The Problem of Threadneedle Street (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 2) (3 page)

“I can assure you, Mr. Bennett, that this is the real Holmes, or my name is not Dr. John H. Watson.”

“Aye, I can say the same,” said Gregson. “I am hardly going to mistake the man with whom I tracked the Tiger of San Pedro.”

Mr. Bennett shrugged. “I have seen your picture before, Mr. Holmes. In
The Strand Magazine
, it was. The man looked just like you, close enough to be twins, I would say. Even the grey eyes were the same. I guess that is why I never questioned the matter.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Maurice with perceptible hesitation. “I shall inform Sir Henry that you are no longer to be considered a suspect, Mr. Holmes. However, I regret to inform you that your services are not, in fact, required in this matter. The official machinery is amply sufficient for the purposes of solving this threat to the nation. I am afraid that Inspector Gregson caught wind of the fact that you were in town, and sought you out on his own initiative, before I could arrive upon the scene. I fear that this is the sort of situation where it is essential that it be handled with the greatest of discretion. All possible gossip must be refrained from if we are to avoid a great public scandal.”

“It may surprise you to know, Mr. Maurice, that I prefer to work anonymously and that it is the problem itself which interests me,” said Holmes mildly.

“Is that so, Mr. Holmes? And tell me, would Inspector Lestrade agree with you? After your so-called biographer here,” he motioned somewhat insolently in my direction, “published countless of his tawdry tales in which you are, in fact, given all of the credit, while the good men of Scotland Yard are made to look obtuse and imbecilic?”

“Sir,” interjected Gregson, “I would like to point out that Mr. Holmes here was instrumental in solving the Whitehall Mystery, and Dr. Watson has never breathed a word about it.”

“Oh, yes?” Maurice paused at this bit of intelligence, and his manner thawed slightly. “I was unaware that you had a hand in that tragic and grotesque tale. Well, I suppose if you are already upon the scene, it cannot hurt to let you have a little look around. But be quick about it, and then please remove yourself, so that the professionals can do their job. Superintendent Gregson, I will be back at the Yard. Send word with any update, no matter how trivial.”

With that dismissal, Mr. Maurice departed the corridor. Gregson and Mr. Winthrop moved towards the vault door, but Holmes held back for a moment, his hand upon my sleeve. “Mr. Maurice’s attitude was a trifle cavalier, don’t you think, Watson?” he murmured. “It is a mighty shame that he left, or I might be inclined to have a little amusement at his expense.”

“So you think you can solve it?”

Holmes shrugged. “This is an outrageous crime, Watson. Those are the easiest to solve, for there is often only one possible explanation. The mundane offenses tend to be much more difficult. Now let us see what the vault holds for us.”

This proved to be a classic strong-room, about thirty-feet square. The ceiling was rather low, no more than eight feet, and appeared to be a solid slab of concrete. The floor was made up of cemented flagstones. Although much disrupted by the recent passing of feet, dust outlines showed where the massive crates must have until recently sat. A few undisturbed boxes remained, which presumably contained the ignored banknotes. A step-ladder stood in the middle of the room, though its role was a mystery to me.

Holmes paused on the threshold of the room and surveyed the floor with some interest. “Gregson, I must protest. It looks like a herd of cattle has stampeded through here this morning. How many men exactly did you allow in here? Ten? A baker’s dozen?”

Gregson had the good sense to look abashed. “Counting myself and Mr. Winthrop, it would make fourteen, Mr. Holmes.”

“Well, had the object been to obscure every trace of the thieves’ footprints, you hardly could have acted with greater rashness. Pray tell why precisely you pitched such caution to the winds?”

“It was on behalf of the note, Mr. Holmes.”

“On behalf of the what?” asked Holmes, with a start.

“I am very sorry, Mr. Holmes, I should have mentioned earlier. But you hardly gave us time during the cab ride with all your questions.”

“It was at six o’clock this morning, Mr. Holmes,” interjected Mr. Winthrop, “that my butler brought into my chambers an urgent telegram. I tore it opened, and was not sure whether I should laugh or cry when I read the words.”

