Sherlock Holmes Never Dies- Collection Four

by Copland, Craig Stephen

  “There is a record of it.”

  “So were these folks blind? They said that they had read every copy of the Sporting News for the past decade and there was not a single mention of any Sir Galahad.”

  “They were looking in the wrong place.”

  He was being cryptic as he was often wont to be and it was a waste of my time to ask any further. Once we reached Baker Street, he rushed immediately to one of the closets in which he stored his tin file boxes. He brought out three of them, labels bearing the Sporting News during the previous three years.

  “My dear doctor,” he muttered to me and he rifled through the first box. “It may come as a surprise to you that I have not rested a day in my interest in the Epsom Downs tragedy. I have read every line of every issue of this miserable rag since that time. Contrary to your conclusions, I am now quite the expert on horse racing in England, and while my knowledge five years ago was feeble and close to non-existent, I must say that now it approaches encyclopedic. Our friends were quite correct in noting that there was no mention of Sir Galahad in the daily forms or the race results, but I recall two appearances of the name in what amounts to an agony column in this paper. It will take me a few minutes to locate it, but I know it is in here.”

  One issue after another he opened them, scanned the back page, and put it down.

  “Aha!” he cried. “Here it is. The 15 March issue of two years back. Have a look.” He stabbed at the paper with his long thin forefinger and handed it to me.

  A small note in the agony column read:

  Dear Sir Galahad: American investor in need of your services. Will pay top dollar.

  Then he gave me the issue for the following week, in which came the reply.

  Dear American Investor: Contact Sir Galahad at Box 693, E.C.

  “There they are,” exulted Holmes. “We shall simply follow the example provided and see if they will respond to the bait.”

  He sat down into his armchair, drew his feet up under his body, brought his hands together in front of him and closed his eyes. It was his customary pose when deep into concentration. I was quietly pleased to see traces of a smile from time to time at the corners of his mouth. After some fifteen minutes, he spoke to me.

  “My dear friend, might you possibly be able, a week or so from today, to undergo an extensive disguise, and then to pretend that you are an Englishman who has moved to America and are now employed as the accountant to a horseracing syndicate?”

  I assured him that I could do that, and was rather delighted with the prospect.

  “I shall have to be in disguise as well,” he continued. “I believe I could be a convincing English bloke who has moved to America and is now a professional handicapper. Yes, I do believe I could do that. It will not be necessary to disguise our American clients, as they will only have to act the way all Americans do. Mind you, I don’t know what to do about Lestrade. His theatrical skills are dreadful, but I shall think of something. And, of course, we shall need a horse.”

  Having said these things, he closed his eyes again. I did not have the faintest idea as to what he was stitching together in his most unusual brain, but my blood was already warming to the adventure. I must admit that even after twenty-five years there was nothing that I enjoyed more in all of life than rushing into the game with Sherlock Holmes once it was afoot. And most certainly, it was now up and running.

  He opened his eyes, rose, and scurried over to his writing desk and began to scribble something.

  “My dear Watson, Could I kindly prevail upon you to drop this off at the post office on your way home? If you have it in by the end of the day, today we should be in time for the Sporting News issue on Sunday.

  I agreed and he handed me a brief note for insertion into the agony column. It ran:

  Attention Sir Galahad: Major American syndicate requests first class exclusive services. Immediate response requested. Reply to Amer. Synd. Metropole Hotel.

  “We will see if this does the trick,” he said. “I shall let you know what transpires.”

  As I prepared to leave with this note in hand, I turned back to Holmes. “I am quite certain, Holmes, that you have no interest whatsoever in merely tracking down a mysterious horse. You must see some connection between this and the murders six years ago at Epsom.”

  “Is that not obvious, Watson?”

