Sherlock Holmes and the Treasure Train

"Who, then, did the actual deed? I mean to bag them all, Watson. You recall that when Moriarty went down, the Yard allowed him to escape, along with two of his top henchmen. It was several years later that we convicted Colonel Moran. Then, in that Golden Bird affair, Chu San Fu was not brought to justice and he rose again to plague us. We'll make a clean sweep of it this time, old friend."

That happy prospect caused Holmes to fall silent again, and I could get no more from him during our return trip.

The following morning, we had scarcely completed our morning repast when a despondent Inspector MacDonald was ushered into our quarters. The Scot's habitually glum expression was more pronounced than usual.

"I'll not be guessin' how you figured it, Mr. Holmes, but you did give me fair warning," he said, lowering himself into our cane-backed chair.

"The matter of Cedric Folks," stated Holmes.

"Exactly. I located the artist without much trouble. Of course he denied any association with Michael's death, though he was honest enough to admit that he was not grief-stricken over the happening. But he couldn't come up with an alibi for the time of the murder. Were I a gambling man, I'd have given rather long odds on his being the culprit. Then I ran into a roadblock."

"The hansom driver who had come to the Michael mansion."

MacDonald threw me a dark look. "There's little I can tell him, is there?"

"Come now, Mr. Mac, your case against Folks revolved around the hansom driver. Both Watson and I knew you would track him down straightaway." As Holmes continued in his soothing tone, I poured the inspector a cup of coffee, which he accepted with gratitude.

"The driver did not identify Folks as his redheaded passenger, I take it."

"For a fact, Mr. Holmes. I was a mite stern with him, bein' somewhat taken aback; but he stood his ground. Said the man in his hansom had a longer nose than Folks; and the color of his hair wasn't the same, bein' more auburn than red."

"The cabbie certainly wasn't color-blind," I remarked.

"I see your point," said Holmes quickly.

This surprised me, for I did not know I'd made one.

"Auburn is an unusual word for a cabbie to use, but no matter. The point is that the case against Cedric Folks has evaporated."

"Completely," agreed MacDonald, lighting up a cigar, which I had secured for him. "Now I'm back where I started."

"Hardly," replied Holmes. "We do know that Michael's ward was not involved, the assassin being the cabbie's passenger. It is possible that I may be able to unearth something about him. Just yesterday I was speaking to Watson about the fall of Moriarty."

I sensed that the sleuth was choosing his words carefully, for MacDonald had been completely hoodwinked by the master criminal's college-professor façade.

"The professor met his end in Switzerland, and we got Moran in connection with that Ronald Adair matter. But one man of the Moriarty ring is still at large."

"Porlock," exclaimed MacDonald.

"No, the informer is free as a convenience. An arrangement you know of, Mr. Mac. I refer to the late professor's hatchet man."

"Lightfoot," breathed MacDonald. "'Tis said he died on the Continent."

"No body was found."

As Holmes and the Scot mused on this, I rallied my thoughts. The name meant nothing to me, but I could deduce who they were referring to. Holmes had specifically said that he had spent his years in self-imposed exile from London because two particularly vindictive members of Moriarty's infamous crew had escaped. Sebastian Moran was one, and this Lightfoot fellow must have been the other.

"What makes you suspect McTigue?" asked the inspector.

So, I thought, that's the rascal's name.

Holmes seemed to read my mind. "He used a number of names, and you'll recall that Moriarty only sent him on special assignments. He'd appear at the victim's home as a chimney sweep, a deacon of the church, and on one occasion, he masqueraded as a nurse. A clever fellow was Lightfoot, and I've a thought that he's adopted a redheaded disguise and is back in business again. But there is no concrete proof of this."

MacDonald rose with alacrity. "We've a few people who are helpful on occasion that date back to the Moriarty days. I'll be asking some questions about McTigue and checkin' out his supposed death as well."

The inspector departed forthwith. Given a lead, he needed little urging.

I was completely befuddled by this revelation of Holmes', and he did not seem disposed to discuss it. Something had alerted my friend to the possibility of the presence of an old enemy, but there were so many ifs involved that he had to be playing a hunch. This was contrary to his usual style; and if pressed, I knew he would resort to evasions. Actually, further discussion of the matter was not practical, since Holmes informed me he had an invitation to the rifle contest at the Wellington Club. Not long thereafter we departed for this plaything of the rich and titled.

It was a bit of a trip to the establishment, situated in Bermondsey, close onto the Deptford Reach curve in the Thames. I realized immediately that the Wellington Gun Club served a variety of purposes, boasting a tip-top grillroom, with an adjacent area suitable for the playing of cards. A hideaway where business leaders could consort with their own kind, and I assumed that many a deal had been broached within its stately walls. On this day the club was crowded. It took no brilliance to realize that the match had become an excuse for ladies to don their latest finery and gentlemen, who would not have known a breech from a bolt, to hobnob with the upper strata of society. There was a great to-do about invitations, and there were even some who were denied admission; but the engraved card presented by Holmes secured immediate entry and a carte blanche obsequiousness from the major-domo guarding the entrance. It crossed my mind that we might be present by royal patronage, since Holmes was summoned to Buckingham from time to time, usually after one of his masterly actions on behalf of the Empire. Few indeed were the elite functions that he could not attend if he wished. A humorous droit civil, since Holmes was rather antisocial and, contrary to those around us, availed himself of few of the opportunities open to him.

Lord Balmoral was in evidence, of course, since his Bagatelle Club team were the challengers. I nodded to Lady Windemere and the duchess of Paisley, present with their usual entourage, and exchanged pleasantries with Baroness Jeurdon and Lady Lind-Mead.

When the competition finally got under way, I was at a bit of a loss to understand how they managed the whole thing. There were a number of events, and the paper targets, with circled bull's-eyes, were gradually moved farther and farther from the riflemen. There was much measuring of distances from bullet hole to target center, and the endeavors of various contestants were accompanied by suitable ooohs and ahhhs. If asked point-blank, I would have stated that they seemed to be making a mountain out of a molehill. Then I noted the exchange of currency between top-hatted gentlemen and realized that the number of matches was to accommodate the spectators' urge to wager.

