Sherlock Holmes and the Treasure Train

Chapter 15

The Lightning Colt

DURING OUR train trip to Essex, Holmes had been uncommunicative. I could not decide whether he was lost in thought regarding the robbery and subsequent events or whether, in keeping with his frequent practice, he had thrown his brain out of gear and switched his thoughts from the case on the theory that further cogitation would not be advantageous. When I had rejoined him in our sitting room prior to our departure, he was in the process of instructing Billy about a cablegram, and I deduced that it was to Dandy Jack, our only acquaintance in Brent. Such proved the case, since the aged four-wheeler and bay horse were at the station when we alighted, along with the familiar driver.

"Where to, gents?" he queried when we were seated in the conveyance.

"The end of the spur line."

"I figgers you mean by the tin mine," said the driver, gigging the bay into motion.

"When you've dropped us there, return to the station," said Holmes. "There will be two more men coming, and you are to bring them to the same place."

"Few folk come to Brent, but in case, how'll I know . . ."

"Oh, you'll spot them," I said, with an inward smile. "Just look for the widest man you've ever seen."

Dandy Jack merely nodded.

"Have there been strangers in the area of late?" inquired Holmes.

"None that I've seen." Holmes did not press the matter, and finally, our driver felt impelled to make a conversational contribution. "I've nosed 'round, sir, and give the matter more thought. At tavern every night, there's palaver fer fair."

"About how the gold was removed from the boxcar." It seemed to me that Holmes made this statement with a certain satisfaction.

"Aye, sir. If I'm any judge, every man jack in these parts is as puzzled as I am."

Holmes nodded as though he had anticipated this. Silence fell, broken by the clip-clop of the sturdy bay and the intermittent calls of songbirds.

When Dandy Jack deposited us at the clearing that marked the end of the spur line, he tipped his battered hat and went about his return trip in accordance with my friend's instructions. The clearing and its deserted buildings seemed as they had been on our last trip to this place. At that time, Holmes' attention had been much given to the end-of-track and the area where the boxcar had been discovered. Now he seemed interested in the stretch of ground between there and the small hill with the rock-filled entrance to the abandoned tin mine. But then, he had paid scant attention to it previously. I doubted if he expected to come up with a clue at this late date, and felt that he shared that thought.

"There is really little we can do until the boys get here, Watson, though I did want to get to the spot as soon as possible."

But it was not Bertie and Tiny who arrived. Rather, it was another voice that called out and succeeded in startling me no end, for I was convinced that we were alone in this deserted spot.

"Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson," was the cry that surprised me as we were making our way toward the mine entrance.

From the woods on one side of the hill, Richard Ledger appeared on the run. In one hand was the Beals revolving rifle I had seen him use so effectively.

Holmes and I came to a stop, and as Ledger reached us, there was an added complication.

"Very slow, Ledger," said a strange voice. Clued by the direction of the sound, my eyes flashed to the top of the hill. Standing there was a tall and swarthy man with an Enfield rifle pointed directly at the three of us, as were the guns in the hands of the two men standing beside him. There was no sound for a long and nerve-racking moment, and the whole scene became a frozen tableau. Then Ledger, with a shrug that might have meant anything, reached out slowly with the hand carrying the Beals rifle. He was facing Holmes and myself, his left side toward the hill and the menacing men atop it. Then he pitched the rifle some distance from him. A moving object attracts the eye; and I fancy the riflemen instinctively watched the falling weapon, perhaps in anticipation that it might fire when it hit the ground.

Ledger's left hand, resting on the lapel of the unbuttoned topcoat he was wearing, moved the garment slightly away from his body and I saw a holster attached to his belt in front with the handle of a revolver pointing toward his right side. Simultaneous with this movement, his right hand flashed to the exposed gun butt, then reversed direction in a border draw. As the muzzle cleared the leather, it was already pointing in the direction of the hill. Of a sudden, there was a drumbeat of sound. Not single shots, but what seemed like a continuous roar. In a moment like this the eye transmits the image to the brain with a speed akin to that of light, which is a good thing since it all happened at once.

In but a fraction more than one second, five shots burst from Ledger's gun. The first shattered the rifle in the hands of the swarthy man. The second caught his right-hand companion in the forehead, passing out through the top of his head. The third one found the last of the trio in the vicinity of his left breast pocket. The fourth caught the swarthy man in his mouth and plowed into his brain, while the fifth blew its way between his eyes, making an obscene hole going in and a much larger one going out.

It was unbelievable, but there were three dead men on top of that hill before the first body hit the ground.

An unreal silence claimed the clearing and the hill on one side of it. There was the smell of cordite that wrinkled my nostrils. Then, from a silver beech on top of the hill, a bird trilled questioningly, as though to inquire what was going on. You'll never understand, little feathered friend, I thought. You'll also be quite surprised if you flit to the ground, for the green of the turf is being stained a darkish red.

Ledger blew on the muzzle of his gun and began to slide it back into its holster when I found my voice.

"Pardon me," I said, in a higher tone than is customary for me. I gestured toward the revolver. "May I?"

As he handed me the weapon, from the corner of my eye I noted Holmes regarding me strangely.

"Double-action Colt Lightning," I said.

".41 caliber," replied the gunfighter. He was matter-of-fact about it, and his manner, after this moment of awesome violence, was unperturbed, like a workman who has performed a familiar task.

His eyes, said to be the gateway to the soul, reflected no flame of exhilaration or dancing sparks of triumph. Just twin pools, unruffled and unrevealing, though the color might have been an even lighter blue than I had noted previously. From a dim recess of my mind, two words stumbled forth. Killer eyes. Perhaps the title of some ha'-penny dreadful subconsciously noted on a bookstore stand. Perhaps words out of context from a description of a bird or beast of prey. I felt I understood them better now.

I indicated the butt of the gun questioningly.

"Parrot-beak handle," the man said. "I fancy it."

I swallowed. "Five shots in one and one-fifth seconds. I read somewhere that it had been done."^*

^*Watson was right, for the time has been recorded, and with the same double-action model he was holding in his hand.

Holmes was looking towards the hilltop. "They've had it," said Ledger as I returned his gun to him.

"I can certainly believe that," replied Holmes.

The sleuth walked over and retrieved the rifle with which Ledger had distracted the three strangers. Silently, I commended him for this action. Though the immediate peril was removed, the situation was still tense and I fingered the Smith-Webley in my pocket nervously.

Gesturing toward the hill, Holmes posed a question. "You didn't come with them, I take it?"

"After them. Your mention of that Michael fellow is what got me on their trail. The tall man was Jack Trask, who was on the Wellington Club team. Served in Egypt and later with the Legion in Africa. Surly chap with a shady background, but that's not unusual for a Legionnaire. The other two I don't know. Couldn't figure out why they came here either."

"That, I know," replied Holmes.

"Guess you know about me, too," said our rescuer.

As Holmes nodded I felt impelled to offer a remark, which drew another strange look from the sleuth. "Not everything. It may not be necessary that we do. You are not Ledger, of course."

"He died in my arms. We were on the same side, you see, and we lost. I'd grown to know him well. He had no kin, and there were too many wishing for me to join Ledger, so I took his papers and got away."

"It was you who worked for the Kimberly people."

The man confirmed Holmes' statement with a nod. "They didn't know Ledger, and as soon as they put a gun in my hands, they accepted my identity without question."

An unrelated thought came to mind and forced its way to my lips. "Was your friend Ledger as good as you?"

There was a philosophical acceptance in his eyes along with a tinge of sadness. "Ledger's dead and I'm alive."

Holmes had strolled in the direction of the rock-clogged entrance to the abandoned mine. I surmised that the pseudo-soldier appreciated the absence of further questions regarding his, shall we say, colorful background. He now posed a question of his own.

"What were they doing here, Mr. Holmes?" He gestured toward the hilltop, and I winced at the thought of the three corpses growing cold in the afternoon sun.

"They were sent to remove evidence," replied the sleuth. "We'd best get started on the job at hand, for we can do some of it at least."

Holmes leaned the Beals rifle against a rock and began to remove his coat. I judged what he was about and started to do the same, as did our companion, but Holmes had another thought.

"Sir," he said, "and for want of another name, I must call you that; in a short time there will be others present. It might be expedient if you are not here."

The imposter could not suppress an exclamation of surprise. "You're letting me go? What of the gold robbery?"

"You were no part of that," said Holmes. "Though it is my thought that you might put some distance between yourself and England."

Holmes overrode a half-formed interruption of mine. "Not that I'll be after you, but it is possible that someone else knows of your masquerade. Had the robbery gone amiss, you would have made a splendid cat's-paw and might still serve as a red herring in the matter."

The gunfighter was nodding in agreement with Holmes' words, as was I.

"What about the bodies?" persisted the man.

This time he did not gesture toward the hill, which was throwing a first shadow on the three of us.

"The idea of a trade suggests itself," replied the detective, and despite the seriousness, nay grimness, of the moment, there was a flicker of humor about him. "That gun of yours Watson seems so familiar with. You might give it, with its spent cartridges, to my medical friend." His long fingers extracted the revolver he had in his ulster pocket; and Holmes extended it, butt-first, to the marksman. "This may not suit your fancy, but it is loaded. I seldom carry firearms anyway."

