The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters (53 page)

“Now, actually.”

“Come on, Graham, I know you can squeeze out a couple more days.”

“Len, really—”

“Today is Thursday. Give me until Monday end of day. That’s all I’m asking.”

There was a sigh at the other end. “Len, really, the one you sent is perfect.”

“I’ll get back to you on Monday. Thanks, Graham.”

I rang off, a plan already in mind. I was thinking far beyond a mere introduction for a small genre publisher. The mystery of William Radford Stinson was the stuff of a major article for a slick, or even a book about one of the most intriguing (if unknown) real-life mysteries of the last century! The intro for Graham would simply be the tease.

Even so, the weekend was not much time. I had to get moving. The place to start, I reckoned, was the British Museum. Tubing there after lunch, I began by checking every listing for Stinson. There were only three: two collections of his dreadful stories and one of those round-robin mystery “novels” in which a dozen authors each take a chapter and do their damnedest to flummox the poor sod who has to follow them. Such projects tend to be far more entertaining for the contributors than the readers.

* * * *

Stinson had been enlisted to wrap the entire mess up in the final chapter, but I was not much interested in his contribution as his bio in the back of the book, which read:

Perhaps best known for his Sherlockian-flavoured stories about Shadrack House, the pride of Peacock Street, William Radford Stinson (b. 1909) sidelined his writing career in the late 1940s to become a London barrister. His contribution to ‘Murder-Go-Round’ represents his first fiction in a quarter century, and we are delighted to have him back.

A barrister? This was new information, but it went a ways toward explaining why his fiction output had been so sporadic. More importantly, the bio implied that he was still practicing law when the book was published in 1969, five years before Stinson’s disappearance.

Snapping the book shut, I returned it to the stacks and contemplated my next move. Somewhere in this great repository of information there must be a listing of barristers from the city of London, but how much digging would it take to unearth it? I had a better idea.

Leaving the building, I crossed the street to the Museum Tavern where, fortified by a pint, I pulled out my mobile phone and called Henry Beckham, Esq., the man who had ably handled my divorce proceedings some years back.

“Dobie!” Henry’s voice cried. “What a surprise. You must be in trouble or else you would not be calling. What is it this time, another disastrous marriage or a plagiarism suit?”

“Neither, you insufferable git,” I replied cheerfully. “I’m trying to find out about one of your lot called Stinson, William Radford Stinson.”

I gave him the basic information, but to no avail: he had never heard of the man, either as a lawyer or a writer. After enduring and returning a few more jovial insults and making the promise to join him at his club for dinner some night, I rang off.

I was working on my third pint when my mobile rang. It was Beckham calling back.

“I hope you appreciate the effort I have put forth on your behalf,” he began. “I checked with a friend of mine at the Temple, Derek Evans, and he was indeed able to produce someone who remembered this Stinson chap of yours. The fellow’s name is Todgers, though I’m told he’s generally referred to in chambers as ‘Old Todgers.’”

“What does he recall?” I asked.

“From the description of him, the Battle of Hastings.”

“What does he recall about Stinson?”

“Well, Derek told me that Old Todgers characterized Stinson as a rather nondescript sort, with a tendency to turn down high-profile cases for sure bets that required less work. Unimaginative was the word used to describe him.”

I could easily believe that. “Did he say what happened to him?”

“That’s the most interesting part,” Beckham replied. “He vanished.
Phfffffft!
Gone without a trace.”

There was very little other information that Beckham could provide, courtesy of Old Todgers, and by the end of the call I had to admit that I was probably following a fool’s path. Most likely, Stinson had retired and then moved away. This was not the stuff of a great mystery.

I ordered another pint, hoping to drown my disappointment, and a plate of bangers to go with it, which I ate without much tasting. I was at a dead end. Tomorrow I would ring up Wicking and tell him to go ahead with the introduction he already had.

* * * *

Upon arriving back home I planned to try and get in at least a few pages of work done on my current book, so the day would not be totally wasted. But I was distracted by the flashing light on my phone answering machine. I pressed the playback button, and as I listened, all thoughts of my book vanished.