  Chapter Eleven

  The Finish Line

  I HAD TAKEN QUITE A SHINE to the spirited young Martha O’Connor and, as there were a couple of days before our note in the Sporting News would be published, I made a point of inviting her to a lunch with me and my wife, Mary. She agreed and came the next day to our pleasant flat just off Marylebone. The three of us had a delightful conversation, hearing more of her unusual upbringing and her adventures in racetracks, nightclubs, gambling dens, and private schools. She had us in stitches for well over an hour. My wife, hoping I am sure to arrange another such encounter, asked if there were any place in London that she might like to visit.

  “You might quite enjoy,” said Mary, “the Victoria and Albert Museum, or the British Museum. You know it has all those lovely Elgin Marbles, and the Rosetta Stone, and that exquisite Portland Vase. Or might you like to watch the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace?”

  Miss Martha smiled back and for a second, quite uncharacteristically, blushed before speaking. “Oh, you will think that I am a terribly wayward and wanton young woman if I tell you what I am just dying to do.”

  “Well then, do tell,” said Mary. “You have commanded my attention.”

  “It is just that all those lovely things you suggest are already on my itinerary and my governess will be making sure that I see every one of them. But there is one place I have heard of that sounds so unusual that I really must find out for myself.”

  “And what might that be?” I asked.

  “Do you know of a place called Brooks’s Club on a street named St. James?”

  I was entirely taken aback. “Why, of course, I know it. I have visited several times over the years. But why, in heaven’s name, would you want to visit a stuffy men’s club?”

  “Because I have heard that it is the pinnacle of all places on earth for outrageous gambling, where men are willing to stake fortunes on a hand of cards. It is quite famous for that, is it not?”

  “Are you saying,” I asked, somewhat disbelieving, “that you want to go and watch some of the wealthiest men in the world as they toss thousands of pounds back and forth across a gaming table? Is that what you wish to do?”

  She dropped her head and blushed again. “No doctor. Oh dear, this is terribly embarrassing. No, I do not want to watch them. I want to play them … and beat them.”

  My dear wife gasped in glee and clapped her hands together. “Oh, you are a girl after my own heart. Do you truly believe you could do that? Are you that good?”

  “Sorrowful and all the guys who raised me taught me to play when I was five years old. I have never stopped. And, I do not wish to be boastful, but I am very, very good at it. I have trounced all of the high-stakes men in New York. Of course, the really rich men are too smart to keep losing, but there are many who were not as smart and now are more than somewhat poorer. I cannot get any of them to take me on anymore. This would be my dream and I am so excited at the prospect. Is there any possible way, Dr. Watson, that you could get me in there?”

  “My dear, I am so sorry, women are not permitted on the premises.”

  “Oh yes, I know that. But I read that there is an annex behind the club where they hold events for both men and women. Could we not set up a game there? I do believe, sir, that if a notice were posted that an American Girl challenged any man in the club to a round of poker, with an entry fee of £500 that it would create a bit of a buzz would it not?”

  “Five hundred pounds,” I sputtered. “My dear girl, that is a fortune. Of course, it would arouse a tidal wave of interest. But my dear, can you really afford to spend that much? And what if you lose?
You would be destitute and they would come after your family demanding payment.”

  Again she smiled, this time bordering on impish. “Well, yes, doctor, I can afford it. For the past five years, I have won consistently at cards and at the racetrack and I am far from destitute.”

  “But what if you lose? It would be utterly distressing to you.” I said.

  “Then I lose.” She shrugged her shoulders and added, “And doctor … real gamblers don’t cry.”

  My wife immediately sided with Miss Martha and with both of the arraigned against me I had to give in. The three of us took a stroll toward Mayfair and Mary and Miss Martha waited for me around the corner in the tea room of the St. James Hotel. Against my better judgment, I entered Brooks and asked for the two chaps I knew would be there. I was soon seated with an aging Lord Atherstone and my fellow writer, Edward Bulwer-Lytton. Before I could launch into my proposal, Ed opened his valise and brought out two copies of his latest novel, Paul Clifford, signed the title pages and handed them to me with a beaming smile.

