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"But
we should be thankful for that," he con
tinued.

Confound
it
, I thought.
Where
is his mind taking
him now?

"The
simple matters are the most frustrating."

"How
so?"

"Recall,
if you will, that Jack the Ripper fellow.
Back
in eighty-eight, it was."

"I'm
not likely to forget him. But you can't consider those brutal murders
a simple affair."

Holmes
turned from our carriage window with
surprise
in his eyes. "Was there any indication that
the
Ripper even knew his victims?"

"Well,
the killings were most all in Whitechapel."

"But
no one was uncovered who had known the seven poor souls and could
have been the mur
derer."

"What
is your point?"

"The
matter of Jack the Ripper was basically a simple one."

"Oh
come now, he was never found. There was
much
hue and cry that you should be put on the
case."

An
expression of distaste crossed Holmes' features. "I well
remember those newspaper stories—
all
motivated by a desire for sensationalism, which our press is not
averse to. They were certainly not
the
result of honest conviction unless written by
idiots,
which is within the realm of possibility."

"Your
use of
simple
jars
me."

"I
did not say easy. The fact is that the street
walker
murders were committed with no thought
of
profit or gain. They were wanton killings by an
insane
person to fulfill some inner compulsion.
What
was the prime clue? The occupation of the
victims,
somehow tied in with the force that drove the Ripper to raw murder.
How could I have been of service in the matter? Catching him required
a
dragnet effort—the searching of
doctor's records to
locate someone with
a deranged mind who might have been impelled to launch a vendetta
against
prostitutes. The far-flung
facilities of Scotland Yard
were much
more suited for a search of that type
than
you or I, Watson."

"You
feel, then, that he will never be caught?"

"Unless
he starts up again—a possibility. Or
unless
he makes some deathbed confession, which I
think
is very doubtful."

I
shrugged and my mind took an obvious tack.
"How
is this associated with the treasure train?"

"Ah,
that matter is beset with complexities. But the more angles to a
case, the more chance for the lunge of the rapier that will impale
the kernel of
truth, the key to unlock
the door of mystery."

"If
complexities aid your investigation, you have
plenty."

"Agreed.
Had a group of thieves with access to
inside
information raided the train and removed
the
gold, we would have had little to work with. How did they get their
information? What disposi
tion did
they make of the bullion? As it is, I feel this
case
embraces a wider canvas."

"It
certainly does if the Trelawney and Michael
deaths
are part of the plot."

"That,
Watson, will be settled for us. If Cedric
Folks
killed Michael, then I must abandon my
redheaded-man
theory."

"Not
without regrets," I hazarded. "You do seem
quite
taken by the idea."

"Because
of a remark you made, good fellow."

As
I regarded him with puzzlement, he chuckled.
"Ah,
you haven't figured it out yet. No matter, since
for
the moment it is a dead issue. Our thoughts
must
go elsewhere."

"Where,
specifically?" I queried, with a show of
impatience.

"If
Hananish, the banker, is the mastermind, he certainly was not
directly involved in the train
robbery."

"A
man in a wheelchair? I should think not."

"Who,
then, did the actual deed? I mean to bag
them
all, Watson. You recall that when Moriarty
went
down, the Yard allowed him to escape, along
with
two of his top henchmen. It was several years
later
that we convicted Colonel Moran. Then, in
that
Golden Bird affair, Chu San Fu was not
brought
to justice and he rose again to plague us.
We'll
make a clean sweep of it this time, old
friend."

That
happy prospect caused Holmes to fall silent
again,
and I could get no more from him during our
return
trip.

The
following morning, we had scarcely com
pleted
our morning repast when a despondent Inspector MacDonald was ushered
into our quarters. The Scot's habitually glum expression was
more pronounced than usual.

"I'll
not be guessin' how you figured it, Mr.
Holmes,
but you did give me fair warning," he said,
lowering
himself into our cane-backed chair.

"The
matter of Cedric Folks," stated Holmes.

"Exactly.
I located the artist without much trouble. Of course he denied
any association with
Michael's death,
though he was honest enough to
admit
that he was not grief-stricken over the
happening.
But he couldn't come up with an alibi
for
the time of the murder. Were I a gambling man,
I'd
have given rather long odds on his being the
culprit.
Then I ran into a roadblock."

"The
hansom driver who had come to the
Michael
mansion."

MacDonald
threw me a dark look. "There's little I
can
tell him, is there?"

