The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part II (20 page)

“No sign of a break-in?” said Lestrade.

Pardman shook his head. “None that I could see, sir.”

“And Lady Margaret,” said Lestrade. “What time did you come down?”

“Just past six-thirty,” said Lady Margaret. “I'd had a bad dream, and woke up convinced something had happened to my painting!”

Lestrade rubbed his chin. “A dream, eh?” he said. “That's quite a coincidence.”

“Mr. Pardman,” I said, “could we have a look at this safe?”

“Of course,” said Pardman. “Anything I can do to help. This way, gentlemen.”

We left Lady Margaret and Ryder behind in the lobby as Pardman ushered us into a spartan office, devoid of any charm or character. No pictures adorned its windowless walls, and the only furniture was a single desk, two chairs and the large safe pushed into the far corner. The only luxury the room offered was its fireplace; a prize, I was sure, during the cold London winters.

“As you can see, gentlemen,” said Pardman, “the door is the only way in or out.”

Lestrade studied the safe. “I see no signs of tampering. What about you, Doctor?”

I studied the safe, looking for the scratches and dents that might indicate foul play. “None that I can see,” I said at last. “Who knows the combination to the safe?”

“Only myself,” said Pardman, “although I do keep it recorded on my desk ledger.”

“Isn't that a security risk?” said Lestrade.

“Maybe,” said Pardman, “but I've got a terrible memory, so it's better to have it written down than not. Besides, the office is locked at all times when I'm not here.”

Lestrade turned away, whispering aside to me so that Pardman could not hear, “Little doubt how the thief got into the safe, is there Doctor?”

“Indeed, Inspector,” I whispered back. “But there still remains the question of how he got into the office in the first place.”

Lestrade turned back to Pardman. “Who all has the key to your office?” he asked.

“There's only one key, Inspector,” said Pardman. “I keep it with me at all times.” From his pocket he withdrew a keyring, singling one out.

“That's a rather unusual looking key, Mr. Pardman,” I said.

“A Roman design, Doctor,” said Pardman. “A trick for my memory to know which key fits my office lock.”

“Now then, this Ryder,” said Lestrade. “How long has he been with the hotel?”

“Less than a year,” said Pardman, “but he came with references from the Hotel Cosmopolitan. I know the manager over there personally.”

“And how long have you been with the Metropole, Mr. Pardman?” I asked.

“It'll be twenty years this January,” said Pardman. “I'm second only to the hotel's owner, Mr. Saul.”

I knew the name of Zacharias Saul very well. He was reputed to be one of the richest men in London.

I looked around the room, trying to think beyond the obvious, searching for any clues for how the thief might have entered the office. “This fireplace,” I said. “Is it possible someone could have entered the office by the chimney?”

Lestrade shook his head. “I thought of that, Doctor,” he said, “but if they had entered by the fireplace, they would have left traces in the ashes, and as you can see the ashes are undisturbed.”

“Besides, the chimney's only a foot wide,” said Pardman. He began to chuckle. “We joke about it around here. Say that it makes it very difficult for Father Christmas.”

“What did you say?” I whispered.

“Father Christmas,” said Pardman. “He's supposed to come down the chimney...”

Memories rushed into my head. “Ryder!” I said. “James Ryder! Of course!”

I rushed out into the lobby, pointing my finger in accusation.

“Constable,” I cried. “Seize that man!”

The constable seemed surprised, but did as he was told, seizing Ryder by him arm. Ryder struggled, but soon realized the constable was too much for him and his resistance evaporated into pitiful wails.

“Please, Doctor Watson!” he cried. “I haven't done anything this time! Have mercy!”

“Holmes gave you mercy once, Ryder,” I said, “but he's not here to do it again.”

Lestrade barged back into the Lobby, followed by Pardman. “Explain yourself, Doctor!” said Lestrade.

“Certainly,” I said. “It was several Christmases past that Holmes and I investigated the theft of the Blue Carbuncle from the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Holmes's investigation determined the thief to be this man! James Ryder!”

