The Lost Radio Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (27 page)

“Yes, well, I
suppose you’re right, Violet. It is childish to mutilate this fraud,” Sir Henry
said as he placed the knife in his coat pocket.

“It’s a
brilliant fraud, Sir Henry,” Miss Jackson continued in her pleading, “I’d like
to have. I’ll buy it from you, gladly.”

“Buy it from me?
Hah, you can have it! Go and make arrangements to have the wretched thing taken
away at once. I don’t want any frauds in my collection.”

“Yes, Sir Henry,
and thank you.”

Miss Jackson
quietly left. Holmes and I stood silently as we watched Sir Henry staring at
the painting. He sighed deeply, then quickly gathered his strength, turning to
us, revealing once again, that anger he had shown before.

“Now, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes,” Sir Henry said with slow deliberation, “I’ll pay you any fee
you name if you can tell me how the original painting was stolen!”

“Well, Sir
Henry, the
how
must here precede the
who.
And the
how
I must confess, seems impossible.”

“Yes,” I chimed
in, “I quite agree. This is a sealed, metal room, the only entrance being
through this one door. And it has a combination that only you know, Sir Henry.”

“Perfectly true.
It’s impossible for anyone to enter this room without my being present. Or I
would have sworn it was.”

As Sir Henry and
I had spoken, Holmes was already inspecting the walls for some clue as to the
theft.

“Come on,
Watson, help me examine this room. There is the possibility of a secret panel.
Here’s a ventilator, though it’s not large enough for a human being to get in,
let alone drag out such a large canvas painting.”

“Well, you’ll
find no flaws, I’m sure,” Sir Henry said with great cynicism. “This room was
built like a giant safe. And the time lock on the door is equally solid.”

“Is the time
lock working now?” Holmes asked.

“Yes,” Sir Henry
said, “it started five minutes ago when we opened the door, but don’t worry, it’s
perfectly safe with the door open.”

“When the door
is closed it couldn’t be re-opened again, I take it, Sir Henry?”

“Not until the
morning, doctor. I had the lock specially designed.”

“Very ingenious,”
Holmes quickly added, “this presents as pretty a problem as ever I’ve tackled,
Sir Henry. A large painting stolen, and a fake one substituted, in a sealed
room to which only you have access. I must confess the
how
seems utterly impossible.”

“Remember what
you always say, Holmes: ‘Throw out the impossible, and whatever remains, no
matter how improbable, must be the possible.’ ”

“Thank you,
Watson. Let’s consider the
who
for a moment. Is your butler absolutely reliable?”

“Absolutely,” Sir
Henry replied.

“How about Miss
Jackson?”

“Completely
trustworthy. Brought letters of recommendation from most of the leading art
galleries in London. Intelligent, too. And serious minded. She’s made a deep
study of mathematics as well as her knowledge of painting.”

“Mathematics?”
Holmes said, his keen eyes widening. “How do you know that, Sir Henry?”

“She had a book
with her the other day. I was surprised at the title. Could have been a novel,
but no, it was called
The Dynamics of an
Asteroid,
and it was inscribed to her by the
author.”

“Hah! Now we
have something,” Holmes shouted,
“The Dynamics of an
Asteroid”,
and inscribed to her by the author.
Thank heavens for your memory, Sir Henry! That book was written by Professor
Moriarty, the same man who bid against you at the auction and has been sending
you the threatening postcards. I suspect Violet Jackson is an accomplice of
his!”

“Violet Jackson?”
said an astonished Sir Henry.

Suddenly the
door to the room was slammed shut.

“Holmes, we’re
trapped. The door! Someone slammed it shut!”

“Yes,” Holmes
said with a smile, “and it’s not very hard to guess who that someone is.”

“But
I . . .
I can’t believe that
Violet is a criminal,” Sir Henry said.

“Look, Holmes,
there’s a note being pushed under the door.”

“Strike a match,
will you old fellow?”

“I did so as
Holmes retrieved the note and opened it. I held the match over the note as he
read it.

“ ‘Forgive my
unlady-like eavesdropping, but with Mr. Sherlock Holmes as near the truth as he
is, I’m afraid it would be unwise for me to remain here any longer. On the
other hand, you are in no danger of smothering in the strong room, but your
imprisonment should delay my pursuit till morning. Violet Jackson.’ ”

“She’s escaped
us, Holmes!”

“Don’t worry,
Watson. Miss Jackson’s failure to procure the painting for Moriarty will land
her in a far worse dilemma than anything we could subject her to. Moriarty has
never tolerated failure on the part of his minions. A brilliant plot, old
fellow, a brilliant plot! Moriarty is at the zenith of his powers! How
fortunate that we were able to foil him.”

“What do you
mean, foil him? My painting’s been stolen!”

