Sherlock Holmes and the Treasure Train

"But that's the whole key to the matter. I can reconstruct what happened but how can you prove it in court? Folks hired the cab and instructed its driver to leave when he slammed the front door. He gave the man a sizeable fee, no doubt. The hansom driver is the tool to force a confession from Folks. Just locate him and you have your witness to the fact that the artist did not leave the Michael mansion at five o'clock."

At last MacDonald seemed satisfied. "That artist fellow will learn that it doesn't pay to have a temper that matches his hair."

Holmes' self-satisfied expression vanished. "Let us run that last statement by again, Mr. Mac. You imply that Folks is redheaded?"

"You don't know him?"

"Never set eyes on the fellow."

"Well I suspect there's some Irish in his background, for he is a carrot top and that's a fact."

MacDonald had risen from his chair and I helped him on with his topcoat. "You've tied him up in a knot, Mr. Holmes, and I'm grateful," continued the Scot, his normally dour expression erased by grim satisfaction.

Holmes did not share his enthusiasm. "The third caller at the Michael mansion is your murderer, Mr. Mac, but his identity is still to be proven."

"Come now, Mr. Holmes. You always were one for dotting the is and crossing the ts but I've got my man, thanks to you."

Holmes shrugged. "Cedric Folks will certainly have to be questioned, but if there is any problem relative to him, we shall speak again on the matter."

It was after Inspector MacDonald left that Holmes turned toward me with a lazy smile. "At first glance, this matter seemed bizarre indeed. An outré affair. But it was all quite simple, really."

Surely his words wrote finis to the matter, but his manner did not.

"Please don't say elementary," I replied. "You surely solved MacDonald's problem, and mine as well since our departure into the night was not necessary at all."

"In a short while MacDonald may not be as satisfied with the resolution of the Michael death as he is right now. However, we did exonerate Miss Vanessa Claremont, which was the matter of immediate importance. The so-called Cedric Folks is a sticky wicket, I fear."

"You say so-called?" My query was automatic, for this had to be the fly in Holmes' ointment.

"A redheaded man presented himself at the Michael abode and called himself Cedric Folks. I have doubts about his being the irate painter."

"But why? Folks had a motive for wishing to do Michael in."

"Agreed. Injured pride and rage, fueled by an artistic temperament, can cause feelings to run high, but not often to the white heat required for murder. Then we have the matter of Trelawney to consider."

"Surely there is no connection."

"Possibly not. However young Charles Trelawney was the prime suspect because the stationmaster at Shaw saw him get off the six o'clock special. He testified, as I recall, that there were but two arrivals. Charles and a redheaded stranger."

"Dear me," I mouthed with a frown. "I'd quite forgotten about that. Do you think the same redheaded man . . ."

Holmes rose briskly to his feet and began pacing the length of our sitting room. "Let us not jump to assumptions, but just consider this as a possibility. We have two murders, with a redheaded man on the scene of both. Not necessarily the same person, but it does give one pause. One way to disguise identity is to alter one's appearance, presenting to the unobservant eye an inconspicuous and false figure. Another is to adopt a striking characteristic."

"Like red hair," I cried suddenly. "You envision an assassin using a wig so that anyone noting his presence would identify him as being redheaded. Which, of course, he is not," I added, and was rather pleased with my understanding of Holmes' idea.

"We are in agreement on that last point," said the sleuth, returning to his favorite chair beside the fire.

"But wait. Holmes, are you not running far afield? Could not the banker Trelawney have been killed by Horace Ledbetter? Mightn't Michael have been shot by the real Cedric Folks in the manner you outlined to MacDonald?"

"Agreed on both points," replied Holmes with a prompt acceptance that made me suspicious.

"Yet something got your hackles up," I continued. "Some clue perhaps?" My voice dwindled away as I racked my brains to no avail.

There was a mischievous twinkle in Holmes' sharp eyes. "The third caller on the departed Michael made a singular statement to the butler, Herndon."

"A message from Shadrach?" I said, dredging words from my memory. "You suggested a code."

"Sounds like one." Holmes' relaxed thoughtful mood vanished and his expression sharpened. "But I have played you false, good fellow. I do have certain information that you are not privy to. Evidently MacDonald as well, since he made no mention of it."

Holmes was gazing into the fireplace. A silence fell between us which I did not break, knowing well that he was considering a theory.

Finally he spoke and I imagined a trace of approval in his tone, as though his analysis had withstood the tests he placed upon it. "Ramsey Michael on several occasions has flitted on the periphery of investigations that came our way. There was the Bishopegate Jewel Case, for one.^* But no matter. The point is that he maintained a considerable establishment, was able to gather a collection of costly objects, and enjoyed a certain reputation as an art critic, an occupation not noteworthy for its direct remuneration."

^*Spelling used by Watson. Was there another Bishopgate case?

"You suspect that he had a concealed source of income?"

"Especially since I took the trouble to establish that he was not blessed with inherited wealth. Michael could well have been a member of a small and clandestine group known as expediters."

Holmes shot a quick glance at me but received a blank stare for his trouble, so he continued. "A necessary strut in the framework of illegal activities. A man who can grease the machinery and, on occasion, set up a certain situation."

"A go-between. As, for instance, one who arranges for the disposition of stolen property. Sometimes before the theft is committed," I added, my mind going back to the Bishopegate case and how Holmes had lectured the force upon it.

"Stout fellow," said Holmes approvingly.

"But now new vistas beckon," I stated with some excitement. "If Ramsey Michael had a shadowy background, his murder could well have stemmed from it. You did rather hold out on MacDonald, Holmes."

"Not at all," was his swift reply. "The matter of Cedric Folks has to be explored. If the former soldier turned artist is indeed the culprit, my thought does not pass muster."

Holmes seemed about to continue and then his lips compressed in a thin line and his eyes reverted to the fireplace, taking on an opaque look they sometimes did when his mind was churning with a new thought.

"That is an interesting statement I just made," he continued after a moment.

Of a sudden, I felt in tune with his thinking. "Ledger is a former soldier," I exclaimed.

"So was Trelawney," said the sleuth, as though talking to himself. "Though of much older vintage. It crosses my mind that the late Ramsey Michael was reputed to have served in the Crimea as well."

"Ah hah. You have established a possible connection between Michael and Ezariah Trelawney."

Holmes' predatory features swiveled in my direction. "Michael and Ezariah, you say, Watson? Not for the first time, you have come up with a seemingly commonplace remark that suggests fascinating overtones."

I was pleased to have been of help but completely at sea as to what he was thinking of.

"Shadrach," he murmured in a tone so soft that I was pressed to distinguish the single word.

Then Holmes was out of his chair making for the bookcase. "Research is called for, old fellow, and we have an excellent file on the train robbery as well as the material Mycroft so kindly placed at our disposal." Holmes took the M volume from the row of file volumes and had the wick of the desk lamp raised in but a moment. I assumed the late Ramsey Michael had first call on his attention and I noted that the material he had received from his brother was already on the desk surface.

Suddenly I ceased to exist as far as my intimate friend was concerned. He was leafing through pages and, from experience, I knew he would be referring to his commonplace book before too long. The walls of our familiar habitat and the intimates within had faded into a nothingness for Holmes, who, with rapid steps, was traversing the wonderland of his mental world and completely absorbed in his journey.

His abrupt preoccupation, not uncommon during our years together, was irritating nonetheless. But a moment before we had been discussing possibilities in a case that was certainly producing added complexities. Now I was shunted off, discarded, and this produced annoyance that led to a testy remark as I prepared to make my way upstairs to my waiting bed.

"I am reminded, Holmes, of your frequent cautionary statements about the premature acceptance of a theory. Do you not contend that it risks the adjusting of facts to fit it?"