The shooting took place in a sizeable fenced area at the rear of the Wellington Club building. Chairs were arranged on the brick-paved terrace, and the back wall was sandbagged to a considerable height. Due to the position of the property in conjunction with the Deptford Reach, there were no buildings immediately adjacent and a fortuitous breeze off the river served to disperse the fumes of the gunpowder. With a gay crowd sipping tea or other more potent libations, and the marksmen in uniforms of paramilitary design banging away at targets, it made for a colorful scene. Holmes seemed to understand what was going on and informed me that the results of the match now depended on the final encounter between the ace of the Bagatelle Club, one Gerald Stolte, and our acquaintance Richard Ledger.

The groundswell of conversation interspersed with tinkles of laughter faded out as the two contestants made for their firing positions. Lord Arthur Seville was acting as an announcer, and he informed the multitude that this would be the penultimate event, since the victor would then entertain his audience with an individual display. This deciding match would be five shots per contestant with no time limit. A two-by-four timber was placed on the ground to serve as the marker for the shootists, they being allowed to change position as long as they remained behind the length of wood.

Holmes and I were standing at the rear of the seated crowd, on the four steps leading from the clubhouse to the terrace and the rifle range beyond. A well-dressed though somewhat sly-looking citizen standing next to me advanced some inside news for no reason that I could fathom.

"That bit about changing positions was introduced into the procedural rules by Chasseur, you can bet," he whispered to me.

I noted an oversized diamond on one of his fingers that struck me as gauche, though I judged the gem to be real. My questioning look prompted him to continue in a conspiratorial tone.

"Chasseur has more than a few bob wagered on this contest, and Ledger is his hole card." My eyebrows must have escalated, for he elaborated. "His sleeve ace, but the bloke is a nervous type, as you shall shortly see."

As though in fear that he had been too revealing, my unknown ally changed his position. I found out later from Holmes that he was Odds-On Olderman, London's leading bookmaker, though he was surely present under an alias.

Representing the challengers, Gerald Stolte was first to take position and proved to be a textbook marksman, as immobile as a block of stone. Once positioned in a widespread stance, with the butt of the stock against his shoulder, he might as well have been a statue. I noted that his right thumb was not curved over the throat of the butt but rested parallel to the barrel, close to the bolt of the army-issue rifle he was using. His right eye glued to the rear sight, he remained stationary for a nerve-racking time before loosing his first shot. I could barely see the target, but Stolte obviously could, and the bull's-eye as well. He did not move other than a quick back-and-forth of the bolt with his thumb and index finger. Then, with a gentle caress of the trigger, he sent off his second shot. With the same approximate period between, his final three bullets spun down the barrel's rifling and boomed their way to the target.

With no expression on his face, Stolte lowered his weapon and retreated toward a group of his Bagatelle teammates, to discuss his efforts no doubt. A club attendant raced out to retrieve the target, bringing it to Lord Arthur Seville after affixing a new one.

I must say the large gathering was suitably quiet, and I felt caught up by the suspense myself. Seville inspected the target, conferred with two other gentlemen, and then made an announcement.

"Mr. Stolte's five shots were all within the inner three rings, and two are judged to be bull's-eyes."

There were cheers from the Bagatelle Club supporters and I noted Alvidon Chasseur, standing with a group of men, looking confident, nay somewhat smug.

When Richard Ledger advanced to the shooting position, I was surprised to see that he carried a lever-action rifle loosely in his hand. I would have thought that the contestants would use similar pieces of ordinance, but some words between two men slightly to our rear informed me that the marksmen had their choice of guns, providing the caliber was within the specified limits allowed.

Whereas Stolte had been pedantic in his actions, Richard Ledger was not, and his style was as far from that of his opponent as could be imagined. He stood with his gun held in his right hand, barrel to the sky, surveying the target. Then he ran his left thumb across his mouth and passed that finger across the front sight, lowering the barrel to make this action possible. Suddenly the butt was against his shoulder and he fired almost without pause. His right hand levered the empty cartridge from the firing chamber as his legs moved him a step or two to his right and he got off another quick shot. Then his stance shifted to his left and the next three bullets were fired in rapid succession as Ledger continued to change position.

Throughout the crowd there was an exchange of looks and shrugs, and I surmised that most of those present could not quite believe the marksman's unusual methods. There were some who did not register surprise, Chasseur among them, and I judged that Ledger's unorthodox approach was normal to him. The crowd obviously felt that Stolte had triumphed for the Bagatelle Club, since the Wellington man, because of his speed, had seemed not to care about the result and had almost given the impression that he was throwing the match.

With the thought that the result was obvious, small talk started up again, but when the target was brought to Lord Seville, there was something about his manner and that of the two other judges that stilled eager tongues. Finally, Seville addressed the gathering.

"Mr. Ledger's target has no bull's-eye, since it has been blown away. The Wellington Club retains its championship of the London Rifle League."

His lordship's words were greeted by a stunned silence, and then a series of cheers arose from the amazed gallery and there was a babble of sound. It took Seville some time to quiet the spectators, which he finally did by removing his topper and waving it as an attention-getter.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Ledger will give a demonstration of trick-shooting as the final event of the day."

His skill a recognized thing, the audience was riveted on the champion and there was a respectful silence indeed.

As he took his stance before the crowd, I was much surprised to note that he had changed weapons. Having done so well with his lever-action gun, I would have thought that he would stay with it; but instead, he now carried a different-looking rifle, with an elongated barrel. It was an unusual weapon with a stock decorated by ornate checkering. I had seen similar carving on sporting rifles and understood it had a grip-aiding purpose.

"Note that he is using a Beals revolving rifle," whispered Holmes in my ear. "They haven't made those since seventy-two."

While I mused over this information, Ledger put on a show that had the crowd breathless. Lord Seville stood to one side of the marksman with another judge, and both men alternated in spinning coins into the air. Ledger knocked four out of the sky and then added a fillip by drilling two more, firing from the hip. As he paused to reload, I realized why his repeating rifle had seemed strange. Its firing chamber was similar to a revolver in its action, hence the name that Holmes had given the gun.

While I watched openmouthed as Ledger ran through his bag of trick-shooting feats, a thought came to my mind, spurred by the fact that the man and his gun moved as one. It was further stimulated by his speed in firing and the so brief time that he took to aim.

The climax to Ledger's performance should have been clear to me before the fact. The afternoon had been a singular triumph for Alvidon Chasseur, and if I judged him correctly, he must have derived great joy from forcing Lord Balmoral to take a back seat. Would he let the matter come to an end without interjecting himself into the proceedings? Certainly not; though I had to admit that he displayed remarkable nerve in the manner in which he did it.