“Your painting,
Sir Henry?” Holmes said with a hint of amusement in his voice. “Oh no, no. It’s
here in this room.”

“What on earth are
you talking about, Holmes?” I said with my usual inability to keep up with my
friend’s logic.

“You reminded me
of my own dictum, Watson. I discarded the impossible. It was impossible that
the painting had been stolen, therefore it had NOT been stolen.”

“You mean that
this painting is the original Greuze?” Sir Henry asked.

“Yes, of course,
sir. Surely the whole plot is crystal clear now.”

“Just about as
clear as porridge to me,” I said in absolute frustration.

“Well then, let
me explain,” Holmes went on. “The whole episode of Francois Dulac, the note
asking me to meet him, the empty hotel room, the significant bloodstain, and
the apparent disappearance of Dulac were all part of Moriarty’s plot. The real
Dulac, I now believe, never left France. Moriarty created him in England to
lure me into the case.”

“Why in thunder
should he want to do that, Holmes?”

“Yes,” Sir Henry
added, “I should think you’re the last person he’d want on the scene.”

“On the
contrary, sir,” Holmes laughed, “he knew that I’d grab at his bait. The
apparent murder of a Greuze expert would make it seem likely that your painting
had been substituted, Sir Henry. He wanted me to test the painting, which I
did. I fell into his trap very neatly.”

“But the paint,
Holmes, you said that it was no more than 25 years old.”

“Yes, my dear
fellow, and therein lies the answer.”

“I see it,” Sir
Henry said, “Violet, as his accomplice, had prepared the painting before hand,
and carefully scraped off a piece of modern paint!”

“Exactly, Sir
Henry! And Moriarty had assumed, quite correctly as it turned out, that as soon
as you thought your painting was a fraud, you’d want to get rid of it.”

“And that girl
was going to take it out of this house with your full approval, and turn it
over to Moriarty. What a fantastic scheme!” I exclaimed.

“A devilishly
clever one, Watson. If it hadn’t been for your chance remark about the book on
mathematics, Sir Henry, I’m very much afraid ‘Young Lady with the Gazelle’
might even now be on its way out of your house.”

“Holmes, I can’t
tell you how grateful I am,” Sir Henry said, “and I’m going to express that
gratitude in a very material manner, I assure you.”

“Thank you, Sir
Henry, but I wouldn’t dream of accepting a fee for this case. I’ve been
shockingly obtuse. I might easily have let them walk away with your treasure
right under our noses.”

“Are we locked
in here for the night, Sir Henry?” I asked.

“I’m very much
afraid so, Doctor Watson. Though I shouldn’t be surprised if my butler notices
our disappearance and comes looking for us. But he won’t be able to open the
door. It’ll need a professional locksmith to get us out of here.”

I was
crestfallen, but Holmes placed his hand upon my shoulder, a smile on his face.

“Don’t be
gloomy, my dear fellow. You are locked in with one of the loveliest girls in
history, and she’s genuine at that!”

I couldn’t help
seeing the humor of Holmes’ statement and soon all of us were laughing, forced
by circumstances wrought by Professor Moriarty, to spend the night in
conversation. As it turned out, that night, as well as the entire adventure,
proved to be most satisfying after all.

Return to table of
contents

IT
was my general practice, when finishing one of my numerous stories about my
good friend Sherlock Holmes, to dispatch the manuscript by post to my literary
agent, Arthur Conan Doyle.

But there was
one occasion when I received a telegram from Mr. Doyle requesting my presence
to discuss publication matters. Holmes had recently come to London to purchase
some rare books on alchemy and was, at the same time, all too happy to share a
weekend with me at my lodgings. As I stood reading the note from Mr. Doyle,
Holmes was preoccupied at the time playing his violin, which he had brought
with him. As I was in no need at the time to concentrate on my writing, I took
the opportunity of excusing myself.

“Going to see
your agent, Mr. Doyle?” Holmes said, his bow poised above the violin.

“How the devil
did you guess, Holmes?”

“Watson, look
down at your side,” he commented, pointing the bow at me. I gazed down at
myself, but saw nothing unusual. He saw my puzzlement and, with a chiding look,
put his violin and bow aside, then walked over to me.

“This, my dear
fellow, is what told me,” he said gently touching the box tucked tightly under
my arm.

“My dispatch
box! Of course,” I replied with a look of embarrassment on my face.

“Who, except
you, Watson, would bother to drag his dispatch box with him. A dispatch box
that has for years been the sole repository of every exaggerated tale you have
written about my various criminal cases?”

“Holmes,” I
said, cut to the quick by his displeasure over my work, “possibly you are
right! And now, no longer wishing to be insulted for the many hours I have
devoted to relating your unusual cases, I will take my leave. Good day!”

I had reached
the front door, thoroughly disgruntled by Holmes’ attitude, when I heard him
shouting to me from my study.