My words produced no reaction from Holmes whatsoever. I had risen from my chair and extinguished my cigar before his noble head rose and he turned toward me.

"Good, loyal, Watson. I can only say, touché, old comrade. However, do recall that I have a kind of intuition based on special knowledge gathered through the years. But your warning does not go unrecorded."

I must say I felt considerably better as I made my way up the backstairs toward the waiting arms of Morpheus.

Chapter 9

To Fenley in Gloucester

IT WAS somewhat late the following morning when I literally staggered down to our sitting room and alerted Mrs. Hudson to my needs. The great silver coffee urn was suitably hot, and I made free of its contents in an effort to dissipate my torpid condition. When I heard Holmes' footfalls on the stairs outside, I shook my head vigorously in an effort to deny the lassitude that plagued me. Keeping up with the mercurial mind of my intimate friend was a losing game for my plodding intellect. This particular morning I felt as though the task would prove insurmountable.

To my disgust, Holmes came through our outer door in a smart tweed suit looking for all the world like he had slept the clock around. I knew it was quite possible that he had not been to bed at all, since one could never tell by his appearance. Especially when he felt the need to bustle about and view things with his own eyes. Surely he was nearing the zenith of his career and his sources of information were enormous. But, as in those early days when he was making his name known throughout the civilized world, nothing pleased him more than to be on the move and doing things directly. With a cheery good morning, he hung his Inverness on a peg behind our door and deposited his tweed flapped cap in a convenient chair.

"Delighted to see that you are with us, old fellow. The early morning has proven profitable and we'd best get to Liverpool Station straightaway. If you care to pursue this matter further with me?" he added quickly.

His final remark had been so much twaddle as I well knew and Holmes knew I knew it. The thought of my abandoning a matter involving the robbery of the treasure train and possibly two murders as well was inconceivable.

"Where are we off to?" I asked, disposing of a final rasher of bacon.

"The city of Fenley," he responded. "You do recall that certain west coast banks were involved with the missing gold shipment."

"Then the matter of Ramsey Michael is abandoned?"

"Scotland Yard, in the person of MacDonald, can follow up on that for the moment. The half-million pounds' worth of gold is our principal concern."

I became somewhat nettled and posed my next question more abruptly than usual. "All right. What in Gloucester relates to the gold shipment?"

"Burton Hananish, financier, lives there."

"The name means nothing to me."

"It would had you gone through the dossier Mycroft placed at our disposal. Hananish was instrumental in creating the cartel that gathered the gold. He has had considerable dealings in the international world of finance. The original idea of the loan to the Credit Lyonnais might have been his."

"I thought Ezariah Trelawney was the key man there."

"Actually, I rather fancy another man completely."

"Michael? The idea man."

"Correct, old fellow," he said, accepting the cup of coffee I had poured for him. A few moments with Holmes and my morning fogginess had evaporated. I had a sudden thought. "A number of bankers must have been involved. What made you settle on this Hananish chap?"

"He's the only one who is a veteran of the Crimea campaign."

That was all I could get out of Holmes for a while. Fenley was a modest-sized city in Gloucester, north of Bristol on the Severn River. We were able to travel a through train of the Bristol and Western Railroad, a convenience on our considerable journey. During the trip, Holmes seemed intent on avoiding discussion of the matter that took us toward the west coast. Rather, he spent a lengthy period of time with his long legs stretched out in our first-class compartment, his chin on his chest and his hat lowered over his forehead. I could not tell whether his eyes were closed or not. He might have been sleeping or possibly idly regarding the toes of his shoes with his mind elsewhere. We were approaching Swindon when he roused himself and relieved my boredom with reminiscences regarding the matter of the Netherlands-Sumatra Company and the colossal schemes of Baron Maupertuis. I thought at first that the sleuth was merely whiling away the time in a manner calculated to keep me from posing insane questions. But then the thought of the involvement of the Credit Lyonnais in the Netherlands-Sumatra scandal came to mind. Holmes contended that there was a strong family resemblance about misdeeds. Certainly his knowledge of the history of crime was unequaled, for he had the details of a thousand cases at his fingertips. Was there something in common between the Netherlands-Sumatra matter and the stolen gold? I listened with added attention to his recapitulation and even posed some questions relative to points still unclear in my mind. Since I hope to present a complete account of this matter in a future publication, I shall not dwell further on our discussion, which lasted until our arrival in Fenley.

On descending from our train in the small Gloucester town, I anticipated that we would locate Burton Hananish, the man who had captured Holmes' attention, but this was not the case. We made for the local inn, but a block from the railroad station on a pleasant tree-lined street. It was called the Red Grouse and I judged the management had held tenure for some time and was of a diligent nature. The spigots in the barroom and the rail as well were highly polished while the plank flooring had that sheen that came from oil applied with muscle grease. There was the not-unpleasant aroma of malted liquids and a fair sprinkling of customers at the bar consuming same. Holmes not only unerringly walked to the establishment but, without pause, led me to a table in the place that was already occupied. This did not surprise me. My friend had spent a considerable part of the previous twenty-four hours involved in his own pursuits and I suspected that he had established a liaison in Fenley, for he seemed capable of reaching people in almost every locale. We were greeted by a youngish chap, faultlessly dressed, with a low-keyed though hearty voice.

"Gentlemen," he said, indicating the two vacant chairs available.

"Watson, this is Wally," said Sherlock Holmes.

As I took the proffered seat, I reflected that our greetings were both limited and unusual. Holmes did not refer to people by their first names, but he did not choose to elaborate. Wally evidently knew of us both, though his face was not familiar to me. His hair was sandy and cut short and his cheeks glowed from a very close shave. There was an aroma of toilet water about him and I judged it to be expensive. He was close to six feet, slim, and certainly would be judged handsome by the fairer sex. His manner was even more pleasing. I realized that while we had just met and barely that, there was a feeling that we were on the threshold of a pleasant association. I could not explain this aura other than that it emanated from Wally like the aftershave I had noted.

There were no preambles to the conversation, and it took no genius to realize that the youngish fellow was present for a purpose with which he was already well acquainted. I got the feeling that Wally and the sleuth did not know each other, though their words did not indicate this.

"How goes it?" asked Holmes.

"Up and up so far, Mr. Holmes. The man in question has a reputation that you might call . . . like Gibraltar." His searching for a phrase jogged me into the realization that his speech pattern was non-revealing. He sounded like a university man, though I could not guess which one and, indeed, would have been hard-pressed to figure out his point of origin. I assumed he was British, but there was no revealing patois or accent.

"Hananish has an international reputation as well," said Holmes. "I'm rather interested in that aspect of his career."

The barman appeared at this moment and we all ordered stout.

"It is a mite early in the game," continued Holmes, "but do you anticipate problems?"

"No, sir," replied Wally. "With the assistance you've made available, I can get a surface check in a short while. As to how deep I can dig . . ." He let a shrug complete his sentence.

"It would be better if I had something specific for you to look for," said the sleuth. "Perhaps I can come up with something."

"You're going to see him?"

Holmes nodded.

"He's got a rather spiffy estate on the river road. Bit of the local baronet, though without title."

"I know," said Holmes. "Have we learned anything particular about him? Personal life, I mean."

"His raft of servants seem to walk in dread of the old boy. There's a similar feeling among his bank employees, I judge. Cripple, you know."

"I didn't," admitted Holmes.

"Riding accident some time back. He's limited to a wheelchair, which is handled by a brute of a fellow of local origin who is a mute."

"Little to be learned from him." There was a period of silence and then Holmes shoved his half-consumed tankard to one side. "We will use the regular contact, and if that is not convenient, the post office will do. Sorry to have to put you on to this with such short notice."

