The Adventure of the Plated Spoon and Other Tales of Sherlock Holmes (32 page)

“That long?” Carter sounded incredulous.

A grim smile came to the servant's lips. “Your pardon, sir, but from your speech I take it you're new to some of our customs, including ladies' clothing. Twenty minutes or more is not unusual.”

“Oh, yes. Stays, bustles, and all that truck. Then what?”

“I called out to my lady to ask if she needed assistance. When there was no reply I knocked at the door. She still said nothing, and that was when I asked the shop girl to let me in.”

“The door was locked?”

“Yes, sir. From inside.”

Holmes assumed the role of questioner. “You remained standing for thirty minutes and never once looked away from the door.”

“Yes, sir. I take my duties seriously. The city can be dangerous. Another pair of eyes is useful.”

“And yet a dress shop would seem to be a sanctuary of sorts; unless you saw something suspicious? A sinister-looking clerk or customer, or an unorthodox way of conducting business?”

“No, sir, just a dress shop.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” said I, for I could take no more. “Women don't disappear from locked rooms.”

Her eyes flashed fire. “I swear it, sir.”

Holmes said, “You must pardon Dr. Watson for his customary military directness. However, I concur. You were distracted by something: an attractive pair of gloves, perhaps, or a lace bodice on a form. No one can fault you for that. Such establishments offer the same temptations as a display of new sporting arms to a gentleman.”

But she remained defiant even in silence.

Carter crushed out his cigar in a silver tray. “You're sure the shop girl let you into the dressing room? You didn't take the key from her and do it yourself?”

“I did not, sir.”

“Then how can you be sure the door was locked from inside?”

“I—” Emma showed confusion for the first time.

Holmes took up the chase. “The girl told you it was locked from inside, did she not?”

After an even longer silence she nodded.

It was then that the two detectives went after her hammer and tongs. I felt almost sorry for the girl as, bit by bit, she crumbled, finally admitting that the shop employee had offered to show her a bolt of calico freshly imported from America stored in the back room. The maid had never seen the material and was curious to see and feel it. She was thus engaged for at least three minutes with no one to watch the dressing-room door. At last she blurted out an apology, broken by sobs.

“I didn't mean to lie, really I didn't. I was afraid I'd be blamed for what happened.”

“We'll discuss this later, Emma,” said Sir James.

“Oh, sir, please don't sack me!”

“That's your mistress's responsibility, not mine. I shall instruct Hubbard to reassign you to the cleaning staff until further notice.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“One more question, Emma,” said Holmes. “Can you describe the shop girl who showed you the bolt of fabric and opened the door of the dressing room for you?”

“I can, sir. She was young, black-haired, and pretty. She said her name was Estrella. I remembered it because it's unusual. Or perhaps not, where she comes from.”

Carter jumped on that. “Comes from?”

“Yes, sir. She spoke with a Spanish accent.”

“Holmes!” I exclaimed, once the maid had been dismissed from the room. “Do you suppose it's coincidence?”

“The phenomenon exists; until its own evidence piles up against it.
Estrella
is the Spanish for ‘star.' Can there be three young women of Spanish descent named for ‘heaven,' ‘glory,' and ‘star' in the same case? We may proceed as if the answer is no, until we have gathered all the facts.”

Nick Carter exhibited a bemused smile. “Please take pity on a traveller three thousand miles from home. I'm out of my element and three steps behind.”

Holmes told him of our experience with the white slave trade, from Mary's crisis through Osbert/Snipe's flight. Sir James interrupted but twice, saying, “Good Lord!” both times. Carter said nothing until after the conclusion of the narrative.

“Yes, I'd say that when we find Estrella, we'll find Gloriana, Celeste, and Paraiso all in one package.”

“The police questioned the shop girl, but they were inclined to believe her story,” said Sir James. “When they went back for another interview in light of recent events, they were informed she'd resigned. No one there seems to have known where she went or even where she resides.”

“She won't be there in any event,” Holmes said. “We've learned two things, thanks to Emma: Our Hispanic siren is still in the business, and Jane Chilton has become ensnared in it.”

“Three things,” I corrected. “If Gloriana is involved, Osbert cannot be far behind.”

Carter shook his head. “Guesswork. It's just as possible she's latched on to a new partner, or—”

“—the apprentice has become the master,” finished Holmes. “I approve of the way you reason. It's always a mistake to theorise—”

“—ahead of the facts.”

I declared myself
hors de combat
from this exchange. I had neither the ammunition nor the high ground.

“What now?” demanded Sir James.

“I could go underground,” Carter suggested. “I've read of your talent for disguise, Sherlock, but I'm a fair hand with makeup myself, and I have the advantage of being unknown here. All I need is to appear as one who's come down in the world, and pound the bricks, picking up this and that.”

“I don't doubt your abilities, even if all your own published exploits are autobiographical.” Holmes smiled. “I have a standing order with an American bookseller for anything written on a criminal subject. However, what you suggest can take weeks, and time is critical. Also, as I said to Watson, the mere thought of crowding another bit of Grand Guignol into this case weighs heavily upon my patience. Have you that letter from San Francisco, Sir James?”

The paper was produced forthwith. “It's her hand. I'll swear to that.”

“Did you keep the envelope?”

“The police have that. They were more interested in the postmark than the contents, once read.”

“They run true to form. Any accomplice, or just someone who will perform a simple act for money, can take delivery of a parcel in America, remove the contents, and mail them to England. It's far more difficult to reproduce a government seal that would fool even a child.”

He produced his pocket lens and, standing by the window to study the letter in the sunlight, spent five minutes examining it. “No penman of my acquaintance did this. You'll pardon me for not taking your word at face value.”

“I've an eye for detail, Mr. Holmes. I started my business with a needle and thread.”