Mr Dobie,
the whispered voice on the machine said,
if you know what’s good for you, stop the search for Stinson. Take this as a warning.

I played it back a second time, then a third, by which time I convinced myself that it had to be some kind of joke. It was probably Jim Redgrave or one of his equally sardonic friends down at the
Standard
, put on to the gag by him. Even so, the voice, so hushed it obliterated any traces of identification, was eerie enough to bring the proverbial hairs on the back of my neck to attention.

I went to my portable bar, poured myself a Scotch and sat down to ponder it. If it was not Jim, then who? Only Wicking, Henry Beckham, his friend at Temple Derek somebody, and Old Todgers knew I was seeking information on Stinson, though I could hardly believe that Wicking, or even Beckham, would launch such a juvenile prank. Todgers? I didn’t even know the man. Nor did I know Derek somebody. What’s more, I really had no idea what Henry told him about my request.

I drained my glass and deliberated over a refill when a thought struck me: Henry had said he “asked around” regarding Stinson. Perhaps one of the others he queried made the call, but for what reason?

My desire for another Scotch on top of all the pints I’d had at the pub won over the slight motion of the room around me. After I had downed it, I went back to the phone and dialed Wicking, only this time I received his machine.

“Graham, it’s Len,” I said, having slightly more trouble with the words than I anticipated. “Someone left me a damned strange message, a rather thetren…threatening message about Stinson. I know there’s a story here somehow. (I had intended to say
somewhere
, but well, sod it.) This is getting cursor…curiouser and curry…oh, forget it, I’ll ring back tomorrow.”

* * * *

The next thing I can remember is the ringing of a town crier. He rang once, twice, thrice, and then began speaking his news. I immediately recognized the voice as that of Graham Wicking. But why had he become a town crier? And why was he so distant?

It was then that I cracked my eyes open and found myself sprawled across my couch, still partially dressed.

“Ohhhhh, my lord…how much did I consume?” I asked the room, and the answer began to come back to me. Then the fleeting dream memory of the town crier flashed through my aching brain.

“Wicking,” I uttered, “where…?”

It was my phone machine, of course, the only thing in the house that could combine a ringing tone with a voice. Now, vaguely, I recalled phoning Wicking.

It was a little past ten and my head felt like it was about to give birth. Rubbing my temples, I lurched over to my desk and noticed the red light blinking on and off, looking like the window of the world’s smallest brothel. Fumbling with the controls, I managed to play back Wicking’s message.

“Been celebrating a tad too much, have we?”
he began.
“I didn’t get all you were saying. What is that about a threat? Len, have some coffee—the stronger the better—and ring me back.”

The message then ended. I took his advice and made a pot of strong black coffee. Then I went back to the machine and tried to cue up the cryptic threat of the night before with the intent of playing it back for Graham and letting him be the judge. It was a good plan; it made sense, but after I rewound the tape, the only message that came back was Wicking’s from that morning. I played it over and over again, but it was clear that the threatening message was no longer there.

“Damnation!” I cried, realizing at last what I had done. While drunk last evening, I had absent-mindedly erased the message. It was gone forever, nothing more than a memory.

Where could I go from here?

What, I wondered, would DCI Sim Tanner do? Putting it through Tanner’s eyes, there seemed only one logical place to start: I needed to talk to Old Todgers.

It was not difficult to get the man’s telephone number, and once I had achieved something close to complete sobriety, I called and made an appointment to see him at his office that very afternoon.

Upon arriving, I saw that Edward Todgers, Jr., would not have been out of place in a Hammer horror film. He was so gaunt, ghostly and pale that by comparison, he made Peter Cushing look like Jude Law. He appeared around 80 or so, and his eyes were so deep-set they almost disappeared. Why he was still on the job was anybody’s guess. As I was ushered into his office by his assistant, Old Todgers made a half-hearted effort to rise up from behind an ancient oaken desk before sinking back down and motioning for me to take a seat, which I did.

“What may I do for you, Mr Dobie,” he inquired.