"Yours to command, Mr. Holmes. I'm much convenienced by your associate being on the scene."

I thought this was a very sporty remark for Wally to make and wondered how I was of assistance to him. It was when we left the barroom of the Red Grouse that it occurred to me that I might not be the associate the young man referred to.

Holmes secured a carriage near the depot and we traveled but a short distance down the river road to the home of Burton Hananish. It was an Elizabethan mansion and as we drew up in front of the hall door, I noted the gleaming waters of the Severn on our right. Our coming had been observed and servants were already waiting. No doubt one of Holmes' innumerable cables had been sent to the establishment, which was obviously forewarned of our arrival.

A staid and proper butler greeted us at the main entry and accepted Holmes' card, though he scarcely glanced at it. Securing our outer apparel, he led us to a spacious and lofty room and the presence of his master.

Perhaps it was my imagination but there seemed to be an unusual silence about the place, as though everyone walked on tiptoe and in fear and trembling. Certainly Hananish, seated in the wheelchair we had been told of, was not an awe-inspiring figure. His aquiline face was kindly, nay quite beautiful, though touched by the inevitable ravages of time. I judged the results of his accident to be in his legs, which were concealed by a rug drawn closely across his waist. The man's hair was completely white, his complexion parchment-like, pallid, entirely colorless. His features were so finely cut and chiseled that they resembled a piece of statuary. As the butler announced us and then disappeared and we walked slowly toward him, Hananish smiled in a welcoming fashion that was marred by the bloodless quality of his lips. There was in the twist of his mouth a touch of the spider-to-the-fly quality that destroyed the classic perfection of his features, revealing a tinge of the sadist. I could well imagine him as a backcountry despot.

Beautifully shaped hands maneuvered his wheelchair closer to a desk of fruitwood and he indicated adjacent chairs with delicate fingers.

"Do be seated, Mr. Holmes . . . Dr. Watson. I am honored by your presence." As we mumbled suitable greetings, a gentle bewilderment segued into his tone. "Knowing of the busy and active life you gentlemen lead, I'm at a loss as to how I can assist you. However, there must be something I can do which will become most apparent after Mr. Holmes explains it." His mask-like elderly face, singularly devoid of wrinkles, favored me with another tight smile. "I rather lean on your words, Dr. Watson, for you frequently write that all is clear after one of your friend's explanations."

There was a suggestion of Oriental exaggeration in Hananish's loquaciousness, which Holmes chose to cut through. "I must disappoint you," he said. "Regarding the policy issued by Inter-Ocean on the missing gold shipment, there are some quite ordinary formalities. You know I am investigating the matter for the insurance group."

Hananish nodded. "We are—and I speak for the other financial institutions involved as well as myself—grateful for the policy with Inter-Ocean."

"In what way?"

One white eyebrow, so perfect it might have been plucked, rose questioningly and Holmes continued. "The gold was turned over to the Birmingham and Northern by your people and was their responsibility until it was delivered to the French."

"Until it was delivered to the French vessel in Great Yarmouth harbor," responded the financier.

There was the suggestion of a "tut-tut" in his voice, which Holmes chose to ignore.

"My point being that if the stolen gold shipment had not been covered by insurance, the railroad would have been responsible."

"It still is. I'm being overly technical, of course. Our banks are to be reimbursed for the worth of the gold by the Birmingham and Northern. If the gold is not found, they will secure the face value of their insurance policy and transfer the money to us. In effect, the money might just as well come to us from Inter-Ocean."

Holmes had been nodding through this rather detailed explanation and I sensed impatience in his manner. "I am interested in the mechanics of this financial transaction. 'If you would learn, consult the expert' is a worthwhile philosophy," my friend added.

Hananish acknowledged this diplomatic quote with another tight smile that did not reach his eyes. He's a self-styled Caesar, I thought, and it will become common knowledge how he instructed the famous Sherlock Holmes on finance. At least that was how I read the situation then. I learned later I was wrong, no new experience.

"You know of the gold bonds of the Credit Lyonnais?" asked Hananish.

Holmes' expression had a yes-and-no quality, and the banker explained with a gusto surprising from one so frail.

"To facilitate their rapid sale, the French incorporated a proviso that the bonds could be redeemed two years after their issuance in gold. That's pure mumbo-jumbo. Having the bonds redeemable prior to expiration date might just as well have specified francs, but gold is the lure to the investor. Whenever a currency is troubled people run to gold, which is the ultimate currency."

The man's face had strayed my way and he must have noted a puzzlement for he chose to elaborate on his last sentence. "You have in your wallet, Doctor, a pound note. Of itself it is valueless, being naught but engraved paper. The fact that it is a medium of exchange for so much gold is what gives it value. The pound sterling is the most stable currency in the world, so it is of no difference whether you have your pound note or its equivalent in gold."

"The note being more convenient to carry," I replied, just to indicate that I was aware of the point he was making.

"Of course. But to the investor, the knowledge that he can cash in his bonds for gold produces a comforting feeling. Gold can be buried and hoarded. It is the constant in the fluctuating world of finance."

"And the French need the metal," stated Holmes.

"The need is artificial," replied Hananish. His manner became that of a patient instructor with two backward students, which, no doubt, delighted him. It crossed my mind that it must have pleased Holmes as well since this information seemed most germane to our case at hand. "The Credit Lyonnais is a very stable banking house. Because of that cursed Netherlands-Sumatra matter, there was a minor swell of panic in the public mind, which has not as yet subsided. The two-year redemption date is close upon us and the French anticipate that nervous investors will be at their door before long to cash in their bonds prior to the expiration date, as is their right. If investors request payment in gold, the Credit Lyonnais had better have it or suffer a mortal blow to its reputation. Gold, in bulk, flows from country to country dependent on history mostly. During the French Revolution, a lot of the metal found its way here. During the far-flung conquests of the Corsican, a lot of it came to France in the same manner as many of their treasures in the Louvre. At one time we were buying heavily from them before the African mines began producing so well. At the moment, English banks have a heavy backlog. When the Credit Lyonnais need became known to me and others, we were glad to enter into an agreement with the French to supply them."

The banker's tapered fingers gestured expressively as though he had made the whole matter as clear as he could.

"A shrewd piece of business, I would hazard," said Holmes. "You could hardly lose unless . . ."

As Holmes' words hung in midair, there was an alarmed reaction from the financier. "We could not lose, Mr. Holmes."

"Then the Birmingham and Northern is capable of reimbursing you for the value of the shipment?"

To my amazement, Hananish actually guffawed, something I never expected this frigid man to do. "Mr. Holmes, you jest. Alvidon Chasseur is on the verge of becoming the leading railroad magnate in England. His rise from ownership of a minor trunk line to his present position is a story-book saga akin to the writings of that colonial Horatio Alger. In any case, he had the shipment insured. You know that."

Holmes shrugged. "What about Inter-Ocean? Can they meet the face value of the insurance policy?"

Hananish's unexpected humor disappeared to be replaced by a glacial hauteur. "You make mock of me, Mr. Holmes. You have had dealings with the company. Your solution of the attempted embezzlement by one of their directors is common knowledge. You can hardly think that Inter-Ocean is shaky."

The banker was right, of course, but Holmes wasn't going to let him know it. "Sir, what I, as a layman, think about such matters may be a far cry from what you, an expert, know."

Hananish had to retreat in the face of this statement. "Of course. Of course. Do forgive me."

Holmes did not abandon the stern look he had adopted, and as the financier rushed ahead, apologetically, I thought, He's done it again. This esthetic dictator would not willingly give the time of day and now he's singing merrily simply because Holmes knew how to wind up his gramophone.

