“Follow me,” he said. He rose, paid the tab for the sake, and walked out onto the street. We followed at a short distance until he came to a gate leading into what I assumed was a diplomatic compound for foreigners. There were two guards at the gate, dressed in the uniform of the United States Marines, and Smathers spoke to them briefly, whereupon one of them searched through a cabinet in the guard house and handed a set of keys to our American guide.
“In years gone by,” he said, “they used to make all of us foreigners live in the Tsukiji settlement beside the river. But they needed that space for their fish market, so now we get to roam the city, more or less. Julian’s residence is up ahead. He was fairly high up on the ladder so he was provided with better housing. It hasn’t been cleaned out since he died. They’re all still waiting for someone from his family to come and take away his belongings. Our boys went through everything and found nothing more than what I’ve already told you. So if you want to snoop around for the rest of the day, go ahead. Just leave the keys with the guards when you go. And since I have better things to do, I will dump you guys here. I will be at the American Legation if you need me again.”
He opened the door of a pleasant villa, handed Holmes the ring of keys, and departed.
The residence was spacious and well-furnished with western furniture. The Japanese style of rooms with sliding doors that opened on to a garden had been adapted, and it made for a very attractive place in which to live. After a cursory tour of the lodgings, Holmes sat himself in one of the plush sofas and turned to me. I knew what was coming.
“Very well, my dear doctor, what did you make of Smathers’s account of the American’s demise?”
For years he had been asking me questions like this and no matter how much I sought to reason and observe, I was never able to come up with sufficient correct deductions. However, Holmes never stopped asking, and I never stopped trying.
“The story,” I ventured, “about the geisha did not strike me as reliable.”
“Ah ha! I agree, and pray tell, why not?”
“I only know what I have read, but I had three weeks on board ship to do nothing but read books about Japan, including a quite fascinating one. The World of Flower and Willow was the title, but I cannot remember the author’s name, except that it was a Scottish woman. She said that geishas were not treated like a wife or daughter, or even a mistress. They were independent women with highly trained artistic, musical, and conversational skills. They were free to spend time with whomsoever they wished once they had passed into the ranks of the full-fledged geisha. So, the idea that a man of means and reputation would kill another man in a jealous rage over a geisha is just not something that would take place in Japan. I believe, if I remember correctly, that their aristocrats and generals and the like would often send their favorite geisha and pay her fee, as a present to someone they wished to impress or thank. That is about all I remember from my reading. Unfortunately, that book is on board the S.S. Delhi and on its way back to London. But what about you, Holmes?”
“I agree entirely, my dear friend, and have nothing to add.”
This was a most unusual response to my efforts, and I was more than somewhat pleased with myself. Feeling confident, I kept going.
“I cannot imagine that Smathers, who is Mycroft’s man in the American Embassy, would be knowingly deceiving us with his story, since if found out he would lose his stipend from your brother. Therefore, there is most likely some element of truth to his account but no doubt somewhat confused.”
“Brilliant, Watson. You’re doing splendidly. Keep going.”
“This chap, Mr. Boulanger, had rather costly tastes and habits. The cabinet is full of fine liquor. The suits in his wardrobe are of a very select quality, and the pieces of art on his walls would not, I surmise, be issued by his employer. This fellow either came from money or had a need for it in order to cover his habits.”
“Well done, Watson! Well done, indeed. Now, take the data you have acquired and your deductions and form a theory concerning the crime. We already know how he died, but who might have done it and, most critically, why.”
I had been feeling a bit chuffed but knew that I was now on shakier ground. Nevertheless, I soldiered on.
“Very well, Holmes, I will give it a try. A man might kill another man for private reasons related to jealousy, or vengeance, or a fear of being exposed. .Sensible men do not kill other men who owe them gambling debts, since a gambler who owes you money but is still alive is worth far more than one who owes you but is dead.Or, it could be for reasons of state, such as treason, or fear of treason”
“Exactly, now keep it up, old boy.”