“Watson! I meant
no harm. It is merely the view of a man whose occupational endeavors have
instilled in him a cynicism that, even to my dearest friend, manifests itself
quite often. I am truly sorry.”

“Thank you,
Holmes,” I returned, feeling much the better for his apology, “I must hurry now.”

“And I, dear
chap, must hurry back to my violin and another bout with Mozart. Have a good
meeting, Watson!”

It was not long
before I had made my way across town by cab to find myself seated before Mr.
Doyle, a man of enormous size and strength, a large moustache covering his face
and the rugged good looks of a well traveled, well educated individual.

“Dr. Watson, the
publication of your previous Sherlock Holmes stories has been most successful
and, for us both, most gratifying. I called you here because I feel it is time
to gather your unpublished stories together and organize them in book form. It’ll
mean good profits for you.”

“That’s
splendid, Doyle, absolutely splendid!” I said quite pleased by his words.

“That is why I
asked you to bring along your dispatch box, your notes, and all your newly
completed stories. I propose we take some time to look over your work, have
some lunch, and return to finalize the arrangement of the stories in some
proper order. I’d like to read everything while you are here so that we may
discuss which stories to use for the book. Does this appeal to you?”

“Perfectly. It
isn’t often an author is given time to work closely with his agent on such
matters. And I would invite the chance to have some say on how the book be put
together.”

We spent the entire
day going over every detail of every story I had as yet unpublished. It was
long work and difficult, with some of my stories, such as THE GIANT RAT OF
SUMATRA, being rejected due to its extreme length.

It was almost
midnight when, at last, Mr. Doyle pushed aside the last remaining story.

“Well, doctor, I
believe we almost have a book here.”

“Almost?” I said
in dismay.

“It lacks but
one story to give us enough for a good sized book. Have you anything else we
may look at?”

“I do have some
notes here,” I said, quite fatigued now by the long day, as I reached for my
note pad in my inside coat pocket, “but they are sketchy at best.”

I handed them
over and Doyle sat for a moment reading them. There was a look of excitement on
his face as he turned to me, his moustache turning up in a great smile.

“That’s the
ticket! This one will make a perfect ending for the book. Can you fill in the
details so I may have a better idea of what the story is all about?”

“If you’ll just
hand me my note pad so I can make reference to it, I believe I can.”

He sat back,
folding his great arms across his stomach, waiting for me to begin. At first I
was a bit hesitant, having to rely on my brief notes, but the story soon came
along as my memory brought back each vivid detail. This then, is how the
adventure transpired:

Holmes had been
working on his book “The Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with some
observations on the segregation of the Queen.” He had been engaged in writing
it when the adventure of which I speak took place. It was in the summer of
1908, I remember. I had managed to persuade Holmes to leave his Sussex bee farm
for a few weeks and to join me for a holiday in the little fishing village of
Kingsgate, in Kent. We were staying at a charming little inn called The
Fisherman’s Arms, and for the first few days our holiday was a delightful one.
One afternoon, when we had finished a late tea, we had decided to sit outside
on the lawn sunning ourselves, and enjoying our pipes. Holmes sat back in his
chair, his long thin fingers pressed together, gazing thoughtfully at the
multi-colored fishing boats bobbing at anchor in the harbor. We sat quietly for
some time like this in the pleasantness of the warm sun, the sea air
invigorating, the sound of birds singing their tuneful melodies, and a gentle
breeze touching us. Holmes finally turned to me and spoke.

“Watson, you’re
really a splendid companion. I can’t think of anyone else who would let me
smoke my pipe in silence for half an hour without asking me what I’m thinking
about.”

“That’s not very
surprising, Holmes, after all the years we had been together.”

“Well,
nevertheless,” he returned, “the gift is a rare one, old chap, and I appreciate
it.”

“Thank you,
Holmes. By the way, since the half hour is up, what have you been thinking about?”

Holmes laughed,
his eyes twinkling.

“If you must
know, Watson, I’ve been thinking about the lack of enterprise in the modern
criminal. Audacity and romance seems to have passed forever from the criminal
world. Read this note I received this morning while you were bathing. See for
yourself how low I have sunk.”

I took the note
and immediately became aware of the strong scent of perfume. Holmes relit his
pipe, waiting for me to read the note, which said:

‘Mr. Holmes, I
am staying in the same inn as yourself and as I have had a very frightening
experience I thought perhaps you would help me please do. Mary Victor.’

“Unusual
sentence structure, Holmes. No commas.”

“An exciting
document, isn’t it?” Holmes said, his voice tinged with sarcasm, “written on
Lavender note paper, reeking of perfume and the handwriting obviously that of
an adolescent girl.”

“You haven’t
bothered to answer this note, of course.”

“Oh yes I have,
Watson. While you were still bathing I sent a message back by our good landlord
that I would be glad to see her.”

