My Sherlock Holmes Part 5

"Nothing easier to explain," Mr. Holmes said. "I have been hired by Morehouse & Co.-your employers, I understand-to retrieve the money they believe you stole."

"And yet," I said, "even after you'd guessed that I was the one painting the house, you still did not turn me over to the police." I was, frankly, astonished.

"I never guess," Mr. Holmes admonished me. He chuckled. "And I must say that I was quite charmed by your simple subterfuge."

I thought the subterfuge was quite ingenious, myself, but I did not see any profit in arguing about it with Mr. Holmes.

"Besides," Mr. Holmes continued, "there is always time to bring in the police. My main concern this morning was the return of the money."

"I don't-" I began.

Mr. Holmes interrupted me with a raised hand. "You have only the vaguest notion where it is. So you said. And it is true that a man in your position at a house such as Morehouse & Co. is not often a criminal type. I suspect that you were forced by extreme circ.u.mstances of some nature to steal from your employer. I brought you here because I am curious to hear the details of your story."

"Very well, then," I said. And as the sun rose toward noon and shadows crept across Mr. Holmes's Baker Street flat, I told him the story of Mr. Harvey Maynard as I'd heard it from Alice, holding nothing back. If Mr. Holmes was going to trust me a little, then I must trust him in return.

Mr. Holmes listened while he puffed his pipe, occasionally asking a question to clarify matters. Frequently I could see no reason for his question, but I always did my best to answer it. Perhaps he could find the money Alice had stolen, or even Mr. Harvey Maynard himself.

When I finished Mr. Holmes puffed for a few minutes more, apparently lost in one of his famous thoughtful funks. At last he spoke. "Your wife is a victim of the worst sort of small-time crook," he remarked. "And your only crime, Mr. Phillimore, is not allowing the police to suffer the embarra.s.sment of arresting an innocent man."

I was overjoyed by Mr. Holmes's words. "You would have no objection, then, to bringing this small-time crook, Mr. Harvey Maynard, to justice?" I asked.

"None whatsoever. And I believe we may also expect to recover the money-or a good portion of it at any rate. As a matter of fact, I have already begun my investigations along those very lines."

"Your close scrutiny of my entryway?" I suggested.

"Very good, Mr. Phillimore. I believe you to be as apt a pupil as Watson, himself!"

I didn't know whether to be complimented by the comparison to Dr. Watson, or insulted by Mr. Holmes's tone.

While I was still puzzling this out, Mr. Holmes pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and unfolded it before me on a small table. "Here," he said, inviting me to look at the handkerchief more closely, "what do you make of this?"

There was a small yellow grain of something in the center of the cloth. I looked at it closely, holding my breath so has not to disturb it. "What is it?" I asked.

"It is," he said, "a single mote of sawdust. If you inhale gently of its aroma, you will no doubt notice, as I did, the stale odor of swipes."

I detected no odor of any kind, certainly not of cheap beer, but undoubtedly Mr. Holmes was correct. "Hm," was all I said.

"Since I would not presume to believe that you or anyone else in your house is in the habit of patronizing low public houses I feel safe in suggesting that this bit of sawdust was left behind by our friend, Mr. Harvey Maynard."

"Perhaps," I said cautiously. "But there must be hundreds, even thousands of such establishments in the city."

"Quite right," Mr. Holmes said. "However, I believe we can separate the wheat from the chaff." From a convenient shelf he pulled down G. W. Bacon's New Large-Scale Ordnance Map of London & Suburbs. Mr. Holmes opened the book and I saw that nearly every page was annotated with handwritten notes. After briefly flipping through the tome, Mr. Holmes found the page he wanted and he sighed with satisfaction.

"Here we are," he said. "You remarked that when Mr. Maynard left your house the one time you two met he pa.s.sed a brace of unengaged cabs instead of hiring one of them."

"That's right. Is this fact significant?"

"It is. But only because Mr. Maynard's actions may tell us in which establishment he picked up this speck of sawdust."

I thought for a moment. "Of course," I cried. "The place must be very near my house-walking distance, you might say."

"Elementary, my dear Phillimore. Let us consult Mr. Bacon's estimable book."

We bent over the volume and Mr. Holmes ran one thin finger along the streets of St. Marylebone, stopping now and then to read a notation he'd made in his spidery hand. "Here," he soon said as he thumped the book with his peripatetic finger, "in this alley just off East Street is a low place rejoicing in the name of The Twin Lambs."