Our youthful-looking companion seemed uncomfortable. "There's not many that hands me a loaded gun, Mr. Holmes."

"I'm sure you'd feel naked without one," said my friend in a brusque tone. Then his manner was relieved by a smile. "You understand that Watson, by virtue of this arrangement, will gain considerable notoriety not really his due."

Holmes' eyes swiveled toward me. "I picture you, good chap, as going down in history as the fastest gun on Baker Street."

"I say now, Holmes," was all I could come up with because of a wave of pride—not prompted by the ridiculous situation that Holmes was joshing about, but for my friend. He was not always the relentless man-hunter that the journals pictured with such ghoulish glee.

The former employee of the B & N Railroad released the bolstered gun, affixed with a clip to his belt, and passed it to me. Holmes looked at him for a long moment and then said, simply, "Goodbye."

The sleuth turned with an abrupt movement and began to push at one of the sizeable rocks blocking the entrance to the mine. I stepped closer to the American, lowering my voice. Possibly Holmes did not hear me.

"Goodbye, McCarty."

For the first time since our paths had crossed, there was genuine humor on the man's face. "I had a mind you knew." He clasped my outstretched hand, and I was surprised. He had spent his life in the outdoors and riding back trails at that, yet his palm and the inside of his fingers were as soft as a baby's or a safecracker's. "Thank you, Doctor."

Retrieving the Beals rifle, he strode into the surrounding woods without a backward glance. His shoulders might have been slightly bent from the thought of the twisted trail behind him and the rocky road ahead. He can make it, I thought, if he but gets free. A legend does not die with ease.

Tossing my topcoat on the ground, I joined Holmes in pushing and tugging at obstructing rocks.

Chapter 16

All Fools Together

NOT LONG thereafter we heard the sound of Dandy Jack's four-wheeler. Holmes flicked perspiration from his brow, for we had made a fair start at the job. Retrieving his coat and donning it, he indicated for me to do the same. When the bay horse drew up in the clearing, there was no obvious indication as to what we had been about.

Dandy Jack's eyebrows were raised and he threw a patient glance heavenward, for the poor man obviously wondered if he was working for a circus. Burlington Bertie hopped from the carriage with a welcoming smile on his lips and a wise look in his eyes. He was a wedge of a man and brawny, but destined to be recorded in the eyes of an observer as nondescript in size, for with him was his younger brother. Tiny's broad face had a childlike serenity about it, with wide and innocent eyes and an anxious smile that seemed painted on. His smallish head topped a short but massive neck that disappeared into anthropoidal shoulders and a chest that could have modeled for a sculpture of Hercules. His short legs had to be like steel girders to support his bulk, and he removed himself from the carriage with dainty grace. Tiny was forced to maneuver with care, for if he unwittingly leaned against a tree, it might become uprooted. The bay horse threw a backward glance of relief when Tiny was supported by mother earth, and it whinnied and flicked its tail as though eager to depart.

The horse's wish was granted by Holmes, and his driver must have thought he was in charge of a shuttle service.

"It is back to Brent, Dandy Jack," said Holmes. "Locate that constable you mentioned."

"Sindelar," replied the worthy, as though life held no more surprises.

"Tell him a hearse is needed, but there is a doctor present who will sign the death certificates."

Dandy Jack's lethargic acceptance of all things was jostled by this, and he glanced around hastily in search of the bodies suggested by Holmes' words. He seemed relieved when he did not locate them.

"Tell Constable Sindelar that I will explain the matter to him. Best give him my card," Holmes added, passing one to the startled driver. "Since my party will be returning to London shortly, I will inform Scotland Yard, for they have an interest in what has transpired."

Thrusting the card into a patched pocket, Dandy Jack reined his steed around and departed with more alacrity than he had on his last return trip.

The sleuth now indicated the mine entrance to his two associates. "We have to get inside there," he stated, and that is all he had to say.

Tiny, with Burlington Bertie in his wake, moved toward the hill like an ocean liner, giving the impression that he might just walk through it. It occurred to me that I had never heard this goliath speak, though he certainly understood Holmes' words and had some private method of communication with his brother, who frequently interpreted his thoughts.

If Bertie did all the talking for the twosome, the former smash-and-grabber and wharfside brawler did not have to do much work. Tiny went at the mine entrance like a construction machine, and Holmes had to step lively to avoid flying rocks as he supervised the effort. I withdrew to a safe distance, for my energies, obviously, were not needed.

Holmes and I, without the boys from Limehouse, would have been unable to force our way into the mine; and I wondered how the bodies on the hilltop had intended to perform that task, for surely that had been their idea before our arrival. I also wondered why Holmes had been so sure that the gold in the vaults of the Bank of England had come from the treasure train, for now it was obvious, even to me, where his mind was leading him.

A cessation of activity within the mine prompted me to rejoin the threesome. The entrance was now clear enough, and ahead yawned the dark abyss of the main shaft.

"We've need of light on the scene," said Holmes.

Tiny turned, gently maneuvering his bulk around me, and disappeared through the entrance. He treated a statement from Holmes like an excerpt from the graven tablets of the divine commandments. His "'Tis said, 'tis done," philosophy was certainly helpful in matters like the one we were involved in.

Within the dim mine interior I saw Holmes looking at Bertie questioningly and there was a flash of the man's teeth in response. In the distance, we all heard the rending protest of timber savagely being torn asunder. Then Tiny was at the mine entrance, his hair so blond as to be almost white. In his hand was the end of a limb, which I judged he had wrenched from a fallen and dead tree. Its butt was coated with a resinous jellylike substance.

"Good thought, lad," exclaimed Bertie. Quickly gathering some dead leaves that had blown into the mine, he crumpled them in his hand, igniting them with a sulfur match that he flicked against a stubby and dirty thumbnail.

Breathing on the small fire he had produced, Bertie thrust the limb into it and, in a moment the viscous sap burst into flame.

He passed the improvisation to Holmes. "Here it be, sir, fer you're the torchbearer 'round 'ere."

With Holmes in the lead, we cautiously worked our way into the mine, and I viewed the aged timber supports with some trepidation, I'll tell you. We did not have far to go. At the head of the side tunnel was a wagon, looking incongruous in this setting. Within, neatly stacked, were wooden boxes nailed shut. At a signal from Holmes, Tiny had one out of the wagon and on the floor of the tunnel. The sleuth held his torch high to illuminate the scene as the giant's eyes swiveled to the detective for further orders. Evidently, he received them in a glance, for one huge hand seized the top of the box, tearing the wooden cover off with a casual movement.

Within was metal, reflecting the torchlight, though it lacked the luster of the whitish-yellow substance I had seen when viewing the golden tablet during our Egyptian adventure.

"What's this, some hardware shipment?"

"Isn't it the gold?" I exclaimed.

"Naught but brass, Watson."

Blast the man, I thought with a surge of irritation. Whereas I was astonished, Holmes gave no evidence of any surprise at all.

"We've seen what we need to," he said. "Now I want this place sealed up again before Constable Sindelar and his people arrive."

As we hastened from the depths of the abandoned tin mine, Holmes passed a cautionary remark to us all. "We've not even been within the mine, mind you. Nor are we interested in it. We have just been guarding three dead bodies until the authorities arrive."

We were outside now, and Bertie glanced at the sleuth questioningly. "I been wonderin' what the hearse be fer."

"Sober reminders of the prowess of the fastest gun in Baker Street."

I sighed in exasperation. Holmes picked strange moments for his clumsy witticisms, but he did seem to enjoy a private joke a bit more than most. Personally, I felt his reference to the corpses was black humor indeed.

Our departure for London was not inconvenienced in any way. The local constable was obviously awed by the presence of the master man-hunter and accepted Holmes' version of the incident without question. He did state that he would forward a written report to Inspector Hopkins at the Yard, and I sensed that he was relieved to be able to place the matter in the hands of others.

We rode in the last car of the late afternoon train and were its only occupants, so no rural inhabitants were panic-stricken by the presence of Tiny. I did note that the conductor, having performed his official duties, shunned our car like a plague. Tiny promptly fell asleep, his head on his brother's shoulder. Considering the way he had thrown rock out of the mine and then back in it, some rest seemed justified. Out of deference to the slumbering giant, I did not plague Holmes with questions, which was a good thing since I do believe the sleuth seized the opportunity for forty winks himself.

Back in the comfortable and welcome confines of Baker Street it was another matter, for now I would not be denied. However, the number of my queries had been reduced, having thought on the matter to the best of my ability.

"Look here, Holmes," I said as I placed a whiskey and soda on the candle table by his chair. "I understand now that the gold shipment on the B & N was bogus . . ."

"Something I should have deduced from the start," said my friend, and there was a bitter tone to his voice.

"I'll not swallow that, for you are always chiding yourself for not immediately seeing through the most intricate schemes."

