identities and relocated as a means of protection.”
“Correct,” said Colonel Hawker.
“Communication was strictly forbidden, Mr. Holmes. But one doesn’t keep sisters apart. My sister first contacted me by letter and then by secure telephone. We speak from pay telephones at pre-arranged intervals. Both my sister and Jenny are safe and happy.”
“What about the boy?” I asked.
“You will have to ask the Colonel.”
“The boy
was provided with a new identity. He and Jenny are no longer in touch. They have new friends and new lives quite apart.”
Turning to Miss Ransom again, I asked how she had come into possession of the fraudulent photograph. Had it really been sent to her anonymously?
“No, that was a story made up for the benefit of you and Mr. Holmes. A man came to my flat. He was quite direct. He presented himself as a Soviet agent. He showed me the photograph and insisted the girl was Jenny. He said the Americans were holding my niece in protective custody. As I had spoken with my niece two days earlier, I knew this not to be true. I have no idea where my sister and my niece are located, but I knew neither was being held in protective custody. When I asked why this man was interested in my niece, he said Jenny was in possession of information vital to the security of the Soviet Union. He called himself Boris. Boris! I burst out laughing. I was convinced I must be the object of a prank. Boris assured me the matter was nothing to laugh about. He pressed me to confirm the girl in the photograph was Jenny. I told him I couldn’t be positive. Then he showed me an enlarged portion of the photo that revealed the ring. There was no doubt it was Jenny’s ring. How the girl in the photo had obtained the ring, I couldn’t guess. I couldn’t make heads nor tails of anything.”
“Why didn’t you refuse to cooperate with him and threaten to call the authorities?” I asked.
“He threatened blackmail. He said that since Jenny was alive and in an identity protection program, most likely my sister was receiving protection as well. Boris assured me it wouldn’t take long to locate my sister. He was particularly threatening and dramatic. I had no way to determine if he could locate my sister and Jenny. Then he allowed that an operative known as The Caretaker was a particularly nasty piece of business none of us would wish to meet. The threat of blackmail didn’t end there. He threatened my job in the film community.”
“How so?” I asked.
“As a member of the Hollywood community, I associate with colleagues who have liberal ideas. Some are referred to as socialists. Others are called communists. I am none of those things; however, I have attended meetings as a matter of general interest and I have contributed to what I believe are worthy causes. The threat was simple: guilt by association. Given the climate of Hollywood these days, I am afraid studios err on the side of caution. One doesn’t last long in Hollywood once the rumor mill is abuzz.”
Sherlock Holmes and The Roswell Incident Page 9
