Sherlock Holmes Never Dies- Collection Four

by Copland, Craig Stephen

  Holmes had only slightly more use for Newton than he did for Copernicus but nodded in the affirmative. Blinden continued.

  “Well sir, I imagined that my left hand was Mr. Leggatt’s head.” He stretched out his left arm as he spoke, and formed a fist with his hand. “And then my right hand would be his feet.” He made a similar movement with his right arm and hand. “And if I were flying through the air sideways and my neck hits the pole, then my legs and feet would keep moving forward, would they not? Like this, sir.”

  He walked toward the pole so that his left wrist struck it and then he pivoted around the pole, tracing an arc through the air, horizontal to the ground, with his right hand.

  “Sir, that is how the body must of moved if he struck the pole with his neck. The body should have landed on the far side of the pole, with his feet the farthest away. Does that not seem right, sir?”

  I spoke up. “It does indeed. But that is not where you found the body.”

  “No. It were on the near side, with his head up close to the pole and his feet pointing back to the start line. That made no sense, or at least, that is what I thought, sir.”

  “An excellent observation, my good man,” said Holmes. “And was there anything else?”

  “Well sir, as soon as I seen the poor fellow I shouted and screamed back across the fairground, and quite a few other chaps were now running toward me. So I did not have a chance to look at much more before they pushed me aside. But there was one other thing that I did notice.”

  “Yes, and what was that?” asked Holmes.

  “Well sir, it was the first practice run of the morning and the turf was a bit soft from the rain during the night. It was right easy to see the hoof prints of Lord Commodore. A big galloping racehorse leaves his mark on soft turf. So I did a quick look just before all the rest of the fellows got here, and I could see the proofs in the turf. The horse was galloping full speed right up to the place where the jockey had come off. But then I looked and there was no sign of the horse jolting; he just kept on galloping another thirty yards and then he slowed and stopped. That made me wonder some more, sir. It all added up to be very suspicious. But by then another dozen chaps were bending over Mr. Leggatt and checking his pulse, and shouting instructions about how to save his life even though it was rather clear that his neck was broken and he was dead and gone. So that was all I could observe, sir.”

  “I could not have done a better job myself,” said Holmes. He gave the fellow a friendly clap on his shoulder. Blinden raised his face and beamed a smile back at Holmes.

  “Now then,” said Holmes. “You will know if you have read Dr. Watson’s stories about me, that after a detective has gathered data, he must avoid conjecture and surmise and deduce all possible theories, using his reason alone to explain the facts, and then diligently work to eliminate those that are impossible. I suspect that you have formed a theory or two, have you not. Ah ha, I see by your smile that you have. Pray tell, what have you deduced?”

  “Well sir, really only one,” replied Robert, now looking sheepish but with a smile spread across his wide face. “I think that Nester Leggatt ran into a clothesline, if you know what I mean, sir.”

  “I do know, and that would be my leading hypothesis as well. It would appear that someone stood here, beside this pole, had a rope or wire attached to it and pulled it taut just as Lord Commodore approached in full gallop, catching Nester Leggatt by the neck. But he would have to have a way of anchoring the cord to the pole at the correct height.”

  Holmes was speaking mostly to himself at this point and was gazing up toward the top of the pole.

  “How tall,” he asked Blinden, “is Lord Commodore?”

  “He’s average for a thoroughbred. About seventeen hands.”

  Holmes looked at me, clearly needing a translation.

  “Five feet eight inches from hoof to withers. The jockey stands in the stirrups and leans forward. His neck would have been another foot and a half above the withers.”

  “Thank you, my good doctor,” said Holmes. He took his glass out of his coat pocket and began to examine the side of the pole closest to the starting gate.

  “Watson,” he said while staring up at the pole. “It is terribly inconsiderate of me to ask, but could you possibly drop to one knee and allow me to use your other leg as a step stool?”