"If I do, I am wrong," was his surprising response. "To be misled by cunning is no crime. But when a misdeed involves a glaring error and I do not seize upon it, that is another matter."

Holmes' conviction did not dent my assurance this time. "Hananish sent four hundred thousand pounds in gold to the Bank of England before the false shipment. Why that sum, by the way?"

"Because that's all there was. Hananish and Trelawney agreed to contribute one hundred thousand pounds to the consortium, which they never did because their reserve fund was elsewhere. The four hundred thousand was from the other banks of the combine."

"Neat, that. The conspirators had no financial involvement at all."

"Hananish told us there was no risk involved. I'll wager he had a silent chuckle in the telling."

"I take it the metal was delivered to Hananish by the west coast banks and sent from there to London."

"Correct. When the actual gold was safely tucked away in the Bank of England, Hananish sent the spurious boxes, suitably weighted, of course. Upon arrival in London, he had them transferred to the B & N Railroad and took out a policy for the listed worth of the shipment, five hundred thousand pounds, with Inter-Ocean. That's where he made his mistake."

"I fail to see it."

"Then, Watson, we were all fools together. Wasn't it suspicious that he didn't insure the shipment from Gloucester to London? There was just as much chance of a robbery during that trip as there was when the cargo went from London to Great Yarmouth."

I clasped my brow with my hands in anguish. "Of course."

"You are now mimicking my actions of this morning and thinking the same thoughts." This idea served to dispel Holmes' dark mood. "But come, the future is where our thoughts must lie."

"Half a mo'," I exclaimed. "The thieves took the crated brass from the boxcar and transferred it to the wagon. They maneuvered it into the mine and left it there."

"Blocking the entrance after doing so."

"What about the horses?"

"They turned them loose, stripped of their harness. You don't know your Essex farmer. Two unattended horses roaming about would go promptly into a barn. If someone came to claim them, there would be the oft-used story of buying them from traveling gypsies."

I threw up my hands in capitulation. Holmes had all the answers. After dinner that evening, it was Mrs. Hudson who announced the arrival of Claymore Frisbee, and I wondered if the sleuth had dispatched Billy on another mysterious errand.

The president of Inter-Ocean Trust was his urbane self when he entered our chambers and took a seat by the hearth fire, but there were lines of worry below the prominent cheekbones of his face. He was a good judge of moods, however; and Holmes' manner seemed to relax him. Perhaps the tot of quite superior brandy I secured for him helped. After all, he was our client.

"You suggested that I might toddle over 'round this time," Frisbee said after the exchange of customary pleasantries.

Holmes admitted to this. "Relative to the treasure train policy, you are . . . I believe the expression is 'off the hook.'"

Frisbee produced a heartfelt sigh of relief and allowed me to secure another brandy for him. "That's welcome news, for it's a sizeable sum and would have put us under some strain, I'll admit. Who stole the gold?"

"Let me tell you," responded Holmes.

And he did in his precise manner, with no extraneous words or thoughts either. At several points during the recounting Frisbee was hard-pressed to contain himself; and at the conclusion he did rather explode in amazement.

"You mean the B & N people and Scotland Yard have been running around looking every which way for the gold, and it was never on the train at all?"

"Comforting, wouldn't you say, since it is safely resting in the Bank of England."

"You're going to turn the matter over to Inspector Hopkins of the Yard?"

Holmes shook his head. "I haven't forgotten how they let Moriarty and Colonel Moran slip through their fingers, to say nothing of Lightfoot."

Frisbee registered puzzlement. "Lightfoot?"

"You wouldn't know him, and it's unimportant, though he may be mixed up in this. Only as a mercenary, however—a pawn."

"Albeit a dangerous one," I remonstrated.

Holmes waved this away. "There is some interest at Whitehall regarding this affair. I'm going to tackle Hananish tomorrow with the assistance of a special branch."

Holmes said a special branch. Frisbee thought he meant the special branch, just as my friend had intended him to.

"Well, if you're going to ring down the curtain yourself, I'm happy about it." Claymore Frisbee made to reach for his checkbook, but a gesture from the sleuth forestalled him.

"Let us settle accounts when we've written finis to this complex matter. There's a few jumps still to be taken."

"Regarding the insurance?" queried Frisbee with alarm.

"No, no!" You can pocket the premium and consider the matter at an end. But I've a wish to bring Hananish to heel. The grim reaper has dealt harshly with the ungodly, and there's a few left to testify for the Crown against him. In addition, I cannot stand in court and swear that the gold in the Bank of England came from the west coast banks, for I have no means of identifying the precious metal. However, I want to see Hananish show where it did come from, if not his fellow bankers."

"You've got him," stated Frisbee.

"I'll need your help." Holmes removed his gaze from the fire in front of him and regarded Frisbee keenly.

"You have but to ask," was the prompt answer.

"No news of the matter must leak out now. I wish to catch Hananish completely off guard, for it might unnerve him. In fact, let us spread a false trail. Let it be known that you are paying off the policy on the gold shipment. You could arrange an appointment for me to deliver the Inter-Ocean check to Alvidon Chasseur tomorrow, could you not?"

"What check?" sputtered Frisbee, again alarmed.

"There will not be one, but I have a little matter to settle with Mr. Chasseur. Relative to a disagreement between us as to who is the world's leading detective."

Frisbee, who had heard enough about the meeting between Holmes and the railroad tycoon to know what was going on, readily agreed to Holmes' request and made ready to depart, looking considerably more relaxed than when he had arrived.

Secretly, I groaned. Here we go again, I thought. Holmes accused me of having a pawkish humor, but he was not above a prank or two himself on occasion. I still shudder when I recall the hoax he perpetrated on Lord Cantlemere relative to the great yellow Crown diamond. The aged peer, who became one of Holmes' staunchest supporters, still contends that my friend's sense of humor was perverted.^*

^*Surely, in his later recording of this case, Watson became confused, for it is virtually certain that the Adventure of the Mazarin Stone took place after the turn of the century. It is obvious that this matter occurred somewhat before 1900.

I was helping Frisbee with his coat when Holmes posed a question. "Have you had any dealings of late with the Deutsche Bank?"

Adjusting his muffler, Frisbee regarded the sleuth with surprise. "Strange you should ask that."

"How so?"

"They are solvent, all right. Their national economy is booming. Most of the pottery you buy now comes from German kilns, you know."

"Most of the waiters in our restaurants are German, for that matter," commented Holmes, for what reason I could not fathom.

"That so? One of the P.M.'s aides had a little talk with the banking commission recently about the size of German investments over here. They've been getting their fingers in a lot of things. Couple of steel firms in Birmingham were in need of financing but a while ago. The Deutsche Bank made overtures and the government had to step on the negotiations, diplomatically, of course."

Standing next to our visitor, my confusion must have been apparent. Holmes chided me for having a mirror-like face as regards my inner feelings. Frisbee took pity on me.

"It's been a spell since we were allied with the Prussians and ever since Bismarck unified the German states, their empire has been gaining in strength. If Kaiser Wilhelm ever calls back the Iron Chancellor from Friedrichsruh and reinstates him, we could really be in trouble."^*

^*Proof that this case predates 1900, since Otto von Bismarck died in 1898—unless Watson got mixed up with dates, which he did tend to do on occasion.

Frisbee pondered for a moment on his words, then turned toward the door, only to turn around again toward Holmes. "You know, we do have a number of Germans over here. A bit of a sticky thing if there's ever a war. Matter of intelligence, you know."

Holmes knew and so did I. As I let Claymore Frisbee out of our sitting room with a farewell, I thought of what he didn't know. Namely that Holmes' brother headed up the espionage department of the British government and was the second most powerful man in England. Holmes had never told me point-blank of his brother's real function; but ever since I had first met Mycroft Holmes in connection with that Greek interpreter matter in '88, I had realized that he did not just audit books in some of the government departments. I knew what special branch Holmes had in mind relative to Hananish in Gloucester.

Fatigue prompted me to sponge such thoughts from my mind. With the departure of our relieved client, I decided to retire for the night. The prospect of a return trip to Gloucester caused me to mouth a somewhat peevish complaint before doing so. "Most of our time on this case has been spent in train travel, Holmes. It will be a relief to stay in London for a change."

My friend was staring into the fireplace, his mind I knew not where, but he responded. "It all started with a train robbery, you know."

I could summon no retort to this and made my way to the upper story.

Chapter 17

The Return to Fenley

THE BELLS of St. Mary-le-Bow were striking the hour when I suddenly sat upright in my bed. The room was pitch-black and from the state of my bolster I knew that my sleep had been fretful. Something had been prodding at my subconscious, something I should tell Holmes. Then it came to me. The three men on the hill who had fallen before the American's flaming gun were unfamiliar to me. On that morning, not long ago, when I had been spirited away from the entrance to the Red Grouse Inn, I gained but a fleeting impression of the two men who had taken me so neatly and then, by intent, had left a broad trail behind them. But I knew they were not of the trio that had met their fate in Essex and were now being shipped to the morgue in London. This meant that Hananish had other bully boys at his beck and call.

