PINNACLE BOOKS NEW YORK (20 page)

"When
dealing with a known ability, names or
titles
are of scant importance. Now I must check up
on
several matters which need not involve you,
good
fellow. The information, like grain in the
fields,
is but waiting for the gleaner."

Leaning
against the doorjamb of Holmes' bed
chamber,
I smiled. The picture of my friend search
ing
a harvested field for stray grain struck me as
ludicrous
until I realized that a detective does often
face
a similar situation—the poring over of inci
dents
created by some and recounted by others,
with
an eye always cocked for an overlooked kernel
of
truth.

Shortly
thereafter, Holmes was off and I did get a comfortable nap. I then
took myself to the taproom
since my
friend was not about. With evening
coming
on, there were more customers present. I
posed
a few questions about the local fishing
conditions
during the season. Through my long
association
with the world's greatest detective, I
had
learned that this was a safe approach. Speak to
one
who knows anything about fish and you auto
matically
become the audience for his tale of the
one
that got away. Whilst the story has a boring
sameness,
it shields the listener from questions
regarding
his presence and the reason for it. I
exchanged
words with some of the locals, lost a few
coins
at the dart board as befits a newcomer to an
area
and passed my time pleasantly but without
profit.
The opportunity to guide the conversation around to Burton Hananish
did not present itself.
When Holmes did
return and locate me, I was quite ready to join him for dinner. It
was at this
point that my original
estimate of the management
of the Red
Grouse was upheld, for Holmes and I dined not well but sumptuously.

Holmes
chose a bottle of fine old brown brandy,
very
reasonable at five and two, to top off our feast.
As
a result, I slept very soundly that night despite
my
late-afternoon nap.

The
following morning, when I finally forced my
eyes
apart, things were rather inconvenient since
we
had not planned to spend the night in Fenley. But I brushed off my
traveling suit and found a
serviceable
straightedge, no doubt on loan from the
landlord.
Holmes was not about. It occurred to me
that
my friend had found much of interest in
Fenley,
for he had obviously been up and about at
an
early hour.

I
decided to take a brief stroll. When I reached
the
street, a closed carriage was pulling up at the inn. I paused to
allow the door to open and was
jostled
from behind. When I turned instinctively, the carriage door did open
and, of a sudden, there was a large palm across my mouth, stifling
the cry that rose in my throat. The man who had come up
behind
me had my wrists pinioned in a steely grasp
and
I found myself rudely deposited on the floor of
the
carriage. An adhesive strip was affixed over my
mouth,
my arms were secured with rough twine
that
had the smell of hemp about it, a blindfold was
over
my eyes, and the carriage was under way.
Completely
surprised and appalled though I was, I
had
to admire the efficiency with which my captors
had
pulled it off. My reluctant approval lessened
when
the driver, at a signal or by plan, whipped up
the
horse and we were outward-bound from Fenley
at
a rapid rate. This made little sense since I had
been
taken with no fuss at all and they would have
been
better advised to proceed quietly on their way
so
as to arouse no comment or suspicion. There
were
mutterings between what I assumed were two
men,
and my hat was taken from my head. There
was
the sound of a window of the conveyance being
lowered.

"That
does it," stated one voice. "It's plain as day
in
the road."

They
must have cast my hat from the carriage,
which
was ridiculous, for my initials, J.H.W., were
plainly
stamped on the sweat band. Perhaps I was
being
victimized by a crew of amateurs, but I could
not
accept that thought.

It
was highly uncomfortable bouncing on the floorboards of the carriage
and possibly our trip
seemed longer than
it actually was.

Finally,
we pulled to a stop and I was removed
from
the vehicle with little ceremony. As they
marched
me with insistent prodding, the thongs on
my
wrists were cut and I received a violent shove
from
behind, which propelled me down two stone
steps.
I lost my footing and fell resoundingly on a
cold
stone floor, bruising one kneecap painfully in
the
process. As I lay there for a moment, stifling an
exclamation
of pain and feeling the fool indeed for
being
such an easy prey, there was the clang of a
door
behind me and I was alone—far from the com
forting
presence of Holmes, in completely strange
surroundings,
and captured for reasons unknown.
There
was a stab of fear in my heart that was
promptly
washed away by anger. Grabbed off, I
was
like a helpless child and without even an idea
of
the doers, for if the sleuth had appeared at that
very
moment I could have given him no clear
description
of the men involved, the direction we
had
taken, or the distance traversed. It had to dawn
on
me that this was a ridiculous situation for a
middle-aged
general practitioner to find himself in and undeniable proof that I
was ill-fitted to dog the
footsteps of
the world's greatest detective and
brave
the dangers inevitable because of his profes
sion.
However, the practicality of my Scottish
mother
came to the fore. The riches of the Indies
could
not move the second hand of time backward
and
my situation had to be accepted or else I must
seek
refuge in the unreal world of the mentally
unstable,
a retreat that offered no satisfaction,
though
I did feel somewhat daft for allowing all
this
to happen.