“Whatever for,
Holmes? You came down here to complete your handbook on bee farming.”

Holmes didn’t
reply at first, but leaned forward in his chair, a look of annoyance crossing
his countenance.

“Confound it.
You hear that constant chirping? It’s coming from those two wretched canaries
getting their sun bath on the window sill above us.”

“I think it’s
rather jolly to hear the little fellows singing away up there,” I said.

“I find the
sound most distracting. Let’s go inside, Watson.”

We rose and
began our walk the short distance to the inn. I had wanted to stay a bit longer
and continue my enjoyment of the outdoors, but I also did not mind deferring to
Holmes’ wish.

“You know, those
birds are owned by a charming couple I met in the dining room yesterday; a Mr.
and Mrs. Wainright. I had quite a nice chat with them.”

“I’m afraid
their charm will escape me as long as their pets continue to tweet in that
irritating manner. You’ve spoken of the peace and quiet of the country inn,
Watson, and yet I find that the incessant chirping of canaries put me off on my
concentration and, therefore, on continuing my writing.”

Once back in our
room, Holmes slammed shut the windows to lessen the sound of the canaries. He
seated himself at the table to continue his work on bee farming while I perused
one of the local newspapers. It was not long, though, when we heard a knock on
our door.

“Come in!”
Holmes said, putting his work aside. When the door opened a young girl entered,
very beautiful, but shy, and seemingly quite disturbed.

“Ah, Miss Mary
Victor, I presume?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes.”

“Please come in
and shut the door. This is my old friend, Dr. Watson. You may speak quite
freely in front of him. Now, sit down, young lady, and tell me what’s troubling
you.”

She curtsied to
me and I nodded back as she seated herself. She held a folded piece of paper in
her hands and constantly pulled at it as she spoke, directly indicating her
nervousness.

“Mr. Holmes, I
came down here from London to get away from someone, but I’ve been followed. I’ve
been afraid to leave the inn until last night when I felt I couldn’t stand
being cooped up any longer. So I went for a walk on the seashore. Someone
followed me, Mr. Holmes. I ran back here as fast as I could, but by doing so,
he now knows where I live, and I’m frightened. Please help me.”

“My dear Miss
Victor,” Holmes said coldly, “I’m afraid you must be much more specific before
I can help you. Who has followed you down here and why are you afraid of him?”

“I’ll tell you
the whole story,” she continued, “it will sound strange to you, but, I swear it’s—”

She paused for a
moment as she looked out the window, then quite suddenly stood up.

“There he is
again! Down by the gate! I’m going to my room!”

“Now, now, don’t
you be frightened, Miss Victor,” I said, trying to calm her, “I’m sure we’ll be
able—”

Without waiting
for me to finish, she rushed from our room, slamming the door behind her.

“Bless my soul,
what an extraordinary thing!” I remarked in bewilderment. Holmes had gone to the
window to see who had frightened the young girl.

“I don’t see
anyone outside who might have frightened her,” he said with curiosity. “There
are two or three fishermen loitering about, but . . . . Wait a minute. There’s
a young fellow walking up the path. Come on, Watson, let’s see who he is.”

“Good gracious
me, here we go again!” I said, greatly annoyed by these constant interruptions
to our vacation.

“I think we’ll
take the liberty of accosting him.”

Holmes rushed
down the stairs and out the front door, I in quick step behind him.

“Excuse me, sir,”
Holmes shouted at the young man, “are you looking for Miss Mary Victor?”

“Is she young
and pretty?” he returned.

“Yes sir, she
is, and extremely so,” I said.

“Then I’m
looking for her. Where can I find her?”

“I can see you’re
being facetious, sir,” Holmes commented.

“Well, there’s
no harm in that, is there? By the way, who are you gentlemen, may I ask?”

“My name is
Holmes, and this is my friend, Dr. Watson.”

“I’m Basil
Carter. You’re not Sherlock Holmes, are you?”

“That is my name.”

“I thought you
seemed familiar. I know your brother, Mycroft.”

“Oh, indeed,” Holmes
laughed. “Then I presume you are connected with the foreign office.”

“Yes, I’m in the
consular service.”

“Are you staying
at the inn, young man?” I asked.

“For a few days.
It’s funny that I should run into the great Sherlock Holmes.”

“Why, may I ask?”
Holmes ventured.

“I was planning
a murder. But with you gentlemen here, I see that I shall have to be very
discreet.”

“Who is your
intended victim, may I inquire?” Holmes asked.

“There are two
of them. The two canaries in the room next to mine. The wretched creatures have
been driving me mad.”

Holmes and I
laughed heartily.

“I quite
sympathize with you, sir,” Holmes proffered. “I’ve been thinking of committing
a slight case of mayhem on them myself.”