The thought that had plagued me did not seem of importance when viewed with cold logic. Though my logic had acquired no fame, the room was cold—that I could state firmly. I knew that if I huddled under my blankets, sleep would prove the coquette indeed and but flirt with me through the remaining dark hours. Rather than waste my blandishments on the fickle mistress of the night, I searched with inquisitive toes for my slippers. Grateful for their fleece lining, I rose with a creak and a groan and trembled my way to the backless stool and my robe that rested on it. There was that silence that breathed at one, like a tangible thing rather than a total absence. A chill ran across the back of my shoulders, and I clutched my robe around me, stumbling in the darkness toward the door of my bedchamber. Down the back stairs I went with the thought that the dying embers of the hearth fire would be a welcome comfort. There was a dullish glow within the ashes of the back log that I stirred with the poker and then searched out the wood box for a length of birch. The bark of the soft wood was cooperative and soon there was a small but merry flame, which did little to offset the chill of the room but did raise my spirits slightly.

Throughout those untold generations before the wheel, the candle, the coming of the mechanical age, man had sought the healing balm of the unconscious when the sun departed from the western sky, sallying forth from caves when it reappeared in the East. Artificial light and a work cycle that could be altered to suit individual taste had turned night into day; but it was the memory of the genes, the schedule established through the evolutionary curve, that dropped one's metabolism to its lowest ebb during these eerie hours of early morning and prompted disjointed thoughts and errant wisps of vague memory as though from another life. A gleam caught my eye and I noted, in a sudden flaming of birch sap, the chambers and handle of the Colt gun shining at me from its leather holster on the bookshelf where I had placed it. For no reason I found myself composing a clumsy chanty and, more ridiculous yet, I sang it standing bent over the fire like a cackling Scrooge who had gone daft.

Five shots near the mountain,

They did the deed well.

Five shots near the mountain,

Three men went to hell.

Enough of this, I thought, crossing to the sideboard. The great silver urn felt warm to my hand and I poured a cup of coffee almost with anger. Here I was, by training a savior of life and, because of that meeting long ago, now embroiled in the danger and violence that was kith and kin to the profession of my most intimate friend.

In times past those twin footpads, blood and death, that tiptoed behind the world's only consulting detective had been shriveled in my mind's eye by the blinding light of my boundless admiration for Holmes' uncanny ability at observation and analysis, surely equal to the fabled tales of mythological necromancers. Now, had not the inroads of time, advance guard for the grim reaper my friend had mentioned to Frisbee, taken their toll? Fat and short-winded, could I now stand firm on the deck of that police boat roaring down the Thames in pursuit of the launch Aurora—firing my service revolver at that bestial native of the Andaman Islands and his master, the one-legged Jonathan Small? Could I now press the muzzle of a pistol to the head of one such as Patrick Cairns and force him to surrender? My self-doubts had me dizzy with recriminations, and the cup began to shake in my hand. Might I not be placing Holmes in danger? That one moment when he depended on his companion of the years, might I not let him down?

But then, the memory of my old regiment came to me. You're spooked, Watson, I thought, and mouthing ineffable twaddle to yourself. Three men died today. More than three hundred spilled blood in the fatal battle of Maiwand, yours among it. More than three thousand went down in the second Afghan war. The cup stopped shaking, and I laced my coffee with a spot of Irish to mask its acrid taste.

It was then that I heard, in the complete silence, the downstairs door open. My first thought was Lightfoot, the late Moriarty's number one executioner. My second was my Smith-Webley upstairs. But then only Holmes and I, along with Mrs. Hudson, had keys to the street door; and the cunning dead-bolt lock had been set tonight, for I did it myself. But Holmes was asleep in his chamber, or was he? I had not seen him go to bed. Nonetheless, my eyes went to the Colt pistol that I had acquired under such strange circumstances on this day; but there was naught but spent cartridges in it.

I quickly ignited the lamp beside me, raising the wick, and then crossed to the fireplace to stand by the poker.

There was no sound on the seventeen steps leading upward to our first floor chambers, but the cat-footed Holmes wouldn't make any. I spoke out, and my voice had a slight tremor to it.

"Holmes?"

There was the sudden sound of key in lock and the door swept open to reveal my hawk-like friend, who was chuckling.

"The lamplight put me on the alert, Watson, for I noted it under the crack of our door. I was standing without, pondering my next move, when I heard the welcome sound of your voice."

Suddenly his expression changed, and he regarded me anxiously. "Is something amiss, for this is an unusual hour for you."

"I could not sleep," I said, having no intention of telling Holmes of the defeatist tentacles that had menaced me with their debilitating embrace before I beat them back.

"Well then, since you're awake and I have not tried to sleep, let us be off."

I suppressed a groan at this, determined to be as staunch a companion as I had ever been. "Where were you, by the way?" I said, crossing toward the stairs.

"Anticipation, Watson, for I'll not be caught short again as I was but recently in this very room. Look for a possible alternative and provide against it. The first rule of criminal investigation."

I'd heard that before, and as before, it told me nothing. At the foot of the stairs leading to our bedchambers, I paused, then retraced my steps to take the holstered gun from the bookshelf. There were some boxer cartridges in my rolltop above that might be the right caliber.

We caught an almost deserted train out of Paddington that Holmes referred to as the "red-eye special," and I slept most of the way to Gloucester.

When we alighted at the Fenley station, dawn had not yet begun to stain the eastern horizon and there was a veritable symphony of the bird sounds that presaged its coming.

Standing on the dark station platform, immobile as a block of granite and quite as solid-looking, was the figure of Wakefield Orloff. So, I thought, the security agent has preceded us. No wonder Holmes seized the opportunity to leave early. Had he been conferring with his brother, Mycroft, around the witching hour?

Orloff greeted us and led the way through deserted streets of the village to the inn. There were no other lights showing in Fenley, yet behind the curtains in the Red Grouse I detected illumination. A thought that I had previously dismissed came to mind again and was reinforced when we entered the establishment. The front room was not only illuminated but populated as well. Five men, in addition to the innkeeper and his wife, were in evidence—sipping tea and munching sandwiches made available by the lady. I had observed that the inn was very well managed, but this was ridiculous. Unless my previous thought was well founded and the place served as a headquarters for Mycroft's people. It had to be such, for there was no surprise at our arrival. The five men, strangers all, shared a sameness that I recognized. Reasonably young, they had a fit look about them and were inconspicuously dressed. One would have had to guess as to their business and been dissatisfied at the conclusion arrived at. Surely their coats were reversible, for I had seen Holmes use that trick.

I accepted a spot of tea. Holmes surveyed the scene and nodded at Orloff, as though satisfied with arrangements.

"How do we do it?" asked the security agent.

"We'll go now while it's still dark. You and your men take the main house and stables. Let's not have an alarm from some awakened groom."

"And you?"

"There is an annex to the main house where wood work and such might be done if one had a need for it. Watson and I will take a look there, then join you."

One of the inconspicuous men, at a signal from Orloff, disappeared by the front door and I suspected our transportation was being arranged.

When we left the Red Grouse shortly afterward, two closed carriages were pulled up in front. Good heavens, I thought. Orloff has brought an army. But then we didn't know how many we were going against.

Orloff rode with Holmes and myself in the first carriage and the trip down the river road was not a longish one, as I had noted previously. When we all disembarked from the vehicles, I saw that Holmes had miscalculated slightly for there was a first light that revealed the substantial mansion we were interested in. Despite the predawn hour, there were lights and indications of activity within the building.

Orloff shot a glance at Holmes. "This tears it."

"Same plan," replied Holmes crisply. "It's important that no one slip away."

"A bit like that trap we sprung on Baker Street," observed the security agent. His men began to race to positions around the estate.

"And for rather the same reasons." Holmes motioned to me and we started up the drive, quickly moving to the close-cropped lawn to take advantage of the trees on the grounds. It was still sufficiently dark so that we could close in on the buildings without arousing the attention of anyone within. Close by the main house, Holmes paused to take stock. There was no evidence of Orloff or his men, and I pictured them encircling the place and then closing in. What they intended to do with any gardeners or servants they came across, I could not imagine.

I indicated the lights within. "What has them stirring so early?" I asked.

"Three men went to Essex yesterday and there's no word from them. It may have shaken Hananish's confidence a bit. It's well that we are here when we are."

The sleuth indicated the annex he had mentioned, and I followed as he moved in a half trot from the front of the mansion to the side. The area that had caught his retentive eye was but one story, abutting the main building. Close on, I could hear some movement within; but there were no windows, so we moved to the end of the building and around it. There was one window there, which proved unrevealing. The dark interior we made out proved to be a small storeroom with lumber stacked in it, along with gardening tools. The side away from the driveway and well-tended grounds was the building's actual front. Now we saw light from a window and crouched beside it, carefully peering in. Over Holmes' shoulder I spotted one man seated under a wheel chandelier, its four lights providing bright illumination for the table he was working at. It looked like he was dismantling some sort of scales arrangement. There were saws and carpentry tools aplenty, and the place had a well-swept look.