"Perhaps I'd better go over the entire matter," Hananish suggested, and Holmes indicated that this would be acceptable.

"Chasseur's railroad and the Inter-Ocean insurance company are but middlemen in the deal. A consortium of banks, of which I am a member, was well able to make the gold available. The French issued certificates of indebtedness to us for half a million pounds plus a fee." Hananish caught himself and corrected his last statement. "For the equivalent in French francs actually, but that is unimportant. The certificates are convertible, quite as good as currency. With one I could go to any major bank in the world and secure the face value."

"But since the French did not receive the gold, those certificates are not convertible?"

"We shall be reimbursed by the insurance payment."

"Unless the gold is found," I stated, glad to make a comment.

"It is to be hoped that it is," agreed Hananish quickly. "Otherwise Inter-Ocean is the loser and the thieves the winners."

"If the gold is not found, what will the Credit Lyonnais do?" inquired the sleuth.

"Make an arrangement with someone else. Possibly the Deutsche Bank." Again Hananish paused and corrected himself. "Though I am not informed as to their gold reserve at this time. However, the need will be filled." His eyes, a soft shade of blue, swiveled to me briefly and then returned to my friend. "If the subject interests you, might I point out an unusual factor?"

"By all means," replied Holmes.

"Under normal circumstances the gold need not have left our vaults. Upon receipt of the certificates from the Credit Lyonnais, we would have issued demand notes making the gold available to whomsoever presented them. Said notes would go to a French bank, or any European bank for that matter, and would be honored. But psychology enters the scene. The panicky subscriber to the Credit Lyonnais bond issue presents himself at its doors and wants the gold in his hands. He really doesn't need it, you see, but that is the way of the world. Do you follow me?"

Holmes nodded. I did not, but that made no difference. "This gives me a clear picture of the transaction," stated Holmes. "Dr. Watson and I are grateful, and our trip has proven worthwhile."

As he rose and made as though to depart, Holmes posed another question, a device that I had seen him use on other occasions.

"What happens now to the certificates from the Credit Lyonnais?" Hananish's thin lips pursed in a moue. "They are quite worthless, of course, unless you can locate the gold, Mr. Holmes."

"Yes, there still is that possibility," replied my friend. He did not sound enthusiastic, but I discounted this since Holmes was always a superb actor.

At this point we made our departure from the overly quiet, somewhat ominous home of Burton Hananish, who had been maneuvered into giving us a lesson in the mechanics of international finance. Or perhaps he just thought he had.

Chapter 10

The Battle on the River Road

AGAIN THE pattern of our investigation took a swerve from the norm. Instead of returning to Fenley proper and boarding the first train for London, my friend chose to prolong our west country interlude. He directed our vehicle to the inn and reserved rooms. Something, which had evaded me completely, had gotten the wind up for Holmes since he was never quite comfortable when removed from his beloved London and its teeming millions. Happily, he did not bury himself in thoughtful silence but was disposed to explain his latest move.

"Burton Hananish can bear a long second look, Watson, and while here in Gloucester I will seek answers to questions which come to mind."

"His story seemed straight enough."

"In part, in part."

"The arrangement with the Credit Lyonnais involved a lot of backing and filling. Perhaps it only seemed complex to my untutored mind."

"No, Watson, your point is well taken. If man ever invents the perpetual motion machine, it will have very few working parts. The more spokes and wheels, the greater the possibility of error."

"Or chicanery?" I suggested, keen to learn what had clued Holmes. Surprisingly, his next statement provided an answer.

"Any arrangement where one party cannot lose arouses my suspicions." My friend's voice had a dreamy quality and I knew he was actually talking to himself, using me as the familiar baffle board for his suppositions, which might cement themselves into fact. "Banks and financial houses are, in essence, service organizations providing capital for expansion, development and presentation of products, creation of new jobs; all of which adds to prosperity. I oversimplify, but that's the nuts and bolts of it. Where currency is involved, loss by whatever means is a universal peril shared by all parties."

"But how could the west coast banks lose in the arrangement that Hananish outlined?" I asked.

"If I judge correctly, the French paid well for the gold they needed. If it were all so foolproof, they would not have had to. Besides, as you observed, the whole matter did seem unwieldy and we'd best unravel it to our satisfaction."

We were by now back at the Red Grouse Inn. Holmes suggested that I might profitably rest my bones and I knew what that meant. He was going to sally forth to investigate on his own, probably with the mysterious though affable Wally. As we washed up in our comfortable suite, I made mention of the man, seeking to draw my friend out. Holmes had one of his fluent evasions ready at hand.

"When dealing with a known ability, names or titles are of scant importance. Now I must check up on several matters which need not involve you, good fellow. The information, like grain in the fields, is but waiting for the gleaner."

Leaning against the doorjamb of Holmes' bedchamber, I smiled. The picture of my friend searching a harvested field for stray grain struck me as ludicrous until I realized that a detective does often face a similar situation—the poring over of incidents created by some and recounted by others, with an eye always cocked for an overlooked kernel of truth.

Shortly thereafter, Holmes was off and I did get a comfortable nap. I then took myself to the taproom since my friend was not about. With evening coming on, there were more customers present. I posed a few questions about the local fishing conditions during the season. Through my long association with the world's greatest detective, I had learned that this was a safe approach. Speak to one who knows anything about fish and you automatically become the audience for his tale of the one that got away. Whilst the story has a boring sameness, it shields the listener from questions regarding his presence and the reason for it. I exchanged words with some of the locals, lost a few coins at the dart board as befits a newcomer to an area and passed my time pleasantly but without profit. The opportunity to guide the conversation around to Burton Hananish did not present itself. When Holmes did return and locate me, I was quite ready to join him for dinner. It was at this point that my original estimate of the management of the Red Grouse was upheld, for Holmes and I dined not well but sumptuously.

Holmes chose a bottle of fine old brown brandy, very reasonable at five and two, to top off our feast. As a result, I slept very soundly that night despite my late-afternoon nap.

The following morning, when I finally forced my eyes apart, things were rather inconvenient since we had not planned to spend the night in Fenley. But I brushed off my traveling suit and found a serviceable straightedge, no doubt on loan from the landlord. Holmes was not about. It occurred to me that my friend had found much of interest in Fenley, for he had obviously been up and about at an early hour.

I decided to take a brief stroll. When I reached the street, a closed carriage was pulling up at the inn. I paused to allow the door to open and was jostled from behind. When I turned instinctively, the carriage door did open and, of a sudden, there was a large palm across my mouth, stifling the cry that rose in my throat. The man who had come up behind me had my wrists pinioned in a steely grasp and I found myself rudely deposited on the floor of the carriage. An adhesive strip was affixed over my mouth, my arms were secured with rough twine that had the smell of hemp about it, a blindfold was over my eyes, and the carriage was under way. Completely surprised and appalled though I was, I had to admire the efficiency with which my captors had pulled it off. My reluctant approval lessened when the driver, at a signal or by plan, whipped up the horse and we were outward-bound from Fenley at a rapid rate. This made little sense since I had been taken with no fuss at all and they would have been better advised to proceed quietly on their way so as to arouse no comment or suspicion. There were mutterings between what I assumed were two men, and my hat was taken from my head. There was the sound of a window of the conveyance being lowered.

"That does it," stated one voice. "It's plain as day in the road."

They must have cast my hat from the carriage, which was ridiculous, for my initials, J.H.W., were plainly stamped on the sweat band. Perhaps I was being victimized by a crew of amateurs, but I could not accept that thought.

It was highly uncomfortable bouncing on the floorboards of the carriage and possibly our trip seemed longer than it actually was.