Lestrade blinked in disbelief. “Ryder stole the Carbuncle?” he said. “And Holmes just let him go?”

“A thief!” cried Pardman with indignation. “A thief working the desk of my hotel!”

“Why'd you do it, Ryder?” I said. “You promised Holmes you'd flee the country and never steal again!”

Ryder stifled back a sob. “I tried to leave, Doctor Watson,” he said, “but London's the only home I've ever known! I even tried to stick it out at the Cosmopolitan, but the manager came to suspect me, so I had to leave. I was trying to make a fresh start here at the Metropole. I didn't steal the painting! Honest I didn't!”

“We'll see about that,” said Lestrade. “Constable, hold him tight while I search his pockets.” Lestrade turned Ryder's pockets out, and searched through their meager contents. Unsatisfied, he looked about the lobby for more. “Where's his coat?”

“I believe I saw it behind the lobby desk, Inspector,” said Pardman.

Lestrade strode around to the back of the lobby desk, seized the coat and raised it aloft like a prize. He thrust his hands deep into the pockets and fished about until he seized upon an object which he pulled out with a flourish of triumph. “Ah-hah!” he said. “What's this, then? Do you recognize this little beauty, Mr. Pardman?”

In Lestrade's hand was a metal key with the same distinctive Roman design we had seen only moments before.

“Of course I do,” said Pardman. “That is a duplicate of the key to my office.”

“I thought as much,” said Lestrade. “James Ryder, you are under arrest for the theft of the
Sleeping Cardinal
!”

“But that key isn't mine!” said Ryder. “I've never seen it before in my life!”

“That's what they all say,” said Lestrade, but then he began to laugh.

“What's so funny, Inspector?” I asked.

“It looks like your Mr. Holmes was finally wrong about something!” said Lestrade. “Letting a criminal go free like that. Mercy, indeed! Just goes to show you; once a thief, always a thief.”

Despite Ryder's protests Lestrade led him away, assuring both Pardman and Lady Margaret that he would procure the painting's location during interrogation at the Yard. I watched Lestrade escort Ryder away down the Strand with the nagging suspicion that I had missed something, some detail that would turn this case around, but I couldn't then put my finger on it.

Holmes interrupted me, taking me away from my tale. “Leave the dramatics for your readers at the
Strand
, Watson,” he said. “Please limit yourself to the facts.

“If you'd rather I stopped...” I began.

“Oh, not at all, Doctor!” said Holmes. “While your prose may be overly colorful the problem is to my liking. Pray continue.”

The following evening I spent in the manner which had become my custom: working on my memoirs in the company of my beloved wife. Mary was seated by my side reading the evening paper, and cried aloud as she came across something that sparked her interest.

“Did you see that you're in the paper tonight, John?”

“Hm?” I said, putting my pen aside. “No, I didn't. What does it say?”

Mary cleared her throat and began to read. “‘Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard arrested James Ryder for the theft of the painting, the
Sleeping Cardinal
, from the Hotel Metropole. Assisting in the investigation was the long-time associate of Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson!' My famous husband.” She smiled at me, but that smile crumbled as a fit of coughing overwhelmed her.

I poured Mary some water, which she gratefully accepted. “Mary,” I said as she drank, “you should get to bed. You know you aren't well.”

“I'll be all right, John,” she said, putting the water glass aside. “I'm just so happy for you. There's a sparkle in your eye when you're involved in a mystery. It's just like you used to say about Sherlock Holmes; you're happiest when there's a problem to unravel.”

“Perhaps so,” I said. “I just can't get this
Cardinal
business out of my mind. Something doesn't feel right about it.”

“But you have the right man, surely!” said Mary. “Ryder's a thief twice over.”

“He certainly had ample opportunity,” I said. “Although the idea that he thought he'd be able to get away with it strikes me as incredible.”

“If Scotland Yard is happy,” said Mary, “then you should be too.”

“I suppose you're right,” I said. “But I'd be even happier if we can get you well again, Mary.”

Mary put her arms around me. “I'd like nothing better, John.”

I kissed her then, relieved that her coughing had, for the moment, subsided.