Satisfied, Holmes drew back and then hunched over, almost on hands and knees, to pass below the window frame toward the door in evidence beyond. With some difficulty, I patterned my movements after his. By the door, however, I advanced a thought with gestures. Extracting my Smith-Webley from my coat pocket, I transferred it to my left hand. The door was not a heavy one, and I judged it was not locked. Moving to its other side, I indicated to Holmes that I could smash it open with ease and we could enter together. He indicated that this plan was as good as any. As I stepped forward with purpose, it occurred to me that the sleuth was not armed and our unified front served no purpose; but the plan was in action now and was, I recalled, favored by better constables everywhere. My heel smashed at the door, which sprang open under the impact; and I was in the room with my gun pointed at the man at the workbench. Holmes was at my right side. The man under my sights was completely surprised; and I was congratulating myself on a workmanlike job when my left hand, with the extended and menacing revolver, caught a terrible whack from a stout piece of wood in the hands of a pasty-looking fellow who had been in the vicinity of the door. The Smith-Webley dropped from my grasp, and my assailant kicked it toward the table, shielding his companion.

"Blimey," he said, "we's got visitors an' such an' early hour."

I recognized the voice, for it was the man who had dragged me into the carriage outside the Red Grouse.

His companion had whipped out a long-barreled handgun, with which he was covering Holmes. I was bent over, my left wrist pressed to my side in anguish, but my blood was boiling. Almost without thought, my right hand passed under my coat to the holster affixed to my belt; and then the Colt gun was in my hand. As I started to rise from my crouch, I began to press on the trigger gently in preparation for a shot, but, dear heaven, the weapon took charge. It had been altered by some master gunsmith, and its action was as sensitive and skittish as a village maiden receiving her first kiss. It roared before I had a mind to fire, and continued to do so. The first shot smashed the revolver from the man's hand, and as I staggered back, the second shot separated the chandelier from the ceiling and it dropped, smashing him with frightening force. My pasty-faced friend made a lunge for the Smith-Webley on the floor only to have it jump from his grasp, and there was the eerie whine of a ricochet. My fourth shot blew the heel off his shoe.

I finally gained control over the weapon and terminated this needless firing, which the pasty-faced man found hard to believe. He was moaning, his hands pressed tightly over both eyes.

"My God, guv, no more. Mother in heaven, I gives up!"

His compatriot had already done so, and the upper part of his body was stretched out on the workbench, pinned down by the chandelier that had rendered him unconscious.

Suddenly the comforting presence of Wakefield Orloff was on the scene.

"I just circled the house, and I saw it through the open door. Where did you ever learn to shoot like that, Doctor?"

"Watson is a man of many talents," said Holmes. "The gunfire has stirred things up, of course."

Orloff reassured him. "No fear. We've bagged the servants. The ground floor is secured. As for the master of the house, I assume he is on the first story."

"Then we'd best confront him," said Holmes, "before Watson reloads and decides to recreate the famous battle of the O.K. Corral."

I gave Holmes a disapproving look as I scooped up my bullet-nicked Smith-Webley. Orloff dragged the pasty-faced man, still pleading for his life, from the floor and marched with us toward the lair of Burton Hananish, west coast banker, among other things.

Chapter 18

The Roar of Sound

THE MAIN hall of the Elizabethan mansion was a scene of quiet disorder. The butler, who had greeted us on our previous visit, was seated, as were two housemaids. This breach of decorum was explained by the watchful presence of one of Orloff's men. The servants shared a stolid resignation. Orloff had words with his assistant, no doubt relative to the disposition of the pasty-faced captive he had in tow. Holmes and I made for the grand staircase and the first floor.

In an upstairs drawing room that evidently served as an office, we found Hananish going through the drawers of a varqeano chest, which had been altered to serve as a desk. I judged the piece to be of the time of Phillip the Second, for there was the San Juan Campostella shell design in the pulls and intricate carvings made by use of gold leaf. Moorish cabinetmakers were famous for their excellent seventeenth-century work and for their tendency to incorporate secret drawers, a practice well known to Holmes.

The banker was not unattended, for standing behind his wheelchair was a rather loutish-looking fellow, powerful enough to have served as a bouncer at Sydney Sid's beer and gin hall in Limehouse. Hananish attempted to preserve his saintly façade when we burst in upon him, but it was a struggle, for the ends of his mouth were seized by an uncontrollable twitch.

"Mr. Holmes, though chained to this chair, it is obvious that my home has been invaded by a veritable army. This is contrary to every . . ."

His voice dwindled out, for Holmes had waved away his protestations with a gesture indicating that they were but verbal fluff. The sleuth seated himself in a Renaissance leather chair, also Spanish I judged, and proceeded to cut to the bone and then the marrow of the matter.

"We waste time," he stated, and there was that grim note of finality in his voice that I knew well. "Not only ours, but the Crown's."

He indicated the mass of papers on the mitred drop door over which Hananish's beautiful fingers were fluttering as though to wish them away.

"We shall not tamper with those papers, please, for now they are the property of the English court."

"This invasion of privacy . . ."

It was as though the man had not spoken, for Holmes continued in his flat, factual manner, which defied both interruption and contention.

"My eye has not played me false, and in that area you find usable for carpentry are scales, remains of packing cases—sufficient evidence to support the chain of events I have linked together, so let us not bandy about the word circumstantial. The dirty tricks brigade you dispatched to Essex are no more. The mine has been opened and the spurious gold shipment revealed. It was an involved scheme, which added to the risk, but you played for high stakes.^* It's all over, you know."

^*High stakes? Four hundred thousand pounds alone converts into two million dollars, and this before the turn of the century and the degeneration of both currencies. Holmes may have been guilty of understatement here.

The man's parchment-like complexion was tinged by a sickly yellow cast, like something disinterred. His eyes flicked to a portion of the disarray in front of him, an instinctive and revealing movement that I knew Holmes had not missed.

"The gold came to you for transshipment to London from the west coast banks. You had the ingots removed from the packing cases, which you filled with brass, plus some lead I judge, to conform with the weight of the gold. The precious metal was re-crated and sent to the Bank of England, with the false shipment made at a later date. You had already arranged the insurance with Inter-Ocean. The wooden cases, with authentic freight markings from their points of origin, were placed aboard the B & N flyer, and there was no cause for alarm. All seemed as it should be. If the shipment reached the Credit Lyonnais, you would have been exposed. So it was hijacked. A pretty plan. Once the hirelings separated the boxcar from the treasure train, they had no great problem as to the disposal of the loot, for they merely dumped it in the abandoned mine and took to their heels. The wagon and its worthless cargo might have rotted there for centuries had I not taken on the case."

"But you did, Mr. Holmes." There was a flicker in what had been lackluster eyes. This surprised me. Holmes might well have been cast in the role of the Archangel Gabriel at Jericho, for the banker's walls were tumbling down.

"I said it was a pretty plan. The west coast banks would be paid. The Credit Lyonnais would receive the insurance, and the French, persistent when faced with a loss, would have been satisfied and merely looked elsewhere for their needs. Only to find you waiting for them with the gold they wished. It was a circuitous arrangement, with sales percentages at each way stop, but it finally led to you."

"You know of that?" There was another flicker in the tired eyes of that statuesque face, and a sardonic twist came to Hananish's cruel lips.

"I know everything." From Holmes' tone, I deduced that he believed his statement. A suspicion was forming in my mind that Hananish did not.

The sleuth had been leaning forward, and suddenly he was on his feet, his long arm snaking out to pluck a cable from under the banker's nervous hands.

"Ah-hah." There was satisfaction in his manner as his eyes flashed over the message then stabbed at the banker for a moment before returning to the words, which he read aloud. "'The meddler knows all. Get out.'" Holmes dropped the cable on the desk surface and resumed his seat. "That warning came late."

"I am ill-suited to flight in any case," replied Hananish.

The flicker in his eyes had grown to a flare, and there was a look about him that raised the short hairs on the back of my neck. Then a shadow was cast by the morning sun through the door behind us. I knew Orloff was present and felt the better for it. An apparently unrelated thought sprang to mind. Holmes had discussed the Ripper matter, making it plain that his forte, reason and logic, was of scant use in tracking down one who was guided by neither. According to the rules of the game, Hananish had had it and could now only hope for aid from an astute solicitor and eloquent barrister. But there was about his patrician features a look that alerted one with medical training. He had set himself up as a rural despot and, with his mobility taken from him, had dreamed great dreams like Timur the Lame. With a treasure like Monte Cristo's at his fingertips, he might well have pictured himself as the second coming of Moriarty. Now, as with the professor, Sherlock Holmes was shoving him from the chessboard as he reached for the king piece.

My throat suddenly dry, I tried to utter a warning, but events were too fast for me.

"Hilger," called Hananish in a frantic manner, yet a wave of seeming exultation washed his face.