"Come
now, Mr. Mac, your case against Folks
revolved
around the hansom driver. Both Watson
and
I knew you would track him down straight
away."
As Holmes continued in his soothing tone, I
poured
the inspector a cup of coffee, which he
accepted
with gratitude.

"The
driver did not identify Folks as his red
headed
passenger, I take it."

"For
a fact, Mr. Holmes. I was a mite stern with him, bein' somewhat taken
aback; but he stood his
ground. Said the
man in his hansom had a longer
nose than
Folks; and the color of his hair wasn't the
same,
bein' more auburn than red."

"The
cabbie certainly wasn't color-blind," I re
marked.

"I
see your point," said Holmes quickly.

This
surprised me, for I did not know I'd made
one.

"Auburn
is an unusual word for a cabbie to use,
but
no matter. The point is that the case against Cedric Folks has
evaporated."

"Completely,"
agreed MacDonald, lighting up a
cigar,
which I had secured for him. "Now I'm back
where
I started."

"Hardly,"
replied Holmes. "We do know that
Michael's
ward was not involved, the assassin
being
the cabbie's passenger. It is possible that I
may
be able to unearth something about him. Just yesterday I was speaking
to Watson about the fall of Moriarty."

I
sensed that the sleuth was choosing his words carefully, for
MacDonald had been completely
hoodwinked
by the master criminal's college-
professor
façade.

"The
professor met his end in Switzerland, and
we
got Moran in connection with that Ronald Adair
matter.
But one man of the Moriarty ring is still at
large."

"Porlock,"
exclaimed MacDonald.

"No,
the informer is free as a convenience. An
arrangement
you know of, Mr. Mac. I refer to the
late
professor's hatchet man."

"Lightfoot,"
breathed MacDonald. "'Tis said he
died
on the Continent."

"No
body was found."

As
Holmes and the Scot mused on this, I rallied
my
thoughts. The name meant nothing to me, but I
could
deduce who they were referring to. Holmes had specifically said that
he had spent his years in
self-imposed
exile from London because two par
ticularly
vindictive members of Moriarty's infamous crew had escaped.
Sebastian Moran was one,
and this
Lightfoot fellow must have been the other.

"What
makes you suspect McTigue?" asked the inspector.

So
,
I thought,
that's the rascal's name.

Holmes
seemed to read my mind. "He used a
number
of names, and you'll recall that Moriarty only sent him on special
assignments. He'd appear
at the victim's
home as a chimney sweep, a deacon
of the
church, and on one occasion, he mas
queraded
as a nurse. A clever fellow was Lightfoot,
and
I've a thought that he's adopted a redheaded
disguise
and is back in business again. But there is
no
concrete proof of this."

MacDonald
rose with alacrity. "We've a few
people
who are helpful on occasion that date back
to
the Moriarty days. I'll be asking some questions
about
McTigue and checkin' out his supposed death
as
well."

The
inspector departed forthwith. Given a lead,
he
needed little urging.

I
was completely befuddled by this revelation of
Holmes',
and he did not seem disposed to discuss
it.
Something had alerted my friend to the possibility of the
presence of an old enemy, but there were
so
many ifs involved that he had to be playing a
hunch.
This was contrary to his usual style; and if
pressed,
I knew he would resort to evasions. Actu
ally,
further discussion of the matter was not practical, since Holmes
informed me he had an invita
tion to
the rifle contest at the Wellington Club. Not
long
thereafter we departed for this plaything of
the
rich and titled.

It
was a bit of a trip to the establishment,
situated
in Bermondsey, close onto the Deptford
Reach
curve in the Thames. I realized immediately
that
the Wellington Gun Club served a variety of
purposes,
boasting a tip-top grillroom, with an adjacent area suitable for the
playing of cards. A
hideaway where
business leaders could consort with their own kind, and I assumed
that many a
deal had been broached
within its stately walls. On
this day
the club was crowded. It took no brilliance
to
realize that the match had become an excuse for
ladies
to don their latest finery and gentlemen, who
would
not have known a breech from a bolt, to
hobnob
with the upper strata of society. There was
a
great to-do about invitations, and there were even
some
who were denied admission; but the en
graved
card presented by Holmes secured im
mediate
entry and a carte blanche obsequiousness
from
the major-domo guarding the entrance. It
crossed
my mind that we might be present by royal
patronage,
since Holmes was summoned to Buckingham from time to time,
usually after one of his
masterly
actions on behalf of the Empire. Few
indeed
were the elite functions that he could not
attend
if he wished. A humorous
droit civil
,
since
Holmes
was rather antisocial and, contrary to
those
around us, availed himself of few of the
opportunities
open to him.