SHERLOCK HOLMES IN NEW YORK (9 page)

Sherlock Holmes looked at me for a moment, then
continued his walk in silence. I was gazing with some interest at a shop-window display of a profusion of
gramophones far greater than that available in En
gland, several placarded with claims of the highest fi
delity of reproduction, and marveling at the inventive
genius that had made it possible for the voices of the
famous—and, to a limited extent, the music of the
age—to be preserved for future centuries, when next
he spoke. His remark, prompted by I knew not what
vagaries of his roving mind, was of an almost alarm
ing inconsequence.

"Do you know my full name, Watson?"

"Why, I don't believe I do."

I forbore to ask the reason for his question, being
briefly seized with the dismal idea that he had a prem
onition of sudden death and wished me to have the
information for his death certificate. I firmly rid my
self of this dreary notion and resolved not to be in
fected by Holmes' sepulchral manner.

"It is William Scott Sherlock Holmes," he told me.

It was difficult to know what response to make to
this. I might have answered in kind by telling him
that my own second name was Hamish, except that
he was already aware of that. But some sort of com
ment seemed to be called for.

"Is it, now? No, I didn't know that. William for the
Conqueror, eh, and Scott for Sir Walter, I dare say. I
wonder if that's where Irene Adler—" I still did not
feel comfortable in using "Miss" in connection with
any reference to her son—"picked up her lad's name;
I expect his works are popular on the Continent." I
was quite aware that this was sheer nervous driveling,
and resolved to change the subject to something more nearly approaching our concerns. "I say, Holmes,
there
is
one thing that puzzles me."

A reluctant smile brightened my friend's saturnine countenance. "
One
thing? I commend your clarity of
mind, Watson. What one thing is that?"

"That bit in the letter about not cooperating with
the police. Why, Holmes, nobody's
asked
you to co
operate with the police!"

We were now in Forty-fourth Street, only a few
yards from the hotel. The warm light from its lobby
spilled on to the pavement, and, at the edge of the
patch of illumination, I observed two men standing, as
if in wait. I stopped Holmes with an urgent hand on
his arm, and indicated the pair.

"Could they be watchers—or worse—sent by Mori
arty?" said I in a voice not pitched to carry to them.

Holmes cocked his head and studied the two men
for a moment, then murmured, "I fancy not, Watson. One, at least, has another look entirely."

He strode boldly toward the hotel, though his face
was tight, with the expression of a man bracing him
self for an ordeal he must endure.

The taller and younger of the two men, seemingly
about the detective's own age, stepped forward. He
was dressed plainly but neatly, and his voice, though
not cultured, was firm.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" he asked.

"Yes—my name's Holmes."

My friend stopped, and I with him.

The man who had accosted us doffed his bowler.
"Inspector Lafferty. New York City Police Depart
ment."

I looked at Holmes. Moments ago, I had pointed out
that the police had not asked his aid in any matter,
and now here was a policeman, almost certainly on
the point of requesting just such aid. If the letter
spoke truth, for Sherlock Holmes to grant that request
would be to sign Scott Adler's death-warrant!

The man with the Inspector, a portly chap of perhaps sixty, dressed in a light topcoat with a velvet collar, stepped forward in turn.

"And I'm Mortimer McGraw, President of the In
ternational Gold Exchange," he announced.

I had a sudden sensation that we were being
watched, and glanced around sharply. Then, in spite
of the tension of the situation, I felt half inclined to
laugh. There was indeed an eye focused upon us, but
it was a huge painted one staring from a signboard, one of a pair hanging from the shoulders of one of
those men employed to trudge the streets as walking hoardings, advertising various businesses. The legend
around the staring orb proclaimed that one McVay,
proprietor of a chop-house, had "his Eye on YOU!"
As the sandwich-man, clad in a cheap but colorful
checked suit, ambled by, I observed that his rearward
sign was also anatomical in theme, with a crudely
limned giant finger pointing at the beholder, and the
printed statement that this same McVay "means
YOU!" I could well imagine that that unwinking stare
might induce the fainter-hearted to give their patronage to the chop-house mentioned.

Holmes gave the grotesque ambulatory advertise
ment a passing glance, and was evidently not inclined
to be amused by it.