"I am astonished to hear of such an establishment near enough that we may walk there."

"Indeed," Mr. Holmes said. "It lies in a small infected abscess in the healthy tissue of our fair borough. We are fortunate there are not more commercial hotels like it in our neighborhood, not least because we would have to search all of them until we found Mr. Harvey Maynard. As things have fallen out, I am fairly certain that we will find our culprit here." He closed the book and returned it to its shelf. "Now," he said. "It is nearly noon; and though a man such as Harvey Maynard may start drinking in the morning, he will certainly still be at it in the afternoon. I believe we have time for breakfast, which I, at any rate, have not yet eaten. Would you care to join me?"

"Feeling, as I do, that the situation is now well in hand, I would be delighted."

"Then I will ring for Mrs. Hudson."

We finished our breakfast and prepared for our adventure. Mr. Holmes pocketed a pistol, and he insisted that I carry one of Dr. Watson's. "Though," he admitted, "I do not believe we will have occasion to use them."

I nodded, hoping he was correct.

"Very well, then, Mr. Phillimore. Come along. 'The game's afoot!'"

Mr. Holmes ushered me from the room and out to the street, where he walked along the sidewalk so briskly I had difficulty keeping up. Our breath plumed in the early spring air. I admit that excitement and fear mixed in my breast. I certainly wanted to bring Harvey Maynard to justice, so I felt as if I was on a virtuous mission, but I also knew my own shortcomings. My dealings with criminals and other violent types were limited to reading about them in the Times. How would I react when confronted with Mr. Maynard again? I had no idea. I attempted to keep the face of my dear Alice forefront in my memory. It was for her that I was doing this.

We turned up Paddington Street, along which we proceeded a short way to East Street. Almost immediately we strode into a much smaller street, nearly an alley, which made a sharp angle as it turned away from the street we'd just left. We now stood at the head of a quarter that was, as Mr. Holmes had described it earlier, indeed "a small infected abscess in the healthy tissue of our fair borough." Ramshackle houses stood cheek by jowl, interspersed with commercial establishments of increasingly forlorn aspect. How such a place might exist so close to the more refined atmosphere of Baker Street, I have no idea. I leave that question to the city planners. I do know this: Except for the errand on which we were employed I would have been pleased to return to the high street that was still only a few steps away.

"Just along here, I think," Mr. Holmes said as we walked along being eyed by poor street mongers and disheveled loafers. Much sooner than I would have liked, Mr. Holmes and I stood before a dilapidated commercial hotel with a dirty sign hanging over the door proclaiming it to be The Twin Lambs.

"Come along, Mr. Phillimore," Mr. Holmes said brightly, as if we were about to stroll through St. James Park. He took my arm, and together we entered the establishment.

The pub was a low dark place, though somewhat quieter than I would have expected. What clientele there was appeared no better than it should have been. I was frankly contemptuous of any man who hung about a pub at this early hour, for it was just after noon. The air was redolent of tobacco smoke and cheap spirits, an odor I fancy I would have recognized from the single mote of sawdust left in my entryway by Mr. Harvey Maynard had I actually been able to detect it. Being in such a place made me quite nervous-a feeling obviously not shared by my companion.

Baleful eyes watched as we approached an empty table and sat down. The tabletop was sticky with previous libations, adding disgust to my nervousness. Still, the hope that we would find Harvey Maynard here forced me to ignore my discomfort.

A waiter appeared, growled at us, took our order from Holmes, and went away.

"Are you sure we are in the right place?" I asked.

"I a.s.sure you there is no other like it anywhere nearby."

I nodded. My confidence in Mr. Holmes was absolute.

"Do you see him?" Holmes asked.

"I did not see him as we entered. He may be one of the men sitting in that dim corner."

Holmes nodded. "Then we wait," he said.

Time pa.s.sed. The waiter brought two mugs of foul-smelling swipes, which I sipped at for appearances' sake. Holmes allowed his drink to sit before him untouched.

My eyes adjusted to the light in the pub, and I knew that not one of the men in corner was Harvey Maynard. I reported this fact to Holmes. He nodded.