“If his personal needs were being attended to by a geisha of the upper ranks then it is not likely that Mr. Boulanger would be involved in any indecent friendships with any other women, so we can tentatively rule out jealous husbands or competing suitors.”
“Indeed, we can. Pray, continue.”
“If a high-ranking Japanese general truly did have a hand in his murder, then I would be inclined to think it related more to matters of state, to international intrigue, treason, and the like.”
“As would I, Watson. And, as we are dealing with diplomats, who Mycroft assures us are all spies to the last man, then it is to that probable field of affairs that we must now devote our attention. Allow me then to suggest that we go through this residence with a fine tooth comb looking for anything that might give us a clue as to what the fuss was over.”
I nodded my consent. We had no other meeting scheduled for the morning and while searching through the effects of a dead man was not a particularly dignified task, it went with the job of solving a crime.
“Where shall I begin, Holmes?”
He gazed around the room, pondering his response, and then settled his eye on the bookcase.
“I will begin with his desk and files, and you, my dear doctor, with his books.”
Mr. Boulanger’s books were neatly arranged on a large bookcase, with the fictional literature clearly separated from the non-fiction. There must have been over one hundred novels and a score of collections of poetry. All were in order by the last name of the author and I began, therefore, with A. One by one, I pulled the books off the shelf, checked the small hidden place in the bookcase behind them, and held them by their spines to see if anything would fall out. That was followed by a quick inspection of the endpapers and flyleaves. In a few minutes, I had disposed of Henry Adams, Conrad Aiken, Louisa May Alcott, Horatio Alger and Jane Austin but had found nothing. And so it went through the letter B, and then on into C. I was strongly tempted to stop and read some passages from books that I had heard of but had never had the opportunity to enjoy, but they would have to wait for there was an entire half a shelf of James Fennimore Cooper. First came The Spy, then The Pioneers, The Pilot, and The Last of the Mohicans, but then, oddly, a second copy of The Spy. I held it open like I did all the others and nothing fell out, but a flipping of the pages caused me to sputter for my companion.
“Holmes! Here. Look at this!”
There was not a single word of printed text inside the volume. It was lined in the manner of a ledger book with the back portion blank but the front half of the pages entirely filled with notes and numbers. I handed it to Holmes. He took it, sat down on one of the sofas, and began to read the pages slowly. For the first few minutes his gaze was devoted to the opening pages, then with a slight jerk of his head and a trace of a smile, he flipped to the last page on which an entry had been made. The trace of a smile slowly broadened until he was positively grinning.
“Out with it, Holmes,” I ordered. “What have you found?”
For the next minute, he did not respond. He just kept on smiling and muttering “Ah ha” and nodding his head. Then his countenance suddenly clouded over, and I heard and quiet, “Uh oh. Oh dear.”
“My dear doctor,” he said, looking up at me, “do take a look at what our dead American spy has left us.” He turned th
e book in my direction and held it open so I could read. On the final page of entries I read, in a neat script:
January 15, 1905
Received from Ottawa. 2000 Ross. Remitted $10,000 in gold to Le Blanc.
Paid to cartage $1000.
Received from Nippon. $20,000.
Western Union transfer to Kidder, Peabody. $9000.
On the preceding page, was a similar entry but with somewhat more detail.
December 30, 1904
Received from Ottawa: 1000 Ross. Remitted $5,000 in gold to Le Blanc for payment to Gen. Federov.
Paid for cartage and brokerage services: $500.
Received from Nippon via Ishiwara: $10,000.
Western Union transfer to Kidder, Peabody: $4500.
The earlier entries were all of the same order. Articles identified only by an unrecognized name appear to have been imported from Canada, Argentina, Great Britain, Germany and numerous other countries. They were then sold on to various entities that had Japanese names. Many different names from numerous countries of origin were noted with some recurring often and others only once or twice.
“What, Holmes, do you make of this?”