“I believe you. There's nothing new about forcing a captive to write a letter and address an envelope.” He offered the sheet to Carter, who declined with a smile. I disliked him a little less for that demonstration of faith.

Holmes returned the letter. “I suggest we make use of the journals.”

“An advertisement?” I brightened. His subterfuges by way of the agony columns had never failed to turn up something useful.

“It's far less expensive than a costume, and reaches more people than walking about London with a sandwich board. What do you think, Carter?”

“I'm all for smoking a raccoon out of the attic.”

“What the devil is a raccoon?” I asked.

“A rodent that conducts its raids wearing a mask.”

I sat back, vexed by the American penchant for spinning yarns.

Holmes began the creative session by asking how the notice should read.

“In Spanish, for starters,” said Carter.

There was, I learned, a newspaper district in our city outside Fleet Street. Two floors of an ancient and crumbling building near Saffron Hill, home of the foreign quarter, sheltered a string of journals belonging to one concern, with a steam-press in the basement that ran day and night, turning out the news of the day in Italian, French, Spanish, German, and several of the Scandinavian dialects, each journal having its own staff fluent in the language of its particular subscribers.

The workers were not paid as well as their colleagues to the west; an easy deduction, based on the variety of odours belonging to packed-in luncheons representing all the nationalities served by the company. Flaking black paint on pebbled glass identified the door belonging to
La Lengua
, the publication that circulated among the Spanish-speaking residents of London.

Before our visit, Holmes and Carter—who, if anything, had more of the language than the polyglot Holmes (“My tutors were my neighbours in old Mexico, Texas, Los Angeles, and Spanish Harlem,” he explained)—had bent their heads over their project for an hour. I here translate the text into English:

Included was the number of a box in the central post office.

“Who is La Dona Cristina?” I'd asked.

“A phantom,” said Carter. “Like the count himself. I came across him in a dime novel.”

“The New World's answer to the yellowback,” Holmes furnished before I could enquire. “The name does resound.”

“What if Gloriana read the same book?” I challenged.

Carter shook his head. “That brand of literature is in the stalls about as long as fresh fruit, and once read is thrown in the trash. There's never a second printing. It's a small risk. We've only to decide how to handle the response if there is one.”

Holmes placed a comradely hand upon the shoulder of the detective from America. “How is your Latin?”

“Rusty, compared to my Spanish,” said he, appearing to understand instantly. “Luckily, I never travel without my
Blackstone
.”

Directly we left the newspaper office, Carter asked Holmes if he had personal acquaintance with the proprietor of a print shop. “I could look one up in a directory, but I doubt a stranger could get him to press fewer than a hundred cards in one lot.”

“I know several who are in my debt,” said Holmes. “One in particular provides the best engraving, on stock worthy of a representative of foreign nobility. You know him, Watson.”

“I even have a title,” said I, “when you let me publish it. ‘The Adventure of the Printer's Devil.'”

A four-wheeler deposited us before an address near the Embankment, connected with an investigation whose particulars I have yet to share with the world. The building's location, near the Houses of Parliament and the offices of most of the leading firms of solicitors in the city, gave me an inkling at last of the masquerade that Carter was planning.

Inside, amid the fearsome chattering of Linotype machines and the clunkety-clunk of a platen press, Holmes accepted the hearty handshake of Leopold Szadny, a man of dignified mien whose crisp white hair, full beard, and gold-rimmed spectacles might have marked him as a member of the House of Lords but for his ink-smeared leather apron and bizarre paper hat, fashioned by folding a sheet of broadside.

“How good to see you, my friend,” said he, in his heavy Hungarian accent. “I have been for some time meaning to bring you a pail of Mrs. Szadny's goulash, the finest this side of Budapest.”

“I look forward to it. This isn't a social visit, I'm afraid. You know Dr. Watson. Allow me to present Mr. Nicholas Carter, a newcomer to our shores.”

Szadny seized my hand in his powerful typesetter's grip, then turned to Carter, whose own grasp, I could see from the printer's reaction, was formidable despite his slender hand. “New
this
visit,” he added. “I've stuffed my belly with
borju rolada
at the Laughing Gypsy more times than I'll count.”

The printer fairly squeaked with pleasure. “I celebrate my birthday there every year.”

Whereupon the pair conversed for two minutes in what I assumed to be Szadny's native tongue. I began to suspect Carter of possessing supernatural powers.

Holmes broke up the exchange, raising his voice above the din of machinery. “Is there a quiet place we can talk?”

“This I can arrange.” Szadny reached inside the bib of his apron, drew out a brass cab-whistle suspended from a ribbon round his neck, and blew an ear-splitting blast. Instantly the press and Linotype went silent. “Tea, gentlemen,” said he to his subordinates, then led us through a door into a small office containing an oaken desk and chairs.

When Carter explained what he required, the printer beamed, opened a deep drawer, and hoisted a heavy-looking object onto his blotter. It was identical to the hand-operated press in the shop, down to the treadle, brake lever, platen, table, and flywheel with its gracefully curving spokes, all fashioned from iron; except it was only a fraction of the other's size. It was scarcely larger than a bread tin.

“It was manufactured in Chicago, in the same building as the one outside. The American pedlar carried it round to demonstrate how the machine worked. I persuaded him to include it as part of the purchase.”

We watched as he assembled the necessary type and locked it in place. From another drawer he took a flat deal box and showed us the contents. “Swiss linen,” he said. “The finest in Europe.”

The sheet also in place, he pumped the machine's treadle with his thumb, setting all the parts into whirling, clacking motion. When he'd finished printing, he cut the stiff sheet into ten rectangles, using a guillotine-like device, and passed one over to Carter for inspection. It read: