The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters (38 page)

We raced to the rear of the house and found the tradesman’s entrance locked. With no time to force the lock, Watson drew his weapon, fired, and blew the hardware off the latch. We burst into the kitchen and found Warren holding a knife to Miss Brevant’s throat. The policeman had the whistle in his mouth and truncheon drawn; Warren was backed against a wall of shelves that stored a large assortment of crockery and cooking implements. Warren’s blade, poised to pierce the young woman, kept the officer at bay.

“You’ll not pin the murder on me, Holmes!” Warren sneered.

“I have no intention,” I said calmly. “But if you so much as put a nick in that young woman’s throat, I’ll see you swing. I will, however, ask you for the contents of the safe.”

For a moment, Warren seemed astonished that we had deduced the nature of his crime. “Never, not after the way that man treated me. I got what was due me. He promised me a share of the business. He never gave it, and I was reduced to a servant.”

“That gives you no right to take his son’s inheritance.”

Warren tightened his grip on Lilly. Watson’s second shot was deafening in the confines of the kitchen. For an instant, I thought that a shot at the assailant would be sure to injure the young lady as well, but my friend had aimed at the shelf immediately above Warren’s head. The projectile brought an array of heavy crockery, pots, pans, and shelving down on the pair. The blow was not enough to render the man senseless but the diversion was such as to separate hostage from captor.

Warren lunged with his knife toward Lilly but was met with a stout crack to the head by the quick-acting officer’s nightstick. This blow forced Warren to surrender both knife and consciousness.

* * * *

By the time the police carted Warren away, Watson had attended the bruised Lilly Brevant and Mrs Spline had begun the cleanup. Lestrade had been summoned from his bed. My second pipe of the day was long since due, and I enjoyed the tobacco and look of amazement on Lestrade’s face as I recounted the events of the day. We located Wadsworth’s safe and, as expected, found it empty.

I credited Dr Watson with the key elements in determining the cause of the illness that cost two their lives and saved Ernest and Eunice from committal in the lunatic asylum. The two would make a full recovery. Ernie and Lilly honoured us with invitations to their wedding. Sadly, Warren would never divulge the location of the purloined inheritance and would take this knowledge to his spiteful grave.

BE GOOD OR BEGONE, by Stan Trybulski

Having retired to a small villa on the Riviera where I have been living comfortably for the past dozen years, I found myself bored to tears. After endless days of morning gardening, followed by large noon-time repasts and long afternoon naps under the Mediterranean sun, I longed for the days when I assisted my good friend Sherlock Holmes. Sifting through a carton of notes of old Holmes cases, my hands came to rest on that most tragic of all adventures: the time Holmes inveigled me to travel to New York City with him on what he called a “long get-away trip.”

It was in the middle of February and we were staying at the Waldorf-Astoria where Holmes had rented a suite for a fortnight. Lounging on a sofa, drinking my third cup of morning tea and reading the local papers, I was surprised to suddenly see a cream-coloured envelope slide under the door.

Setting down my tea cup in its saucer, I walked over and picked up the envelope. Inscribed in beautiful handwriting on the front was “Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” I set it on a side table and went back to my now lukewarm tea and my reading. About ten minutes later, the door to one of the inner rooms opened and Holmes appeared, freshly shaved and clad in his favourite smoking jacket.

“Tea still warm, Watson?” he asked, briskly rubbing his hands in anticipation.

“Don’t get too excited, Holmes, it’s not exactly our English breakfast tea.”

He tapped the teapot, then tipped it and poured some of the liquid into a cup and sipped it. He didn’t bother with sugar, no longer needing as much as when he still used heroin on a daily basis.

“Hot, and it’ll do, I dare say, on a morning like this.”

“There’s an envelope for you on the table,” I said, gesturing with the newspaper.

Holmes walked over to the table and picked up the envelope. I went back to my reading, trying to find the sports section and the cricket scores. There had been a test match the day before between England and the West Indies and the two teams were very competitive, their records against each other just about even. I was keen on finding a story, any story on the action. But there was none. I was about to throw the newspaper down in disgust when Holmes’s voice broke in.

“It seems we’ve been invited out tonight, Watson.”

“By whom?”

“The Honourable John McSorley Pickle, Beefsteak, Baseball Nine, and Chowder Club.”

“It doesn’t sound like a very reputable organization.”

Holmes fingered the invitation. “It will be held at McSorley’s Old Ale House,” he said.

“Holmes, you’ve brought me all the way to New York to take me to an ale house?”

“Not just any ale house, Watson. McSorley’s is the most famous ale house in New York City, quite possibly the Western Hemisphere, old boy. Good ale, raw onions and no ladies. What more could a man ask for?”

“It doesn’t seem that appetizing, I think I’m going to pass.”

“How about steaks and ale, then?”

“Steaks and ale? Seems rather mundane.”

“This is a beefeater, Watson.”

