The Secret Notebooks of Sherlock Holmes (19 page)

In the meantime, the reflections in the glass were shifting once more as the figures in the dumb-show changed their positions. As if anticipating the Baron’s
next move, Nils was bending down over the coffee table to place some coins by his empty cup. At the same time, a third figure whom I had not been aware of until that moment stepped forward into the frame from his position a little distance from the reception desk. He was a young, stockily-built man, dressed all in black like a manservant, but it was immediately apparent that his role was not that of a conventional gentleman’s gentleman. There was an air of menace about his movements and the manner in which he carried his hands loosely in front of him half-formed into fists like a pugilist entering a boxing ring ready for the contest.

This newcomer, I realised, was one of the Baron’s two bodyguards, the one who, as Count von Lyngstrad had remarked, followed him everywhere. He fell in a few yards behind the Baron, who had turned away and was crossing the foyer towards the hotel entrance.

Hardly had the pair of them vanished out of sight than Nils made his own move. Strolling casually, as if he had all the time in the world, he too made his way towards the great swing doors which the uniformed commissionaire was holding open for him, disappearing in turn through them into the noise and bustle of Piccadilly.

Judging it was safe to turn my head, I glanced directly towards the foyer, empty now of both the Baron, his bodyguard and Nils, the King of Scandinavia’s unobtrusive little agent, but not deserted, for there were
plenty of other people arriving and leaving all the time, a situation which I was aware Holmes was watching with keen interest. Sitting alert and upright now in his chair, his eyes were following these comings and goings, particularly those of the new arrivals.

Suddenly, he announced in a low voice, ‘Wait for me here, Watson. I shall not keep you long.’

With that, to my surprise, he rose and walked briskly across the room to the entrance hall, where a middle-aged lady and gentleman, who had just entered the hotel through the swing doors, were about to mount the stairs. Giving them a slight bow as one might to acquaintances, he made some remark at which the lady smiled and the gentleman responded. Holmes then gestured to them to precede him and, as they began to mount the stairs, he fell in behind them.

For a few moments, I was deceived by this little charade, believing that Holmes had indeed met the couple before and that, for some reason known only to himself, he wished to accompany them upstairs. Certainly the hotel staff present in the foyer, the clerks behind the desk, the doorkeeper, the pages standing about waiting to be summoned, were taken in by the ruse and raised no objection to Holmes’ intrusion into the private upper floors, normally barred to non-residents unless they had first made themselves known to the management. Once again, I found myself full of admiration at my old friend’s boldness and ingenuity which to my knowledge no other person possesses to quite the same degree.

As he promised, he returned within minutes and, as he seated himself again on the sofa, I congratulated him on his quickness of mind at which he smiled, pleased with the compliment.

‘One must always seize the moment, Watson, and, in my experience, if one waits long enough, the moment will always present itself.’

‘And was the moment worth seizing?’

‘Indeed it was, my dear fellow. I discovered two very important facts. Firstly, the Baron’s suite, number twenty-four, is on the second floor and, being an even number, must face the back of the building. Secondly, the locks on the doors are of a standard pattern and, should it be necessary, could be picked without too much difficulty. And speaking of picklocks, it is time we paid a visit to an old friend of mine, Charlie Peak, a former screwsman,
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or burglar to you, Watson, and an expert in the field.’

‘Former?’ I enquired.

‘He is seventy-four, too old, as he himself admits, for breaking into other people’s property. We will now pay the bill and take a cab to Sydenham where we shall sit at Charlie’s feet,’ Holmes replied, summoning the waiter.

To my astonishment, the cab set us down outside a neat red-brick villa with lace curtains at the windows and a brightly-polished brass knocker on the door, more the abode of a respectable bank-clerk, I would have thought, than a retired burglar.

A trim little housemaid in a spotlessly white cap and apron showed us into a parlour, where Charlie Peak sat comfortably ensconced in a large armchair among the domestic comforts of potted geraniums, buttoned velvet and family photographs.

He was a white-haired, pink-cheeked, cheerful-looking little man, his slippered feet resting on a stool and a walking stick propped up beside him.

‘Mr ’Olmes!’ he cried out in delight as we entered, holding out both his hands in welcome. ‘You’ll forgive
me, I’m sure, for not gettin’ up to greet you but the old pins ain’t what they used to be.’