  “One for you and one for Holmes. You were my inspiration.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about and went ahead and placed my proposal in front of them.

  Their reaction was like two schoolboys who had just been told that geometry class would be canceled so that they could watch a special cricket match. They slapped their thighs and pounded the table.

  “Oh, splendid,” wheezed the octogenarian Atherstone. “A capital idea. We have not had a good evening as that since Bertie stopped coming around.”

  “Let’s go and place it before the General Secretary,” proposed Bulwer-Lytton. “He can be a bit of a prude when it comes to activities that involve the weaker sex. He may be a bit of a sticky wicket.”

  The General Secretary of Brooks listened politely as we made our suggestion, but I detected a faint smile appearing on his otherwise featureless face.

  “It may surprise you, sirs,” he said stiffly, “if I told you that I have heard about this American girl. We general secretaries of the more exclusive clubs around the world all keep in touch with each other over matters of mutual concern. I have heard about this young lady from my colleagues in New York and Boston. She could provide us with a very memorable evening. I will approve this event, subject to some minor conditions.”

  “Very well,” said Lord Atherstone, “spit them out, Georgie.”

  “One, that we must be fair and not limit the event to poker, which is a terribly American game. But she must agree that we shall alternate one round of poker, with one of whist, an English game. That would keep things fair. Two, that you agree that the invitation may be extended to members of White’s, Reform, and Boodle’s. Maybe The Athenaeum, and The Carlton too. And three, that the entry fee must be raised to £1,000, paid to the club. If we are going to have an event that will be talked about for years then we had best go all out, should we not? Tomorrow night, shall it be? Start at six and carry on until sunrise, or until the lady drops out. What do you say?”

  The other two agreed immediately. I felt trapped. This was altogether too rich for my blood and I was overcome with worry as to what an enormous pit had been opened for this young and, I feared, over-confident woman from America.

  I found the two of them chatting merrily over tea in the hotel and sat down. Gloom and doom must have been written all over my face.

  “Oh darling,” began my wife, “did they turn you down? Oh, I am so sorry.”

  I shook my head and whispered, “No. Worse. They accepted.” I fearfully recited the conditions, shaking my head in despair as I did so. When I finished, I looked up at Miss Martha, who was positively beaming with joy.

  “Oh, Doctor Watson. How can I thank you? This is the best treat I have been given since Sorrowful first took me to the Preakness. I promise, sir, I promise that I will name my first son after you.”

  “My dear, girl,” I admonished her. “I do not care at all if you were to have ten sons and name every one of them John Hamish, just please, I beg you, do not lose.”

  I had heard nothing that day from Holmes. I sent him a note concerning the gambling event and fully expected him to summon me and deliver a severe tongue-lashing for meddling with his client. Instead, I received a note that simply read:

  Jolly good work, Watson. Regret I cannot attend. Holmes.

  Mary and I met Miss Martha the following day for lunch at the Metropole. Her friends, Sorrowful and the chap in the blue suit were with her. I was still awfully worried.

  “Martha, my dear,” I started in. “You grew up playing poker. But what about this demand that you alternate with whist? Surely that must concern you.”

  She reached forward and placed her slender hand on my forearm. “Au contraire, my friend. For whist, you need to know a hundred rules and remember every card that has been played. All you need to win is a perfect memory. And, well, fortunately, I have one.”

  She giggled and sat back.

  “My dear,” I would not let up. “I am no gambler, but I know enough that no matter how good you are, as they say, a good deal depends upon a good deal. Luck still plays a very big role, and even a perfect memory will not overcome it.”

  “Oh Doctor Watson,” she said, warmly. “Luck matters in a short game, but not in an all-nighter.”

  I was befuddled and asked her to explain.

  “The more hands you play, the more that every player will end up being dealt the same quality of cards. It all averages out over time. The scientists call it regression to the mean. That’s why I never agree to play in any game under three hours. By the end of a twelve-hour marathon, it is all about your skill. And so I win.”