The brute attending him moved toward me, for I was standing with an eye on the man. Then the shadow behind me became a shape in front of me and the deceptively squat figure of Orloff was in action. The servant reached a hand for him, which was his second mistake. His first was in moving at all. Suddenly the fingers of Orloff closed on the man's wrist and there was a twist that spun Hilger around, his arm bent behind his back. The security agent's right boot swept the man's feet from the floor and Hilger fell, his jaw crashing against the converted varqeano chest in the process. Orloff stepped back, allowing the body to slump to the floor. I noted a trickle of blood from Hilger's mouth and suspected a fracture at least. It had been nothing for Orloff, a mere warm-up; but he was not allowed to continue his act, which he performed with the polished ease of a variety entertainer.

Under cover of the scuffle, Hananish had reached for the chest and a panel had sprung open in it. Now he was armed, for in his hands was a twelve-bore double-barreled shotgun, with half of its twin cylinders sawed off. It was pointing right at Holmes, both hammers at full cock. What panicked me more than anything else was the conviction that Hananish intended to fire come what may. If he did, seventy-six grams of shot at point-blank range would tear Holmes to ribbons.

Both Orloff and I were frozen. Holmes, immobilized by his seated position, was impotent to act. Then, as though it were all a slow-motion pantomime, I saw the fingers of the banker tighten and the hammers fell. There was a roar of sound.

Chapter 19

To the Lion's Den

THERE WAS more smoke than there should have been, and when it cleared, I saw why. The shotgun, a twisted and broken thing now, had burst and the full force of the powder and shot had exploded in Hananish's face. What was left would have made a shocking illustration for Washington Irving's Legend of Sleepy Hollow. Contrary to intent, it was Holmes who was Ichabod Crane, whilst Hananish was the headless horseman.

"Thank God," I choked.

Holmes mopped his brow with Irish linen, his hands steady. "I was not meant to die," he said.

Holmes regarded what was left of Hananish for a brief moment and his chiseled features, so often willed into immobility, could not reject an expression of horror. I turned away, not only from the corpse but my companions as well, for I was overcome with emotion. What was mirrored in those fathomless green eyes of Orloff, I knew not. But I could imagine. He walked a lonely path, did Wakefield, and what friends he had stood now with him in this room of death. In his nerveless, often heartless mind I knew he echoed the words that I kept repeating fervently to myself.

"Holmes lives."

He did indeed and was now his old self, rallying us back to those duties that our destiny had ordained for us.

"We've got to keep a lock on this thing till we return to London."

Orloff indicated it could be done.

"Will you be returning with us?" asked Holmes.

"My men can handle this, and they know what to look for." As if in answer to the thought that came to my mind, he added, "Hananish is gone, but we've still got to tie up the bundle if only for the record." Orloff must have been considering the orders he was going to give, for he added almost inaudibly: "Your brother wishes me to remain by your side." A faint cloud passed over his face, and I knew he was berating himself. If not asked, he never advanced information, especially about his employer, the mysterious Mycroft Holmes.

In the carriage returning to Fenley and on the train back to London his remark gave me thought. The gold had been found, and those who stole it had come to an abrupt end. What now remained but the clearing up of details and the necessary tendering of information to the authorities involved? But, no, there was still Lightfoot McTigue at large.

I was leaning against the cushioned back of our compartment as I pondered on this. Orloff sat beside the door, his small, dancer feet flat on the floor and his body upright but completely relaxed. The bowler hat with its concealed steel rim, which was such a deadly weapon in his hands, was tilted over his eyes. The even cadence of his soundless breathing, revealed by the movement of his chest, convinced me that he was asleep. Holmes, legs outstretched, was by my side.

"I wonder where Lightfoot is at this moment?" he said softly as though reading my thoughts.

"Probably plotting your demise," was my automatic retort.

"The man has no bank for his emotions and only works for pay. When we clear up the treasure train matter, who's to foot his bill?"

I sensed that he was turning this thought over in his mind, and there was a considerable silence before he spoke again. "We're one up on Lightfoot, you know, for he cannot realize that we are aware of his redheaded guise."

I tilted my head to survey him. My friend's eyes were closed. "The Trelawney matter, and Michael's death as well, bore his trademark. He was hired to do both jobs and planned them well in advance."

"What leads you to that conclusion?" I muttered, out of deference to our sleeping companion.

"Ezariah Trelawney's stepson was first in line as a suspect when the banker's body was found. Right after him were Staley and Ledbetter, Trelawney's hereditary enemies. Michael had incurred the wrath of the artist Folks. But Trelawney was killed first and Lightfoot was on the scene in the redheaded disguise, which was created especially for the Michael killing. Ostensibly, the Trelawney case is closed. The Michael matter is up in the air; and Lightfoot must feel that the artist Folks is the prime suspect."

Now I followed Holmes' drift. McTigue, stylistically, performed his antisocial duties so that others got the blame. At this point he had no reason to think his presence was known.

The subject was of interest, spiced with an undercurrent of danger, but I chose this moment to fall asleep. Back in our familiar surroundings, with a change of clothes and a suitable meal, I felt more ready to cope with whatever crossed our horizon. Holmes had departed for points unknown but returned to sit over coffee with me. Rather impatiently, I thought, though we had some time before leaving for our appointment at the Birmingham and Northern. With our harrowing adventure in Fenley now a part of the past, I summoned my courage. It was a personal question I had in mind, hence, delivered in a tentative manner.

"I've given more than a little thought to that near-fatal moment this morning, Holmes. Hananish's shotgun was an aged model. Do you feel his reducing the barrel length caused it to backfire on him?"

"Gratitude is what I feel."

Finally I got 'round Robin Hood's barn. "But there you were, looking down those twin barrels. What passed through your mind?" I was embarrassed when I said it, but who has not wondered what thought occurs when one stares at death?

Holmes took his time answering, and I was grateful for his treating my question seriously and not evading it with a light remark. "I believe my first thought was that this was it, something that we all must come to eventually. Debitum naturae. Then I wished that it had not happened so soon. In that split second, I must have derived some satisfaction from the knowledge that I would be revenged with you and Orloff present."

"But you did think it was going to happen?"

Holmes indicated this was so, and I dropped the matter. His statement after Hananish had blown himself into eternity had been: "I was not meant to die." This was at variance with his words now and rather smacked of the fatalism of Eastern religions.

At this point, Billy announced Alec MacDonald, and my thoughts shifted to other matters.

"I'll take but a moment of your time, gentlemen," stated the Scot, and he meant it, for he did not remove his coat or cast a glance at the tantalus on the sideboard.

"News of Lightfoot?" inquired Holmes.

"Aye. I'm not happy dealing with informers, but there's times when it's the best we can do. There's this sister of a woman of McTigue's, you see. The whisper is that he's planning on crossing the Channel this very day. There's an alert out on him, but I'm not feeling hopeful in my bones."

"Nor I," said Holmes. "If he's making his getaway, he'll change his appearance, something Lightfoot is adept at doing."

"You think, then, the information is correct?"

"I choose to. His job is done; and he's been paid, you can depend on that. What more natural than his making for the Continent, where he's been safe for some years."

"We'll never grab him then."

"Not unless it is in transit. I'll buy the whisper, Mr. Mac, and release the watchdogs I've had around here for that reason."

MacDonald made to leave, but he had an exit line. "I've had some boys in the neighborhood myself of late."

He noted Holmes' surprised reaction with satisfaction. "From time to time I have words with a certain master locksmith, you know." He was chortling as his heavy-tred sounded on the stairs.

"Watson," said Holmes, "my friends conspire against me." He was not serious, of course, and proved it. "I do think MacDonald's constables were a trifle obvious standing in the entrance of Spears and Henry down the street. They really should have varied their station."

Now it was I who registered surprise and it was genuine. "You noticed, then?"

"When I stop noticing, we're in trouble, good chap."

A tap on the door and another appearance of Billy prevented me from replying to this. I had no rejoinder in any case.

Our page boy handed Holmes a cablegram, which he opened eagerly. After a long moment of concentration, he folded the message and placed it in his pocket with satisfaction.

"Billy, fetch us a hansom. Dr. Watson and I are off to the lion's den."

"Mr. Orloff is waiting outside with one now, Mr. 'Olmes."

"I might have known," chuckled the sleuth as he waved me toward the door.

Chapter 20

Denouement

THE COUNCIL ROOM of the B & N Railroad was much as I remembered it; but then, despite all that had happened, our previous visit had been but eight days ago. The board of directors were not in evidence and that caught me up short. I figured Alvidon Chasseur for an exhibitionist and thought he might relish an audience when he received the Inter-Ocean payment and had the opportunity to laugh at Sherlock Holmes. Claymore Frisbee had set up our meeting for the ostensible purpose of paying the insurance claim. With the rail tycoon was a sallow-faced man that I earmarked with the title secretary. Also present was the grizzled old board member Chasseur had been conferring with on our first visit. This time the magnate rose to indicate our seats alongside the great oak table. As before, he ignored me completely but did direct a quizzical glance at Orloff.

"An associate," said Holmes, which seemed to satisfy Chasseur. Orloff did not sit at the conference table with us, but seemed much interested in a chest against the wall opposite the fireplace, obviously decorative, for it served no purpose. It was a fine old piece, of lowlands origin I thought, and surely with its original lock and key. I made note to check it for the name of the cabinetmaker, since they signed things in those days.