“Which said?” asked Holmes, his brow bearing the telltale signs that he was growing ever more impatient.

“I can show you,” said Gregson, holding out the telegram, which had clearly been impounded for evidence.

It was addressed to Mr. Winthrop, and ran thus:

“Sir: I thank you for the withdrawal ongoing – JONATHON WILD.”

“As far as I can reckon, Mr. Holmes, Wild is a pseudonym,” said the inspector.

“Yes, thank you, Gregson, I was aware of that,” said Holmes, dryly. “Even if the real Mr. Wild had not been hanged from the Tyburn Tree almost two hundred years ago, it would be a rare criminal who would inform the bank governor of his true name. So what did you do when you received this unusual note, Mr. Winthrop?”

“I immediately telephoned Scotland Yard, where I was put in touch with Inspector Gregson.”

Gregson nodded. “And I gathered up a dozen of my best constables and rushed over here. Things were quiet as a church upstairs, and the two men down in the corridor here also reported nothing amiss. Governor Winthrop and Mr. Bennett swiftly opened the gate and the door and we all rushed into the room. But there was no one there. Just the empty spaces where the boxes once sat. You see, Mr. Holmes, the telegram used the word ‘ongoing,’ which made me think that we might still catch them in the act.”

Holmes snorted derisively. “I admit that it is a strange turn of phrase, but how would the man possibly have sent a telegram if he and his companions were still in the vault?”

“So you think it was a gang?” I asked.

“Of course, Watson. One man does not move four and a half tons of gold by himself. I would estimate that it would take eight men at least six hours to perform such a herculean feat.”

“Do you think it was a foreign agent? Someone trying to destabilize the nation?”

“Good, Watson, very good. Your theory holds together. This would explain both why they only took the gold, and the strange phrasing of the telegram. But on the other hand, this is not their normal
modus operandi
. I have crossed paths with many of these agents in my time, some of whom are now out of commission, and while the remaining men would like nothing more than to see this plan carried out and the resulting political fallout, none of them has the intellectual audacity to plan such an attack. No, I fear we must consider other adversaries. Gregson, have you already obtained a warrant to see the counterfoil to the telegram?”

“Of course, Mr. Holmes, we should have it momentarily.”

“Very good, then your morning has not been a complete catastrophe. Since the floor of the vault is a lost cause, let us enter.”

Holmes spent the following twenty minutes engaged in a careful inspection of every nook and cranny of the vault. He even tapped his cane upon each of the flagstones to ensure that they were solidly mortared. He repeated the procedure along the four walls, which resounded with metallic thuds.

“Lead-lined, I assume?” asked Holmes of the governor, who responded affirmatively. “Excellent. Well,” said he when his examination was complete, “I concur with your assessment, Inspector. The walls and floor seem solid. By the presence of the step ladder, I can deduce that your men have already checked the ceiling for any ingress, though even the bare eye at this distance makes it plain that they did not enter from that direction. In fact, I see no obvious method at all by which a gang of thieves could have made their way into this vault.”

“Are you saying that it is impossible, Mr. Holmes?” cried the Bank Governor.

“Not at all. I am merely commending Inspector Gregson on his thorough inspection. But I have high hopes. Now, then, let us have a look at these deposit boxes.”

Gregson and Mr. Winthrop stared at Mr. Holmes as if he had gone mad. “But, Mr. Holmes, the deposit boxes were not touched during the robbery!” protested the inspector.

“That is precisely why they are of such great interest. Why, pray tell, would my simulacrum so greatly desire to gain access to this vault that he would run the very grave risk of posing as me? I fear that I am no longer unknown, thanks in no small part to my Boswell here. Mr. Wild, as we shall call him, could easily have encountered someone who was acquainted with me during this visit.”

“I admit that it is a mystery, Mr. Holmes. I suppose, if he were a cracksman, it might be so that he would have time to obtain some moldings of the locks.”