Finally, we pulled to a stop and I was removed from the vehicle with little ceremony. As they marched me with insistent prodding, the thongs on my wrists were cut and I received a violent shove from behind, which propelled me down two stone steps. I lost my footing and fell resoundingly on a cold stone floor, bruising one kneecap painfully in the process. As I lay there for a moment, stifling an exclamation of pain and feeling the fool indeed for being such an easy prey, there was the clang of a door behind me and I was alone—far from the comforting presence of Holmes, in completely strange surroundings, and captured for reasons unknown. There was a stab of fear in my heart that was promptly washed away by anger. Grabbed off, I was like a helpless child and without even an idea of the doers, for if the sleuth had appeared at that very moment I could have given him no clear description of the men involved, the direction we had taken, or the distance traversed. It had to dawn on me that this was a ridiculous situation for a middle-aged general practitioner to find himself in and undeniable proof that I was ill-fitted to dog the footsteps of the world's greatest detective and brave the dangers inevitable because of his profession. However, the practicality of my Scottish mother came to the fore. The riches of the Indies could not move the second hand of time backward and my situation had to be accepted or else I must seek refuge in the unreal world of the mentally unstable, a retreat that offered no satisfaction, though I did feel somewhat daft for allowing all this to happen.

With a groan, I stumbled to my feet, tearing the blindfold from my eyes. That was easy enough, but the adhesive gag was another matter. I pulled it swiftly, losing some skin and a bit of my moustache as well.

The walls of my dungeon were of stone, like the floor. A quick inspection revealed no crumbling masonry, and they appeared stout enough to withstand the onslaught of tools had I any available. Light came from a window set high in the thick walls and it was, alas, heavily barred, though I was in doubt if I could have gotten through the opening anyway. The room was damp and there was the smell of the river nearby. The only piece of furniture was a simple bed of modern design, metal in fact, on which one grubby blanket was thrown. It took but a moment to move the bed under the window at the far wall. Stepping up on the framework of the bed, I was able to look outside. The outer wall of my prison was right on the Severn, and by craning my neck and standing on tiptoes, I could see water washing against its base. The bars were of iron, firmly set in concrete. From the position of the building, I felt that it was part of the ruins of an ancient fort built at the headwaters of the Severn to repel the Norsemen, and reconstructed through the centuries for a variety of reasons. Judging from the lack of sound other than the washing of the river and occasional birdcalls, it had to be in an uninhabited area. My survey of the outside world complete and frustrating, I devoted my attention to the door at my prison chamber. It was formed of stout timbers secured by iron-headed bolts. The hinges were massive and designed to defy an escape attempt. Set in the frame on each side of the door were two L-shaped metal forms that puzzled me momentarily. Then I realized that the structure had originally been designed to keep intruders out rather than secure prisoners within. There was no crossbar available to place in them to secure the door, but while it might have frustrated my captors, it would have done me no good. What I wanted to do was escape, not remain. I tried to open the door with little hope, and of course I was right since it withstood my violent tugging. Breathing deeply and gnawing at my moustache with nervous teeth, I tried to analyze the situation as Holmes would have.

Unlike most of the sleuth's part- and full-time employees, I had no hidden weapon on my person. I was outnumbered, with little chance of overpowering my captors. The silence indicated that they had locked me up and left, possibly on some other nefarious mission. Were this so, they would not have secreted me in a spot where a cry for help would be heard or heeded. I could try a call or two but that might bring back the ruffians, something I did not relish at the moment. The great sleuth on one occasion had mentioned that man was forced to make do with what he had. Besides my clothes, I had my wallet, which had not been taken from me. I had a pocket-handkerchief, clean, and the monocle I carried but seldom used, though it was of occasional assistance in deciphering small print. There were coins and keys in my pockets along with a half-consumed packet of cigarettes and matches. I might attempt to ignite the blanket on the bed, but I doubted if I could get the material to burn and the result, if successful, might just be my own suffocation. In despair, I got atop the bed again to peer through the window. The Severn was broad at this point and there was occasional river traffic. While the water looked deep right up to the river's edge, what vessels were in sight were a good distance offshore and far beyond the range of my voice. It occurred to me that even if I could reach by sound a passing boat, they would be unable to locate me on the shoreline. There was my handkerchief. Might I not tie it to one of the bars as a guide to some observant soul alerted by my cries? I was considering this possibility with a little enthusiasm when there was the sound of the door quietly opening behind me.

I whirled around, ready to face my captors and if possible leave my mark upon them, but to my complete astonishment it was a familiar who glided silently through the door and eased it shut behind him.

I was gazing into the fathomless green eyes of Wakefield Orloff.

Suddenly my despair vanished like a canary from a magician's hat. True, it was not the invincible Holmes who had come to my rescue, but in my friend's absence, it was he who, above all others, I would choose to extract me from a sticky situation. I felt lightheaded, giddy at the thought of what would happen if my captors returned and the deadly security agent with his steel-rimmed hat and arsenal of weapons went to work. Were there ten of the ruffians, Orloff would sweep them aside, and in a lethal manner to boot, for I had seen him in action and there were none that could stand against him. As these thoughts flooded my brain, my mouth must have dropped open but I smothered an utterance at a gesture of warning from that completely frightening man who was, thank God, my friend.

He was at my side in a moment, gazing anxiously into my eyes, which might have been a bit moist in honor of our opportune reunion.

"Are you all right, Doctor? Holmes will never forgive me if harm has come to you."

"Aside from a bruised knee, minor contusions, and a damaged ego, tip-top, old chap." My voice echoed bravado for I was no longer the paunchy doctor but, in my mind's eye, a veritable d'Artagnan. Bravery comes easily when one walks with an armored column.

"Then we'd best be gone. I'll deal with those who took you later." Even I, his ally, felt a chill at the grim finality in the agent's voice, but a greater chill followed this as we both heard a key turn in the lock. Orloff flew to the door, but it withstood even his strength. There was the sound of a chuckle from beyond the portal and then a mocking voice.

"Rest easy, Mr. Holmes. We'll attend to you and your companion later."

Then there was silence as my eyes met with Orloff's. He returned, with a shrug, from the door. My heart sank but then curiosity reared its insistent head. "What does this all mean?" I queried in a hushed voice.

"They baited a trap and sprung it at the wrong time." Orloff amended this. "Actually they had no choice. Even if they knew I was not Holmes, which they did not, they couldn't have me nosing around."

I shook my head in complete confusion and chided myself for being so obtuse. "I'm left at the starting gate, dear chap."

As he explained, Orloff's eyes were surveying our cell, and he moved around it on an inspection tour much like the one I had undertaken.

"They grabbed you outside the inn but made sure that your hat remained as evidence. The moment I realized you were missing, it took little time to find the hat and to learn of a closed carriage that left Fenley by the river road with a whirl of wheels and a cloud of dust. Picking up the trail was no great thing, but when I located this place it seemed deserted, which was their intention."

I had begun to nod at his re-creation. "I was the bait, then, to lure Holmes to this spot and bag us both."

"They did not anticipate my presence and even now think their ruse has succeeded."

"What are you doing here, by the way?"

Atop the bed, looking toward the river, Orloff shot me a glance over his shoulder. "Mr. Holmes always takes care of his own."

His response might have seemed enigmatic but I understood. Tiny and Burlington Bertie, even now, were guarding 221 B Baker Street, and when Holmes left me to my own devices in Fenley, it was with the reassurance that the world's most dangerous man was watching out for my interests.

