Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Volume 5 Read online

  “Is there anything that you don’t know?” asked Paxton.

  “Now it is you who flatter me, Doctor,” said Holmes.

  “To continue,” said Paxton, “I have modified the cave opening with a door that opens and closes, remarkably quickly, I might add, using a mechanism of springs, and pulleys. I open it slightly, once a day, to allow seawater to cleanse the grotto. In any case, I had baited a trap with fish, hoping to ensnare dolphins, which I eventually did, and seals, which also followed, but then I had the idea to set my sites on a whale. Instead, one night, to my extreme surprise and elation, I found this marvelous behemoth instead.” Paxton looked at Holmes and myself, and smiled. “Story time is over, gentlemen, and dinner time commences.”

  I saw Holmes turn, duck, and pounce upon the assailant behind us. He subdued the man with a roundhouse punch to the jaw, knocking him cold. I grabbed our revolvers. Then Holmes and I faced our opponents once more.

  “It seems that we’re at that impasse again,” said Paxton, “rather like a tedious game of badminton.”

  Just then I heard footsteps. Paxton and his two men turned as I leapt and pulled the bound man toward us. Then Lestrade and Dunbar appeared, with pistols drawn.

  “It’s about time, Lestrade,” said Holmes, “how much did you hear?”

  “Enough to be satisfied that Edmund Collier is innocent of the murder of Alvar Harris,” replied Lestrade. Then he turned to Paxton and his men. “Hands up, please. You will be so kind as to accompany us.”

  “But what will become of Sarah?” asked Paxton.

  “The monster will be turned over to the Regent Aquarium, no doubt,” said Lestrade.

  “No, I cannot allow that,” said Paxton, “that pack of imbeciles will not get my Sarah.” With that he took a step.

  “Don’t move,” said Lestrade, brandishing his gun.

  Paxton looked away, then abruptly ran past Lestrade. As he did, Lestrade discharged his revolver, hitting Paxton in the leg. Paxton stopped, clutched his wound, then reached out to the cave wall, on which were a series of levers. He pulled one down and we heard loud echoing noises throughout the cavern.

  “He’s opened the door!” exclaimed Holmes.

  “No one shall have my Sarah,” declared Paxton, looking as if he were in a trance.

  “Come along now,” said Lestrade, “the hangman’s noose awaits you.”

  “I shall not be punished for my genius,” said Paxton, who then ran to the precipice and leapt off it.

  I watched in horror as he plunged into the water, then saw a gargantuan yellow eye, twice the size of an archer’s target, peer out from the muck, and a mouth from a nightmare opened and issued a roar like thunder, as a tentacle wrapped itself around Paxton, and dragged him under the churning depths. More tentacles appeared and flailed about, splashing and crashing, then slid under the water, and all was quiet. Holmes, Lestrade, Dunbar and Paxton’s men stood silently, transfixed. After a few moments, we turned, went into the tunnel, and quietly made our way through it. When we emerged in the forest, there was a police wagon waiting, accompanied by a few sturdy looking men.

  “What will you tell the Yard, Lestrade?” asked Holmes.

  “Oh,” said Lestrade, still apparently quite shaken, “I…I’ll tell them about the gang of cattle thieves, of course. But what I don’t understand, Holmes, is how you knew that Paxton — ?”

  “You supplied the photographs, Lestrade, of the tattooed arm. Between the dark circles, which I immediately surmised were the marks of the creature’s suction cups, and the odd angle of the cut . . .”

  “The cut?”

  “How the arm had been severed. There were no signs indicating that a saw or similar instrument had been used, nor were there any teeth marks that would suggest an animal, either a land or an aquatic one. That ruled out all the obvious possibilities, however, it occurred to me that the damage to the arm resembled nothing so much as the effect of the plates in a bird’s beak, its rhamphotheca. Birds tear or crush their food. Yet, or course, no bird of that size is known to exist. But a squid processes a beak, which has been duly compared to that of a bird. Then I thought of the find in New Zealand, seven years ago. When Paxton looked at the photographs of the severed arm and denied any knowledge of it, I knew we had our man. The impressions of the creature’s suction cups alone should have elicited comment. The arm itself was released unknowingly, through the grotto’s door, upon one of Paxton’s admitted daily cleansings.”

