The Dragon Turn (9 page)

The man stops suddenly. He hesitates. Then he turns to face Sherlock.

“So sorry,” he says in a German accent, “I should not be rushing off, but you startled me. Vhat do you vant? Vhy are you here?” He coughs again. It sounds a little forced. “Excuse me, I always cough in enclosed spaces.”

Before the boy stands a man in a long black greatcoat, so long it almost reaches the ground. He wears a black felt hat, pulled down almost to his brow, below which two dark eyes look out from a face full of whiskers. His black hair falls almost to his shoulders. Other than those eyes and a big, unusually hooked nose, his face is mostly hair.

About sixty years old, hiding something
.

“Who are you?” gulps Sherlock.

“It only seems right zat you should answer ze question first, sir,” says the man, sweating and gasping a little for breath. “After all,
you
are in
my
territory.”

“My name is Holmes … and I am in the employ of Scotland Yard.”

“Are you, now?”

“Yes … I am.”

“Und vhy should I tell you who I am?”

“Because there was murder done here and anyone on the premises is a suspect.”

“Including yourself?”

“I said I was in the employ —”

“Yes, of Scotland Yard. You vill have to prove zat, should you vant to get out of here alive.”

“I … I have a guard outside the door. If I do not reappear soon, there will be trouble for you.”

“But I am difficult to find, sir. You know zat yourself. Ze vall is sealed. I could simply leave your body in here.”

“I … I am armed.” Sherlock lets the knife slip down his sleeve and into sight.

“So am I,” says the man, and he pulls a revolver out of his greatcoat and points it at Sherlock’s head. “I always carry zis late at night.”

There is silence for a moment. Holmes begins to sweat. The knife handle feels slippery in his hand. He thinks he hears something, a sort of rustling, coming from the inner chamber down the stairs.

“I tease you, my boy,” says the man, putting the gun away. “But you should not be here. Come. I shall escort you back to ze main room. I know ze hocus-pocus that will move ze vall again. It is another button on ze inside!”

“Your name, sir,” says Sherlock, still pointing the blade at the man. “You have not given me your name.”

“I am Riyah, Oscar Riyah.”

THE CURIOUS MR. RIYAH

W
hen they return to the main room, Riyah begins to explain. In fact, he seems to be in a talkative mood.

“I own ze property, ze hotel, und all of ze below stairs.”

“Why have you not come forward, spoken to Scotland Yard?”

“I am a Jew, you know. My father vas one, at least. I am one of zose evil money-grubbing Jews … und I prefer to not be associated vis any murders, you vill understand. I am sure ze police can do zeir job vizout speaking vis me.”

Sherlock doesn’t tell him about his own Jewish blood.

“Do they know about the inner chamber?”

“Vhy are you asking me? I thought you vere vith zem. Or don’t you remember?” He winks at the boy.

“I …”

“No need to explain. You are an acquaintance of ze boy, Scuttle, I imagine, but a little more curious, and brighter, shall ve say?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t believe zey know about ze inner chamber, no. And ve shan’t inform them, shall ve?”

Why is he telling me all of this? Why doesn’t he just throw me out?

“What about the other chamber?”

“Other?”

“The lower one. I saw an opening and a staircase descending.”

The man’s face darkens. “Did you, now? Zat’s too bad.”

“I … I won’t say a word.”

“I have never been down zere.”

“But you own it.”

“Vhen I purchased zis building, zere vere stories about a dungeon beneath it, used by Villiam ze Conqueror in ze 11
^th
century. Men vere tortured in it, put on racks and stretched until zeir limbs snapped. I … have no interest in going down zere. Why would I?”

“But I heard a sound down —”

“I have heard zese sounds too. But I zink it is just vater trickling, or deep gasses gurgling beneath ze earth.”

“But —”

“I would not be surprised,” continues the Jew, “if Nottingham went zere zough. Perhaps he keeps his doves and rabbits zere.”

“Nottingham?”

“Yes, I let ze premises to him.”

“I thought so!”

“You are pleased?”

“I have a friend on the Force, not much older than I. His father is Inspector Lestrade.”

“Ah!”

“That’s … that’s the reason I’m here. You might say that I am an
unofficial
police employee, and I discovered how to get in. It has been my belief all along that the studio belonged to Nottingham.”

“Vell, you are correct.”

“You must tell the police! They think it’s Hemsworth’s.”

“As I said, I prefer to keep out of such zings. A Jew’s reputation is sullied enough in England by his mere existence.”

“Sir … I am part Jewish.”

“You are?”

“I understand our situation, believe me, but you cannot let an innocent man die.”

