The Oriental Casebook of Sherlock Holmes (15 page)

From an early age, Anton helped his father. Beginning as an apprentice to one of the gang members, he rapidly learned the skills of burglary, safecracking, and the quick disposal of stolen treasure. So skilled did the gang become that very often there was no trace of their illegal entry, only a blank spot where a painting was missing from a wall, or an empty space on a bedroom table where a jewel box had once stood.

Julius Furer, now at the height of his career, invested his ill-gotten gains in legitimate business and purchased a large house in London, where he rapidly became one of the city’s most celebrated hosts. By this time his depredations had become truly international. Several thefts from the Louvre, including the removal of Massigny’s “L’Adonis” and Vernet’s “St. Sebastian,” were later found to be the work of the Furer gang.

After several years of uninterrupted success, father and son finally overstepped themselves when they tried to intercept a large shipment of Egyptian antiquities destined for the British Museum. One of the gang was seized, and confessed. Julius Furer was arrested, convicted, and jailed. He eventually died in prison. Anton, however, being in Alexandria at the time of the discovery, escaped into Upper Egypt and disappeared entirely. He was presumed to be dead, supposedly having been killed by one of the gang who had escaped with him and was later apprehended in Addis Ababa. Holmes alone believed that he was still alive, for he sensed his presence through the bald reports in the newspapers of art disappearances and archaeological depredations throughout the world.

“But are you sure, Holmes?” I asked him one day. “How do you know that it is indeed Furer who is behind these crimes?”

The latest report was before us, one that spoke of the disappearance of several pieces of sculpture from a museum in Constantinople.

“My dear Watson, if one follows a particular criminal for a time and carefully studies his methods, it is easy to recognise his hand at work, just as if one had a photograph of the scene at the time of the crime. In this way, one easily distinguishes among criminals. Thus, I know for instance that Furer is involved in the murder of Roger Dannett, but not in the recent attempt to steal several antiquities from the Victoria and Albert.”

“For the life of me, I do not see his connection with Dannett,” I said.

“You know my methods, Watson, apply them,” he said impatiently.

I was about to object that knowing his methods was useless without his talent and knowledge, but even as he spoke, the faraway look that I had seen so often on previous occasions had already passed into his eyes, and I knew that I would hear nothing more from his lips that day. His great brain was absorbed in the solution of some other crime, and it would remain so until he had solved it or had gone as far as he could without moving from his favourite armchair.

Holmes never mentioned Anton Furer again, and it was only a decade or so later that I learned of his subsequent career. It was late in the afternoon one day in June, 1895. It had been a particularly warm day. Holmes had been excessively moody and complained about the lengthening days and his inability to sleep. He had once again taken to cocaine. As I was expostulating on its bad effects, Mrs. Hudson knocked and announced that a gentleman was here to see Mr. Holmes.

“Halloo, Watson, perhaps I shall not need the drug after all. You may save your remonstrances for another occasion.” He passed to me the card which Mrs. Hudson had just given him: Col. C. H. Ridlington, O.B.E. Ret. 5th Royal Gurkha Rifles, Old House, Wyck Rissington, Gloucestershire.

“Do show the gentleman in, Mrs. Hudson.”

Colonel Ridlington was a tall, florid man of once muscular build, attested to by his military carriage, but he had grown an enormous paunch which bore witness to a very sedentary life in recent years.

“Please sit down, Colonel Ridlington, and allow me to introduce my trusted friend, Dr. Watson. You may speak before him with the same confidence that you may before me.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I should like to say at the outset that I am here because what has happened is rather trivial on the surface, and I hope that I shall not be wasting your time by relating the matter.”

“I shall be most happy to give you my opinion as to whether the case is trivial or whether it has a deeper aspect to it,” said Holmes. “What often appears to be unimportant to the layman is often of vital interest to me.”