  “Amazing,” said Lestrade.

  Lestrade and Dunbar got into the wagon, as did Holmes and I, and we started off, back to the village.

  The next morning, we checked out of the inn, and were met at the train station by Katherine Collier. She thanked us profusely for clearing her father of the murder charges. Then Holmes and I climbed aboard the train, and it pulled out of the Harbourton station. We were well on our way back to London, when I turned to Holmes and said, “So, Paxton’s men had been ordered to find cows to feed the creature?”

  “Yes, and poor Mr. Harris happened to stumble upon them one night, as they were engaged in the act of stealing a couple of his Guernseys and paid the ultimate price. Since he had been their first human casualty, they weren’t sure what to do with him, and decided to bring him back to their master, who then, it seems, had the idea that fat men might, shall we say, round out the creature’s diet. My examination of the suspect’s wagon wheels proved that his vehicle hadn’t been employed in the crime. The tyre tracks were not deep enough to account for the additional weight of Harris, Paxton’s men, and the cows.”

  “The cows?”

  “That’s correct. Paxton had his men inject them with the tranquilizer, in order to take them clandestinely. That’s why none of the local farmers or anyone else ever saw or heard any of them being abducted. They were unconscious and lying flat in a wagon. For the same reasons, I knew that the suspect, Edmund Collier couldn’t have done it either. His wagon was too small, and the ground showed no signs of it being employed in such a venture. However, on the way to the siege tunnel, Watson, you lost your footing in the deep impressions of Paxton’s wagon tracks. And we’ve previously discussed the absurdity of Collier lifting Harris.”

  “What a vile and horrible evil lived within Paxton,” I said.

  “Odd how evil can sometimes cohabit very amiably with genius.”

  “And Paxton’s house?” I asked, “You knew it as if you’d lived there.”

  “You can thank my brother Mycroft for that. After I left you yesterday morning, I sent him a telegram with instructions to contact one of his highly placed masonic associates. The house dates back five hundred years, and as a result, I suspected it would have a siege tunnel. Mycroft received the architectural plans immediately, then dispatched them by courier, whom I met at the train station.”

  “This was quite a singular adventure, to say the least.”

  “Perhaps, you’d do well not to relay this one to the public, Watson. I wouldn’t want your readers to think that you’d taken to flights of fancy like those of the French novelist, Jules Verne.”

  “You have a good point,” I said, as I watched Holmes light his pipe and then stare out the window, at the passing countryside. I looked through the opposite window while I pondered the fate of Dr. Paxton. With his death, what great discoveries would the world be deprived of? Then I thought of the creature and its return to the primordial waters from which it had come. Would humanity ever see its like again? Or was it destined to remain an elusive phantom for all eternity? I was reminded of something that Sherlock Holmes had once said to me upon the completion of another case. “With even the most satisfying answers, there are always more questions.”

  BE GOOD OR BEGONE, by Stan Trybulski

  Having retired to a small villa on the Riviera where I have been living comfortably for the past dozen years, I found myself bored to tears. After endless days of morning gardening, followed by large noon-time repasts and long afternoon naps under the Mediterranean sun,
I longed for the days when I assisted my good friend Sherlock Holmes. Sifting through a carton of notes of old Holmes cases, my hands came to rest on that most tragic of all adventures; the time Holmes inveigled me to travel to New York City with him on what he called a long get-away trip.

  It was in the middle of February and we were staying at the Waldorf-Astoria where Holmes had rented a suite for a fortnight. Lounging on a sofa, drinking my third cup of morning tea and reading the local papers, I was surprised to suddenly see a cream-coloured envelope slide under the door. Setting down my tea cup in its saucer, I walked over and picked up the envelope. Inscribed in beautiful handwriting on the front was the name Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I set it on a side table and went back to my now lukewarm tea and my reading. About ten minutes later, the door to one of the inner rooms opened and Holmes appeared, freshly shaved and clad in his favourite smoking jacket.