With
a groan, I stumbled to my feet, tearing the
blindfold
from my eyes. That was easy enough, but
the
adhesive gag was another matter. I pulled it
swiftly,
losing some skin and a bit of my moustache
as
well.

The
walls of my dungeon were of stone, like the
floor.
A quick inspection revealed no crumbling
masonry,
and they appeared stout enough to with
stand
the onslaught of tools had I any available.
Light
came from a window set high in the thick
walls
and it was, alas, heavily barred, though I was in doubt if I could
have gotten through the opening
anyway.
The room was damp and there was the smell of the river nearby. The
only piece of furniture was a simple bed of modern design, metal
in fact, on which one grubby blanket was thrown. It
took
but a moment to move the bed under the
window
at the far wall. Stepping up on the framework of the bed, I was able
to look outside. The outer wall of my prison was right on the Severn,
and by craning my neck and standing on
tiptoes, I
could see water washing
against its base. The bars
were of iron,
firmly set in concrete. From the
position
of the building, I felt that it was part of the
ruins
of an ancient fort built at the headwaters
of
the Severn to repel the Norsemen, and recon
structed
through the centuries for a variety of
reasons.
Judging from the lack of sound other than
the
washing of the river and occasional birdcalls, it
had
to be in an uninhabited area. My survey of the
outside
world complete and frustrating, I devoted
my
attention to the door at my prison chamber.
It
was formed of stout timbers secured by iron-
headed
bolts. The hinges were massive and designed to defy an escape
attempt. Set in the frame on each side of the door were two L-shaped
metal forms that puzzled me momentarily. Then I real
ized
that the structure had originally been de
signed
to keep intruders out rather than secure
prisoners
within. There was no crossbar available to place in them to secure
the door, but while it
might have
frustrated my captors, it would have
done
me no good. What I wanted to do was escape,
not
remain. I tried to open the door with little hope,
and
of course I was right since it withstood my violent tugging.
Breathing deeply and gnawing at
my
moustache with nervous teeth, I tried to ana
lyze
the situation as Holmes would have.

Unlike
most of the sleuth's part- and full-time
employees,
I had no hidden weapon on my person. I
was
outnumbered, with little chance of overpowering my captors. The
silence indicated that they had
locked
me up and left, possibly on some other
nefarious
mission. Were this so, they would not have secreted me in a spot
where a cry for help
would be heard or
heeded. I could try a call or two
but
that might bring back the ruffians, something I
did
not relish at the moment. The great sleuth on one occasion had
mentioned that man was forced
to make do
with what he had. Besides my clothes, I
had
my wallet, which had not been taken from me.
I
had a pocket-handkerchief, clean, and the monocle I carried but
seldom used, though it was of
occasional
assistance in deciphering small print. There were coins and keys in
my pockets along
with a half-consumed
packet of cigarettes and
matches. I
might attempt to ignite the blanket on
the
bed, but I doubted if I could get the material to
burn
and the result, if successful, might just be my
own
suffocation. In despair, I got atop the bed
again
to peer through the window. The Severn was
broad
at this point and there was occasional river
traffic.
While the water looked deep right up to the
river's
edge, what vessels were in sight were a good
distance
offshore and far beyond the range of my voice. It occurred to me that
even if I could reach by sound a passing boat, they would be unable
to
locate me on the shoreline. There was
my handkerchief. Might I not tie it to one of the bars as a
guide
to some observant soul alerted by
my cries? I was
considering this
possibility with a little enthusiasm
when
there was the sound of the door quietly opening behind me.

I
whirled around, ready to face my captors and if
possible
leave my mark upon them, but to my com
plete
astonishment it was a familiar who glided
silently
through the door and eased it shut behind him.

I
was gazing
into
the fathomless green eyes of
Wakefield
Orloff.

Suddenly
my despair vanished like a canary
from a
magician's hat. True, it was not the invinc
ible
Holmes who had come to my rescue, but in my
friend's
absence, it was he who, above all others, I
would
choose to extract me from a sticky situation.
I
felt lightheaded, giddy at the thought of what
would
happen if my captors returned and the
deadly
security agent with his steel-rimmed hat
and
arsenal of weapons went to work. Were there
ten
of the ruffians, Orloff would sweep them aside,
and
in a lethal manner to boot, for I had seen him
in
action and there were none that could stand
against
him. As these thoughts flooded my brain,
my
mouth must have dropped open but I smoth
ered
an utterance at a gesture of warning from that completely frightening
man who was, thank God,
my friend.