“Now, now, Gregson,” said Holmes admonishingly. “I highly doubt that Mr. Bennett here allows anyone, no matter how highly placed, to remain alone in this vault for long. There is not sufficient time to obtain an adequate molding. And we have already established that the deposit boxes were unmolested. No, I think the answer lies in the box belonging to myself. Let us have it opened, Mr. Winthrop.”

“Mr. Holmes, we can hardly do so,” he protested.

“And pray tell why not?” asked Holmes, acerbically. “In the absence of the owner’s key, the Governor and the Manager may use their master keys to open any box. This is your failsafe in the event of a lost key, is it not?”

“But Mr. Holmes, in such a case, the box can only be opened in the presence of the owner. To do otherwise would be a major violation of British banking laws. In the event of an owner being deceased, we could obtain an order from a magistrate to open for his heir. Perhaps we should so inquire…”

“That will hardly be necessary, Mr. Winthrop. The owner is here.”

“What!?” the man exclaimed.

“Did you not say that the box is registered to one Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esq.? I am he. Or so, two trusted men, Dr. Watson and Inspector Gregson, can readily attest.”

There was a calm assurance of power in Holmes’ manner which could not be withstood. Gregson paused for a moment, and then chortled at this legalese twisting of words. “He’s right, Governor Winthrop. Let’s have it open.”

“Very well,” said Winthrop, with obvious misgivings. He motioned reluctantly to his manager to help. The pair inserted their keys into the Chubb’s lock, swung open the door, and pulled out the box. We gathered round with considerable interest to see what was contained within. To our great surprise, it held only a stainless steel brandy flask, inscribed with the initials ‘S.H.’

§

I glanced over at Holmes, whose face bore the expression of one who has seen his adversary make a dangerous move at chess. He carefully picked up the flask and examined it with interest. He unscrewed the cap and sniffed at the vapors that emanated from within. His eyes flashed, and I could see from Holmes’ rigid appearance that he was vibrating with inward excitement.

He handed the flask first to me, where I noted no apparent scent at all. I passed it to Gregson who, by the puzzled look upon his face, plainly also failed to discern what had so animated Holmes. Meanwhile, Holmes had turned to once more scrutinize the room. He walked about for a moment, every aspect of the room minutely examined and duly pondered. Without warning he dropped to the floor with an alacrity lacking in most men of five and fifty years. He crawled about for a few minutes, and then rose with a hint of triumph in his eyes. “Here you are, Gregson, mark these. They are of great importance. I think this should be the final clue that you need,” said Holmes, handing the inspector several grains of dust that had been carefully scooped onto one of his calling cards.

Gregson stared in baffled amazement at these specks. “Dust? I am afraid I miss the point, Mr. Holmes.”

“Truly? I think it is quite evident now exactly what has transpired. These are deep waters, Mr. Winthrop, deep and rather dirty. I see that the vault is currently lit with the incandescent bulbs of Swan and Edison. Do you keep them turned on when the vault is closed for the night?”

“Certainly not, Mr. Holmes,” he protested. “What would be the purpose? It would be a terrible expenditure for the sake of nothing, for not even a mouse can enter this vault at night.”

“Ah, but someone did, Mr. Winthrop, someone did. I deduce from the Governor’s testimony, Inspector Gregson, that it was dark when you and your men entered the vault?”

“Naturally, Holmes. We brought lanterns, of course.”

“Of course, well, the whole thing hinges upon two points. I would invite your attention very particularly to them. One is that little mound of what you referred to as dust, Gregson. The second is the curious smell inside the flask.”

“But the flask has no smell,” protested the inspector.

“That was the curious smell,” remarked Holmes in his typically inscrutable fashion.

“Mr. Holmes!” cried the agitated Mr. Winthrop. “I cannot bear the suspense! If you know how the thieves entered the room, please tell us!”

Holmes’ eyes were bright and his cheeks tinged. “When I set foot in this vault, I put myself in the man’s place and having first gauged his intelligence, I attempted to imagine how I should have proceeded under the same circumstances.”