  “Tea still warm, Watson?” he asked, briskly rubbing his hands in anticipation.

  “Don’t get too excited, Holmes, it’s not exactly our English breakfast tea.”

  He tapped the teapot, then tipped it and poured some of the liquid into a cup and sipped it. He didn’t bother with sugar, no longer needing as much as when he still used heroin on a daily basis.

  “Hot, and it’ll do, I dare say, on a morning like this.”

  “There’s an envelope for you on the table,” I said, gesturing with the newspaper.

  Holmes walked over to the table and picked up the envelope. I went back to my reading, trying to find the sports section and the cricket scores. There had been a test match the day before between England and the West Indies and the two teams were very competitive, their records against each other just about even. I was keen on finding a story, any story on the action. But there was none, not even an AP wire blurb. I was about to throw the newspaper down in disgust when Holmes’s voice broke in.

  “It seems we’ve been invited out tonight, Watson.”

  “By whom?”

  “The Honorable John McSorley Pickle, Beefsteak, Baseball Nine, and Chowder Club.”

  “It doesn’t sound like a very reputable organization.”

  Holmes fingered the invitation. “It will be held at McSorley’s Old Ale House,” he said.

  “Holmes, you’ve brought me all the way to New York to take me to an ale house?”

  “Not just any ale house, Watson. McSorley’s is the most famous ale house in New York City, quite possibly the Western Hemisphere, old boy. Good ale, raw onions and no ladies. What more could a man ask for?”

  “It doesn’t seem that appetizing, I think I’m going to pass.”

  “How about steaks and ale, then?”

  “Steaks and ale? Seems rather mundane.”

  “This is a beefeater, Watson.”

  “A Beefeater, you mean …”

  “No, Watson, not one of your Tower of London hearties. This is a McSorley’s beefeater. A veritable feast, a meat eater’s paradise. Think of t-bone steaks, prime ribs, broiled pork chops and sausages, washed down with all the ale you can drink.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing. Let me see the invitation.” I took the card from his hand and turned it over. “Your presence is requested for an evening of steaks and ale. 6 p.m.” and with the address 15 East Seventh Street, New York City, all inscribed in a fancy scroll.

  “I thought you were vegetarian now, Holmes.” I raised an eyebrow at him.

  “We simply cannot refuse an invitation like this,” he said.

  “Who on earth knows that we are here in New York?”

  “That is exactly what we are going to find out, dear fellow.”

  * * * *

  The yellow cab dropped us off in front of a run-down brick tenement building. Wet snow was falling and the streets and sidewalks were slushy.

  “Are you sure this is the right place?” I asked Holmes.

  He pointed upward with his walking stick to where a sign hung over a pair of battered wooden doors. It read McSorley’s Old Ale House. A sign in the window announced “No back room for women.”

  We opened the door and went inside and pushed through a second set of swinging doors that served to keep out the cold. A bar was set on one side and scarred wooden tables were scattered on the other, a cast-iron pot-bellied coal stove set smack in the middle of the room. The floor was covered with sawdust and the walls were adorned with all manner of memorabilia: photos, newspaper articles, drawings. The bar was crowded with ale drinkers being served by a sour-faced man with a grizzled, worn face. Spread along the bar were plates of cheese and crackers and mugs filled with mustard to add piquancy to the snacks. Two grey-jacketed waiters hustled back and forth from the bar, carrying multiples of mugs of light and dark ale to the tables. Each table held a mustard-filled mug similar to the ones on the bar.

  “The beefeater must be in there,” said Holmes, pointing to another room in the back.

  We walked over and peered inside. Only more scarred tables occupied by ale drinkers. A waiter started to pass by with a tray of empty mugs destined for a quick washing and refill.

  I tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me, young man; we are here for the beefeater.”

  “If you find it, let me know,” he said with a quick laugh, then dashed over to the bar and dropped off the used mugs and scooped up a half-dozen full mugs in each hand and hurried off again.

  “There’s an empty table over by the stove, Watson,” Holmes said. “I suggest we sit and warm ourselves.”