“Very well, then. Let me explain why I have come to you. I served in our Indian army for thirty years before I retired at the beginning of this year. I was stationed throughout the East, but the last five years were spent in Nepal, where I was put in charge of Gurkha recruitment. I lived in Katmandu but often visited other parts of the country, including the Tarai. It was a rather easy existence, if I say so myself, for I saw no combat and did not fire a shot except on
shikar
in the jungle. My acquaintances in Nepal were many, but they were confined almost entirely to the military class and the rulers.

“It was with a certain surprise, therefore, that, a few days before my departure, I found seated across from me a Buddhist monk who spoke excellent English. He told me that he was a native of the Katmandu Valley, a Newar, and that he had studied in Ceylon and had travelled as far as England, where he had met with many interested in the Buddhist religion. He had just returned to Nepal and had visited the Buddha’s birthplace at Lumbini and had taken up residence in a small monastery on the Swayambhu hill. It was while circumambulating that great shrine, he said, that he had been given a stone sculpture of the Buddha. The donor was a rich Burmese pilgrim who through piety wished that the statue would someday be revered in the West. Having learned from one of the guards at the Residence of my imminent departure, he asked if I might take the sculpture with me to England, where it would be claimed by a monk now living in London and leading a small group of English Buddhists in the study of the Doctrine. The name of the group was the Oriental Society of London, with their shrine near Russell Square on Bedford Street. He assured me that the statue was of no consequence from an artistic point of view but that its safe arrival would do much to increase the compassion of the small band of followers of the Buddha now studying in England.

“So earnest and sincere did the monk appear that I informed him that I would be willing to take it as part of my personal belongings but that I should like to see it for myself before I gave my final consent. The monk appeared the next day, and it was as he had said: it was a modern reproduction in stone, done by a mediocre craftsman in the ancient city of Patan, and standing about thirty inches high. I accepted it and arranged that it be packaged along with my possessions. I gave it no further thought.”

“A most interesting beginning. Pray continue, my dear Colonel,” said Holmes.

“I arrived in England just two weeks ago and settled in the small village of Wyck Rissington in Gloucestershire. My family had kept a house there for many generations. Being the sole survivor and unmarried as well, I had inherited the entire estate directly upon my father’s demise five years before. I had kept an old housekeeper to look after things while I was abroad. It was unsettling to learn, therefore, when I arrived, that the housekeeper had died the year before and the house had been unattended for many months. It is a rather large mansion, Mr. Holmes, built by Sir Roger Ridlington, my ancestor, in 1779, and it showed the neglect that a recently impoverished family had been forced to ignore. I spent the first day clearing a living space for myself amidst the dusty clutter. On the following day, as I had been informed, my personal cargo promptly arrived, and I set about sorting through the souvenirs and possessions accumulated in my thirty years in the Orient.

“I am not a collector, Mr. Holmes, and so I was somewhat startled when I saw the number of objects that I had managed to accumulate through the years, thoughtlessly I might say. I promised myself that I would quickly dispose of much of what now struck me as quite useless. I sorted rather quickly and by evening I had managed to open everything and find at least a temporary dwelling for most articles of importance. It was at this moment that I remembered the Buddhist monk and his request. I searched through the remaining crates, unpacked the Buddha, and placed him gently upon a table in the drawing room. I then wrote a short note to the monk resident in London to whom it was to be delivered, informing him of the arrival of his charge and asking him to retrieve it at his earliest convenience.

“After a late supper, I continued my work. To my surprise, in one of the last remaining crates there was another figure of the Buddha, identical to the first in every way, at least to my unpracticed eye. I was a bit annoyed at having another piece of stone to store in what was already becoming a sea of odd objects. One Buddha on display was enough, I thought. Where to put the second one? I was rapidly running out of space to put things. It was then that I remembered that one of the mantels in the great hall had a secret compartment behind it. Removing the second Buddha from its crate, I placed it in the secret place away from sight, and put the empty crate in a storage closet.”

As I listened to the Colonel’s account, I threw an occasional glance at Holmes. At our visitor’s last revelation, the look of disinterested amusement that had played across his face had been replaced by the deepest concentration.