  “Very well now, Martha,” said my wife. “What then can we do to help? Perhaps a bit of brandy from time to time?”

  “No!” interrupted Sorrowful. “No booze. Booze is for losers.”

  I was somewhat startled by his abrupt comment. Miss Martha explained. “The more a gambler consumes alcohol, the more he loses. I will drink water, some tea and maybe a cup or two of coffee. Sorrowful will be watching everything to make sure that no one tries to slip me a mickey.”

  “You don’t mean,” said my wife in disbelief, “that you think someone might try to drug you while you are playing, do you?”

  “Why not?” said Sorrowful. “Sorry, lady, but you must believe us when we tell you that it is not difficult to do. We know these things.”

  We parted following lunch. My wife asked Miss Martha concerning her plans for the afternoon and what she planned to do to prepare for the night ahead.

  “I am going shopping, having a bath, and a long nap,” she replied. Quote a sensible choice, I thought.

  Miss Martha’s entourage assembled in the St. James Hotel at half-past five o’clock. I had given myself a bit of a disguise, since by this time in my life I had become somewhat well-known as a writer and particularly as an associate of Sherlock Holmes. I did not wish for the crowd at Brooks to see me with Miss Martha and make any connection to London’s famous detective. It could all too easily scare away possible players.

  Martha had spent an hour over in the shops on Regent Street and was now attired in a beautiful little black dress. It barely reached past her knees, had no sleeves, and a very deep and daring cut down the front, exposing the all-American cleavage. Over it she had a short white satin jacket, and around her neck was a fine gold chain, supporting a finely carved gold cross that bobbed up and down each time she moved her head.

  “My dear,” I said in admiration. “You look positively daring.”

  “If what you are truly telling me, Doctor, is that I look irresistibly distracting, then I shall take that as assurance that I have accomplished my first task of the night.”

  We all gave a pleasant chuckle and made our way around the corner to Brooks. The General Secretary was waiting for us and beaming with delight as we entered. He escorted our little troop through the premises to the annex at the back of the building, chatting as he did so.

>   “I must say,” he said, “telegrams were flying all afternoon across the Atlantic. Young lady, you have a bit of a reputation among gamblers. A few of the more dour chaps here have declined to participate as a result but will most certainly be watching. However, we have had over fifty sign up to play, and I had to double the entry fee for those who wished to be first in the queue. We are expecting a positively smashing evening.”

  Sorrowful had managed to obtain a very respectable set of evening clothes and Miss Martha entered the annex room on his arm. There must have been over two hundred guests waiting for her and they stood and gave a round of applause as she gracefully strode into the room. With her high heels, she was more than somewhat taller than most of the men in the room. The Secretary led her to her chair and called the event to order.

  After a few perfunctory remarks of welcome, he paused, waiting for complete silence in the room.

  “There have been some questions raised concerning the authenticity of our visiting American Girl. I am pleased to confirm that she has placed on deposit with the Club £75,000 and has made it abundantly clear that she will not leave the table until either she has lost her entire deposit or the sun rises.”

  There were a few gasps from the ladies present and another round of very respectful applause. The Secretary continued.

  “The games to be played will alternate between twenty minutes of five card draw poker and twenty of diminishing contract whist. Hoyle’s rules will be followed. Six men at a time will be seated at the table. All will participate in the rounds of poker. Three at a time will play a round of whist, taking turns each time. A player may fold and leave the table at any time. Once a player is the losing player at the table for five rounds of either whist or poker, he must vacate his place and let the next man in the queue take his chair. A five-minute break for the loo will be allowed every hour. A half hour break for nourishment will take place at midnight. The players may smoke or drink at the table but may not consume food. Guests may, of course, eat and drink as they wish and our chef has prepared a splendid buffet of delicacies. Are there any questions? No? Very well, let the play begin.”