  Holmes was tapping his fingers on the cast iron side of the stove when the waiter came over.

  “What can I can get you gents?”

  “Two of your best,” I said.

  “Light or dark?” he asked.

  “Both,” Holmes said.

  The waiter went off and returned a few moments later with four mugs, two with light ale and two with dark.

  Holmes took out the invitation. “Does this mean anything to you?” he asked the young man.

  The waiter took the card and looked at it, then handed it back. “Someone’s having you on,” he said. “We don’t have a beefeater until the summertime and that’ll be at Coney Island.”

  I looked around the room; all the men at the bar were workingmen, carpenters, masons and the like. The tables seemed to be occupied by more working men with a few down and out professional types mixed in. The Great Depression was as ugly here as in England. I sipped my ale, the light mugs first. Holmes occupied himself with the dusty and faded memorabilia that covered the wall behind us. The waiter came back and shoveled some coal into the stove, the added fuel renewing the heat. The warmth was relaxing and the ale was smooth and strong, as a good as Yorkshire stout, and I told the waiter to keep it coming.

  “Would you gents like anything to eat?” he asked.

  “Some cheddar, if you have it.”

  “A large or small plate?” the man asked.

  I looked over at Holmes. “What about you?” I said.

  He had taken out his favourite magnifying glass, a sterling-plated Sheffield with a bone handle and was peering at some faded, tiny script in an ancient news story. “Are you hungry?” I asked him again. He waved me away with a quick motion of his free hand.

  “We’ll have a large plate,” I told the waiter, “and four more mugs of ale.”

  Lost in concentration, Holmes had not touched his ales, so I reached over and took one of them and drank deeply. Holmes ignored me, so after I finished the first, I appropriated the second. The waiter returned with four more. “Your cheese plate will be right out,” he said.

  Finally, Holmes put away his Sheffield magnifying glass and turned back toward me.

  “What was on the wall that attracted your attention?” I asked him.

  “Amazing, Watson,” he said. “It was a contemporary account of the Battle of Waterloo.” He picked up one of the mugs of ale the waiter had just brought and sipped. “Glad you came, old boy?”

  I was about to answer when the waiter returned wit
h our cheddar cheese plate. Bending over to set the food down, he stumbled and fell against a chair, dropping the plate. Appalled by his clumsiness I was about to berate him when he collapsed to the floor. Several men at the bar turned at the commotion and stared at the stricken lad. Holmes bent over and knelt beside the fellow who was lying chest down on the sawdust planking, his face turned aside.

  “Watson,” Holmes said sharply, “see what you can do for him.”

  I eased around the table and knelt next to the man. The floor underneath him was turning red. I felt his pulse and looked at the widening stain, the sweet smell of death in my nostrils replacing the bitter taste of the ale in my mouth.

  “Can you save him?” Holmes said.

  I shook my head. “I’m afraid the wound has reached his heart.”

  The waiter’s lips moved silently, words trying to form. Then finally, a rasp emitted from his mouth, soft sounds mingling with a bubbling froth. I heard the word but didn’t believe it. “Moran,” the man said. “Moran.” A voice soft with impending death … and something else.

  Holmes started at the voice as if he knew it. He ran a hand along the nape of the man’s neck and a thick tousle of hair dropped suddenly around his shoulders. The front of the man’s jacket had turned red, bits of sawdust clung to the sogginess. Holmes turned the man gently over and pressed his right hand under the man’s left collar bone, trying to staunch the spurting of blood. The stab wound was too deep for any but the most sophisticated medical procedures, but the forlorn look on Holmes’s face told me to say nothing. He already knew. With his other hand, he touched the man’s moustache, and then with a pinch of his finger he suddenly peeled it off. There was no mistaking the lips that had once captivated him.

  “Irene,” he said. “Irene. My God, it’s you.”

  “It’s a woman,” someone at the bar muttered.

  “The woman,” Holmes said, his words a furious assault at the man who had just spoken. Irene Adler, whom he always called “the woman,” and here she was dying on the floor of a New York ale house.