I discovered a catch in my throat as I thought of my eccentric, bohemian friend who could be a trial to live with but who was always concerned about the well-being of the plodding, phlegmatic companion cast his way by fate and the presence of young Stamford at the Criterion Bar on that certain day that had become so significant to J. H. Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

As I recovered from my momentary emotion, Orloff's death-dealing hands had seized the bars of the windows and the back of his coat tightened as those amazing shoulders, biceps, and wrists were put to work. At first glance, or even second, Orloff was completely misleading in appearance. He was unusually broad, though one did not realize it because of his grace of movement. His width made him seem shorter than he was, while his round, almost moon-shaped face gave the impression of a somewhat overweight man. There was not an ounce of surplus flesh on him, for his bulk was solid muscle augmented by reflexes that defied my medically trained mind. He was Orloff, cast from some unknown mold that no master hand could recreate. Suddenly his swelling muscles relaxed and he turned from the bars without a trace of moisture of his brow and breathing in his regular, even cadence.

As his eyes flashed around our place of confinement, I realized that he had given up on the window and was looking elsewhere for a way out. Concentrating on the single furnishing of this barren place, the security agent elevated the bed from the floor and was gazing at its underpinnings. There might have been a trace of satisfaction in his expression as he cast the blanket and thin pallet in a corner and studied the two angle bars and two smaller crosspieces that formed the rectangular frame.

"You have a thought?" I asked.

The man nodded, gesturing toward the door. "They don't want us out, and for the moment, we don't want them in."

He had the frame separated in a moment and, taking one of the angle bars, he crossed to the door and placed it laterally in the two attachments I had noted previously.

"Not as wide as the original timber bar but 'twill do," he said with satisfaction, crossing back to the window. "We'll need something to signal with, for our rescue will come from the river."

How he knew this I could not guess, but I displayed my pocket-handkerchief. "Will this do?" From his expression I deduced that it would not. "It is all I have save my monocle."

Orloff's green eyes brightened. Seizing the eyepiece, he cast a rapid glance at the sunlight coming through the cell window. "Should work," he stated in a matter-of-fact way. He surveyed my figure with a speculative manner. "Could you balance me on your shoulders, Doctor, for I've got to be at the window level."

Doubt was dominant in my mind, and expression as well, for muscle weighs more than fat and I judged that Orloff tipped the scales at fifteen stone. Sensing my thought, he nodded. "There's another way." Suddenly he sprang for the window, one hand grasping a bar. Orloff never jumped, for in motion, he always resembled a ballet star. With part of his weight supported by one hand, I sensed what he had in mind and got his legs around my shoulders, standing beneath him to provide some support. Even with Orloff taking most of his weight on his arm of steel, my leg muscles began to tremble after a while and I was forced to let my rescuer down several times so that I could recover. I knew what he was doing, of course. Using the lens of my monocle to reflect sunlight, he was sending intermittent signals toward passing boats in hopes of attracting someone's eye. Finally, our efforts were rewarded.

"We've been spotted," he said. "A boat is swerving in toward shore."

"Thank heavens for that," I said, my shirt soaked with perspiration and my breath coming in gasps.

Orloff signaled for me to allow him to drop to the floor. "Providence has been doubly generous since it is Holmes," he stated, returning my monocle. Again he sprang upward but this time he had two hands free and was able to hold himself at window-height with ease.

While I wondered what had alerted the sleuth to use the river, Orloff kept me informed as to happenings. "Evidently he commandeered a river tug and she's fast closing on us." The throb of powerful engines was an accompaniment to his words but they suddenly diminished and I sensed the riverboat was near to shore.

"Holmes, it is Orloff," called the security agent.

"What of Watson?" Though from a distance, I thought I sensed a tremor in my friend's voice.

"With me and all right."

"Anyone else around?"

"Don't know. If they are hidden out front, this noise must have alerted them. I'd keep an eye cocked."

After a short pause, Holmes spoke again. "I'll work my way around to the road and try and release you."

"Wait," I cried. "There could be too many of them."

"I've another thought," called the security agent to Holmes, "if you've a stout line available and the means of getting it to us."

There was a mumble of voices from the river and then Holmes replied. "That can be done. You've a mind to try the window."

Orloff did not answer but motioned for me to stand clear of the aperture, though I was well below it. Perhaps my nerves were playing me tricks, but I thought I sensed movement from beyond the door to our place of confinement. Suddenly Orloff pulled himself as close to the window as possible and his right hand snaked between the bars, reaching outward. In a moment it reappeared with a round object clutched in his fingers. I recognized it as the weighted end of a heaving line as Orloff dropped to the floor, reeling in the light line. Motioning toward the other angle bar of the demolished bed frame, Orloff pulled in the end of a hawser to which the heaving line had been attached with a running hitch. He took the piece of the bed frame from me, running the hawser around it. The sound of the tug's engines had picked up tempo and I sensed that she was being maneuvered around to present her stern to the shoreline. Orloff had the hawser secured around the angle bar with an anchor bend and he pulled himself up to the window, placing the bar across the width of the opening. There was the sound of a key turning a lock and the door behind us opened slightly but the crossbar held it firmly and there was a muffled curse and then a crash as a body tried to force it inward.

"Full speed," shouted Orloff. There was a deep-throated roar from the tug's engines and the hawser tightened, pulling the frame piece of the bed against the window bars. Outside, the boat's engines were protesting with wheezes and clankings, trying with twin screws to force the tug into motion. Orloff, hanging from the window by one hand, reached down and grasped me under the arm with his other. Suddenly I was in the air.

"Grab 'round my neck, Doctor, and hold on for dear life."

How he got me up to where I could obey his order I'll never know. There were repeated crashes at the door to our rear and suddenly there was a rending sound and a section of the wall including the window and bars gave way to the power of the tug's engines. We were in the open air with stone and the dry dust of masonry around us and plunging toward the water below. All I could do was cling to Orloff, who in turn kept his grip on the bars, which were attached to the hawser. We hit the water but were not allowed to sink, for the tug, released from the anchor that had held it, was racing from the shoreline at high speed and dragging us behind it. Suddenly the ship's engines were cut and a stubby man with a mahogany face appeared at the stern of the craft and began hauling us toward it. There was the crash of an explosion and then another one and I made haste to swim toward the tug, sensing that the ruffians had broken down the cell door and were firing on us. When Orloff and the short man helped me aboard, I saw Holmes standing by the wheelhouse with a long-barreled revolver, firing methodically toward the shore. Coughing up river water, I cast a glance toward our rear. Fully a third of the wall of an aged blockhouse was torn asunder. As I watched, a face appeared in the aperture and ducked promptly as Holmes' revolver barked and there was a spurt of dust and the whine of a ricocheting bullet.

He's got them pinned down, I thought. Orloff and I have escaped, and Holmes is alive and well. Merry old England will survive.

Chapter 11

Back to Baker Street

IT WAS several hours later that I lay luxuriating in a steaming hot bath. Holmes had secured fresh shirts and undergarments from the local haberdasher, and the innkeeper's wife was ironing my sodden suit. The river tug had deposited us at the Fenley docks, and when Holmes had pressed a considerable payment on the captain, he met with some resistance. That worthy confessed that he had not enjoyed himself so much since he helped run down two escaped prisoners from the Coleford jail who were making for Cardiff in a stolen launch. Holmes had been insistent and had given the lively old sailor a personal card with a number penned on the back.

"Should there be questions from the local authorities," my friend had said, "have them contact this number at Whitehall."

"Pshaw," the mahogany-faced captain had responded. "I'll just show 'em your card and that will shut 'em up." Such are the benefits of fame.