“A Beefeater, you mean …”

“No, Watson, not one of your Tower of London hearties. This is a McSorley’s beefeater. A veritable feast, a meat eater’s paradise. Think of T-bone steaks, prime ribs, broiled pork chops and sausages, washed down with all the ale you can drink.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing. Let me see the invitation.” I took the card from his hand and turned it over.

“Your presence is requested for an evening of steaks and ale. 6 p.m.” with the address 15 East Seventh Street, New York City, all inscribed in a fancy scroll.

“I thought you were vegetarian now, Holmes.” I raised an eyebrow at him.

“We simply cannot refuse an invitation like this,” he said.

“Who on earth knows that we are here in New York?”

“That is exactly what we are going to find out, dear fellow.”

* * * *

The cab dropped us off in front of a run-down brick tenement building. Wet snow was falling and the streets and sidewalks were slushy.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” I asked Holmes.

He pointed upward with his walking stick to where a sign hung over a pair of battered wooden doors. It read, “McSorley’s Old Ale House.” A sign in the window announced, “No back room for women.”

We opened the door and went inside and pushed through a second set of swinging doors that served to keep out the cold. A bar was set on one side and scarred wooden tables were scattered on the other, a cast-iron pot-bellied coal stove set smack in the middle of the room. The floor was covered with sawdust and the walls were adorned with all manner of memorabilia: photos, newspaper articles, drawings. The bar was crowded with ale drinkers being served by a sour-faced man with a grizzled, worn face. Spread along the bar were plates of cheese and crackers and mugs filled with mustard to add piquancy to these snacks. Two grey-jacketed waiters hustled back and forth from the bar, carrying multiples of mugs of light and dark ale to the tables. Each table held a mustard-filled mug similar to the ones on the bar.

“The beefeater must be in there,” said Holmes, pointing to another room in the back.

We walked over and peered inside. Only more scarred tables occupied by ale drinkers. A waiter started to pass by with a tray of empty mugs destined for a quick washing and refill.

I tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me, young man; we are here for the beefeater.”

“If you find it, let me know,” he said with a quick laugh, then dashed over to the bar and dropped off the used mugs and scooped up a half-dozen full mugs in each hand and hurried off again.

“There’s an empty table over by the stove, Watson,” Holmes said. “I suggest we sit and warm ourselves.”

Holmes was tapping his fingers on the cast iron side of the stove when the waiter came over.

“What can I can get you gents?”

“Two of your best,” I said.

“Light or dark?” he asked.

“Both,” Holmes said.

The waiter went off and returned a few moments later with four mugs, two with light ale and two with dark.

Holmes took out the invitation. “Does this mean anything to you?” he asked the young man.

The waiter took the card and looked at it, then handed it back. “Someone’s shining you on,” he said. “We don’t have a beefeater until the summertime and that’ll be at Coney Island.”

I looked around the room; all the men at the bar were working men, carpenters, masons and the like. The tables seemed to be occupied by more working men with a few down-and-out professional types mixed in. The Great Depression was as ugly here as in England. I sipped my ale, the light mugs first. Holmes occupied himself with the dusty and faded memorabilia that covered the wall behind us. The waiter came back and shovelled some coal into the stove, the added fuel renewing the heat. The warmth was relaxing and the ale was smooth and strong, as a good as Yorkshire stout, and I told the waiter to keep it coming.

“Would you gents like anything to eat?” he asked.

“Some cheddar, if you have it.”

“A large or small plate?” the man asked.

I looked over at Holmes. “What about you?” I said.

He had taken out his favourite magnifying glass, a sterling-plated Sheffield with a bone handle and was peering at some faded, tiny script in an ancient news story. “Are you hungry?” I asked him again. He waved me away with a quick motion of his free hand.

“We’ll have a large plate,” I told the waiter, “and four more mugs of ale.”

Lost in concentration, Holmes had not touched his ales, so I reached over and took one of them and drank deeply. Holmes ignored me, so after I finished the first, I appropriated the second. The waiter returned with four more. “Your cheese plate will be right out,” he said.

Finally, Holmes put away his Sheffield magnifying glass and turned back toward me.

“What was on the wall that attracted your attention?” I asked him.

“Amazing, Watson,” he said. “It was a contemporary account of the Battle of Waterloo.” He picked up one of the mugs of ale the waiter had just brought and sipped. “Glad you came, old boy?”

I was about to answer when the waiter returned with our cheddar cheese plate. Bending over to set the food down, he stumbled and fell against a chair, dropping the plate. Appalled by his clumsiness I was about to berate him when he collapsed to the floor. Several men at the bar turned at the commotion and stared at the stricken lad. Holmes bent over and knelt beside the fellow who was lying chest down on the sawdust planking, his face turned aside.

“Watson,” Holmes said sharply, “see what you can do for him.”

I eased around the table and knelt next to the man. The floor underneath him was turning red. I felt his pulse and looked at the widening stain, the sweet smell of death in my nostrils replacing the bitter taste of the ale in my mouth.