Chasseur decided to ignore Orloff as well, centering his large eyes on Holmes. There was a malicious twist to his thin lips.

"Our second meeting is under different circumstances indeed, Mr. Holmes. I will be frank. It is not quite the tidy wind-up one associates with he who is reputed to be the greatest man-hunter of them all. By his own admission, I might add."

"We all make mistakes," replied Holmes, and I never expected to hear him say that. But then he was letting the pompous railroad man take in more wind before he punctured his balloon. "During my last visit, I labeled Colonel Moran as the finest shot our eastern empire had produced. At that time I had not seen your man Ledger in action."

"I would talk to you about that," said Chasseur excitedly. "Ledger has disappeared, and my railroad detectives are searching for him. Scotland Yard as well, for he has to be involved in the robbery."

"Before it was over he was, perhaps not in the manner you think."

Chasseur gave Holmes a strange look but decided not to pursue this. "Now to business, for my schedule is tight. The matter of the payment from Inter-Ocean."

"I don't have it," replied Holmes blandly.

"But Frisbee promised to . . ."

"He promised to honor your claim at this time if the gold was not found."

"That goes without saying."

"But I've found it, you see."

Chasseur leaned back in his chair and exhaled, and I'm blessed if it didn't sound like air escaping from a balloon. There was consternation on his face. I couldn't figure if he was amazed at recovering the shipment or disappointed at not being able to rub Holmes' nose in the ground.

"This cannot be one of those practical jokes I'm told you indulge in," he finally stammered.

"Hardly. It is a reasonably simple story. Most cases are, once solved. The participants may be familiar to you. Ezariah Trelawney, Burton Hananish, and Ramsey Michael were involved in a scheme to pirate four hundred thousand pounds' worth of gold from the west coast banks. There was another hundred thousand to be picked up from the Inter-Ocean insurance as well."

"But where is the gold, Mr. Holmes?"

"In the Bank of England."

"Wait, now! I did know Trelawney and Hananish, and the latter's deposit in the Bank of England is old news. But it was made prior to the B & N shipment."

"Your shipment was of crates of baser metal with little value indeed."

Now Chasseur's shrewdness became evident, for he grasped the situation immediately. "Amazing. This Michael you mentioned. He was murdered, for I read it in the papers. Trelawney was killed as well, a while back. Was there a disagreement between the conspirators?"

Chasseur thought on this for a moment, then pounded the table in front of him. "Divine intervention, that's all you can call it with Hananish dead as well."

"How did you know that?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

"Why, the news came to me at midmorning, I believe . . ."

"A cable, Mr. Chasseur," said the shallow-faced secretary.

"Exactly. If the three conspirators have met their end, you can understand my immediate thought regarding a higher power. But come, yours is the practical approach, and there must be a rational explanation. Trelawney was involved in the gold shipment, as was Hananish. What alerted you to this Michael fellow?"

"Something relative to his murder," replied Holmes.

"And you were able to tie the three together? The tales of your amazing professional powers are not overstated, sir. How did you do it?"

"They served in the same regiment in the Crimea. Also, their names were a clue. Relative to the Bible, you see."

"The Bible?" Chasseur appeared befuddled.

"You may recall that Nebuchadnezzar had brought to his court in Babylon certain of the children of Israel."

"Wait, Mr. Holmes, for I know my Bible well. You speak of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. Good heavens, I see it! In Judah they were Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah. That's what tied them together in your mind? Brilliant."

Holmes gestured in a modest manner, a cloak ill-fitting to his shoulders. "It was a coincidence that would be hard to overlook. Like three ladies on a committee named Faith, Hope, and Charity. They would become known to each other, I'm sure."

Chasseur was regarding my friend, reluctantly I thought, with some awe. "With this thin thread you tied them into the plot to swindle the Inter-Ocean," he said.

"Not exactly. Recall that there was someone else associated with the three wise men."

The tycoon preened himself. "I do, sir. Let me quote to you: 'And these three men, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, fell down bound into the midst of the burning fiery furnace.'"

"'Then Nebuchadnezzar the king was astonished, and rose up in haste, and spake, and said unto his counselors, Did not we cast three men bound into the midst of the fire? They answered and said unto the king, True, O king.'"

"'He answered and said, Lo, I see four men loose, walking in the midst of the fire, and they have no hurt; and the form of the fourth is like the Son of God.'"

Chasseur was regarding Holmes rather tauntingly. "Surely, sir, you are not suggesting that the Son of God was in cahoots with three modern-day bandits?"

"A scholarly rendition from the book of Daniel, Mr. Alvidon Daniel Chasseur. My compliments."

I slid my hand into my coat pocket, gripping the Smith-Webley, for now it was obvious. The implication was not missed by the rail magnate; and I thought he paled slightly, though he retained his hauteur. Holmes did not wait for a response.

"It was Daniel, renamed Belteshazzar, who came to Babylon with the others; and it is the fourth man I'm after. He has to exist, else nothing makes sense. Ezariah Trelawney was a miserly soul who never left his native village of Shaw. Hananish was a cripple, entrenched in Fenley. Michael was very much of the London scene. Unless they transacted their considerable business by post, there had to be a connective link. Also, the well-planned robbery depended on a knowledge of the time and route of the treasure train, plus the plan to guard it evolved by Ledger."

"Trelawney was a stockholder in Birmingham and Northern. So was Hananish," sputtered Chasseur; but his argument sounded weak, even to him.

"Probably Michael as well," replied Holmes. "Which brings us to the nub of the matter. There are too many stockholders of the B & N. You were originally financed by a cadre of speculators in Scotland. The Scotch are of the opinion that they hold seventy-five percent of your rail empire. But how about the financial group in Cornwall? You attended a stockholders' meeting there recently; and I learned they hold around eighty percent of the outstanding stock of the B & N, or think they do. Your three partners have large blocks of the company as well."

Chasseur's face was becoming a fiery red. "Mr. Holmes, for a presumably clever man you are indicating a naiveté about financial matters. Books are inspected. What kind of sleight of hand do you fancy I indulged in?"

"Your words are apt," responded the sleuth. "The B & N was constantly expanding, engulfing other rail concerns. As long as you were altering your corporate structure, a clear picture could not be obtained, for you obfuscated matters with preferred issues, convertibles, deferred bonds, and all the prestidigitation of which you are an obvious master. It had a disadvantage in that the moment you ceased to expand, someone would be able to figure out that your original stock issue did not incorporate one hundred percent of the company, but two or three times that amount. That is why, right now, you are involved in the acquisition of the London, Tilbury and Southend Railroad."

"How did you learn of that?" spat Chasseur, with a venomous look at his secretary and then the speechless member of the board sitting beside him. Both, for some time now, had looked like they wished they were somewhere else. Somewhere far away.

"Ledger mentioned the L, T & S," said Holmes, "and I checked them out. The offer you made that concern was tempting indeed, but involved a relatively modest initial outlay, with the bulk to come in time payments. That's what you were buying—time. The London, Tilbury and Southend, as a matter of procedure, had one of their officers run a check on your assets. A pleasant man, I had quite a talk with him. He was much impressed by the four hundred thousand pounds in gold in the Bank of London, deposited to the account of Burton Hananish but with a deed of transfer to the B & N Railroad. Then there was more than that in promissory notes from the Credit Lyonnais. He gave an A-1 report to his superiors because, just at the time of his survey, you had all that collateral available, courtesy of your partners, Hananish and Trelawney. With the L, T & S in your grasp, you are ready to do business with the Deutsche Bank."

The first vestige of panic was forcing its way past Chasseur's guard and into his eyes. "German banks are attempting to secure a foothold in British industry and transportation ranks high in their plans. The Deutsche Bank has agreed."

Since Chasseur just regarded him dumbly, Holmes extracted the cable he had received prior to our departure from Baker Street. "You may not even know as yet, so let me inform you of the news obtained by an operative of mine in Berlin at this moment." He read the cable.

"'Cincinnati committed projection ten biggest credit mark BN.' Signed, Wally."

Chasseur had recovered some of his composure; but there was a grim look about him, as though all exits were being blocked.

"You can't siphon any sense from that gibberish," he said with a sneer.

"I can because it is the simple odd word code, which my associate knew I would recognize. The odd words in the message relate to the true words intended. The even words are legitimate. My correspondent is American, by the way, which aided my decoding. The first word, Cincinnati, is bogus, but in America that metropolis has a considerable German population, so I substituted Germans.Projection gave me a moment's thought till I came up with extension. I expected a message relative to a sum, and the biggest number that comes to mind is million. So we have: Germans committed extension ten million credit. Mark must mean line, and the BN refers to Birmingham and Northern. With a ten million credit line from the Deutsche Bank plus the London, Tilbury and Southend acquisition, you could have muddled your books for years and kept your unsuspecting stockholders at bay as well."

Chasseur was breathing heavily, like a bulldog with asthma.

Holmes lit a cigarette in an airy fashion.

