The Problem of Threadneedle Street (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 2) (16 page)

“But you can track him?”

He shook his head dejectedly. “On the contrary, Watson. Without further clues, I fear we shall never find him amid the millions in this great city. There are simply an almost infinite number of places where he could hide.”

“So what shall you do?”

“I am doing it. I am waiting. Eventually he will make a move, even if it is but a feint, and then I will seize my opening and sink my blade home.”

“And how can I be of any assistance?”

“I assure you, Watson, that if some occasion arises that falls within your purview, I shall not fail to utilize you.”

Fortunately, we had not much longer to wait. A telegram arrived for Holmes. It ran:

“What suggestion was that, Holmes?”

“I asked Gregson to send a man around to each of the banks in the city in order to obtain lists of all of the recent accounts established at the respective institutions. It would then be a simple matter to see if all of these individuals had actually opened those accounts, or if our Mr. Wild had replicated his behavior. From Gregson’s note, it sounds like my name may have again been taken in vain.”

I frowned in confusion. “I have studied your maps, Holmes. There is no river under Silvester’s bank.”

“Yes, what of it?”

“Well, how will they get in? A simple tunnel from a neighboring building?”

Holmes shook his head. “No, Watson, he has tried that before. We are dealing with a terribly clever man, who changes his method to suit the locale. We will have to inspect the site to see if we can deduce what method he might employ.”

When we arrived at Pudding Lane, Gregson was standing in the foyer of the bank. The inspector was deep in conversation with a familiar looking man, but when he noticed us, he beckoned us forward. Gregson shook his head ruefully. “I don’t know how you thought to investigate this, Mr. Holmes, but you were spot on. I, for one, believed you were backing the wrong horse.”

“Indeed, Gregson, sometimes the dark horse is the one to stake your winnings on. So, you’ve found a suspicious new account?”

“Yes, sir. It is rather cool of him to consider another job so soon and so near, but it must be him, beyond all doubt.”

“How do you know for certain, Gregson? Did they use my name again?”

“Not at all, Mr. Holmes. They used Dr. Watson’s.”

Holmes burst into a hearty laugh. “A salute, Watson, an undeniable salute to your role in the firm!” said he. “I feel the presence of an enemy whose broadside is as quick and as devastating as my own. As a matter of fact, burglars who have done a good stroke of business are, as a rule, only too glad to enjoy the proceeds in peace and quiet without immediately embarking upon another perilous undertaking. We can therefore safely assume that this is in fact the work of our Mr. Wild. I had not put Silvester’s high on my list, however. I thought he might target Lloyd’s
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or the City and Midlands Bank.”
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“I too am most surprised that anyone would be so foolish to target my bank,” groaned the man with whom Gregson had been talking. He was a well-built middle-aged fellow, with a frank honest face and a slight, crisp, yellow moustache. He wore a very shiny top-hat and a well-cut suit. His face was round and ruddy and his mouth pulled down in an expression of distress.

With some amazement, I realized that I knew the man, though I had not seen him in a very long time. “Mr. Hall Pycroft?” I stammered.

“The very same, Doctor, and it is a mighty fine thing to see you and Mr. Holmes again after all these years. It’s been, what, a score of them?”
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If Holmes was surprised by Mr. Pycroft’s presence he hid it well. “So you are now the Manager of Silvester’s are you, Mr. Pycroft? I suppose that makes great sense that you have risen from the ranks of the clerks. I always recognized that you had great pecuniary ability, with your amazing memory for financial minutia.”

“And you had the good sense, of course, to once hire Sherlock Holmes,” said I, laughing.

“Indeed,” said Mr. Pycroft, chuckling ruefully. “I have Mr. Holmes to thank for repairing my reputation, so that I could even have had this opportunity.”

“Think nothing of it,” said Holmes. “But you expressed surprise that Silvester’s would be targeted. Why is that?”

“Well, Mr. Holmes, I have made some modifications to our security protocols, with Mr. Silvester’s approval, of course. I am confident that it would be most difficult for a thief to make his way into our vault. In fact, our reputation has spread. We are now known, in circles that matter, as the most secure bank in the City. The Old Lady may have her share of titled folk, but the smart set deposits their wealth here.”

“Would you show us what you have done? Pray leave nothing out, no matter how trivial,” asked Holmes.

“It would be my very great pleasure. Now, then, Mr. Holmes, first of all, you can see, as soon as you enter the bank, our vault upon display. It is not tucked away in some dank basement where no one can keep an eye on it.” He waved to the great steel doors in front of us.

“And is it lined?” I asked.

“Of course, Doctor. We spared no expense during the remodel five years ago. All six sides are lined with twelve-inch reinforced steel. It would take the most modern diamond drill at least fifteen hours to penetrate it.
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Needless to say, the vault is inspected more often than that, even upon weekends and Bank Holidays. Either Mr. Silvester or I look in upon it every single day of the year. Thus, anyone attempting to tunnel in would be deeply disappointed.”

“But could they not tunnel underneath a crate held within the vault, such that you would never see anything?” I postulated.

“Excellent, Doctor!” exclaimed Mr. Pycroft. “The same concern had occurred to me. Hence, all crates are set atop carefully constructed wooden frames about six inches high, such that almost every square foot of the vault’s floor is able to be inspected.”

“But they could always go through the main door of the vault.”

“That would be most difficult, Doctor. First of all, they would have to enter the main building, into which there are only two doors. The rear door can only be opened from the inside, and the front door is under constant surveillance.”

“What about the roof?” inquired Holmes. “I note that you have a very fine glass dome, which would be child’s play for a thief to penetrate.”