“I am sorry, but I haf told you my reason, and it shall stand. It is my impression zat ze identity of ze tenant vill not swing ze case one vay or ze ozer, my boy. I vould come forth to ze police if it might. What does it matter if Hemsworth was renting it or Nottingham? Ze Vizard is dead and His Highness had good reason to do it. Let ze law take its course. Nottingham vas my tenant and I vant zis dealt vith immediately. Zey have zeir man!”

Sherlock’s head drops. There is nothing else he can do. He can’t even take the hat.
How could I explain that? I can’t steal evidence in front of the owner
. Since Riyah won’t come forward, Sherlock doesn’t even have proof that the workshop belongs to Nottingham. “I have to get out of here.”

“So, you are a Jew too, you say?”

“Part.”

“And zat vas difficult for you, yes?”

“Very.”

“For me too, my son. I even changed my name. Before I came to zis country, I vas known as Abraham Hebrewitz.”

Sherlock’s head snaps up, but not at Mr. Riyah. He is looking over his shoulder and across the room … in the direction of the hat.

A.H. TO THE RESCUE

“S
ir, have you misplaced your hat?”

The man’s eyes brighten. “Vhy yes! I haven’t been able to find it for several days. How do you know zis? Are you some sort of magician yourself?”

Sherlock walks over to the hat and shines his candle on it. It is almost hidden between the tropical plants and pot of mushrooms. Riyah turns around and sees what he is doing.

“Zat’s it!” cries the Jew. He tucks it under his arm and does a jig. “My hat! My hat! My gloriously expensive old hat!”

“Sir, we must be quiet!”

But it is too late. There is a rumbling above, then a thudding coming down the inner stairs from the hotel.

“I have to go!
Now!
” cries Sherlock.

“Not so fast!” Riyah reaches out and seizes the boy by the arm. Suddenly, the sixty-year-old man seems much younger and much stronger than before. There is a glint in his eye as he holds Sherlock and twists his arm with great skill, the sort of martial arts hold that Sigerson Bell might apply. The boy feels as though his arm will be pulled from its socket if he attempts to move. Riyah is hiding the hat behind his back.

The inner door to the hotel slams open.

“Got you!” cries the keeper, glaring at Sherlock. Then he notices who is holding him. “Mr. Riyah!” The name is spoken with the respect due to one’s economic better, and nothing more. “I haven’t seen you for a while, sir. It’s just as well that it’s you who caught this scamp because we have been trying to find you. Now we have you both. This boy has been here before; last night, in fact. I will send Scuttle to get the police.”

“No need,” says Riyah in a surprisingly soft voice as he releases Sherlock from his grip. “It vas I who brought zis boy here. I noticed him outside, loitering about, und asked him in. I thought he might like to see ze crime scene. Zere is no harm. You vill recall your own boyhood interest in sensation, no doubt?”

“Why, yes, sir, I suppose. But you must remove him, now … if you will. And make your own way to police headquarters, sir. They are anxious to speak with you.”

“I prefer to stay out of zis, Mr. Starr. You vill tell zem zat you have not seen me. Hmm?”

“But —”

Riyah reaches into a pocket of his greatcoat, pulls out a few coins and passes them to the keeper.

“Yes … sir. But … even you cannot come here again, not for the rest of the week. The police are forbidding anyone to be here. I went to their offices earlier today to tell them that I found this boy near the back door last night. They were not pleased. They are worried that word may spread about this location. So, beginning tomorrow, they will have
it guarded around the clock until Hemsworth is sentenced, which should be shortly.”

The Jew’s face darkens. “I see. Zat vill be all, Mr. Starr. We shall find our own vay out through ze back.”

Riyah sends Sherlock on ahead, to shoo Scuttle away, not wanting to be seen by the ever-vigilant and conscientious younger lad. Holmes asks him if they can meet by the Garden’s gate — there is something he must tell him.

A few minutes later, he sees Riyah lumbering toward him, his hat under his arm. The boy almost runs to him.

“Sir, circumstances have changed.”

“Changed? What do you mean?”

“The hat … you either need to take it back and leave it where you forgot it a few days ago … and let Mr. Hemsworth go to his death. Or come with me to Scotland Yard, this instant, and tell them that this topper belongs to you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The police think it is Hemsworth’s hat.”

“Zhey do?”

“And, as you know, they think it is his studio.”

“But ze hat obviously belongs to —” Then Riyah nods. “Ah, yes, our initials,
A.H
.… zey are identical.”

“You said you didn’t come forward because it didn’t matter. It matters now, sir, believe me.”

Three hours later Mr. Riyah and Sherlock are sitting on a wooden bench in the foyer of Scotland Yard off Whitehall Street when Lestrade senior and junior come blustering into the office looking angry and lacking in the last few hours of their Monday morning beauty sleep. They are accompanied by a uniformed policeman.