“Can you save him?” Holmes said.

I shook my head. “I’m afraid the wound has reached his heart.”

The waiter’s lips moved silently, words trying to form. Then finally, a rasp emitted from his mouth, soft sounds mingling with a bubbling froth. I heard the word but didn’t believe it. “Moran,” the man said. “Moran.” A voice soft with impending death … and something else.

Holmes started at the voice as if he knew it. He ran a hand along the nape of the man’s neck and a thick tousle of hair dropped suddenly around his shoulders. The front of the man’s jacket had turned red, bits of sawdust clung to the sogginess. Holmes turned the man gently over and pressed his right hand under the man’s left collar bone, trying to staunch the spurting of blood. The stab wound was too deep for any but the most sophisticated medical procedures, but the forlorn look on Holmes’s face told me to say nothing. He already knew. With his other hand, he touched the man’s moustache, and then with a pinch of his finger he suddenly peeled it off. There was no mistaking the lips that had once captivated him.

“Irene,” he said. “Irene. My God, it’s you.”

“It’s a woman,” someone at the bar muttered.

“
The
woman,” Holmes said, his words a furious assault at the man who had just spoken. Irene Adler, whom he always called “
the
woman,” and here she was dying on the floor of a New York ale house.

Her eyes fluttered open and tried to focus on him. “Sherlock,” she said, “Thank God.” Her eyes closed and her head listed to one side, like a ship making its final bow before it sinks beneath the waves. Holmes held her in his arms.

“She’s gone, Holmes,” I said, my back to him, as I looked around the tavern, trying to both fathom who had killed Irene Adler, and who might now try to assassinate Holmes. From the minute I had heard Irene whisper the name “Moran,” I knew my companion was in mortal danger. Moran was Colonel Sebastian Moran, the right-hand man of that Beelzebub of crime, Professor Moriarty, who had sworn to kill Holmes before he left this mortal earth.

“Lock the door and call the police,” I shouted to the barkeep. I turned back to Holmes. He had placed his overcoat over Irene’s lifeless body and was looking at the sawdust on the floor.

“I thought Irene had been dead these many years, captured with Sidney Reilly in Russia. I don’t know how or why, but she came here to warn you, Holmes, she may have saved your life.”

Holmes stood. Taking out his handkerchief, he placed a few bits of sawdust into it and wrapping it up, stuffed it back into his breast pocket. His face was ashen, filled with a deadly combination of anguish and fury. For only the second time in his career had he been this emotional. The first time was when I stood in the way of a bullet during that business of the three Garridebs.

Holmes took several deep breaths, exhaling slowly each time. “She wasn’t sent here to warn me, Watson,” he said. “She was sent here to die.”

I reached into my pocket for my service revolver, suddenly realizing that I had left it in the hotel suite, not wanting to run afoul of New York’s strict gun laws. “You still are in danger,” I said. “Whoever killed Irene could still be here.”

“Undoubtedly so,” Holmes said. “But killing me was not the purpose of the assassin’s visit.”

I looked at the crowd sitting at the tables and standing at the bar. “Well, the New York police will be here soon, hopefully they find him.”

“I will find him first.”

“How?” I asked. “Among this mob of ale-swillers? Not unless someone points him out to you.”

“Watson, once again, you denigrate the power of deductive reasoning.” He looked at the bar. “There were twenty-three drinkers, ale-swillers as you call them, at the bar only a few moments before Irene was struck down. Now, there are twenty-four. So that is where I will start my search.”

“But still, Holmes, it is surely an impossible task. Let the police handle it.”

“Impossible? Was it impossible in
A Study in Scarlet
, “The Five Orange Pips,” “A Case of Identity,” or the several dozen other of my solutions you wrote about and were so handsomely rewarded? At least in this moment of grief, do not disparage my abilities and do not stop me from bringing Irene’s killer to swift justice.” His right hand was in his jacket pocket, where I knew he carried the gold-plated derringer he always took with him when he was out for the evening.

“You won’t have much time before the police arrive,” I said.

“Whoever killed Irene stabbed her from behind and did it quickly, just as she was at our table. It was intended that we see her die.”

“By who and why?”

“Professor Moriarty, of course. He has vowed to kill me, but his diabolical mind would take more intellectual pleasure in having me suffer by seeing the woman struck down before my eyes. But right now, that is a distraction, we must concentrate on the stabbing itself. For there lies the solution to the problem.”

“What was Irene doing in New York?”

“I’ll explain later, Watson, it’s inconsequential to the problem at hand.”

A chill ran through me as I listened to Holmes describe the brutal killing of the only woman he had ever totally respected as “the problem at hand.” I suddenly seized up the unfinished mug of ale and swallowed it, then drank another.

Holmes ignored me, staring down at the floor. “When the killer withdrew the blade, blood would have immediately started to spurt out. Look at the side of the pot-bellied stove.” He pointed out a trail of tiny brown-red spots on the black metal surface.