Locked Rooms

by Laurie R. King

  Holmes studied the young man’s features, bone-thin but unbending, and his shoulders relaxed.

  “I suppose I’ve been called reckless myself, from time to time. But don’t risk your neck again for the sake of my case, you hear? In any event, what have you learnt?”

  “I guess your wife’s father was something of a nut about cars,” Hammett said, his irritation fading as his attention returned to the plate. “The Maxwell dealer remembers him well, one of his first and best customers. Seems Russell bought a new car every year from 1908 until this one that killed them, which he picked up about two weeks before the war broke out in Europe—middle of July 1914. The owner seemed to think Russell might even have intended to ship this one out to Boston, where his family was going after he enlisted.”

  “Not to England?”

  “Said Boston, because England might not be the safest place for a while. Looking back, I’d say your father-in-law was a clever man.”

  It was true: In the summer of 1914, most of the world had thought the war would be over by Christmas, and most men would not have hesitated to send an English wife home to her family.

  The waitress decided that her customer had eaten as much of his dinner as he was going to, and without being asked she set two thick white mugs of coffee on the table, removing the half-eaten dinner with a shake of her head. Hammett wiped his fingers on his table napkin, took a swallow of the coffee, and picked up something from the seat of the chair beside him, laying it on the table between them.

  “You know what this is?” he asked.

  “This” was a pair of bent and rusted steel rods, although it did not take a very close examination to see that they had originally been two parts of a still-longer whole. The longer of these two sections, about eighteen inches from the still-attached ball joint to its broken end, was pitted from long exposure to the elements; grains of sand still nestled in the rough surface. Holmes fingered its uneven end: not merely broken, but half sawed through, then twisted hard to shattering.

  The other piece was slightly shorter, just over a foot long, and although it, too, was rusted, its lack of pitting and sand indicated that it had spent its life in a slightly more protected environment. One end was a twin with that of the longer piece—half sawed, half wrenched apart. Its other end, however, was neatly, and freshly, sawed through.

  Hammett gestured at the tidy end of the shorter piece. “I didn’t think we really needed to haul the whole thing around, so I just cut off the hunk we needed. Seemed to me the two ends said it all.”

  Holmes laid the two pieces of rod on the table, the broken end of the rusted one resting against the broken end of the cleaner.

  “I have long feared it might be something of this order. Yes, Mr Hammett, I know what this is. I spent some time as a garage mechanic in Chicago, just before the war broke out. A little case for His Majesty. That’s a brake rod, or rather the better half of a brake rod, and I agree, you were right to cut it off—as far as evidence is concerned, there’s no need to drag around a piece of steel half the length of a motorcar. Which side of the motor was it from?”

  “The left.”

  “So whoever did it knew they would be travelling south on that road.”

  “I . . . Yes, I suppose they would have.”

  “No supposition involved. Failure of the left-side brake rod under pressure would cause the motor to swerve to the right, and with that hill-top turn it didn’t even require an on-coming motor to break the rod.” Russell’s father would have braked hard at that spot in any event—without the other motor, without two squabbling children in the back. Mary Russell’s disagreeable behaviour had nothing to do with it.

  “Whoever did it was clever,” Hammett agreed. “And according to my guy, if it’d been cut all the way through, your Mr Russell would never have made it as far as the top of that hill without crashing.”

  “Although I’d have thought he’d had to have been a remarkably cautious man to drive all the way from San Francisco with brakes in that condition.”

  Hammett’s starved-looking face relaxed into a satisfied grin. “They stopped for lunch in Serra Beach. That little town about a mile before the hill.”

  “Parking the motor out of sight?”

  “Actually, he left the car at the garage while they ate, to be filled up and to have a slow leak in one tyre repaired. The man took the wheel off and fixed it, and once I’d jogged his memory it all came back to him, because when he’d first heard about the accident, the day it happened, he’d been scared to death—thought maybe he’d failed to tighten the rim bolts enough. He even went out to see, and was hugely relieved to see the burnt-out shell, turned turtle, with all four wheels safely in place.”

  “And this cleaner half of the brake rod was in his possession?” Holmes nudged the stub with one finger.