“Obviously, our man was doing what any honest spy does to supplement his income. He was using his diplomatic status to import goods into Japan and sell them at a considerable profit. His account with Kidder Peabody and Company must be quite rich. Carrying on like this is generally not approved of by any Foreign Office of any country, but the prohibition is honored in the breach all over the world. There is nothing untoward about that. But one of the names of his co-conspirators gave me pause.”
“Might that have been General Federov?”
“It might.”
For the next two hours we pored over the ledger book and continued to search Mr. Boulanger’s villa. We had hoped to find some of whatever it was he was importing into Japan, but there was nothing of the sort to be found.
“He must,” I asserted, “be using another warehouse somewhere. Heaven only knows how we could find it.”
“Heaven? Perhaps. Or maybe those who think they belong there.”
I could not understand what he was saying and then, of all things, he began to sing:
If the Army and the Navy
Ever look on Heaven’s scenes,
They will find the streets are guarded
By United States Marines.
“You do not,” he said with a friendly, howbeit condescending smile, “appear to be familiar with the Hymn of the United States Marines.”
I had never heard of it.
“Well then, it occurred to me that if shipments of anything were coming and coming from this compound, the young chaps at the gate must have seen something.”
We walked back to the gate of the compound, and Holmes approached the two strapping lads who stood by the guardhouse.
“Terribly sorry to bother you lads, but is it possible that you know who I am?”
One of them looked at him, a little perplexed and replied.
“Sir! We know that you are Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Sir! And the gentleman with you is Dr. Watson, Sir!”
“Ah, I thought you might, and if it is not against your orders, may I request that you stand at ease and speak freely?”
The two fellows looked at each other, gave shy smiles and stood at ease.
“Welcome, Mr. Holmes. Sure we know who you are. We’ve read all your stories that Dr. Watson writes. We sort of can’t wait to get back to the barracks and tell the rest of our unit about meeting you. Most exciting thing that’s happened this week, sir.”
“And, if you will forgive my curiosity, have you any idea why I am here? I assure you that whatever you say will never be repeated.”
One chap instinctively shook his head although his wide eyes betrayed his answer. The other gave a shrug and replied.
“Well sir, I’m not wanting to look like a bonehead, so I’d have to say it must have something to do with them finding that stiff in the drink, Mr. Boulanger, that is. Somebody done him in and it’s all hush-hush. So you being a hawkshaw and all, we figured that the brass must have called in reinforcements. That’s just what we kind of guess, sir.”
“And right you are. Now, would I be correct if I were to guess that you two lads wouldn’t mind helping me to solve the mystery of the murder of Mr. Boulanger?”
All pretense of being on guard disappeared from the faces of the lads, and they began to beam like schoolboys just let out early.
“Oh boy! We would love to do that, wouldn’t we, Jimmy. That would be a real humdinger for us, sir. But you just can’t put our names in any story. If our Captain hears about it, we’ll be called on the carpet and given the third degree. What can we do, sir?”
“Very good. Well then, Marines, the mystery is this. I have evidence that Mr. Boulanger received and sent many different shipments of goods, but there is not a scrap of them to be found in his villa. Have you seen anything coming and going over the past few months?”
The chap who had been addressed as Jimmy came over and stood close to Holmes and me. In a quiet voice, he said, “There were livery wagons arriving at least once a week, loaded with goods. And other wagons come in empty and leave loaded. It was going on real regular up until he got knocked off. But because all these men who are the uppity-ups at the Legation have diplomatic immunity, we are not supposed to write anything down. But all of us on this detail saw it all the time. Real regular, sir.”
“You don’t say. Were the wagons marked in any way? Could you tell where they were coming from?”
“They came from the docks, sir. The cases and barrels all have the name of the ship they came on stenciled on their sides. During the past few months, a lot was coming from Canada. Had the Empress of Japan marked on the shipments. That’s the ship that sails from Vancouver, sir. And the wagons that took stuff away, sir, they belonged to the Japs, sir. To their military, sir.”