Men came, drank down their drinks, wiped their mouths with the backs of their sleeves, and went out again. Other men stayed, seemingly as much a part of the decor as the furniture.

Suddenly, a man exploded through the closed door at the back of the room, sending large splinters of wood in all directions. The man could not get his balance, and he reeled backward onto a table, which collapsed beneath him with a loud crash. The men who'd been sitting at the table dived for cover. Immediately another man emerged from the back room, leaped upon the first man, and began to pummel him about the head and body. But the man on the floor gave as good as he got.

"That's him," I told Holmes excitedly. "The man who flew through the door first is Harvey Maynard." I stood up, preparatory to grabbing Maynard, but Holmes rested his hand on my arm and shook his head.

One of the men who had been at the table pulled Maynard's attacker off and began to punch him. Then another man began to punch him. Soon the entire room was involved in furious fighting. Holmes and I backed toward the door.

Maynard pulled a knife from somewhere about his person and brandished it at the man who had attacked him first. Suddenly, a shot was fired, by whom I cannot say. It could have been fired by any of a dozen rough, hulking men who were still in the room.

Everyone froze. Only Harvey Maynard moved. He crumpled to the floor, obviously mortally wounded. We heard a police whistle and then heavy running. The men who had been drinking so calmly earlier shoved past us, hurriedly leaving the room, no doubt fearing to be discovered in such a place at such a time.

I wished to follow them but Mr. Holmes set his hand upon my arm. "Wait," he said. Against every instinct in my body I waited. Soon the room was empty but for us and the Mr. Maynard, who lay silent and still on the worn dirty floor. Blood spread onto the sawdust that had been so helpful to us. Holmes quickly approached him and with a skill born of long practice, he quickly went through the man's pockets.

"Ah," Holmes said as he extracted a packet from Maynard's inside coat pocket. Inside the packet was a sheaf of ten-pound notes. The money Alice had stolen-it had to be! I was delighted. Holmes glanced at me meaningfully and pushed the packet into his own coat pocket. In one graceful motion he got to his feet and pulled me toward the door. We went outside and rushed into a mews across the way. From there we watched policemen swarm into The Twin Lambs at a gallop.

"Someone shot Maynard," I exclaimed.

"Indeed," Holmes remarked quietly. "I believe I will leave the solution of this crime to the police. The death of a cur does not much concern me."

I looked at him, shocked. Though I certainly had no love for Harvey Maynard, the att.i.tude of Mr. Holmes was something of a surprise. But upon reflection, even at that moment, I knew my Alice and I had been visited by a merciful Providence. Mr. Holmes would return the money-all that Maynard had not already spent-to Morehouse & Co., thus bringing another of his cases to a successful conclusion. Morehouse & Co. would graciously accept the money it had lost, though no one there might ever learn the truth of why and how it was stolen. And perhaps most importantly, Alice and I were now free from the depredations of Harvey Maynard.

Holmes and I returned to his rooms, where he quickly arranged my journey to Kent to meet my wife, and from there to a s.h.i.+p that would soon be sailing for the United States of America. Our final destination would be San Francisco.

"I must ask you and your wife never to return to England," Holmes warned. "I ask you this as much for my sake as for your own: the police are certain to take a dim view of some of the activities performed by the three of us."

I nodded. "I cannot thank you enough for your kindness," I said as I shook his hand.

"My blushes," Holmes said, and lowered his eyes.

WIGGlNS, LEADER OF THE BAKER STREET IRREGULARS "What on earth is this?" I cried, for at this moment there came the pattering of many steps in the hall and on the stairs, accompanied by audible expressions of disgust upon the part of our landlady.

"It's the Baker Street division of the detective police force," said my companion gravely; and as he spoke there rushed into the room half a dozen of the dirtiest and most ragged street Arabs that ever I clapped eyes on.

"'Tention!" cried Holmes, in a sharp tone, and the six dirty little scoundrels stood in a line like so many disreputable statuettes. "In future you shall send up Wiggins alone to report, and the rest of you must wait in the street. Have you found it, Wiggins?"

"No, sir, we hain't," said one of the youths.

"I hardly expected you would. You must keep on until you do. Here are your wages." He handed each of them a s.h.i.+lling. "Now, off you go, and come back with a better report next time."

He waved his hand, and they scampered away downstairs like so many rats, and we heard their shrill voices next moment in the street.