Having shaken hands vigorously with both of us, he waved us towards two chairs which we drew up on either side of him, so that the three of us formed a triangle with Charlie Peak at its apex like a benevolent genius presiding at a feast.

After an exchange of tidings such as old friends indulge in after a long absence, Holmes came to the purpose of our visit.

‘Now, Charlie,’ said he. ‘As well as to have the pleasure of seeing you again, I am here to seek your expert advice.’

‘On locks, I suppose,’ the old man replied with a twinkle.

‘Of course.’

‘What sort of locks? Door? Cupboard? Chest? Safe?’

‘A metal container similar to a cash box in size, but very strong and fitted with, I believe, three separate locks, each requiring its own special key.’

Charlie Peak’s face lit up.

‘Ah, a Medici
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casket!’ he exclaimed.

‘You have heard of it?’ Holmes asked eagerly.

‘I’ve done better than that, Mr ’Olmes. I’ve ’eld one
’ere in these very ’ands. It was as beautiful an example of the locksmith’s art as I’ve ever clapped eyes on. They’re made by Signor Valori of Florence, a direct descendant, so ’e says, of Luigi Valori, the locksmith ’oo worked for the Medici family. ’E ’as a little shop in a side street be’ind that big church with the fancy black and white stonework …’

‘The Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore?’ Holmes suggested.

‘Could be,’ Charlie Peak replied, shrugging his shoulders. ‘I didn’t ask.’

‘But you have met Signor Valori?’

‘Indeed I ’ave. I’d heard of ’is special caskets and ’ow they’re impossible to open unless you ’as the keys so, seein’ as I made my livin’ in those days by pickin’ locks, I wanted to find out about ’em. So I went to ’is shop and talked to ’im about ’em.’

‘How?’ Holmes asked with genuine curiosity. ‘Does Signor Valori speak English?’

Charlie Peak gave a wheezy laugh.

‘No, Mr ’Olmes; no more’n I speak Eyetie. But when it comes to two men sittin’ down to talk about a subject they’re both in love with, if you follers me, they finds the means some’ow, whether its using the ’ands or drawin’ little pictures or actin’ it out. We managed it any’ow by one means or another. Signor Valori explained that he only makes them to order, usually for very rich people because they costs a great deal of money. In all ’is years, ’e’s only ever made four. They’re
made of the strongest steel that no ordinary cracksman can cut through and, like you said, each is fitted with three locks, every one different and so crafted that even the most skilful screwsman can’t get ’em open unless ’e knows the secret.’

‘Secret?’ Holmes demanded.

Charlie Peak winked and tapped the side of his nose.

‘’E wouldn’t tell me, Mr ’Olmes, nor ’oo ’e’s made ’em for, but as a very special favour to me, ’e showed me one ’e was workin’ on. It was a beauty! Black-japanned, it was, with a brass bird let into the lid.’

Beside me, I felt Holmes’ whole body become alert as if an electric charge had suddenly been passed through it. But his voice and manner remained matter-of-fact.

‘What kind of bird?’ he asked, as if only mildly interested.

‘I wouldn’t like to say, Mr ’Olmes. Apart from sparrers and pigeons, I can’t tell one from t’other. All I can say is, it was a big bird with a bloomin’ great beak and it was ’olding a leaf in its claws.’

‘Oh, I see,’ Holmes said, apparently losing interest. ‘Pray continue, Charlie. You were describing the Medici casket Signor Valori showed you. Were you able to examine the locks?’

‘I wasn’t given the chance. I didn’t ’ave it in my ’ands for more than a minute before Signor Valori took it off of me.’

‘A pity!’ my old friend murmured. It was quite obvious he was bitterly disappointed.

Charlie Peak watched him without speaking for a moment or two, his head on one side and his face alive with amusement. Then he said, ‘But I can do better than tell you about them, Mr ’Olmes. I can show you! See that cabinet over there? Open the bottom drawer and you’ll find a box. If you bring it to me, I’ll let you see ’ow far I got in findin’ out Signor Valori’s little secret.’

Holmes did as he was requested and produced a plain deal box about ten inches square from the bottom drawer of the cabinet, which he carried over to Charlie Peak. It was apparently heavy and, rather than place it on the old man’s knees, he set it down on a small table which stood by Charlie’s side.

‘Open it up!’ Charlie ordered. He was clearly enjoying the situation hugely.

