The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures (16 page)

“I would beg to differ,” snapped Holmes.

“You are sure that it is the genuine article?” I asked.

Lord Darlington looked puzzled for a moment. “Why, yes,” he said slowly, with faltering conviction.

“What my friend is suggesting,” said Holmes, “is that it is possible that the thief who stole the painting may well have replaced it with a very good copy, unaware that you knew of its disappearance. You were due to be in France when you discovered its loss, were you not?”

“Why, yes, but …”

“Come, come, Lord Darlington. There has been a theft. There must have been a reason for it. You cannot disregard the felony just because your painting has been returned to you.”

Some of the sparkle left our client’s eyes and he sat down on the sofa. “I suppose you are right. However, I am convinced that the picture resting in my gallery at this moment is the genuine article, but I will contact my friend Hillary Stallybrass, the art expert at the Royal Academy who verified the painting originally, to confirm my belief.”

“You would be wise to …”

Holmes was cut short by the sudden entrance into the room of a tall young man with wavy blond hair and young, eager eyes. “Father, I must …” he cried and then on seeing us he faltered.

“Not now, Rupert. I am sure whatever it is you wish to see me about can wait.”

The young man hesitated, uncertain whether to heed his father’s injunction or proceed. His mouth tightened into a petulant grimace and he turned on his heel, leaving the room as swiftly as he had entered it.

“The impatience of youth,” observed Lord Darlington mirthlessly.

“I should like to see your gallery,” said Holmes as though the brusque interruption had not occurred.

With some reluctance Lord Darlington took us into his inner sanctum. It was a long chamber whose ceiling was studded with skylights, none of which, we were informed, could be opened. Down the two long walls were a number of red velvet curtains covering a series of paintings. In the centre of the room was a comfortable swivel chair and a table containing a tantalus and an ornate cigar box.

“May we see the de Granville?” asked Holmes.

Without replying, his Lordship pulled back the cord on one of the curtains to reveal the masterpiece. I have only a layman’s appreciation of art, but even I could see that this was a work of great beauty and skill.

“It is magnificent,” said Lord Darlington, almost caressing the frame.

“Indeed,” said Holmes, examining the canvas closely with his lens. “Tell me, Lord Darlington, do you keep a dog?”

“A dog?” our client’s mouth dropped open. “No. Why do you ask?”

Holmes shrugged. “It is no matter at the moment.”

Lord Darlington seemed irritated at Holmes’s vague response. He consulted his watch. “Gentlemen, I have an important appointment in the House at eleven-thirty …”

“Perhaps you could leave us in the capable hands of your wife. I should like to ascertain some details concerning the domestic arrangements.”

“Very well, if you think it is important.”

We were left in the hallway while our client arranged for his departure and informed his wife of our request. Holmes casually examined the calling cards in the tray. His face grew taut with excitement as he caught sight of one. He grinned. “Muddy waters grow clearer, my dear fellow,” he said cheerily.

Once more we found ourselves in the drawing room. Lady Darlington had arranged coffee for us. She seemed to have lost her nervous edge and appeared composed and fully at ease, sitting on the edge of the sofa, hardly touching her drink.

“You do not share your husband’s love of painting, Lady Darlington?”

“It is his passion. I could never match his devotion to art. He leads a difficult public life and his paintings afford him relief and a respite.”

“You never visit the gallery?”

“Never.”

“What about your son?”

“Rupert?” Her face softened at the mention of her son and a loving smile touched her lips. “He has a young man’s interests, and old paintings form no part of those. Rupert and I are alike in that respect.”

“He is a member of the Pandora Club.”

Lady Darlington looked askance at Holmes. “He … he may be. I am not aware of all my son’s leisure haunts.”

“Or his acquaintances – like Lord Arthur Beacham, for example?”

“Lord Arthur, what of him?”

“He does not possess a very high reputation.”

“Perhaps not in the circles in which you mix, Mr Holmes. You must not listen to the gossip of maids and gardeners. Lord Arthur is a pleasant gentleman, but only one of many among Rupert’s associates. Now if you have no further questions …”

“Just one more, Lady Darlington. Who has a key to the gallery?”