  “Yeah. A week or so after the accident, he and his older brother, who ran the garage, took a pair of draught horses up and hauled the wreck off the rocks. Because it had landed upside-down, the fire had just erupted into open air—poof, hot and fast and it’s over—and his older brother thought they might be able to salvage some of the engine parts. Which, as it happened, was true. The chassis is still around the back of the garage, the bones of it, and pretty thoroughly picked over. The brother, by the way, died in a racing-car crash, the summer of 1920.”

  “The man doesn’t remember anyone interfering with the machine, while it waited?”

  “Nope. Wheel off, patch it up, wheel on, then fill ’er up and shift the car around to the side.”

  “Was it common practice, for the Russell family to pause there on their way south?”

  “I don’t know, but it would’ve made sense to stop there halfway along, let the kiddies stretch their legs.”

  “A thing anyone might have anticipated.”

  “Yeah.” Hammett’s eyes came down to the twisted lengths of rod, and he shook his head. “Killing a woman and a kid in that way. I’d sure like to help you solve this case.”

  Until the man had come up with these two lengths of rusted steel, Holmes thought, there hadn’t been a case to solve. He owed him a great deal, already. Too, he could not see that a man working for the other side would have given him the only hard evidence the case had yet generated. This new lieutenant of his threatened to have as much independence as Russell, and he lacked the physical stamina of Russell or Watson, but Holmes found himself warming to the man. He’d trust him a little further.

  “Do you have any reliable contacts among the police?”

  Hammett laughed. “You haven’t been here long enough to hear about our cops. They’re the best money can buy.”

  “I see. Any you can trust to take your money and not sell you as well?”

  “One or two. What do you want?”

  Holmes took out his bill-fold and removed a piece of paper with some writing on it, putting it in front of Hammett. “I’d like to know a little more about these three men. Charles Russell was my wife’s father, killed in that accident. That’s his home address, and I think he had an office in the Flood Building. I picked up a rumour that he was involved in some what you might call ‘shady’ activity during the fire in 1906, thought it would be good to make sure he was clean.”

  “What sort of deal?”

  “That’s all I know.”

  “Okay, I’ll see what I can come up with.”

  “The other two, it’s just to be certain that the help they offer is not in fact a hindrance. The first, Auberon, is the manager at the St Francis; I don’t know his Christian name or his home address. The last is a Chinese bookseller who goes by the name of Tom Long; his Chinese name could be almost anything. The address is for his store, just off Grant in Chinatown.”

  “Auberon and Long, got you.”

  “Shall we meet here tomorrow night, at say, eight o’clock?”

  “That’s fine.”

  “And Hammett? Don’t try to do anything else tonight. Get some sleep.”

  “Right y
ou are,” he said. He put some money down next to his mug, waved two fingers at the waitress, put on his hat at a rakish angle, and walked off into the fog of the evening, shambling bones in a dapper brown suit.

  With the satisfaction of two lengths of old steel rod nestled in the sock-drawer across the room, Holmes slept the sleep of the just.

  He was up early on Monday morning, fed and brushed and out of the hotel before eight o’clock, taking the lengths of brake rod with him. He found a photographer’s studio nearby, where he left Miss Adderley’s picture with instructions. When he left the shop, he walked a route sure to reveal anyone on his tail, but he reached the telegraphist’s office without detecting anyone. The man, rather curtly, told him that he’d barely opened his doors and that nothing had come in, try again later. So Holmes went looking for a bank.

  When he found one that was open, he went in and hired a safe-deposit box, giving the name “Jack Watson.” Into the box he put his evidence. It probably would have been perfectly safe lodged with Mr Auberon, but one did not place more weight on a reed than one knew it would bear, and Mr Auberon was as yet unproved.

  Next, after consulting his mental street map, he located the street-car that ran to the end of the city, to the Cliff House and Sutro Baths. There he got off, walking south in the direction of the beach where he and Russell had strolled at sunset on Tuesday. This time, he was interested less in the beach than the place where the bookseller’s father had saved the rabbi’s daughter from drowning.