“By this time it was very late, and I had had enough,” said the Colonel.

“It was about midnight when I retired, and I slept quite soundly. I rose at about eight the following morning and went into the kitchen to prepare some tea, when I noticed that the back door was ajar. I remembered distinctly having locked it before I retired. Someone must have entered during the night, I thought. I hurried quickly to the drawing room to see if it had been vandalised. Everything, however, appeared to be in good order until I noticed, to my chagrin, that the stone Buddha was missing from the table where I had placed it. Someone had indeed entered, but I had been fortunate, for whoever it had mistaken a rather shoddy modern copy for a work of art. Nothing else appeared to be missing.”

“Most extraordinary, Colonel Ridlington,” said Holmes. “I am afraid that your account thus far leads me to believe that this is far from a trivial matter. May I suggest that you employ a guard immediately to watch your house?”

“I have taken some precautions, Mr. Holmes, at least for the time of my visit here. Had matters ended there I would not be with you today. I spent the following day in routine business in the village. I was gone for about four or five hours. When I entered the house, I noticed that the Buddha had been returned to its spot on the table in the drawing room. Nothing else in the drawing room appeared to have been disturbed until I noticed that someone had entered the storage area where I had placed the empty crate that contained the second Buddha. Whoever had entered had hoped that the break-in would not be immediately noticed. The lock had been broken, but closed to avoid notice, and the door had been shut tight. When I pulled it open, however, I found that what I had carefully stored had been thrown about as if someone had searched in a great hurry. It was then that I noticed that the crate had been smashed and broken into. The burglar had failed, however, to find the second Buddha. It was at this point that I decided to present the matter to you for your judgement.”

“I can assure you, Colonel Ridlington, that this is hardly a trivial matter,” said Holmes. “I can also assure you that, with a bit of luck, we may be able to resolve it quickly. I should like to accompany you to your home in Gloucestershire so that I may have a first-hand look at the premises. And the second Buddha, of course.”

Holmes turned to me and said, “Watson, this is a case in which I must ask you to remain here and not travel with me to Gloucestershire. I request only that you leave with us now and return at once through the back entrance, making sure that no one sees you re-enter. Remain inside until I reappear. And Watson, once you have returned, I must ask that you remain in the bedroom with the curtains drawn till dawn, when you may move about freely in the front rooms as well.”

I was at once mystified and disappointed at Holmes’s request, for I had hoped to accompany him in what appeared to be a case more interesting than I had originally thought, but I did as he requested. I knew also that it would be hopeless to ask for an explanation. The two of us left together with Colonel Ridlington. As we approached the crowd on Oxford Street we parted, and I re-entered our quarters from the back. By this time it was dusk, and I was certain that I had entered unseen.

I passed a difficult night, for the summer heat did not abate in the darkness. I finally sat on the floor below the window with a candle, trying to read my medical journals. I must have fallen asleep at last, for when I awoke, it was early morning. The candle had burned down to nothing, and I was stiff from having lain on the floor the better part of the night. I rose and went into the drawing room, my mind filled with Ridlington’s odd story of the previous afternoon. Holmes had not returned and I presumed that he was still in Gloucestershire.

It was about eleven in the morning when Mrs. Hudson appeared and said that two delivery men were downstairs with a large parcel for Mr. Holmes. I directed that they be shown up. As they entered I paid little attention, for an article on tropical diseases of the kidney had caught my eye.

“Where to, guv’na?” said one of them, a rather old man dressed in tattered clothes. I motioned to the centre of the room and kept on reading. The old man handed me a pen and a delivery slip to sign.

“Sign here, quickly, Watson,” said a familiar voice,” for we haven’t a moment to lose.”

I looked up in disbelief. As the old man straightened up, he seemed to shed years, and I knew that I was looking at my friend.

“Holmes!” I cried.

“Correct, Watson, correct! And my colleague in the transport business, Mr. Anthony Gregson of Scotland Yard.”

Gregson removed his delivery man’s cap and bowed. “My pleasure, guv’na,” he said.