  I did as requested. Holmes, balancing himself with a hand on the pole pulled off one of his boots, placed his stockinged foot on my upper leg, and hoisted himself up to where he could see the higher section of the pole. Bracing himself with one hand he extracted his glass from his pocket and examined a portion of the pole that was directly in front of his face. Having done so, he lowered himself back to the ground and donned his boot.

  “As I expected,” he said. “There is a fresh hole with a diameter of a quarter of an inch. Just that right size to have been formed by a lag bolt or a thick threaded hook.”

  He now turned to Robert Blinden. “Sir, you have been exceptionally helpful. Now I must make yet another request of you.”

  “I am very pleased to help, Mr. Holmes.”

  “You must not say anything about what you have shown me. Not to anyone. It must remain a secret between us. Could I count on you to do that, sir?”

  “Oh, of course, you can Mr. Holmes. Helping Sherlock Holmes in solving a mystery is something I always dreamed of but never thought it might ever happen.”

  Again, he was smiling uncontrollably, but he then added, “It is very kind of you to ask me sir, but in truth, no one would ever think I knew anything anyway. So keeping a secret is not a difficult thing to do when no one thinks you know anything.”

  We walked back toward the stable barns where we bid good-day to Robert Blinden. Having done so, Holmes turned to me.

  “My good doctor, I must confess that I was as guilty as the next man in thinking that fellow was not particularly bright based only on the configuration of his face. If nothing else ever comes from this case, the lesson I have learned will be invaluable. Should you ever see me making such a foolish blunder again, you may whisper ‘Epsom Downs’ into my ear.”

  We then took ourselves to the inn. I had feared that it would be entirely occupied, given the excitement of the Century Race on the weekend, but the innkeeper, who immediately recognized Sherlock Holmes, was eager to provide us a suite. Once we had settled in we proceeded to the dining room in search of some lunch.

  As we entered, we were followed by three men who joined us at the same table. It was immediately obvious that they were Americans who had, I assumed, come to participate in the excitement that was abounding for the Century Race. By English standards, their appearance was outlandish. The tallest of them, towering more than a head above Holmes, was attired in a garish suit that bore wide colorful stripes, alternating among red, white, and blue. He did not so much as walk to the table as lope along with extended bobbing strides. The second fellow, somewhat on the portly side and with eyes that were distinctly puffy and melancholy, was wearing an elegant black suit with strong white pinstripes. Although somewhat loud by English taste it might have been overlooked had it not been for the massive red and white polka-dotted bowtie that graced the top of a starched white shirt. The third man, of average height and weight, similar in many respects to my own, was shamelessly wearing a bright yellow short suit jacket and matching trousers. His shirt was black and his long necktie a somewhat lighter shade of yellow. My immediate thought on looking at this strange set of visitors was that that they must, at all costs, be kept away from the racecourse for fear of terrifying the horses.

  “Gentlemen,” said the chap in the yellow suit, as he reached across the table to shake first my hand and then Holmes’s. “You seem to me to be more than somewhat interested in the sport of kings, else why would you be in this two-bit burg on a pleasant autumn morning? As my esteemed colleagues and I have similar preoccupations allow me to introduce Mr. Harold Stanley Vincent Corrigiano Jr., but as that moniker is more than somew
hat of a mouthful he is known by all and sundry as Harry the Horse. Beside him, on your left which is his right is Mr. Archibald Jones, better known, because of his disposition, as Sorrowful. And who, may I be so bold as to inquire, am I addressing in the persons of you two fine gentlemen?”

  Without thinking, I responded. “My colleague is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and I am Dr. John Watson.”

  The loquacious chap’s face took on a rather surprised look and for a second he seemed nonplused, but he recovered quickly and responded. “Ordinarily I do not care to doubt the word of a gentleman, but do you really mean to tell me that you are the one and only Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the world’s most famous detective?”

  “Huh?” interjected the tall chap who had been introduced as Harry the Horse. “Are you thinking that there are maybe two of them?”