"You might have gotten away with it, you know. Your hired assassin, Lightfoot McTigue, disposed of Trelawney and Michael, since you didn't need them anymore. This morning he took care of Hananish as well."

"But the banker shot at you, Holmes," I exclaimed involuntarily.

"I was not meant to die, Watson. Lightfoot had blocked the barrels of the shotgun, probably with lead, though wooden plugs would have done the job. There was a cable from Mr. Chasseur, here, warning Hananish of my coming. The man was teetering on the brink mentally, you see."

Holmes' somber eyes returned to Chasseur. "You knew the cable would panic him and that he would use his hidden weapon. How simple to have him do away with himself. You must have felt relieved when McTigue cabled you that Hananish was dead and, his job done, that he was leaving for the Continent."

Chasseur's blazing eyes fixed his secretary with a fierce glare. "You talked, you fool."

"Mr. Chasseur, I've never even met Mr. Holmes."

"Don't blame others, Chasseur. It was just a matter of pulling all the pieces together. Hananish's books are being gone over. Trelawney's have already been closely inspected by a man who can smell a swindle from a distance. This interview has been a lengthy one, but for a purpose. As we talk, officials are sequestering your records and files by virtue of a special warrant issued from Whitehall. The Crown considers England's transportation system vital to national security. I cautioned them to locate your payment to McTigue, which must have been made today. I'm rather interested in how much you gave him for killing three men."

Chasseur's face had reflected a kaleidoscope of emotions but was now almost placid, resigned. "I suppose, in the fashion of Dr. Watson's published case histories, that you were on to me from the very start?"

"I should have been," admitted Holmes. "Why did you, reputed to be astute, go to such pains to alienate me from the case? For that is what you did at the very beginning."

Chasseur shrugged and reached casually toward a small drawer on his right, but I was having none of that. My Smith-Webley came into view with rather good speed, I thought. Somehow my alertness did not seem to faze the man, for he smiled a crooked smile and displayed a rubber casing in his left hand. It had a button arrangement on the top over which his thumb hovered. I noted a connecting wire running down the leg of the table beside him.

"I rather thought the drawer would distract you," he said. "If you try to use that firearm, you'll kill every man in this room. I have but to press on this button and I release a charge of electricity from a wet cell battery, which will explode enough dynamite hidden under the floorboards to blow us to pieces. Gentlemen, I have lived lavishly, but always one step from exposure. The excitement, the zest of having dishonor and disgrace at my elbow constantly, lent a certain vitality and vigor to my aging bones, much as the frost of winter lends strength to the sap of trees and flavor to the fruit they produce. But I had to be prepared for the inevitable, since I figured to face it eventually; and I was determined to go out with as much color and éclat as I could."

"I don't believe you are prepared to destroy yourself," said Holmes in a calm voice.

"While there is the slightest chance, one does not embrace that idea," admitted the exposed tycoon. "But I can use my device to buy time. It's my standard procedure."

His eyes speared me. "Drop that revolver, or you'll have the lives of all around you on your conscience, to say nothing of losing your own."

Since Holmes nodded, I slowly laid my Smith-Webley on the oak table.

Chasseur chuckled. "It's probably an impossible thing, but I'm going to herd you gentlemen to the far end of the room. I'll be able to reach the door and secure it behind me before you can take action. Perhaps you'll track me down. The odds favor it. But at least I'll have a running start."

I had to admit that Chasseur held us in checkmate. I was horrified when Holmes began to rise from his seat on the bench. His movement drew Chasseur's eye, and the financial charlatan raised the button device in his hand, as though prepared to end it for us all. In that moment, when Chasseur's eyes were glued to the great detective, the man no one was considering moved. My revolver was useless, but there was a walking weapon present who had the uncanny ability to fade into whatever background he found himself. Wakefield Orloff had positioned himself quietly against the wall of the room and had remained there, silent and unmoving, throughout the revelation and drama that followed it. Now his right hand went to the back of his neck and then came forward and down. There was a thud and that wicked Spanish throwing knife that invariably rested in a chamois sheath between his shoulder-blades was buried in the leg of the table beside Chasseur. The Tycoon's finger stabbed at the button in his hand and my heart seemed in my throat; but there was no blast of explosives—no carnage, destruction, or death. Orloff's knife had severed the wire neatly, and Chasseur's dynamite trap had been defused.

I swept up my gun, but already Orloff was beside Chasseur, affixing manacles to his wrists. There was a universal sigh of relief from those present to which I contributed.

Chapter 21

Aftermath

TWO MONTHS had passed since the conclusion of what I titled "The Adventure of the Treasure Train." A bright morning sun had dispelled the fog of the previous night and was streaming into our sitting room. Breakfast had come and gone. I was collecting my notes on the schemes of Alvidon Chasseur, with the thought of recording the matter for posterity. Holmes, as was his custom, was perusing the morning papers.

"Here now, Watson," he said suddenly. "We are mentioned by the press and in connection with a strange matter indeed."

I abandoned my work, intrigued of course, and somewhat surprised that Holmes was not regarding me with twinkling eyes, for he viewed newspaper accounts of his exploits with a humorous attitude. Instead, there was a faraway look in his eyes as he folded the journal in half to facilitate reading it to me.

MYSTERIOUS MURDER IN HOLLAND

In Liege but yesterday a resident of the city was felled by what the citizenry are referring to as "the bullet from the sky." Near the town square, Sydney Kokanour, said to be a traveling salesman, was killed instantly by a bullet in his heart. He had lived quietly in Liege since 1891 and was not known to have enemies. Though baffled, the local police have approached the case with the expertise of England's own Sherlock Holmes. The bullet still being in the body, they have established, through the new science of ballistics, that it was fired from a Sharps rifle, a weapon manufactured in America. No one with a rifle was seen anywhere near the vicinity; and there is considerable feeling that the gun might have been fired by mistake, with the bullet, almost spent, unfortunately claiming a victim. Chief Inspector Pyrott of the Liege Police does not concur with this, citing the notorious range of the Sharps Company product. He is of the opinion that some enemy of Kokanour from overseas is behind the matter. An extensive search for such a man is under way.

Holmes lowered the paper, and there was a long silence between us.

"Inspector Pyrott might well be right," he said.

"Indeed, for we have heard mention of the Sharps rifle and in this very room."

"Kokanour took up residence in Liege in 1891."

"The very year you smashed Moriarty. You think Kokanour was Lightfoot McTigue, don't you, Holmes?"

"The thought has crossed my mind."

"But our American friend would have had to know of the assassin."

"He might have caught wind of him while working for Chasseur."

"You feel, then, that he tracked him down?"

"I am considering the possibility that someone was grateful that his considerable past was not exposed; and with that fierce sense of loyalty, not uncommon with those of the frontier, he tried to repay his debt the only way he knew how."

I chewed on this idea for a while. Holmes had risen and was gazing out our bow window. Finally, he turned to me. "You know, Watson, I've been rather waiting for you to bring the matter up. Now, considering this news, which just may impart a meaning only you and I can understand, I cannot hold my curiosity in check any longer."

"Relative to what?" I queried, but I knew. He had heard me on that momentous afternoon in Essex. Well, it had been enjoyable to cherish my own little secret for a while.

"Our imposter friend. The pseudo-Ledger."

"You disagree with his story of how he came upon the scene?"

"No. That holds water. The idea of a wanted American desperado assuming the identity of a fallen friend and matriculating to Africa and then England is plausible."

"What, then? We could hardly ask the chap to tell us the whole story. After all, he saved our lives."

"Agreed," said Holmes. "But you referred to him by name—McCarty—and he did not deny it."

"There's a story that goes with it," I said, savoring the words.

"I'd like to hear it."

"It begins with the Lincoln County cattle war."

"You mentioned that during our investigation of Trelawney's death in Shaw."

"So I did. Both sides of that bloody frontier incident hired fast guns, and they flocked to New Mexico from everywhere."

"Including the true Ledger," interrupted Holmes in an impatient manner. "I understand all that."

"The Lincoln County war ended in eighteen seventy-eight, with the near total extermination of one side. A survivor was William Bonney, better known as Billy the Kid. The area was under martial law, and General Lew Wallace offered Bonney amnesty."

"Wallace? The same chap who wrote Ben Hur?"

"Correct. Bonney refused the general's offer, pointing out that if he hung up his guns, he would not live to see the next sunrise. Later, in eighteen eighty, he was captured by Sheriff Pat Garrett but escaped from jail. Garrett trailed him and shot him in eighteen eighty-one."

"You are indeed a fund of information, Watson; and I recall your mentioning this Billy the Kid previously. But what has this to do with our adventure?"

"There are a couple of holes in the story. For one thing, Bonney was supposedly killed in Fort Sumner, New Mexico, where he was very well liked. For another, Sheriff Pat Garrett was a friend of his."

"Ah-hah!" said Holmes. "You feel all was not as it seemed."

"Rather sure of it. You see, Bonney's real name was Henry McCarty."

The jaw of my friend Sherlock Holmes actually dropped in astonishment. It was a glorious moment, which I shall always cherish.