Ledger now completed what proved to be his next-to-closing bit of rifle legerdemain. With his weapon held by Lord Seville, he faced the audience, two small wooden balls in hand. Tossing them over his shoulder, he snatched the Beals repeater from his lordship's hands and whirled, again firing from the hip, and smashed his targets with twin shots that rang out almost as one. As he acknowledged the applause, a look passed between the president of the Birmingham and Northern and Ledger. The marksman reloaded his weapon as Chasseur, without an announcement, strode out onto the firing range. From a silver case he extracted a cigarette as a puzzled hush spread over the crowd. Igniting an Egyptian cigarette, which I identified from its length, the rail tycoon stood with his profile toward Ledger, the smoking cigarette in his mouth. By now everyone realized what was going on, and there was a low rumble of protest and several of the ladies present grew quite pale. I have mentioned that the cigarette was long, and I noted that Chasseur held it between his teeth at the very end; but still, it was a sporty exhibition of faith in his employee's ability.

Ledger did take time aiming now. Then the shot rang out and the burning end of the cigarette was no more as Chasseur turned toward the audience with a triumphant smile. He rejoined the excited throng to the tune of hearty cheers, this time as much for him as for Ledger.

Holmes was exhibiting a sardonic smile. "The old reprobate carried it off like a circus ringmaster," he stated.

"It was an impressive piece of showmanship, Holmes."

"I'll not say you nay on that. Has a thought been nagging at you?"

"The candle in our sitting room?"

"Exactly. I don't think Ledger would have missed the wick."

I agreed quickly. Actually, that was not the thought that had come to my mind at all.

Chapter 13

Watson's Investigation, Holmes' Revelations

THROUGH THE mass of spectators, all now standing and discussing the happenings, I noted Claymore Frisbee making his way purposefully in our direction. Some sort of conference with the banker was overdue, and I could add little to it. So I took a bold step and spoke to Holmes hurriedly.

"I have an idea. Would it be inconvenient if I took this time to pursue it?"

"By no means," responded my friend. There was a faint twinkle in his intense eyes and he cocked his head slightly, surveying me. "You know my methods, Watson. Do make use of them. In conjunction with your talents, of course."

"Now see here, Holmes . . ."

"I'm serious. If you're on the scent of something, by all means have at it. I'll see you later at Baker Street."

Holmes turned to wave a greeting at the approaching Frisbee, then returned his attention to me. "Good hunting, old friend."

Well, I thought as I made my way inside the clubhouse, you've stuck your neck out this time, Watson. Things will get sticky if you botch it, so have your wits about you.

A solicitous club attendant readily gave me the information I requested and shortly thereafter I found myself in the basement of the club, outside a small room which I had been informed was given over to the star performer of the Wellington gun squad.

Richard Ledger was already within, having removed himself from his many admirers promptly. But then it was Alvidon Chasseur who was taking the bows, a pleasure he had paid for; and I judged that he paid Ledger well.

The marksman recognized me immediately and invited me to enter his dressing room. Trying to emulate Holmes, I bid my eyes make note of the surroundings, hoping to implant them upon a mental photographic plate. It was a small place, partitioned off like numerous others for the convenience of club members, which Ledger certainly was, though it was not his money paying the dues. There was a locker for hanging clothes, since the rifle squad affected costumes bearing the Wellington insignia. A cupboard was the largest piece of furniture, the top section being a rack for rifles with glass doors secured by an efficient-looking lock. A drawer underneath was closed and also sported a lock. I suspected that it contained an assortment of small arms.

On a square table there were tools, and I noted a bullet mold and a small but serviceable-looking vise, which gave me a thought.

"For half loads?" I asked, indicating the equipment.

"Sometimes handy," admitted Ledger. He was slipping into his suit coat and shot a sudden look at me as though making up his mind. "You see how it is, Doctor. There's not just the shooting involved."

"A bit of a side show as well," I hazarded.

The man's pale blue eyes were disconcerting, but if one overlooked them, his manner was forthright and friendly. Evidently, he sensed a kindred spirit in me.

"I have to be ready to change the act, you see. If it's not long guns, there's naught left but side arms and for fancy work, half loads are helpful."

"Less recoil for greater accuracy."

The fact that I understood seemed to please him. "Tricks of the trade." He shifted subjects. "Can you talk about the treasure train matter?"

His directness was refreshing. Leaning against the table, he seemed relaxed; but I knew I was in the presence of a coiled spring. The man reflected his profession: dangerous, certainly ruthless if necessary, but his youth dissipated any suggestion of malevolence. I will grant that I rank with the gullible, certainly in comparison to Holmes. Yet I felt that Ledger was sincere, his mood tinged by a genuine regret—not for his performance of the day, but relative to the matter of the stolen gold.

I decided to take a chance. My companion of so many years had once said that to learn something one should tell something, so I became revealing.

"Sherlock Holmes seems intrigued by this gun club competition that has sprung up."

"The trained seals." There was a twist to Ledger's mouth. "I shouldn't complain, for it's what got me my job with the railroad; and marksmanship competition is nothing new. The other stuff, like the cigarette bit, is just so much lagniappe to entertain the people."

I must have been regarding him rather intently, for he shifted position, possibly a nervous movement, and was now seated on the table. "Does Mr. Holmes associate the Wellington Club with the robbery?"

I shook my head promptly. "There's quite a few gun clubs. Holmes is looking for a lead as to who actually pulled off the robbery. The soldiers in the field, as 'twere."

This struck a chord within Ledger. "Now I see it. Ex-military working for business firms, meeting people at the clubs; they could have caught wind of the treasure train." Suddenly he shook his head. "From what I've heard of Mr. Holmes, he's not one for just theorizing. There must be something more."

I decided to plunge in deeper. "A shot was fired at our sitting room. Holmes contends that it was not an assassination attempt, but it had to be done by a sharpshooter."

Those light blue eyes remained devoid of emotion, though a slight smile curled Ledger's lips. "That puts me in the front ranks, I suppose?"

"I think not. Besides, it was a long shot. I doubt if that Beals revolving rifle you fancy could have carried far enough."

He was not offended. "You noticed that did you, Doctor?" Ledger became silent, and I sensed he was considering a thought. Then he continued: "If there's some marksman playing games, it does point a finger at the gun clubs. Does Mr. Holmes know how the robbery was executed?"