  The cliff on which the restaurant perched rose sharply out of the sand, with a scattering of boulders to mark the transition and a sharp tangle of white-capped rocks scattered off-shore, sunning spots for sea-birds and bellowing sea-lions. Down the beach children played in the sand; two boys flew bright kites out over the water. Holmes climbed onto a rock and took out his pipe. It was indeed a vicious spot to be taken unawares by the sea. The waves rose fast into their long, white curls to break hard against the black cliffs; every so often one would show extra vigour and reach wet tendrils around the base of the rock where he sat. He could well imagine, come the winter, that these waves would be killers.

  When the pipe had gone cold, Holmes knocked it out on the rocks and retraced his steps, presenting himself at the telegraphist’s door just after noon. This time, the man glared at him, but slapped two envelopes down on the counter as well.

  “You know,” he remarked sourly, “it’s much easier on everyone if you just let the boy bring it to you.”

  To appease him, Holmes counted out the tip the boy would have got, not in the least expecting that it would be passed on to its intended recipient. Mollified, the man pushed the envelopes over, and Holmes left the shop.

  Three doors down, the smell of cooking pulled him in. He ordered more or less at random, wanting a quiet table more than he did a meal. When eventually it was granted him, he took a swallow of the coffee (which was typically American: scalding, pallid, and apparently compulsory) and pulled out the thicker of the two flimsy envelopes, running a thumb through the seal. It was from Watson, in Marseilles, probably the longest telegram the good doctor had ever had to pay for:

  FOUND YOUR PURSER BUT LETTER OF REPRIMAND FROM THE COMPANY FOR DELAYING DEPARTURE FOLLOWS. POSSIBLE FINE. SAVANNAH WOMAN LILLY MONTERA BOARDED IN PORT SAID AND JOINED WITH A BAND OF ENTERTAINERS BOUND FOR CALCUTTA FROM LONDON VIA BOMBAY. PURSER NOT CERTAIN BUT THOUGHT HER ARRIVAL WAS UNEXPECTED. MONTERA UNWELL THOUGH GOOD APPETITE THROUGH SUEZ CANAL AND DEAD SEA AND KEPT TO HER ROOM DISEMBARKING SUDDENLY IN ADEN. PURSER REMEMBERS HER QUESTIONS CONCERNING YOU BOTH REPEAT BOTH AND YES SHE KNEW YOUR TICKETS WERE FOR CONTINUED EAST INCLUDING CALIFORNIA. NO TRAVEL ARRANGEMENTS MADE BEFORE ADEN BUT SHE ASKED ABOUT OTHER SHIPS EAST AND POSSIBLE AEROPLANES. DESCRIPTION TALL FULL FIGURED LIGHT BROWN HAIR BROWN EYES PROBABLY WEAK VISION WEARING DARK GLASSES AND AVOIDING BRIGHT LIGHT ALSO WEARING ENTERTAINERS POWDER AND ROUGE. OCCASIONALLY SHARED CABIN WITH NEW YORK BAND TRUMPETER FERDIE KNOLL HOPE YOU DON'T KNOW THIS WOMAN HOLMES. ANYTHING ELSE I CAN DO QUERY. WATSON.

  On his third time reading the words, Holmes became aware that he was halfway finished with a bowl of unexpectedly acceptable fish chowder. He ate it more slowly, absorbing the information.

  It was not as complete as he or Russell would have come up with, but it was enough, and it was certainly every bit as timely as he could have wished. And clearly, Watson had been forced to lay down every bit of authority he could muster to keep from being thrown off so the ship could get under way. Good old Watson.

  He pulled open the other, briefer telegram.

  COULD FIND NO PERSON MAKING ENQUIRIES RE HOLMES RUSSELL IN SUSSEX OR LONDON SORRY. COULD IT HAVE BEEN THE LETTER TO THE TIMES REGARDING YOUR STUNT WITH THE KENT TRAIN QUERY. IN CASE YOU MISSED THAT ISSUE OF JANUARY FIVE A READER NOTED THAT JANUARY FOUR ARTICLE OF THE STOPPED TRAIN NEGLECTED TO SAY THAT THE STOPPER LOOKED REMARKABLY LIKE ONE MR HOLMES. THE WAGES OF FAME. MYCROFT.

  Holmes sat with the spoon suspended, considering the implications. He had seen the newspaper for the fourth of January, which did, as Mycroft said, contain a small piece about the train he and Russell had been forced to catch at an unscheduled stop in the snow-covered wilds of Kent. He had not seen that of the following day, as by that time they were out to sea and the papers themselves became so sporadic and delayed as to be superfluous. Plus, he’d been otherwise occupied.