By the time I had toweled off, Orloff joined us in our suite at the Red Grouse Inn. He appeared as calm and polished as though he had spent the morning lecturing the local ladies' sewing circle on the care of ailing cats. Holmes had me swathed in a blanket with a tot of Irish whiskey in my hand, and his solicitude drew a small smile from the security agent and a tinge of warmth entered his normally cold, unemotional green eyes. With Orloff on hand, Holmes bustled off to secure my suit, which allowed me to pose a question or two. Mycroft Holmes' right-hand man and his most feared agent always treated Sherlock Holmes with deference, for he was so good himself that he could recognize greatness in others. With me he exhibited flashes of humor and actual friendship, something I would reveal to no one, for I would be courting disbelief. The shadowy enforcer of the espionage system that officially did not exist was reputed to have all the friendly tendencies of a prowling Bengal tiger. Why he should present a different face toward me was a mystery I was incapable of solving.

"I say," I mouthed as a curtain raiser, "you never did tell me how you chanced to be down this way."

"The matter of gold and the solidity of the pound is of interest to Her Majesty's government," he replied, igniting one of the small black cigars he fancied. He was just talking and knew that I saw through his answer that answered nothing. Holmes had asked his brother for Orloff, and Mycroft Holmes had complied as he had done in the past. Now I could identify the associate of Holmes that the mysterious Wally had referred to in the taproom the previous afternoon. Which brought me to the matter I really wanted to touch upon.

"You're down here smoothing the way for that Wally chap."

"You've met him, then?" Orloff seemed mildly surprised.

"Very briefly. Don't even know his name or occupation either, but Holmes seems to place great store by him. I'd say he's giving the fellow a free rein, for he provided no instructions during our short meeting."

"On the theory that some knowledge can be inconvenient, Holmes hasn't chosen to tell you about the gentleman. All right, Doctor, I'll spin you a tale that will be our secret, though it's just a story dealing with no particular person we know."

I must have leaned forward with a pleased expression, for Holmes did tend to have his little mysteries and nothing delighted me more than to be one up on him.

"You've heard, perhaps, of the confidence game?" asked Orloff, blowing smoke toward the ceiling.

"Bunko, they call it," I replied. "Bogus companies, non-existent stock, manipulators who prey on the larceny that lurks in most hearts."

Again Orloff registered surprise. "That's an apt remark, for a flimflam man wouldn't get a farthing from a truly honest citizen. But no matter. Who, would you say, is the king of the con men?"

"Get Rich Quick Wallingford," I responded promptly. "The exploits of the American are known far and . . ." My voice dwindled away and I stared at Orloff, noting the slight smile teasing the corners of his mouth. "Wally," I muttered softly, "I see."

"The man you referred to, not I, has no warrants outstanding in the States, though I'm sure the American police would be delighted if he no longer graced their shores. Now, England is a small nation, though many of our people have served, in times gone by, under foreign flags as mercenaries."

"We've hired a few ourselves on occasion," I stated, my mind reverting to the revolution of the Colonies and the battle of Trenton.

"Exactly. Now if such a man as you mentioned were to come over here because the climate in his homeland was too warm, possibly his wide experience could be put to use for the benefit of society."

"To catch a thief . . ." I muttered, and then my mouth snapped shut. I did not wish to pursue the subject for fear that one of us might say too much. Rather, I resorted to the matter at hand. "But who is the thief?"

"There has to be one for there's a half a million that's missing."

It was at this moment that Holmes rejoined us, and by the time I had donned my now-presentable outer garments, Wally appeared as well. So it's to be a war council, I thought, regarding the American's handsome face with added respect.

Holmes put the ball in play without a warm-up. "We've hit onto something," he stated, filling his short briar, "for Watson was captured today and they were after me as well."

Wally's face registered momentary consternation. "Could it be because of what I'm doing? Surely not, for our brief meeting yesterday could have caused no suspicion."

A sudden thought flashed through my mind. Could the Red Grouse Inn be part of the widespread apparatus controlled by Mycroft Holmes, the second most powerful man in England? I abandoned the idea.

Sherlock Holmes, his pipe lit, agreed with Wally. "No, I think your activities have been well covered." His eyes shifted toward Orloff. "No chance of a leak, is there?"

Orloff responded in the negative. "The bank examiner we are using doesn't really know what's going on. As for the teller, I have too much on him."

So, I thought, some old debts are being paid off.

Holmes seated himself in the armchair. "I think the sudden attention that came our way was the result of our meeting with Burton Hananish."

"Which confirms your suspicions regarding him," said Wally.

"Oh, he has to be a part of it, though possibly unwittingly." My friend seemed very certain on this point. "What I'd like to know is what alerted Hananish or someone in his household to the presence of danger and brought about the attack on Watson."

"You discussed the mechanics of the gold shipment, of course." The American Wally's warm, gregarious manner was diminished by a glitter in his clear and forthright eyes.

Holmes nodded. "Hananish went over the reason the French needed the gold, the certificates of indebtedness issued by them to the west coast banks . . ."

My friend would have continued, but something in Wally's manner caused him to fall silent. There was a weighty pause. Wally was leaning forward in his chair regarding Holmes like an Irish setter ready to put up a bird.

"Certificate of indebtedness, you say, Mr. Holmes? Now what might that be?"

Holmes seemed momentarily nonplussed. "Like a letter of credit, perhaps?"

"I can understand the meaning though I'm not familiar with the term, but the French have no need for such paper. Like the Bank of England, the Credit Lyonnais has the power to issue currency that is just as convertible as this country's Bank of England notes."

Wally's statement prompted a groan from Orloff. "I do hope this matter does not involve the Prescott plates, for the C.I.D. is still experiencing nightmares regarding them."

By this time I was scratching my head in a bewildered fashion, and as he did so often, Holmes noticed my puzzlement. "A counterfeiter named Prescott is said to have created plates capable of producing Bank of England notes that would defy inspection anywhere. Prescott was shot to death by an American criminal, and his engravings have never been located."^* Holmes turned back to Wally.

^*Obviously this adventure predates the matter of the Three Garridebs, in which Holmes not only captured Killer Evans, the man who shot the counterfeiter, but also recovered the Prescott plates.

"You feel the certificates Hananish mentioned are so much rigmarole?"

"Not necessarily, but it doesn't sound right. Let us pose a model situation in a framework of one on one. You," he pointed to Holmes, "are the Hananish bank while I am the Credit Lyonnais. You have the gold and prepare for its actual delivery, an unusual situation."

"Hananish pointed that out," said Holmes.

"I arrange payment with legal tender, undoubtedly using Credit Lyonnais bank notes. These certificates of indebtedness imply a mortgage, chattel, which is not the case. You're selling, I'm buying."

Had Holmes' aquiline nose been capable, it certainly would have been quivering at this point. Yet he indulged in a lengthy silence, finally breaking it with a suggestion. "Let us proceed with Hananish's explanation of the matter."

"It may be dead-on," admitted the American. "Financial houses can become mired down with unnecessary complexities while inefficient ones dote on them."

"The gold is gathered by the consortium of banks. Trelawney is involved, possibly Michaels, and certainly Hananish." Holmes shot a glance at Orloff and I suspected that there had been discussion about the possible connection among the three men named. "The gold is ready for shipment and the bankers are in receipt of the legal tender; certificates, or whatever, from the Credit Lyonnais."

"How did that happen?" asked Wally bluntly.

"Hananish said it did."

"According to him, the French have paid for something they do not have." For the first time, Wally's homeland became apparent in his style of speech. "I mean, we're all friends together and all that. Everybody trusts everybody else, but doesn't it seem a mite casual?"

"When viewed in that light, it does," admitted the sleuth.

"Something's amiss in Denmark, Mr. Holmes," said Wally, misquoting.

"Rotten," I said.

"What?" queried the American.

"I was just . . . never mind." I wished I'd kept silent.

Though we had arrived at a breakthrough and something specific for the confidence expert to explore, Holmes was not prepared to abandon the matter. "How would you arrange this matter?" he asked Wally. "On the up and up, of course." Evidently, Holmes regretted his last sentence for he shot me a quick glance. Fortunately, I was able to preserve a bland expression.