“Ah, very interesting, my boy,” said Holmes. “But if they were not taken to the villa, where did they go?”
“Well, Mr. Holmes, all the men here, and all the families, have a space over in the warehouse, off beyond the houses, sir. That’s where they store all their barrels and packing cases. That’s how these folks get moved from place to place, sir. Everything they own, and I mean everything, gets put in barrels and cases every few years and they move on to their next post, so they all keep their barrels and cases, sir, and guard them real tight.”
“How very reasonable,” Holmes assented. “Would it be possible for you to take us to the warehouse?”
Chapter Five In the Warehouse
A LOOK OF CONFUSION SPREAD over the marine’s face. “Oh, sir. We can’t leave our post. The Captain would read the riot act if he ever heard we did that. We would love to be able to help, sir, but that would get us tossed in the hoosegaw for sure. Sorry, sir.”
Holmes smiled at them. “Of course. You are fine soldiers and you should never leave your post when there is no apparent reason to do so.”
Then he jumped around and pointed to the houses and shouted. “Oh! Did you hear that? There was a gunshot over there. You heard that didn’t you, Watson?”
I knew my lines.
“Yes! Yes! It was a gunshot. Oh! There’s a second one. It’s coming from beyond the houses. Marines, somebody may be in trouble. You have to investigate immediately. It could be a matter of life and death!”
At first, the two fellows looked dumbfounded, and then grins spread across their faces.
Jimmy responded loudly. “Oh, my. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson report hearing gunshots, Gerry. We better get over there. Somebody could be in trouble. C’mon! On the double.”
They took off at a run, and we followed them, walking. Behind the lanes of residences stood a featureless building and our two Marines were standing in front of it, smiling, with the door wide open.
“Do you think the shots came from inside, Mr. Holmes?”
“I am certain of it,” Holm
es replied, stifling a laugh.
“Right, sir. Then we’ll just have to look.”
The two Marines entered the warehouse and led us to a door along one of the hallways.
“I believe that this is where you heard the shots coming from, Mr. Holmes,” said Jimmy. “Now sir, we could knock the door down, but it might be a lot easier if you would take the keys that Mr. Smathers left with you. Odds are, sir, one of them is going to let us in.”
I had the keys in my pocket and tried several of them on the door until the lock shifted and the door opened. Stepping inside, we could see what I estimated to be a hundred or more wooden cases stacked from floor to ceiling. All were about six feet in length and all stamped with the name of Empress of Japan – Canadian Pacific.
Holmes leaned his head down toward the closest case and announced, “I do believe that I heard someone shouting for help inside that case. His life may be in danger. Marine, could you please help me rescue him.”
Gerry moved forward, raised his rifle in the air and brought the butt end smashing down on the padlock. It flew off the side of the case and onto the floor. The two marines then each pried the top up with their bayonets and flung it open.
“Wow!” burst Jimmy. “Isn’t that just a lollapalooza! Those rifles are brand spanking new.”
The entire crate was filled with military rifles, all gleaming and waiting their first use. Jimmy lifted one out and with a practiced hand slide the bolt back and forth in its place.
“It’s a Ross,” he said. “The new Canadian gun. Best sniper rifle in the world, but useless in battle.”
“How is it you know this gun?” asked Holmes, somewhat incredulously.
“We’re Marines, sir. We like guns. They’re sort of our hobby. When we come together for a bit of a bash, we talk about girls and guns and baseball, and grouse about the food. Arguing about which rifle is better is just one of the things we do, sir. We Marines are issued Springfields, and the Limeys get Lee-Enfields. But starting last year, the Canucks started using these here Ross Rifles. Looks like there are maybe twenty of them in this here case. Must be a thousand or more in the room here. You’re the detective sir, but I’d bet that our Mr. Boulanger was bringing these in and then selling them to the Japs.”
Sherlock Holmes Never Dies- Collection Four Page 26