I decided not to carry my revelations too far. "I've a thought that he's got a pretty good idea." Had I said no, it would have been an insult to Holmes, and Ledger wouldn't have believed me anyway.

"I haven't. Don't feel good about it either. If I'd done my job right . . ." His voice dwindled away, and then he rose from his half-seated position. "Would there be something that I could do, Doctor?"

"You could consider Holmes' idea about your marksman colleagues," I replied with an authoritative tone that startled me.

"I will," he said.

That was the end of our meeting but not of my investigations.

———«»———«»———«»———

The waning sun had dropped below the horizon, leaving a momentary afterglow as I alighted from a hansom at 221 B Baker Street.

As I entered the sitting room, the sleuth was seated at his desk, its surface cluttered with cables and penned notations. Not the cold, thinking machine, he, but more the general, assaying reports from the front. He seemed pleased, for he slapped the desktop with an open palm and exhibited a wide smile.

"By George, Watson, I was wagering on you, and from your appearance, I know that victory has graced your banners."

"I do think I've stumbled onto something, Holmes."

"About Ledger, of course."

Being in the process of removing my greatcoat, I almost dropped it in surprise. "A trip to the Wellington Club competition sparks you into action. Who was there connected with the treasure train matter? Alvidon Chasseur and Claymore Frisbee, but we can dismiss both, for there was nothing revelatory regarding them. We have left Richard Ledger, whose prowess with firearms astonished even me."

"It was his manner, you see."

"Capital, Watson. It prompted you to suspect that the deadly marksman is an imposter and not Richard Ledger, formerly of the army of India, at all."

The froth of my manner was, frostbitten by reality. Confound it, I could never get ahead of the man. As I lowered myself into the cane-bottom Restoration chair, my sudden despondency had to be apparent and Holmes seized upon it.

"Come now, my stab at the truth was ill-conceived, for I do not know that for a fact and suspect that you do. Relate the path that your investigation followed."

I made a weary gesture with one hand. "What use? You already know."

"Suspect. A far cry from know. A report, good Watson, if you please."

I knew that I was not being twitted. Holmes' expression was as contrite as an erring schoolboy's, so I rallied some enthusiasm and plunged into my tale.

"The man's style led me to the conclusion that rifles were not his métier."

Holmes registered enthusiasm. "Here your superior knowledge of firearms comes into play."

Remembering his identification of the Beals rifle, I did not choose to accept this remark in whole but continued. "Recall how the chap moved while shooting, not choosing to stay positioned as the other marksmen did?"

There were wrinkles on Holmes' broad brow. "It was unusual, though I drew no conclusions from it."

"He's used to shooting at moving targets."

"Since the target was stationary, he moved to compensate. How clever of you."

I regarded him warily. "You were already suspicious of the man. Holmes, if you are leading me on . . ."

"I assure you that is furthest from my mind. I did not take note of the point you are making." Holmes paused as though wondering why, then concluded. "Possibly for reasons I will relate in a moment. Tell all, good chap."

"Ledger, for want of a better name, is really a small-arms expert. Gunfighter is the word that comes to mind."

"American, then?"

"Oh yes," I replied airily. "The speed with which he fired, his frequent shooting from the hip, his use of the Beals revolving rifle, which is constructed like a handgun—it all smacked of one from the American West. Southwest, I would guess."

"How so?" Perhaps he was just trying to encourage me, but Holmes seemed captivated.

"I spoke with the man."

My friend nodded. "That I assumed."

"He made use of the word lagniappe." Since Holmes was regarding me with a questioning look, I continued, not without some pride I might add. "It's a colloquialism of the southern part of the United States. Refers to a gratuitous additive, like baker's dozen."

"Excellent, excellent."

"In his dressing room at the club I noted some tools, and upon questioning, the chap told me he intended to use half loads for some handgun exhibitions."

Holmes merely shook his head, and I might have detected an expression of amazement in his eyes. Or was it pride?

"Another American innovation. Trick-shooting with a handgun seldom requires range; and the targets are small, so there is little need for great force at impact. Professionals reduce the powder charge in the bullets, which in turn lessens the recoil at firing and increases the accuracy of the man behind the gun."

Holmes burst out in a peal of laughter, most unusual for him. "Beekeeping on the Sussex Downs moves ever closer in my future plans as you talk, old friend. Will you allow me to take Mrs. Hudson with me?"

"Be serious."

He suppressed his merriment. "You've done a splendid job. Now we but need conclusive proof."

"We have it." I must say his reaction to my coup-de-maître was most gratifying. "I've spent a good part of the afternoon with our former client General Sternways. While, out of courtesy, consuming more of his port than I fancy, I learned that the general knew of Ledger. He commented that the man was indeed a splendid shot despite the fact that a boyhood accident had cost him the third and fourth fingers of his left hand."

"That's it, then!" Holmes sprang from his chair and began pacing the room, unconsciously following the path that I knew so well. "As to the whereabouts of the true Richard Ledger, we know not; but this chap is a proven imposter," he stated in that removed tone as though speaking to himself. "We can assume that the fellow is an American, though I must say he passes himself off quite well as British. Therefore, I deduce that he's spent some time in England or knew the real Ledger well. But how does this aid us? To use an expression of the western United States that you are so well versed in, Watson, we've cast a wide loop in this case. It is time we began to tighten the noose."

"Just a moment, Holmes. Before we dwell on other matters, what was it that alerted you to the possibility of a masquerader? Also, you fall very easily into the assumption—unproven—that he is American."

Holmes ceased his pacing to stand by the bookshelf, his left hand outstretched to finger, unconsciously, the golden statue on the fourth shelf that was a memento of a previous case.

"The plan to defend the treasure train. It was good, but decidedly un-British."

"You know I can't follow that."

"Space is the clue. From London to Great Yarmouth, a train passes through a stream of stations and steams by countless habitations. In the American West, the rails stretch for hundreds of miles without encountering a village or inhabitant, for that matter, save grazing bison.^* The best means of guarding the gold here in England would have been to place some stout lads, well armed, within the boxcar, for surely they could defend it until the sound of a battle brought reinforcements. In America, or at least the western part, it is a different story. Once the robbers gain control of the train, they have adequate time to force entry, for aid is far removed and the noise of a conflict is wasted on the desert air."