Wally had a ready answer. "The gold is ready for shipment. On behalf of the Credit Lyonnais, I would make payment to the west coast banks when the Inter-Ocean insurance policy is made out in favor of the Credit Lyonnais. That way if the gold is not delivered, the French banking firm is covered for the entire period of the transaction."

"Hananish said the insurance policy was made out to the Birmingham and Northern, which was committed to turn it over to the west coast banks if the gold disappeared."

"Did he, now? Then Hananish and his banking cronies had the French payment and the gold and in addition were covered by the Inter-Ocean insurance policy."

In spite of myself, I found words again. "Hananish stated specifically that the French certificates became valueless if the gold shipment was stolen."

The American exhibited a wise smile that had the good grace not to seem condescending. "I'm willing to accept the possibility that the French issued some sort of dated certificates that cease to be convertible if the gold shipment does not cross the Channel. It's cumbersome, but not all things are done the easy way. Even so, for a brief period, the bankers here have half a million in gold and also something more than that in Credit Lyonnais notes. A million pounds all told and when you are dealing with that much money, a day or even an hour can make a big difference."

Faced with such logic, I could do naught but agree. "And they were insured as well, as you pointed out," I said.

"We certainly have meat for the table of thought here," said Holmes, and I knew he was fascinated by the possibilities that had opened up. "Our visit to the financier bore richer dividends than we expected, Watson. Perhaps it was worth the difficulties you encountered later."

Noting my gesture of agreement, Holmes' attention returned to the American. "We seem to have explored the matter of Burton Hananish thoroughly. Do you have anything to mention?"

"Yes and it makes more sense now that there is the aroma of stale fish in the air." Wally's eyes shifted to Orloff briefly. "A chance remark by your friend the bank examiner put me on to something just before coming here. Hananish may be trading very heavily in gold, for he just might have sold four hundred thousand pounds' worth to the Deutsche Bank."

Holmes' noble head, lowered in thought, suddenly jerked upward. Orloff looked puzzled.

"What does that have to do with this French situation?"

"Probably nothing, but for a small bank Hananish is certainly active in precious metals. I don't know whether this German sale was made through the consortium of banks or not. If Hananish transacted it solo, he has a lot of gold available."

Holmes' voice was never calmer, but there was a bright light in his eyes. "When Watson and I spoke with him, the financier mentioned that the Credit Lyonnais might go to the Deutsche Bank for the gold it now needs. He was quick to cover up the statement, but those were his words."

Wally had bounded to his feet, his handsome face aglow. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Mr. Holmes?"

"I imagine we are all savoring the idea," responded the sleuth. "A half a million is stolen from the Birmingham and Northern flyer, and of a sudden, Hananish has four hundred thousand available to sell to the Germans."

"We've got him, Mr. Holmes," exclaimed the American. "He's nailed to the cross."

"But we shall follow the diplomatic adage and make haste slowly," said my friend in a cautionary manner. Of course he was stimulated, nay downright excited. He had to be, for it would seem that detailed investigation, a careful sifting of facts, and a meticulous piecing together of the pieces of a puzzle had paid off again. All the things that Holmes had lectured me on since our first coming together had again proved their worth, but my intimate friend was always intent on tightening the net until not a minnow could escape.

His keen face centered on Orloff. "First we must check the amount of gold that Hananish might have access to." Now the sleuth's eyes speared the ebullient American. "The details of the Deutsche Bank sale can be secured, I'm sure."

Wally, who had recovered his composure, nodded.

"And now, Watson and I must return to London on the evening train for there is a shooting match between the Bagatelle Club rifle squad and Alvidon Chasseur's Wellington Club team."

Both Orloff and Wally looked befuddled at this sudden switch of subjects, and Holmes elaborated with a chuckle. "From the very beginning of this tangled skein, the army, in an unofficial way, has been in evidence. The late Ezariah Trelawney and Ramsey Michael were veterans of the Crimea War, as is Burton Hananish. The security chief of the B & N railroad was formerly with the army of India. Lastly, the robbery of the Birmingham and Northern flyer was planned like a military maneuver, while a number of big businesses are hiring former army personnel for their expertise with firearms. I do not choose to accept this as a coincidence. Come, Watson, we'd best make ready for our journey to London." There was a pleased lilt to Holmes' voice, for he was returning to Baker Street.

Chapter 12

At the Wellington Gun Club

ON THE train back from Gloucester, Holmes was wrapped up in his thoughts. I did not intrude on them, feeling that he was planning his next move. While he had made mention of the marksmanship contest, surely there were more leads to be followed and Holmes could not have anticipated the results of our journey to the west coast.

We were approaching Reading when the sleuth roused himself from a thoughtful silence and seemed disposed to discuss the matter, which found great favor with me, as I had my usual assortment of questions.

"Watson, there's more to it, you know." He was gazing out the window at the passing countryside, and I forced myself to smother a banal response like, "There is?"

"But we should be thankful for that," he continued.

Confound it, I thought. Where is his mind taking him now?

"The simple matters are the most frustrating."

"How so?"

"Recall, if you will, that Jack the Ripper fellow. Back in eighty-eight, it was."

"I'm not likely to forget him. But you can't consider those brutal murders a simple affair."

Holmes turned from our carriage window with surprise in his eyes. "Was there any indication that the Ripper even knew his victims?"

"Well, the killings were most all in Whitechapel."

"But no one was uncovered who had known the seven poor souls and could have been the murderer."

"What is your point?"

"The matter of Jack the Ripper was basically a simple one."

"Oh come now, he was never found. There was much hue and cry that you should be put on the case."

An expression of distaste crossed Holmes' features. "I well remember those newspaper stories—all motivated by a desire for sensationalism, which our press is not averse to. They were certainly not the result of honest conviction unless written by idiots, which is within the realm of possibility."

"Your use of simple jars me."

"I did not say easy. The fact is that the streetwalker murders were committed with no thought of profit or gain. They were wanton killings by an insane person to fulfill some inner compulsion. What was the prime clue? The occupation of the victims, somehow tied in with the force that drove the Ripper to raw murder. How could I have been of service in the matter? Catching him required a dragnet effort—the searching of doctor's records to locate someone with a deranged mind who might have been impelled to launch a vendetta against prostitutes. The far-flung facilities of Scotland Yard were much more suited for a search of that type than you or I, Watson."

"You feel, then, that he will never be caught?"

"Unless he starts up again—a possibility. Or unless he makes some deathbed confession, which I think is very doubtful."

I shrugged and my mind took an obvious tack. "How is this associated with the treasure train?"

"Ah, that matter is beset with complexities. But the more angles to a case, the more chance for the lunge of the rapier that will impale the kernel of truth, the key to unlock the door of mystery."

"If complexities aid your investigation, you have plenty."

"Agreed. Had a group of thieves with access to inside information raided the train and removed the gold, we would have had little to work with. How did they get their information? What disposition did they make of the bullion? As it is, I feel this case embraces a wider canvas."

"It certainly does if the Trelawney and Michael deaths are part of the plot."

"That, Watson, will be settled for us. If Cedric Folks killed Michael, then I must abandon my redheaded-man theory."

"Not without regrets," I hazarded. "You do seem quite taken by the idea."

"Because of a remark you made, good fellow."

As I regarded him with puzzlement, he chuckled. "Ah, you haven't figured it out yet. No matter, since for the moment it is a dead issue. Our thoughts must go elsewhere."

"Where, specifically?" I queried, with a show of impatience.

"If Hananish, the banker, is the mastermind, he certainly was not directly involved in the train robbery."

"A man in a wheelchair? I should think not."