  “There is only one of them,” muttered the Sorrowful fellow quietly. “That’s him, alright. He is looking just like the guy in the pictures of the stories I read at bedtime to the kid. Yeah, that’s him.”

  Holmes, who did not seem to be interested in a conversation with these fellows, nodded as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “I am he.”

  “I must say,” returned the man who I was now sure was not only an American but most likely from New York City. “It is not my practice normally to have any truck in any manner, shape, or form with a detective, as all of those I have known who belong to that profession are much too closely aligned with the local constabulary. But it is a privilege and a pleasure to make the acquaintance of so famous a citizen of England, about whom I would no doubt have read had I been in the habit of reading books.”

  Harry turned and in a tone that was far from friendly spoke to Holmes. “So Mr. Famous Detective, if a detective comes to a horserace, it means that the coppers or somebody thinks that the race is fixed. Since we have some serious duckets invested in this race, it would be a very good thing for your well-being if you were to tell me real fast if the fix is in for this big race. And I mean real fast ‘cause I don’t want my coffee to get cold.”

  I have known Sherlock Holmes now for many years. I knew that he did not take kindly to being threatened and could normally be counted on to give a sharp reply to anyone who so dared. I was quite sure that he was about to do so, and I had visions of having to depart the room before the food, which I was looking forward to, had arrived at our table. To my considerable surprise, however, Holmes smiled warmly in response.

  “Ah, please sir, then let me warm up your cup of coffee, and inform you that I am a private, consulting detective, representing the interests of a client who, as I am quite certain is the same for your clients, does not wish his identity to be known. He has a very strong interest in the race and only desires that any possible infractions of proper regulations be avoided.”

  Holmes reached for the pitcher of coffee and topped up the tall fellow’s cup.

  “I get it,” Harry continued. “Your client is worried that someone might put the fix in, and you got to make sure it doesn’t happen. Is that what you’re telling me, Mr. Detective?”

  “Precisely,” replied Holmes, not bothering to add that his client was Scotland Yard. He then continued in a friendly and engaging manner. “I must, however, confess, gentlemen, that I fear my client has made a poor use of his funds by sending me here. My knowledge of horse races is exceptionally limited. My special province is the application of logical synthesis to complex and diabolical crimes. What possible connection could there be of a horse race to murders, assaults, kidnappings, and international intrigue? I doubt I will find any of that here and am most likely to be on the train back to London by this evening.”

  The three Americans looked at each other, briefly at me, and then back at Holmes. Harry spoke up. “So no offense, Mr. Detective, but in the neighborhood where I come from I am supposing that you might be what we would call a chump. You know, one of those guys who do not know what time it is or even how to wind his watch. For a famous guy, you do not seem to be at all acquainted with horse racing.”

  “As I have never been in your neighborhood,” replied Holmes, smiling, “It does not make any difference to me what I might be called. However, I can see nothing in horse racing other than lining up a group of large animals ridden by small men, racing them around a circle, and giving a bit of money to the winner. For the life of me, I cannot see why grown men would watch it eight times over in an afternoon, and then return the next day to see it again. Why, it is no more than a childish way to waste time in the hope of winning a few shillings.”

  The look of offense combined with astonishment on the three faces was amusing and it was all I could do to keep a straight face.

  “Well now, Mr. Holmes,” said the fellow in the yellow suit, “pardon me if I am by no means impressed with the state of your enlightenment. It so happens that this childish pastime has more than ten million bucks associated with it already, depending on the outcome of this big race alone, and the three men with whom you are sitting are in charge of over one million greenbacks, with which we are entrusted to invest on behalf of our clients in this running around a circle, as you call it.”

  Holmes, in well-practiced feigned surprise, gasped. “Good heavens. Why, that’s enough money to start a war. All sorts of terrible crimes have been committed for much less than that. Please gentlemen, please, allow me to provide you with a pleasant lunch and some excellent English ale if you will enlighten me concerning this enterprise of yours. How is it possible that it could attract a criminal conspiracy? Wherein could there ever be a crime?”