“Ah, yes, but you also may have noted, Mr. Holmes, the unique situation of our building. We border essentially no one, with streets on every side save one. And the building closest to us is far shorter. How would a thief even get on the roof? Unless you expect them to climb up six sheer stories?”

Holmes waved his hand. “But let us say that someone did make their way into the bank, they could then disable the guards and allow a master cracksman sufficient time to open the door.”

Mr. Pycroft shook his head again. “I am afraid that there are no guards to disable, Mr. Holmes. Instead, we use a little contraption that I like to call the ‘watchtower.’” He pointed to an unusual feature of the bank. It was a projection from high up on the front of the Bank. It was large enough to hold a seated man, and reminded me of an Egyptian oriel window.
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A set of stairs led up to a stoutly-built door, which could be barred from the inside. Apertures on both sides allowed a clear view both into the bank and out onto the street. “As you can see,” Pycroft explained, “the guard in the watchtower has a full view of the vault door throughout the night. He would instantly spot any man approaching it and could call the police on the installed telephone.”

“Wires can be cut.”

“The guard also possesses a very loud bell which can be rung in order to summon one of the constables on the street.”

“He could be drugged with opium or some other narcotic,” opined Holmes.
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Mr. Pycroft shook his head. “First of all, the guard brings his own food. That significantly limits the access anyone would need in order to introduce some substance. Secondly, the rounding City constables check upon him every twenty minutes. Even the best cracksman in Europe could not get through that door so quickly, much less make off with anything.”

“They could neutralize the constables as well.”

Pycroft smiled at Holmes’ multitude of clever suggestions. “But the rounds of the constables take them through police headquarters at Bishopsgate as well. If one failed to turn up, half of London would be roused along his route in order to locate him.”

“You really have thought of everything, Mr. Pycroft. I commend you. Ah, what have we here?” Holmes’ attention had been distracted by a portrait of an elderly and rotund gentleman. This depiction had a high level of verisimilitude, and included the man’s balding pate, which was ringed round with tufts of white hair, and the fact that the man’s formal suit strained at the cummerbund. He had clearly posed in the foyer of the very bank in which we stood, the vault at his back, his hands spread slightly open as if to welcome customers inside. My own expertise on portraiture was limited, but even I could tell that the artist had a remarkably realistic style.

“That is Mr. Aldous Silvester, the owner of the bank,” answered Hall Pycroft.

“It is recently painted, is it not?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Pycroft, frowning. “How could you know that?”

Holmes smiled. “I have very astute senses, Mr. Pycroft, and can still smell some of the turpentine-thinned paint, which can take up to three weeks to dry. Furthermore, since I do not detect any scent of varnish, I can deduce that the painting is less than a year old, for surely the master that painted this would have returned to seal his work for all of eternity.”

“Is that important? I cannot see how it could have any possible bearing upon the case?”

“Perhaps not,” said Holmes, “but as Watson could tell you, I consider myself something of a connoisseur of paintings, and I imagine that I have seen the work of this artist before. Do you recall his name?”
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“Let me think,” said Mr. Pycroft slowly. “He was a Frenchman, or perhaps a Belgian. Achille Pendré was his name. Mr. Silvester seemed to think that he was rather well known, with works hanging in many of the Bond Street galleries.”

“Yes, I think that is correct. Perhaps even in some of our finer museums. In any case, I have seen enough and bid you adieu.”

“But Mr. Holmes,” called out Hall Pycroft, “do you think we are at risk of an assault?”

“I very much fear so, but how and when are still matters that I have yet to determine. When I do so, Mr. Pycroft, I promise you will be the first to know. Until then, I urge you to remain vigilant.”

Holmes was silent during much the cab ride back to Pall Mall. I could tell that he was deep in thought about what we had learned at Silvester’s Bank. For my part, I was much perplexed. The precautions put into place by Mr. Pycroft seemed insurmountable. Only a great fool would attempt to penetrate them, and I had little hope that our enemy was so imprudent.

Finally Holmes sighed and glanced over at me. “What do you make of it, Watson?”

“I confess to being mystified, Holmes.”

He smiled wanly. “Yes, we hold many of the threads, but enough have slipped through our fingers that the picture is not yet clear. However, our adversary is not infallible. He has constructed a plot of great intricacy, and like any complicated machine, it takes but the smallest snag to snarl it. He will make another mistake, and when he does, I will have him.”

Little did Holmes know that his words were prophetic, for we were soon blessed by the appearance of Inspector Lestrade on the doorstep of Mycroft’s Pall Mall chambers. His small, wiry, bulldoggish features were contrite as he gazed at my companion in a slightly reverential way.

Before the inspector could even state his case, Holmes cut him off. “Really, Lestrade, as you may have heard, I am somewhat busy today,” said Holmes brusquely. “I will get to your missing museum items in good time. It is as if some gaping maw has opened and swallowed both your treasures and Gregson’s gold.”

“So you think the same man was involved in both crimes?” I asked.

He nodded. “Although it is unusual, Watson, for a criminal to carry on two such feats so temporally joined, and with vastly different
modus operandi
, I think it highly unlikely that two such masters are at play simultaneously.”

“I’ve heard about the Old Lady, Mr. Holmes,” interjected Lestrade, “and I know that Gregson has claimed your attentions, but something else has occurred with which I needed a bit of assistance. Even if you cannot come in person, perhaps you could suggest some starting point?”

Holmes sighed with impatience, but motioned for Lestrade to continue. “Pray tell, what great mystery has arisen this time?”

“Well, Mr. Holmes, it is something strange down at Runnymede.”
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“Has the Magna Carta also vanished?” asked Holmes, with no small degree of sarcasm.

“No, Mr. Holmes, there is a dead man in the Long Mede pasture. We are uncertain of his name, for he was missing both his coat and his identity papers.”