^*It is interesting to note that Holmes professed but a vague knowledge of western America yet, quite correctly did not refer to buffalo.

"Of course," I exclaimed. "The armored guardhouse being designed to protect the engine as well as the cargo. To keep the train moving."

Satisfied on this point, I fell silent and allowed Holmes to resume his thoughtful pacing. After a period, he came to a standstill by the mantle and reached for his cherrywood but thought the better of it. Instead, he went to the coal skuttle and removed a cigar from that most singular humidor.

"All right, Watson, let us beat the wheat from the chaff, for it is nigh on to harvest time or better be." Through a cloud of aromatic smoke he became more specific. "Claymore Frisbee informed me today that there is pressure on Inter-Ocean to pay the insurance claim. Chasseur is off to Cornwall for a stockholders' meeting but wants to deal with the matter directly upon his return." He paused, considering a new question. "Why Cornwall? His principal backers are a cadre of Scottish financiers. No matter. A cable from our friend von Shalloway informs me that the Deutsche Bank is negotiating a deal regarding four hundred thousand pounds' worth of gold."

"How does that fit in?"

"Mehr Licht! More light. Goethe's last words are apropos to the fine art of deduction."

"Never mind Goethe. I'm confused."

"Fortunately, I am not. Mainly because of your fortuitous remark."

I grunted. "That's the second time you've made reference to something I said, Holmes, and I'm dashed if I know what it was."

"Your exact words were: 'You have established a possible connection between Michael and Ezariah Trelawney.'"

"Both Ramsey Michael and Ezariah Trelawney are dead, and I don't see what was revealing about my words."

"It was the sound. We have three principals in this plot at the moment, and there is something unusual about their names: Michael, Ezariah, and Hananish."

"The latter not only being alive but up to his neck in the affair."

"Exactly. Cast your mind back to Bible classes, Watson. Were there not three wise men in Babylon? Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego."

"Shadrach," I exclaimed. "The code word used by the man who killed Ramsey Michael."

"Exactly. But the three ancients were brought to Babylon from the land of Israel, where their names were Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah."

I just stared at Holmes, wide-eyed.

"Ezariah Trelawney, Ramsey Michael, and Burton Hananish all served in the Crimea. They were in the same regiment and received honorable mention in dispatches from Balaklava and Sevastopol. Three men whose names are so close to three biblical figures had to strike up an acquaintance. I now deal in theory, but there is so much corroboration that it might as well be fact. I envision a close friendship, which continued into civilian life. A foray into the byways of the larcenous could have been suggested by the matter of the French gold, though I suspect they involved themselves in conspiracies prior to the treasure train. Remember that Michael had some hidden source of income. I think he uncovered the Credit Lyonnais matter, bringing it to the attention of his banking cohorts. They secured the gold, and Michael probably recruited the bully boys who did the deed."

"Who engineered it? Not three old men, surely?"

"All with military experience, remember." I sensed that Holmes did not find this too palatable, but another thought then came to my mind.

"When the assassin went to Michael's house and used the name Shadrach to gain admittance . . ."

"The art critic assumed he carried a message from Hananish. In the Bible, Hananiah became Shadrach."

"Then Hananish hired this Lightfoot chap to kill off his partners."

"The cripple is the only one of the trio still alive, so that statement seems to have merit," replied Holmes dryly.

"But if they were close friends? . . ."

"I mentioned but recently that thieves fall out. Possibly Hananish felt that his co-conspirators had served their purpose and were best out of the way. Or, and I rather fancy this idea, Hananish is going for even bigger game and wants to clear his back trail."

I was incapable of following this line of reasoning and did not question Holmes about it, since there was an interruption in our discussion. A tap on the door and Billy presented himself with an envelope, which he handed to Holmes, along with some news.

"A gentleman's below askin' fer you, Mr. 'Olmes. Ledger by name."

A quick look flashed between the sleuth and myself as he signaled for Billy to show the gun expert up. "Quick dividends on your investigation, Watson."

"I hope so."

Then Ledger was at our door. It was Holmes who ushered him in. After disposing of his coat, the youthful-looking chap came to the point with a promptness that must have sat well with my friend.

"Dr. Watson told me about a shot fired at you, sir," he said.

"More in the general vicinity, I think," responded the sleuth.

"Could you show me roughly the path of the bullet?" he asked.

Holmes indicated the windowpane through which the missile had passed. He then showed Ledger where the spent bullet had lodged itself in our floorboards. The man plotted the flight of the slug much as Holmes had done, and then gazed out at the night scene. After letting his eyes wander for a moment, he indicated a building, standing tall in the next block, to Holmes and myself, who were now beside him at the bow window.

"What might that be?" he inquired.

"The warehouse of Spears and Henry, the well-known liquor firm. The answer to your next question is yes. A man could have gained the roof without much difficulty and escaped from the area rapidly as well."

"That's the spot," stated Ledger. "It's a goodly distance, but a Sharps rifle could have made it."

Another quick glance passed between Holmes and myself. The sleuth knew that the Sharps was an American make, and he promptly proved it.

"It was a small bullet that I extracted from the floorboards."

"A Mauser, then," said Ledger. "The Germans are manufacturing them in quantity. A long-range high-velocity small-bore rifle using smokeless powder. Selling them to the Boers in Africa. There'll be some trouble down there one of these days."^* Noting surprise on both our faces, he explained. "Mercenaries are rather tuned to such matters, you see."

^*The masquerader called the turn here, far the Boer War broke out in 1899, and the British cavalry was decimated by the very weapon he described in the hands of master marksmen.

"I do," replied Holmes. "What is your thought regarding the shot? I'd better tell you that I think it was fired at a candle that was on the desk there." He indicated the spot he was referring to.

"Did he hit the candle?" asked Ledger quickly.

At Holmes's nod, a sigh escaped the man. "That helps, sir, for there's just so many that good."

"Could you have done it?" inquired Holmes.

For a split second there was a flashing smile of almost boyish bravado on our visitor's face. "If the other light in the room was dim, the candle would have stood out nicely. I think I could have hit the wick."

"So do I," replied Holmes, "and that's what I think our unknown shootist was aiming at."

It was obvious that Ledger appreciated the word unknown.

"It gives me an idea of where to look. The doctor here said you thought some of the hired sharpshooters were involved."

"You might consider the name of Ramsey Michael."

"That art critic chap who was murdered?"