Inside was a jumble of locks of various shapes and sizes, each one identified by a luggage label. Several of these locks which lay on top, as if of more recent construction, were joined together in pairs or, in some case, in threes. On the very top lay a small bundle about six inches long wrapped in black felt.

‘Take that one out!’ Charlie Peak instructed Holmes, pointing a gnarled index finger at one particular lock of the triple variety.

As Holmes lifted it out, its label dangled free and it was possible to see the inscription on it, which read in capital letters: ‘Medici Number Ten’.

‘Number Ten?’ Holmes murmured, raising an eyebrow.

‘My tenth and last try at making a copy of the lock
to the Medici casket. That’s what all them locks are, Mr ’Olmes – copies or originals of every lock in the land that I’d be likely to run up against in a day’s, or rather a night’s, work. It took a lifetime to build up that collection and years to break the Medici combination. Give it ’ere, sir.’

Holmes silently obliged but I could tell from the look of admiration on his face and the almost reverent manner in which he handled the lock that he was deeply impressed by the old man’s skill.

‘And them picklocks,’ Charlie added, pointing to the little felt bundle.

It contained, as we discovered when Charlie unrolled it, about a dozen slender steel rods of various widths and lengths.

‘A superb set of “bettys”,’
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Holmes remarked approvingly.

‘I ’ad ’em specially made,’ Charlie Peak replied, looking pleased at Holmes’ compliment. ‘Now, gentlemen, if you cares to gather close, I’ll show you how to work the trick. And I’ll tell you ’ow I found out about it.

‘I didn’t let on to Signor Valori that I was a screwsman. I let ’im think I was just an ordinary locksmith, sittin’ like a little kid at the feet of an expert, oohin’ and aahin’ at ’is skill. ’E was flattered, just as I meant ’im to be. So, as a great ’onour, ’e gets out three little keys and opens up the casket for me. Now, I’ve got a good memory for
the look of a key. It’s part of my trade, like you with footprints,
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Mr ’Olmes. So as soon as I left the shop, I drew pictures of the keys and ’ad ’em made up as picklocks when I got ’ome. If you look ’ere, you’ll see each one’s marked at the end with their own sign. This one’s got a little cross on it. That’s the one you use to open the centre lock first.’

As he spoke, he inserted the narrow metal rod into the central apperture before continuing with his explanation.

‘Then you twists it about to and fro until you ’ears the wards give way. But I don’t need to tell you that, do I, sir? By all accounts you’re an expert screwsman yourself. Now what follers is the first part of the trick. You leaves that “betty” in place and puts in the second, the one with the two little cuts on it, into the keyhole on the left. But don’t take that “betty” or the first one out, for it keeps them locks open. Then you moves on to the third keyhole. You get my meanin’, Mr ’Olmes?’

‘Indeed I do, Charlie,’ Holmes said.

‘Now watch this,’ the old man continued, ‘’cos ’ere comes the best part of the trick. Once you’ve opened the third lock, the other two locks close. So you ’ave to go back to the first and second lock and open ’em again. Clever, ain’t it?’

‘Yes; but not as clever as you in working out the trick. I take my hat off to you, Charlie. That is expertise at its very best.’

The old man, his cheeks flushed an even brighter pink, looked pleased as well as embarrassed by the compliment.

‘All in a day’s work, Mr ’Olmes,’ he said gruffly and, to cover up his self-consciousness, began to busy himself with replacing the set of ‘bettys’ in the box, leaving aside the three he had used to open the Medici lock as well as the lock itself.

‘If you like, you can borrer those,’ he told Holmes.

‘May I? Then I am eternally in your debt, Charlie. What can I do for you in return?’

‘Nuffin’ except to come and tell me if the trick worked for you, that’s all.’

‘I will certainly do that when I return the “bettys” and the lock,’ Holmes assured him, putting these objects into his pocket before taking leave of his friend.

‘A remarkable old fellow,’ Holmes added when, having hailed a cab in Sydenham High Street, we drove back to our lodgings, a journey which he enlivened for me with accounts of the more colourful exploits of Charlie’s career.

‘I wish I had half his skill,’ he concluded.

‘But surely not his criminal record?’ I asked dryly.

Holmes looked sideways at me and grinned broadly.

‘
Touché
, Watson!’ he declared. ‘But I do sincerely believe that had my interests leant towards committing
crime rather than solving it, I could have been the most successful burglar in the business.’
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