"There's more work to be got out of one of those little beggars than out of a dozen of the force," Holmes remarked.

-A Study in Scarlet.

by NORMAN SCHREIBER.

Call Me Wiggins.

Call me Wiggins. It's how my most intimate friends address me-with the sole exception of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He calls me "young fellow," "young man," and on certain occasions, the import of which escapes me, "Mr. Wiggins." All of these sound better to my ears than his customary description of me in the old days as his "dirty little lieutenant." That's when I was leader of that group of street urchins that Mr. Holmes was pleased to call his Baker Street Irregulars.

And yes, I do count Mr. Holmes among my friends and, if it's not too boastful to add, I know things about him that n.o.body else knows. Things, I believe, that his proud nature would not allow him to reveal. For example, the man is a philanthropist. Yes, he is! He created what he is pleased to call "the Wiggins Fund" and pulled me out of the gutter. I am not ashamed to say that I am a child of the streets-brought up "on the stones," as we say. Mr. Holmes has advised me to mention this rarely if at all. But it is G.o.d's truth. He contrived to alter my life-for which I am mostly grateful.

Mr. Holmes and I first encountered each other when he had just set himself up as a consulting detective. I knew right away that he was going places. I was eleven years old at the time; but I, too, was going places. And were it not for Mr. Holmes I might be in one of those places even now. My mates and I did favors-errands and the like-for various folks. We were the best and fastest at fetching beer. And if you needed someone to hold your horses while you tended to business we were the Arabs for the job. It beat crawling up chimneys for a pittance and having nothing to show for it but a coating of soot and a cough that lingered for the rest of your life. And when no moneys were to be earned we were not too picky. We might grab an apple off a pushcart or a sneezer-that's a handkerchief to you-or whatever from some geezer's pocket. Always a few pennies to be made from the contents of someone else's pocket.

The police-or at least the more intelligent members amongst that whole sorry lot-would journey to the now famous flat at 221B Baker Street for advice. Mr. Holmes, in turn, occasionally called upon the services of me and my comrades. So you might say that I was the consulting detective's consulting detective. He was generous with his gratuities. More impressively, he was fair. He employed us to be his eyes and ears. He said n.o.body would ever suspect waifs of being spies. I didn't fancy being called a spy. That's almost as bad as being thought a snitch. But I liked the feel of his money in my palm and the work was exciting. And in our ways we were helping people. That was good, too.

Not too many people know about the Wiggins Fund-in part because there's not really any such thing and in part because I'm the sole recipient. It happened when I already was quite advanced in years. I was at least twelve years old, possibly thirteen. I had just finished furnis.h.i.+ng him with my latest findings in his behalf. He was sitting in that great chair of his. He scarcely seemed to be listening to me. His eyes were half-closed. What little energy he exerted seemed to spend itself on the task of throwing up great clouds of pipe smoke over his head, as if a tidy little storm were brewing.

I completed my spirited recitation about the comings and comings of a sneaky bloke and there was silence. There was not even the usual, "Well done, Wiggins," which was the kindest appellation he affixed in those days. Suddenly he rose from his chair, scattering ashes onto the floor; opened his eyes wide and stared straight into my eyes.

"If I," he said intensely, "were to give you and the boys three guineas for a month's work, how many s.h.i.+llings would that be?"

"First of all, sir," I said, "that would probably be shortchanging us by at least two guineas, based on the amount of commerce we do with each other." And then I added, "If you don't mind my saying so, sir."

"Answer my question," he snapped.

"I don't like the direction of this conversation, is all," I said.

"We're not talking about your income," he said. "I'm just trying to solve a problem."

Well, that was different. He excelled at the knack of talking about one topic while you were certain it was another.

"Three guineas," I said, "is sixty-three s.h.i.+llings."

"And twenty guineas?"

"Four hundred and twenty s.h.i.+llings," I shot back.

"Recite a line from Shakespeare," he said.

"Oh Romeo," I said, in a falsetto, while flailing my arms about, "Wherefore are thou, oh Romeo?"

"Where did you learn that?" he asked.

"Oh, everybody knows that one," I said.

"What does it mean?" he asked.

"Wherefore art Romeo," I tentatively offered.

"In your own words," he barked.

"I guess she's inquiring-"

"She?" roared Holmes. "Who is she?"

"Juliet," I whispered.