"I'd be interested to know if any of the marksmen were ever approached by him."

"All right, Mr. Holmes." The pseudo-Ledger was no waster of words and took his departure at this point.

I was regarding Holmes with some concern. "What if the chap was involved in the robbery?"

"A possibility."

"Aren't you rather setting yourself up as a target?"

"We've been that for some time, Watson—both of us, if you will recall."

Holmes had taken the lamp from the small Duncan Phyfe table near the bow window and passed it across the panes of glass once. Replacing it, he caught me regarding him with amazement.

"I don't want Ledger detained by Burlington Bertie or Tiny, you see. The American just might be able to do us a considerable service."

Of course, I thought. He's got the premises staked out. Probably with arrangements to follow visitors if need be, which means the involvement of Slippery Styles, the human shadow. No wonder Holmes was so casual about a possible attempt on us.

Though unseen, the boys from Limehouse were on duty.

As I dwelled on this comforting fact, Holmes had seated himself at the desk and opened the message delivered by Billy at the time that the American had arrived. Now his eyes rose from the single sheet of foolscap.

"Most interesting. I sent Billy to the Diogenes Club with some questions for Mycroft. He provided a record of recent gold transactions for us, you recall."

The sleuth's thin and dexterous fingers indicated the message before him. "My brother assures me that Burton Hananish has not been involved in the sale of precious metal up to this time."

"You suspected that he had been?"

"When something works, there is a natural inclination to repeat it. With two bankers involved, I had a thought that the treasure train matter might be a sequel to a previous manipulation, sporting new trappings, of course."

"But, Holmes, there have been no big bullion robberies in recent years. I read the papers, too."

"Granted. But some family plate, old coins purloined from a collection, some dentures, and given the necessary equipment and expertise, it can all be melted down. Remove the alloy and you have pure gold, which can be poured into molds and—presto—gold bullion, as valuable as that taken from the treasure train."

Here was a new thought, and my mind raced to grasp it. "You picture a large-scale fencing operation to dispose of stolen gold by converting objects into metal."

"With the necessary purification. Gold is quite unique, Watson. Say you have a medallion of twenty-four-carat gold . . ."

"I wouldn't mind, really."

"Alas, we deal but in fantasy. Your medallion is beautifully engraved and valuable, but it is stolen. Being identifiable, the thief would be well advised to melt it down, for without its engraving and shaping, the object is still of value for it is pure gold."

"Your point being that my medallion could completely lose its identity without losing all its value."

"Which is more than can be said for precious jewels or rare paintings. But we wander far afield. I am dropping the fence idea and am now considering another more to the point."

Again Holmes tapped the letter on the desk. "My brother touches on a matter relative to the cable from von Shalloway."

"I wondered when you would bring that up. What has the esteemed chief of the Berlin police to do with this case?"

"He is our fastest and most accurate contact in mid-Europe. There are many twists and turns to this matter, Watson, but one fact stands out. We went to Gloucester to approach Hananish. I wished to see the man and size him up. In our interview, little was said that was not old hat. Yet shortly thereafter a dirty tricks brigade attempted to spirit you away with the idea of laying me by the heels as well. If Hananish was behind it, something must have been said that got his hackles up. I believe it was his inadvertent reference to the Deutsche Bank."

"That's why you contacted von Shalloway in Berlin."

"With good results. But let us deal with this in a step progression. One: the gold bonds of the Credit Lyonnais can be redeemed by the investors in two weeks, two: the five hundred thousand pounds' worth of gold on the treasure train has been stolen and, as of this moment, not recovered; three: according to von Shalloway, the Deutsche Bank has made an arrangement with the Bank of England . . ."

"Bank of England! What have they to do with this?"

Holmes admonished me with a waving forefinger. "Hear me out, Watson. The Deutsche Bank has arranged an option whereby they can purchase within the next ten days four hundred thousand pounds' worth of gold bullion now in the vaults of the Bank of England. The gold is registered in the name of Burton Hananish."

"I have it now," I exclaimed. "The Bank of England is acting as a clearing house for Hananish."

"Correct."

"And the Credit Lyonnais is, in effect, taking out insurance. In case Scotland Yard or Sherlock Holmes doesn't locate the stolen gold, they've made a deal with the Deutsche Bank to fulfill their needs."

"Your grasp of the situation is admirable, Watson. Of course the French made inquiries in banking circles as to the availability of the amount of gold they needed the moment the treasure train was robbed. What more natural that they should contact the Deutsche Bank? The two nations make a habit of snarling at each other but continue to do business much like the Greeks and the Turks. But doesn't it strike you that Hananish could have contacted the Credit Lyonnais directly?"

I decided to fly the white flag rather than try to piece together the point Holmes was making. "I'm becoming hopelessly mired. You have introduced major banks of three nations, along with two west coast bankers, and there is more backing and filling relative to this whole thing than I can cope with."

"Exactly the idea, Watson. Hananish is playing the obstructionist, muddying his back trail. You mentioned the possibility of Scotland Yard or Sherlock Holmes locating the stolen gold. Sherlock Holmes has located it, or a major portion of it. It rests in the vaults of the Bank of England, registered to Hananish."

This was something I could understand and I indicated as much.

Holmes continued: "When we cut through the extraneous, the evidence is sufficient for a presumption of fact. Hananish, with no previous record of dealing in gold, is part of a consortium of west coast banks in the Credit Lyonnais deal. The gold is stolen and he deposits an almost equal sum in the Bank of England under his name. No mention of other banks now."

"Why, it's open and shut."

"So our friend at the Red Grouse in Fenley said."

"Then you intend to move against Hananish?"

"Not right now. There is a little pressure of time, but there are still a few stray threads to be unraveled. How did the robbers get the gold from Brent, in Essex, to the Bank of England? As knowledgeable a fellow as Dandy Jack the smuggler couldn't tell us."

"There is that," I admitted.

"Also the thought that the trio of conspirators, Hananish, Trelawney, and Michael, may have been up to some previous mischief. I'd like to cast light on that possibility."

"Reasonable," I agreed, as though my opinion really mattered.

"Then there is the presence of Lightfoot, which does not rest easy with me."

"It does with me." Holmes registered some surprise at my strong stand. "Hananish used this notorious assassin to wipe out his co-conspirators. To further muddy his trail, for they cannot peach on him now. I would think that he's set the man after you."