He said, indicating me, "Dr. Watson," and I murmured, "Inspector. Mr. McGraw."

"Mr. Holmes," said Lafferty earnestly, "I only just
now found out you were in the city, or I'd have come
to see you earlier."

"Oh? About what would that be?"

Lafferty gazed about him at the still-thronged street,
and indicated a closed carriage standing by the curb.
"Mr. McGraw," he explained, "has been kind enough
to give us the lend of his landau. Could we trouble
you—both of you—to join us for a short drive?"

I darted a suspicious glance at the vehicle, but was
able to assure myself that it in no wise resembled the style of the one which I had seen outside Irene Adler's
house. After all, anyone could
say
that he was an
inspector of police . . . but Holmes was not the man
to be taken in by any such imposture.

All the same, my friend hesitated a moment before
saying, "As you wish."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," said McGraw quietly
but fervently. "All right!" he called to the landau's
driver as we crossed the pavement and clambered in.
Holmes and I were urged to take the forward-facing
seat, with the Inspector and Mr. McGraw opposite us.
After we had moved slowly along the street—so
much more brightly lit than most of our London thor
oughfares!—for a few moments with no one speaking,
Holmes pulled out his watch and consulted it.

"Well, gentlemen?" said he. "It's almost eleven at
night. Had we not better get to the meat of this?"
McGraw leaned forward.

"Mr. Holmes," he inquired, "have you ever heard of
the International Gold Exchange?"

"I am sure you are prepared to correct that de
ficiency in my knowledge on the spot, sir."

Holmes spoke so flatly as to appear almost hostile, and I sensed that the other two men were beginning to
be somewhat puzzled. Knowing what I did of what
had occurred that evening, and the dire contents of the
note now folded in the pocket of his tailcoat, I could
understand, as they could not, the conflict that raged
within him and found expression in his indifferent
tone.

"Gold is a very attractive metal to thieves, as you
well know," McGraw continued. "It is also the major
medium of exchange between the nations of the civi
lized world."

"Quite."

"Shipment of large quantities of gold from one
country to another is not only arduous but dangerous.
Because of that fact, the International Gold Exchange
was established. May I describe it for you?"

I own that my ears pricked up at this. I am no
more greedy than the next man, but gold, whether in
the form of the legends of Golconda and the
'Forty-niners, or a sovereign piece to clink in one's
pocket, has always fascinated me. Had I become a
dentist, I suppose I should have come to regard it as
merely another material of my profession, though that
is by the way.

Holmes, in any case, did not share my interest, but
merely replied, "Of course."

McGraw warmed to his account as it progressed.
"Deep beneath the basement of the Bouwerie Na
tional Bank here in Manhattan," he said, "cut into the
bedrock of the island, are a number of vaults, each
considered the property of the sovereign nation whose
name appears above its steel door. In each vault is
stored almost
all
of that nation's gold reserve. At the last official count, over two hundred billion dollars'
worth of bullion occupied these vaults."

I was slightly nonplussed, the term "billion" being
unfamiliar to me. I supposed it to be some multiple
of a million, perhaps an American term for our famil
iar "milliard." If so—or even, for that matter, if not—
Mr. McGraw was talking of a very considerable sum
indeed.

"I see," said Sherlock Holmes. "I think I understand
the object of your exchange, Mr. McGraw. Correct any inaccuracies on my part, if you will. When gold
is to be transferred from one country—Russia, let us
say—to another—as it might be, England—instead of
making the long and hazardous journey from St.
Petersburg to London, the required amount of gold
bullion is merely removed from one vault and placed
in the appropriate one near it."

"Exactly! Six trusted employees of the Exchange
now do the work that used to take six
hundred
sub
jects of the countries involved, and the risk of theft
has been reduced to virtually nothing!"

"Most ingenious," commented Holmes. "I congratulate you. I have only one question to ask."

"And that is?" McGraw said, as Holmes gave him a cool look.

"Why am I being told this at this hour of the night
and under this notable precaution of secrecy?"

Lafferty drummed his fingers on the bowler he held
in his lap, and let out a long sigh, as if reluctant to
say what he must. Then he got to his point with a
rush.
"Because the gold's been stolen, that's why!"

Holmes leaned forward, keen and alert for the first
time since the note had been delivered to him. It was
impossible for such a man as he not to take an in
terest in so massive a crime, no matter what threats
had been made to prevent him involving himself with
the police.