  They seemed quite amenable to the prospect of a generous lunch and copious amounts of beer if Holmes was paying the bill, and they smiled back at him.

  “I perceive, sir,” said the man in the yellow suit, who appeared to be the ringleader of the trio, “that you are an excellent person who, most unfortunately, has not experienced the joy of a winning streak at a racetrack, which I will lay you six to five, is one of the finest experiences of high exhilaration available to all of mankind. It is all well and good that a horse should win a race and his owner and rider be rewarded, but it is the wagering of a C-note or two that elevates the experience to that which, in just over one minute, can render you either a comfortable man of means, or one who is deeply financially embarrassed. Truly, sir, in the great and grand scheme of things it matters not who won or lost, but on whom your bet was placed.”

  “Ah, yes. I see,” said Holmes, all wide-eyed and innocent, “but how does a criminal become involved?”

  “Allow me to enlighten you, sir,” came the response. “Let us suppose that some guy is highly intent on impressing some gorgeous doll, and he deduces that he will need thirty G’s with which to pay her rent on Park Avenue, and buy her a fur coat and a few diamonds if there is ever to be a chance that she will give him the time of day. But the most scratch he can come up with, after borrowing and leaving markers with all his friends and relatives, is ten G’s. So he takes his ten G’s to the track because he hears that a certain nag is a dark horse and truly very fast, and the odds being offered are five to one against that the nag will ever win the race. So, he lays his ten G’s down on the nag to win. If it wins, then he collects fifty G’s and he has enough to have the doll fall for him, and still has his ten with which to pay back his friends, who are holding his markers, and the rest with which he can enrich afford to eat at Delmonico’s. He is now a happy man.

  “I am most certain sir, that you will agree that this man is very motivated to do anything he can to make sure that his nag comes in a winner, as he cannot afford to lose both his borrowed scratch and the doll, which he will unless his horse wins. He now has a very strong incentive to take action. Such action might from time to time cross the line of what is considered to be strictly legal if you know what I mean.”

  “I am terribly sorry, my good man,” returned Holmes, “but I fear I am all in the dark about what you mean. Kindly enlighten me.”

  “Well, it is like this. There are sev
eral courses of action, each with different odds available to him. The guy could offer a C-bill to each of the other jockeys to pull their mounts and slow down so his horse can win. Some elements of society would call such an action bribery, but the more progressive agree that it is simply another form of giving a decent working stiff a generous tip for a job well done. However, we do not consider it to be a wise tactic if there are more than a few horses in the race, as a guy will soon be out of C-Bills and have nothing left over to give to his bookie.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Holmes. “That would present a somewhat prohibitive barrier unless one already had an abundance of money to start with.”

  “More than somewhat. If a guy already had enough scratch to tip every one of the jockeys, then he already has enough scratch for a doll and does not need any more anyway.”

  “I suppose,” said Holmes, looking quite speculative, “that threats could be made to do violence to the other jockeys if they tried to win.”

  “Yeah,” added Harry. “Or he could bump them off, which guarantees they cannot win, but he has to get rid of them all, and that does not usually work. The coppers get suspicious when a dozen jockeys all of a sudden up and die within three days before a big race. So we learn to avoid that tactic.”

  “Or,” continued the first chap, “he could try to find another way to make all of the jockeys ride poorly, such as doping them before the race. But the practicalities of such an endeavor tend to be highly daunting.”

  “Indeed?” asked Holmes. “And why is that?”

  “Unlike a horse, a jockey tends to express his displeasure if you stab him with a needle and administer a seven percent solution of cocaine, which will make him too stupid to win. If you feed him abundant quantities of powdered opium with his porridge and by chance give more than somewhat too much and he falls off the horse, then suspicions arise. So neither we nor any or our associates can be bothered to use that method.”

  “Quite so,” said Holmes, taking this all in. “I presume, then that if you cannot affect the race by making arrangements of any type with the jockeys, then you have no choice but to make an arrangement with the horses.”