Holmes startled me by seeming to accept this in part. "Hananish did say that he had read those romanticized case histories you make available, on occasion, to the reading public. He must know of my . . . er . . . our excellent connections in Berlin."

I interrupted, excitedly. "Surely he is in fear of exactly what has happened—your ferreting out the Credit Lyonnais-Deutsche Bank-Bank of England arrangement, which leads right back to him."

As Holmes mused on this, I added with conviction, "I'm jolly glad that Burlington Bertie and Tiny are on the job. Where have you got them tucked away?"

"In Professor von Krugg's house next door," replied Holmes, his mind elsewhere. I smiled at this, for Holmes was Professor von Krugg, the seldom-seen language expert.

"Slippery Styles is staked out in the empty house across the street," added my friend.

"Good show, Holmes. For once you are taking precautions regarding your safety."

"And yours, old fellow," he said, rising to his feet.

I felt a stab of emotion, for he consistently tried to do that. Holmes was standing by the desk, looking down at the letter from his brother.

"Mycroft added a postscript to this which is intriguing: 'Am, of a sudden, interested in your investigation relative to the Deutsche Bank. Please keep me informed.'"

His eyes swiveled up to meet mine. "Now what has gotten the wind up with Mycroft relative to the German banking institution?"

"I certainly don't know, but we've gone around and around on this matter and there are a couple of points you can clear up."

Holmes crossed to the mantle in search of a pipe. "I'm at your service."

"About Ledger. He's an imposter. What are you going to do about it?"

"I really don't know. If he's sincere in lending aid, he's much better situated to investigate the hired marksmen than we are. As regards his assuming the identity of Richard Ledger, I'm not at all sure that has any connection with the train robbery."

I allowed the matter to rest there and pursued another thought that had been tantalizing me. "It is past history, Holmes, but how did you show up so opportunely on that river tug?"

My friend smiled. "As though by divine providence? But think a moment, Watson, and all is clear. You are spirited away on the river road leaving an obvious trail, which Orloff promptly picked up. On my return to the Red Grouse Inn I learned what Orloff had and, in addition, that he was in hot pursuit. With the thought that he could handle anything that came his way, I chose to survey the area by water. Your captors might have tried to spirit you away via the river, you know?"

Finally satisfied on this point, I found myself suddenly at a loss for words. Holmes sensed my mood. "Come aloft,^* Watson," he cried. "A good dinner, a bottle of wine, and conversation removed from this business at hand. 'Twill lead to clear minds for the busy times ahead."

^*An unusual expression for Holmes. Of naval origin and meaning "Let's enjoy ourselves." The great detective does use it in conjunction with a bottle of wine, and the expression is thought to have been associated with "high with wine," though it is doubtful that Holmes was suggesting that he and his confrere get stoned.

Chapter 14

The Unanticipated Fact

WHEN I descended from my bedchamber the following morning, I found Holmes at breakfast and in good spirits. He waved a cablegram at me as I poured my coffee.

"I was about to call you, good fellow, for we will have visitors shortly."

"Not that Lightfoot, I trust," I mumbled, pouring thick Devonshire cream into my cup.

"There is no report on Moriarty's former henchman, but Orloff will be with us, along with our ally in Fenley."

I had not as yet sampled my morning eye-opener, which was unfortunate. "Wallingford?" I exclaimed, and could have bit my lips in vexation, for I had let the cat out for fair.

Holmes was way ahead of me. "Do not be concerned, Watson. During our last meeting at the Red Grouse, you treated the man's words with unusual deference and I deduced that you knew his true identity."

"Holmes, I did not mean to pry . . ." I began, shamefaced.

"Tut, tut. You must have found out from Orloff, for he is the only one involved that knows. Anyone who can extract information from our security agent friend does not deserve censure from me, but rather warrants admiration."

Considerably buoyed by these words, I attacked my morning meal with gusto. Holmes did provide a codicil to his sporting statement. "For his peace of mind, let us not refer to Mr. Wallingford by his name."

"I understand," I replied, munching on one of Mrs. Hudson's really superior scones.

It was shortly after the vestiges of our breakfast were cleared away that the security agent and the former confidence man arrived.

To my surprise I learned that they had come from Shaw. I had assumed that they both arrived on our doorstep from Gloucester, but the reasons became obvious as the meeting of minds progressed.

The American was as buoyant as the last time I had seen him, and he obviously felt that his labors had born fruit.

"I think I've got it, Mr. Holmes. How it all started, I mean. Your suggestion that I run a parallel investigation on Ezariah Trelawney was what gave me the key. Also that constable, Bennett by name, took your cable to heart and opened a lot of doors for me."

"Good man," commented Holmes.

"Trelawney, after his army service, returned to Shaw and went to work at the bank. He was good at his job. Shaw is a small place, and his advancement was rapid. Now the bank made a practice of keeping a supply of gold on hand. It dated back to the Napoleonic wars. They had to get a courier to Stockholm, Sweden, and it was at that time that a false rumor spread over England that the French fleet had triumphed at Trafalgar and Nelson had been defeated. There was widespread panic. In times like that, paper doesn't talk. The Shaw Bank did not have sufficient gold available to tempt a merchant skipper to carry their man to Sweden, and whatever the deal was, it fell through. So a policy was established to have a certain amount of gold, sovereigns or whatever, on hand at all times. Modern business methods antiquated this idea, but it had produced a favorable climate with depositors. Shaw is an agrarian area, and people close to the land tend to think in basics. Floods, frosts, pestilence, and the like. The fact that the Shaw Bank kept gold in its vaults led to its gaining a considerable reputation as being sound and conservative."

Wallingford paused in his report and a smile crossed his face. "You know, the old gold-brick dodge always worked in the sticks . . ." He caught himself and affected a cough to cover his embarrassment at this revelation.

"Anyway, the gold-in-reserve idea became rather a trademark of Trelawney's bank, and it spread to other west coast banks as well."

"Explaining how they happened to readily have a surplus of the precious metal," said Holmes. He had indicated no impatience at Wallingford's detailed recounting, and I sensed that he was much interested in the complete picture of the Trelawney-Hananish operation.

"Hananish returned to Gloucester after being mustered out, and he was more fortunate in that his father was president of the bank there and he rather inherited the position."

Holmes, his eyes on the ceiling, suddenly shot Wallingford a sharp glance, which the man interpreted. "Both Hananish's bank and the one in Shaw were publicly owned, each by a small group of stockholders."