In the days following Lestrade was kind enough to keep me informed of his progress, or lack thereof, with the investigation. James Ryder continued to insist he was innocent, but Lestrade assured me it would only be a matter of time before he'd crack and give up the location of the painting. And that would likely have been the end of my involvement in the matter if not for a message that arrived at our doorstep a week later.

I was writing again in my study when I felt Mary's slender hand upon my shoulder. “John?” she said. “A telegram's arrived for you.”

I lay down my pen. “Oh? Who's it from?”

“It doesn't say,” answered Mary. “Just an initial at the bottom. The letter ‘M'.”

“M?” I said, excitement building within me, spurred by the possibilities of that initial. “Let me see that.”

Mary handed me the telegram and I read it aloud.

WHERE IS THE PAINTING? CONSULT SHERLOCK'S CONTACTS. CONSIDER THE ASHES.

– M

I confess to being puzzled. “Consider the ashes...?” I mused.

“What does it mean, John?” asked Mary. “Who are Sherlock's contacts?”

“Holmes kept numerous sources among London's criminal class,” I said. “They helped him in his investigations.”

“And you know these gentlemen?” I could hear the disapproval in her tone.

“A few of them.” I saw no reason to scare my wife with the number of miscreants who I had come into acquaintance with during my time in Baker Street.

Mary was not fooled for a moment. “John,” she said. “It might be dangerous.”

“It might be at that.”

Mary sighed. “But there's no stopping you, is there? I know that look in your eye. All right, John. Just be careful.”

“I will, Mary,” I said. “For your sake.”

The telegram had reawakened the case in my mind. What had happened to the
Sleeping Cardinal
? There seemed two possibilities; either it had been hidden within the hotel prior to Ryder's arrest, or it had been secreted away from the hotel to be sold on the black market. Seeing as the police had conducted a thorough search of the hotel, I decided to pursue the second possibility. To that end, I sought out a man I only knew as ‘Jones,' a shady sort I had seen frequently in our rooms at 221B Baker Street. His information had been instrumental in solving the Darlington substitution case several years ago.

I found him drinking in a disreputable pub in the lower-east end of London. I sidled up beside him at the bar.

“Is that you, Jones?” I said.

Jones looked askance at me. “Who wants to know?”

“My name is Doctor Watson. You might remember from the times you visited Sher - “

Jones clamped his hand over my mouth, silencing me mid-name. “Shhh! Shhh!” he said. “Not so loud! You want everyone in the pub to know who you is? Yeah, I remembers you, Doctor.” He dropped his tone to a whisper. “Did Mr. H. send you? Haven't seen him around lately.”

“No,” I said. “Mr. H. is not in London at this time.”

“Pity,” said Jones, turning his attentions back to his drink. “He owes me money, he does.”

“I'm looking for information,” I said. “I was wondering if you can help me.”

“Well, guv,” said Jones, “help ain't cheap. It'll cost you.”

“And just how much will it cost me?” I said.

“Depends on just how helpful you want me to be,” said Jones.

“I'm looking for a painting.”

Jones chuckled. “Oh! And not just any paintin'! You be lookin' for the
Sleepin' Cardinal
that got lifted out of the Metropole last week.”

“Why, yes,” I said, surprised. “How did you know that?”

“‘Cause you ain't the only one,” said Jones. “Scotland Yard's been down here lookin' for it too.”

I felt a tinge of excitement. “You have it, then?”

“Good lord, no, guv!” said Jones. “You think I'm going to touch somethin' that hot?”

My excitement withered. “Then this has been a wasted journey,” I moaned.

“Aw, cheer up, Doctor,” said Jones. “I might not be able to help you find the paintin', but I might be able to give you a hint as to who took it.” He looked around to make sure no one was listening, and then spoke to me in low tones. “There's this fellow, see?” he said. “Works at the Hotel Metropole, and he's in for some serious money with the local bookies. They say he likes the ponies and isn't the luckiest man in the world.”

“Can you describe this fellow?” I said.

Jones smiled. “Course I can,” he said. “But not until I see some coin.”