  And Mycroft had not, of course, thought to take the question a step further, since Holmes had not let his brother know what the problem was. Another telegram would be required.

  It did, however, solve one knotty part of the problem, he thought as he broke a slice of chewy bread into pieces: that of the very beginning. Their trip to India had been sudden and unexpected: If the Savannah woman—“Lilly Montera” had to be a pseudonym—had been on their ship, it was due either to coincidence or deliberation. If coincidence, Holmes could live with that: Heaven knew he had made enough enemies over the years to stumble across one with some regularity. But if her presence had been deliberate, an entire Pandora’s box of problems opened up, for it could only indicate that she knew everything about their movements in England, almost before they themselves did. That degree of intelligence coupled with the almost instantaneous planting of an operative on board the very ship they were joining would have indicated an enormously, even frighteningly, sophisticated operation.

  On the other hand, the woman had openly questioned the young American Bolshevik, Thomas Goodheart, about the older man he had befriended on board the ship. In addition, if indeed the collapse of a balcony on their heads in the Aden bazaar had been purposeful and not an accident, it was hardly sophisticated. Clever, perhaps, and very nearly effective, but a group who had been given time to plan could have arranged for a sniper on a hillside or a bomb in a cabin or any of a hundred other deadly ambushes.

  Coincidence, or deliberate? Watson’s information could easily lead to the first conclusion: an old foe who boarded the ship, happened to spot Holmes before he saw her, and spent the rest of the voyage hiding in her cabin, leaving the ship at the first possible opportunity—though not without first making an attempt at murder-by-balcony. If that was right, the spectre of an organisation of considerable size and expertise receded considerably.

  Mycroft’s news, however, rather complicated the issue, introducing the remote possibility that a person had seen the name Sherlock Holmes in the Times Saturday morning, then spent the next three days (and considerable resources) racing to Port Said before the boat put in there. It would have been very difficult, but possible.

  However, no matter if she came to be there by coincidence or talent, once on board the “Montera” woman had enquired specifically about them, and knew that California was in their plans. Putting aside for the moment the question of how she came to be there, he would work under the hypothesis that, once aboard, her enquiries had not been the sign of some casual and self-effacing acquaintance, but purposeful. And as a corollary thesis, that she had come before them to Cali
fornia, awaiting their arrival, where she intended to take action.

  He had a great deal to do before Russell returned Wednesday.

  Not the least of which was to decide which of his two potential allies, Hammett or Long, he could trust the furthest.

  He retraced his steps to the telegraphist, and wrote out a second telegram to Mycroft:

  HIGHLY URGENT NEED KNOW IF WOMAN ARRANGED EMERGENCY TRANSPORT TO PORT SAID JANUARY SIX SEVEN OR EIGHT. HOPE YOURE WELL. SHERLOCK.

  He hesitated over that last, unwonted burst of sentiment, but allowed it to stand. He did, actually, hope that his brother was well.

  Outside the telegraphist’s office, he pulled out his watch. Just gone two o’clock, which gave him six hours before meeting Hammett. He took a bus down to the hotel and found two messages waiting for him. One was from the hospital where Russell had gone Friday, with the information that Leah Ginzberg had died on January 26, 1915, and that the investigating officer had been one James Roley. He started to pocket it, thinking to give it to Hammett that evening, then stopped and copied the information instead, leaving the original on Russell’s dressing-table. The other was a list of four names written in a hand so spidery and feminine he did not need the embossed address at the top of the paper to know it had come from Hermione Adderley.

  This one he did pocket, then spent the rest of a frustrating afternoon trying to chase down the four individuals.

  Shortly after eight o’clock, Holmes walked wearily into the Ellis Street grill to find Hammett looking even wearier, a half-full bottle on the table before him. Holmes accepted a glass of the raw whiskey without comment, and allowed the fire to warm his bones for a few minutes. When the waitress came to their table, Hammett ordered, and Holmes told her he’d have the same, although he couldn’t have said what it was the man had ordered. Hammett sat back with his second drink, lit a cigarette, and exhaled.