“There is only one and it never leaves my husband’s possession. He carries it on his watch chain.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much.”

As we were being shown out of the house by a dour and decrepit butler we encountered a florid-faced, rotund man on the doorstep. He gave Holmes a polite smile of recognition and shook his hand. Holmes leaned forward and whispered some words in his ear before we set off down the street.

“Let us walk back to Baker Street,” said my friend vigorously, “I am in need of fresh air and exercise.”

“By all means,” I agreed, falling in step with him. “I gather that rather red-faced gentleman was Hillary Stallybrass come to verify the de Granville.”

“Indeed, it was, and I passed on a little advice that may be beneficial to him and certainly to us. Time will tell on that account.”

“What is all this business of Lord Arthur Beacham and the Pandora Club? Your remarks were rather pointed in that direction.”

Holmes beamed. “They were, weren’t they? Someone was rather careless in leaving his calling card on show in the hall. Contrary to Lady Darlington’s opinion, Lord Arthur has rather a doubtful reputation: he is a dissolute fellow whose activities sometimes stray into the realms of criminality. And Scotland Yard have had their eye on the Pandora Club, Beacham’s office of operations, for some time. It is the centre for a number of somewhat nefarious dealings.”

“How naïve of Lady Darlington to consider him a suitable companion for her son.”

“How naïve of you, Watson, to think so.”

I ignored my friend’s riddle. “Do you think Beacham is mixed up with the missing picture?”

“I do. I am not sure yet what he is up to and quite who else is involved, but I have my theory which I will put to the test later today.”

After a simple lunch provided by Mrs Hudson, Holmes busied himself with some malodorous chemical experiments, while I caught up with correspondence and prepared some case notes ready for publication. As dusk was falling, he retired to his room, emerging some forty-five minutes later in disguise. He was attired in evening dress, but he had padded out his lithe shape so that he appeared quite plump. His face was flushed and a large moustache adorned his upper lip, while a monocle twinkled in his left eye. The touches of disguise were light, but at the same time they transformed the familiar figure who was my friend and fellow lodger into a totally different character.

“I am ready for a night at the Pandora Club,” he announced, his own voice seeming unnatural emanating from this stranger standing in our rooms. “After all my admonishments to you about the cavalier manner in which you throw your wound pension away on the guesses of the turf, I shall be very careful not to lose too much.”

“You do not require my services, then?”

“Later, m’boy, but tonight I need to act, or rather observe, alone.”

At this moment, Billy arrived with a telegram. Holmes ripped it open with gusto. “Aha,” he cried, reading the contents and then throwing the missive over to me. It was from Hillary Stallybrass. It read: “de Granville is genuine. Some of the other works are not.”

It was at breakfast the following morning when I next saw Holmes. He emerged, without disguise, clad in a purple dressing gown and beaming brightly.

“I gather from that grin,” said I, tapping the shell of my boiled egg, “that your excursion to the Pandora Club was fruitful.”

“The process of deduction is catching,” he grinned, joining me at the table and pouring himself a cup of coffee. “One day I must pen a monograph on the importance in the art of detection of developing a knowledge of international crime and criminals.”

“Riddles at breakfast? Come now Holmes, speak your mind.”

“Does the name Alfredo Fellini mean anything to you?”

I shook my head.

“You prove my point,” my friend replied smugly. “Now I happen to know that he is the right hand man of Antonio Carreras, one of the biggest gangland chiefs in the New York area. Blackmail and extortion are his methods and he has grown fat on them. So much so that he has been able to build up quite an impressive art collection. So my friend Barnes at Pinkerton’s informs me in his regular reports.”

“Art collection?” I dabbed my chin with the napkin and, pushing my half-eaten egg away, gave Holmes my full attention.

“Yes. Now I observed Fellini last night at the Pandora Club where he spent a great deal of his time deep in conversation with a certain member of the Darlington household.”

“His Lordship’s son, Rupert.”

“Precisely. And the conversation was animated, not to say acrimonious at times. And all the while that sly cove Lord Arthur Beacham hovered in the background like a concerned mother hen.”