"
All of it?
" he inquired in excitement—I might
almost have written "delight."

"All but two bricks or so," McGraw answered mo
rosely.

"Great heavens, how?" said I.

"We haven't the slightest idea." Lafferty's tone was
sour in the extreme.

"When was the theft discovered?" said Sherlock
Holmes.

"Four days ago, during a routine inspection of the
vaults. When we unlocked the door at the bottom of
the elevator shaft, the vaults were empty!" McGraw
explained.

"And," the Inspector added, "there was a huge hole
cut into the rear wall of the chamber!"

"A hole leading where?"

"Into the subway excavation that goes right past
the bank! We found one brick of bullion in the tunnel,
another in the excavation."

"And news of this incredible theft has been kept
from the public?" Holmes asked.

McGraw answered this question.
"So far. But, Mr. Holmes, in forty-eight hours' time
a transaction is due to take place between Italy and
Germany. When that happens, the theft will be dis
covered, and the international repercussions will be
such that not even war—world-wide war!—can be
ruled out!"

I shuddered. A newspaper I had been able to glance
at that very afternoon during a rest I gave myself
from unpacking had carried a dispatch from Berlin
concerning a hysterical diatribe the Emperor had delivered to his troops, demanding their protection from
a revolt that appeared to exist only in his mind. With
so unstable a personality occupying the throne of one
of the great Powers—and the rulers of many of the
others, for that matter, not being notable for good
sense—the catastrophe Mr. McGraw envisaged did
not seem as implausible as I should have liked.

The Inspector now spoke with great urgency.
"Mr. Holmes, we've got forty-eight hours to find
that gold and get it back to its vaults with no one
the wiser—and we need
your
help to do it!"

Mr. McGraw chimed in, "Mr. Holmes, the fate of
the world may well hang in the balance!"

I joined the other two in staring intently at Sherlock
Holmes, though there was this difference: they were
looking for the first signs of an assent they took for
granted, whilst I steeled myself to watch the torment
that racked that proud face as he prepared to say
what, only hours ago, both he and I would have
considered unthinkable. A slight movement of his arm
told me that his hand was even now clenched around the note that deprived him of his liberty of action as
much as its writer had deprived Scott Adler of his.

The carriage slowed, and I realized that our course had taken us back to the hotel. As it stopped, Holmes, appearing older and wearier than I had ever seen him,
looked from one to the other of the two men facing
him.

"I am sorry, gentlemen. But I am unable to assist
you in this matter."

He began to rise from his seat, and reached for
the door-handle.

"You
what!
" Lafferty's voice was a yelp of outrage.

"I can be of no service to you whatsoever."

Holmes opened the door and stepped from the car
riage. I scrambled after him and stood beside him on
the pavement.

Inspector Lafferty leaned from the coach and said,
his voice mingling incredulity with scorn, "Have I
been talking to Sherlock Holmes?"

"You have been. I now must ask you to permit me
to bid you a good evening."

He bowed to the men in the carriage, turned, and
made for the hotel. He was forced to wait for an
instant as the sandwich-man with the puffery for the
philocular chop-house proprietor I had observed ear
lier passed by on yet another lap of his nightly rounds. Before Holmes and I could gain the shelter of the
lobby, a bellow from Lafferty halted us.

"
Wait a minute!
You can't just turn us down like
this! We've come to you because of your world-wide
reputation! Mr. McGraw's explained the seriousness
of the—"

With an icy manner that told me of the pain he
was concealing, Holmes turned and said, "I'm afraid I
have nothing further to say to you."

Lafferty was now leaning out of the carriage, car
ried away by honest rage.
"Well, I've got something to say to you, Mister!"

"Inspector!" McGraw's voice was hoarse with embarrassment, and he plucked futilely at the policeman's
sleeve.

"When the crime's found out, and it's learned it
could lead to a world war—"

"
Inspector
, please! Shh!"

"—and Sherlock Holmes knew about it and wouldn't
lift a finger to assist the police . . . what's everyone
going to think—"

McGraw, clearly agonized both at the noisy scene
being made and the thought of what passers-by might
guess at from it, called quickly up to his coachman,
"Drive on!"