“Actually, Mr Todgers, I am here on a social call.”

At the first indication that he was not about to collect a fee, the man’s face turned even paler. “Social call?” he repeated, incredulously.

“Yes, I am endeavouring to learn more about a man named William Radford Stinson, whom I am told you knew.”

“Ahhhh, you must be the chap about whose inquiries I was told.”

“That’s right. What can you tell me about Mr Stinson?”

“You realize, my dear sir, that I foreswore
pro bono
work since before the war.”

I did not ask
which
war, though from his looks it might have been the action against the Boers during Victoria’s final years. But clearly, the message was that I was expected to pay for the information.

“Perhaps,” I ventured, “we could discuss it over drinks.”

“Over dinner might be better,” the man rejoined.

The mercenary bastard! “Of course,” I said, forcing a smile. “Whenever you like.”

“I believe I am free this evening. Shall we say, nine o’clock in the restaurant at the Ritz?”

The Ritz? Why not Buckingham sodding Palace?
I nearly cried out. But I held my composure and my smile, and said instead: “Fine. I will meet you there in the bar.” There seemed nothing more to be said so I took my leave, stopping off at my bank on the way home to prepare for the evening.

* * * *

It was about 8:30 when I arrived at the Ritz and headed straight for the bar, consoling myself with an £11 martini. By the time I had finished my second one it was 9:10. He was late, but not egregiously so. At 9:25, however, I began to wonder whether the old corpse was going to show up. Fifteen minutes (and a fresh martini) later my cell phone rang. “Mr Dobie?” a strange voice asked.

“Yes, who is this?”

“My name is Maitland, sir, I’m an associate of Mr Todgers. I am afraid something has come up and he will not be able to keep his appointment with you.”

“Oh, bollocks!” I uttered, in spite of myself.

“Allow me to convey his sincere apologies, and ask when it may be convenient for him to reschedule.”

“Sooner is better than later,” I said. “Tomorrow, if that suits him.”

“I will relay that to Mr Todgers first thing tomorrow morning and either he or I will contact you.”

“Fine, fine, thank you,” I mumbled, and rang off. But as I sat there, looking at my phone, I suddenly wondered something: how had Todgers gotten my cell phone number? I had not given it to him in his office. Or had I?

Glancing at the now nearly empty glass in front of me, I really could not remember. Perhaps I had. Perhaps I had not.

Perhaps I needed another £11 martini.

It was a little past eleven before I staggered out of the bar and made my way through the lobby.
Straighten up, straighten up,
I told myself, for once hoping that no one would recognize me. Despite the old adage to the contrary, I firmly believed that there
was
such a thing as bad publicity.

There was a line of taxis across the street and I started for them, but as I stepped off the curb, I heard a voice call: “Taxi, mister?” The voice belonged to a young, bearded man of either Indian or Pakistani descent, who was leaning out from behind the wheel of a battered American sedan.

“I am going for one now, thank you,” I called back.

“Take you anywhere in the city for ten pounds,” he rejoined. Suddenly he had my attention. As a rule, it is not advisable to patronize the many “gypsy” cabs that proliferate throughout London. Aside from taking work away from a standard city trade, you can never be certain if a gypsy driver possesses the legal licensing. But having consumed nearly fifty pounds’ worth of non-tax-deductible martinis, I was open for a bargain.

“Ten pounds, anywhere in the city, you say?” I called back, and the man smiled eagerly and nodded. “Very well.” Climbing into the back of the car (which smelled of some exotic spice), I handed the man a tenner and gave him an address. Not
my
address, since I was still somewhat cautious about the arrangement, but the address of a pub close enough to my house that I could either walk or crawl home.

Despite my somewhat hazy condition, it did not take long for me to realize we were headed in the wrong direction. I pointed this out to the driver, and he merely smiled back. At first I thought he simply did not understand, so I tried again, but this time I was rewarded with an all-too-knowing smile. The driver knew exactly what he was doing.

I was being kidnapped!

I tried for the door handle, but it was locked. “Where are you taking me?” I demanded, trying vainly to keep the fear out of my voice.