“What does it all mean, Holmes?”

“To use a painting metaphor, which in this case is somewhat appropriate, I have sketched the outlines of the composition but I still need more time to fill in the detail and work on the light and shade. However, it is clear that Rupert Darlington is involved in some underhand deal which involves the unscrupulous Beacham
and
one of the most dangerous criminals in America – a deal that involves the theft of the de Granville canvas.”

“But the painting was returned unharmed.”

“It had to be. That is Rupert Darlington’s problem.”

Holmes loved to throw enigmatic statements at me to catch my reaction. I had long since learned that no matter how I responded he would not impart any information he held until he thought it the appropriate moment to do so. I had no conception of what Rupert Darlington’s problem might be but I knew that should I press my friend to explain this conceit he would in some manner refuse. Therefore I tried to take our conversation in another, more positive direction, only to find it blocked by further enigma.

“What is our next move?” I asked.

“We visit ‘the dog man’,” he replied with a grin.

Within the hour we were rattling in a hansom cab eastwards across the city. I had heard Holmes give the cabbie an address in Commercial Street near the Houndsditch Road, a rundown and unsavoury part of London. He sat back in the cab, his pale, gaunt features wrapped in thought.

“Who or what is ‘the dog man’ and what is the purpose of our visit? Since you requested my company on this journey it would seem sensible to let me know its purpose,” I said tartly.

“Of course, my dear fellow,” grinned my companion, patting my arm in an avuncular fashion, “what am I thinking of, keeping you in ignorance? Well now, ‘the dog man’ is my own soubriquet for Joshua Jones whose house is over-run with the beasts. His fondness for canines has driven both his wife and children from his door. He lavishes love and attention on the various mutts he takes in, far more than he does upon his own kith and kin. However he has a great artistic talent.” Holmes leaned nearer to me, dropping his voice to a dramatic whisper. “He is one of the greatest copy artists of all time. Only the keenest of experts could tell the real ‘Mona Lisa’ from a Jones copy. I have used the fellow on a couple of occasions myself when fake works of art were required to help clear up a case. You see where he might fit into our mystery?”

“Not precisely.”

“I suspected Jones was involved in the matter yesterday morning. You may recall that when I examined the de Granville, I asked if Darlington kept a dog?”

“Yes. I do.”

“That was because through my lens I observed several dog hairs adhering to the frame – hairs of at least three different breeds. It seemed quite clear to me that the painting had at some time recently been lodged in premises where several dogs had been able to brush past the canvas. Where else could this occur but in the home of Joshua Jones?”

“Because he was copying the canvas …”

Holmes nodded.

“I see that, but why then was the real painting returned and not the copy?”

“Ah, that is the crux of the matter and I wish to test my theory out on my friend Mr Joshua Jones.”

Commercial Street was indeed an unpleasant location. The houses were shabby and down-at-heel with many having boarded windows. The cab pulled up at the end of the street and Holmes ordered the cabbie to wait for us. With some reluctance he agreed. We then made our way down this depressing thoroughfare. A group of ragged, ill-nourished children were playing a ball game in the street and ran around us with shrill cries, taking no notice of our presence, their scrawny bodies brushing against us.

“If this Jones fellow is such a succesful artist,” I said, “why does he not live in a more salubrious neighbourhood?”

“I believe he has another house in town where his wife and two children reside but she has forbidden him to bring a single dog over the threshold, so he seems quite content to stay here for most of the time with his horde of hounds. Ah, this is the one.”

We had reached number 23: a house as decrepit as the rest with a dark blue door and a rusty knocker. The curtains at the window were closed, shunning the daylight and the outside world. Holmes knocked loudly. As the sound echoed through the house it was greeted by a cacophony of wailing, yapping and barking cries as though a pack of hounds had been let loose.

“I trust these dogs are not dangerous” I said with some unease.

“I trust so too,” replied Holmes, knocking loudly again and setting off a further fusillade of canine cries. Mingled with these came the sound of a human voice. Within moments the lock turned and the door creaked open a few inches; a beady eye and a beaky nose appeared at the crack.