Holmes' gaze retreated, again, to the ceiling.

"The gold reserve in both banks was annually listed as part of the assets, but most of the time it wasn't there at all."

Holmes leaned forward in his chair suddenly, and Wallingford certainly had my attention as well. Orloff, already privy to the information, was blowing smoke rings.

"Under the banking laws, there are spot checks by examiners; but Trelawney was prepared for this, Hananish as well. If there was official inquiry as to the whereabouts of the reserve gold, Trelawney had at hand a letter of credit from Hananish's bank for the amount of the gold plus the date that the metal would be returned and the agreement whereby Trelawney had made the gold temporarily available to Hananish."

Holmes rose to his feet, now restless with anticipation. "But these agreements never passed through the normal channels of either bank."

"Nor were the stockholders informed, nor was there interest charged," responded Wallingford.

I could not suppress a question at this point. "Where was the gold, then?"

Wallingford shrugged. "That I could not learn. This embraces a matter of some years, you understand. All that time what was supposed to be a reserve fund was actually in movement: being invested, acting as collateral, who knows what."

Holmes, standing by the bow window with his back to the group, suddenly whirled around. "I expressed a desire to look into previous mischief of Hananish and Trelawney—Michael as well. You recall, Watson? This information should provide a fruitful lead as well as something to throw at Hananish when we close in on him."

Orloff was snubbing out one of the small, black cigars he fancied. "Are you prepared to make your move?"

Holmes crossed to the mantelpiece, assuming a familiar position beside it. Ah hah, I thought. He's ready for the denouement.

The sleuth gave Orloff a short nod, then his eyes centered on Wallingford. "Your mention, when last we met, of the Deutsche Bank reaping rich dividends. The German banking house has call on four hundred thousand pounds' worth of gold in the vaults of the Bank of England. But the gold belongs to Hananish. From the treasure train, of course, and he's selling it twice, though this time with no consortium of banks and not with his partner Trelawney either. The Credit Lyonnais will get it from the Deutsche Bank. The Deutsche Bank gets it from the Bank of England, but the payment goes to Hananish. A major coup, but we've got him."

Wallingford grew pale and had trouble finding words. When they did come, it was not with the assured, businesslike manner that was his normal delivery.

"Mr. Holmes . . . I did not know about the three-way arrangement you outline; but it just won't work, you see."

His somewhat smug manner jarred, Holmes registered surprise. "What won't work?"

"I see what you're driving at, sir. But Hananish can stop us cold. The four hundred thousand pounds in gold was deposited in his name in the Bank of England before the robbery."

There was dead silence in the room, and I confess this startling statement actually caused me to hold my breath for a long moment. Holmes almost staggered back against the mantel, surprise a harsh and blatant thing on his expressive features. Good heavens, I thought. His whole case has been shattered by one unanticipated fact. The poor chap must be stunned.

Holmes' reaction was not what I anticipated. Instead, the palm of his right hand swept up to smite his forehead with a crack like a revolver shot.

"Dumkopf!" he shouted. When sore pressed, my friend resorted to exclamations in foreign languages.

A tinge of pink suffused the features of Wallingford, and the sleuth hastened to prevent a misunderstanding. "Not you," he said, spearing the former confidence man with an outstretched finger. His digit swung in a half circle to tap his chest forcibly. "Me!" Then his glowing eyes shifted in my direction and the shadow of a bitter smile creased his lips.

"If in future times, Watson, you choose to record this case history, you can write me down an ass."

If I had not known previously, this statement would have alerted me to how upset my friend was at himself. For he had used similar words when castigating himself for missing the mark on Colonel Walter in the matter of the Bruce-Partington plans.

Wallingford's face, a picture of consternation, was shifting from one to another of us, with a dazed expression, as though he had lost touch with reality. Orloff had a grim look of disbelief about him.

"You cannot mean that Hananish will elude our grasp," he said.

"Indeed no," replied Holmes quickly, and those two words did much to rally my morale, momentarily very low.

Holmes' long stride took him to the desk, and he gazed at it as though beset with a number of necessary actions and choosing which one to seize on first. "Now, finally, I have the right perspective regarding this case, and the errant threads that have nagged at me are unraveled."

There was a longish pause as Holmes communed with himself. Then his hawk-like face rose and his eyes enveloped us.

"Orloff, you'd best be off to the Diogenes Club and relate our findings to my brother."

Holmes passed the letter he had received the night before to the security agent. "Mycroft has developed an interest in the Deutsche Bank and could well find Wally's information of value. You might tell him that Watson and I have the matter of the stolen gold in hand."

"What can I do, sir?" asked Wallingford.

"Accompany Orloff. The Deutsche Bank has proved revealing to us. Possibly you can unearth some connection between the Germans and the financial manipulations of Trelawney and Hananish during the period the former was alive. My brother has certain connections, which you will find helpful."

A quick glance passed between Wallingford and Orloff, and the American responded dryly, "So I've learned."

The urgency in Holmes' manner was communicative, and both men rapidly vacated the premises.

Holmes was fiddling in his desk and suddenly turned to me. "Now it is you and I, old friend, as it has been so many times before. Another journey is called for."

"Shall I throw some things in a valise?"

"Your Smith-Webley in a handy pocket will be enough."

There was the sound of rapid footfalls on the stairs, and Slim Gilligan appeared in the half-open door to our chambers. Now I understood Holmes' actions at the desk. He had some sort of alarm signal rigged up with the house next door.

"Slim," said my friend, "I've need of Burlington Bertie and Tiny."

"They were on the night shift, guv," responded the cracksman, taking the unlit cigarette from behind his ear. It occurred to me that I had never seen him light it.

"Contact them, good fellow, and have them take the first train available to Brent in Essex. I'll have them met at the station."

Gilligan had been with Holmes too long not to sense a crisis. "Anythin' fer me, guv?"

"Let's make sure this building isn't blown up, Slim. That Lightfoot rascal is still at large."

"Right, Mr. 'Olmes." Gilligan was gone.

So, I thought, it's back to the scene of the crime.

Holmes was spinning the dial on the safe and took a short-barreled revolver from its interior, placing it in the pocket of his tweed coat. His action prompted me to hasten upstairs to my sleeping quarters to remove my army-issue handgun from the drawer in my bed stand. It was not often that Holmes went armed, but there was much about this strange case that departed from the norm.