Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Volume 5 Page 19

  Her eyes fluttered open and tried to focus on him. “Sherlock,” she said, “Thank God.” Her eyes closed and her head listed to one side, like a ship making its final bow before it sinks beneath the waves. Holmes held her in his arms.

  “She’s gone, Holmes,” I said, my back to him, as I looked around the tavern, trying to both fathom who had killed Irene Adler, and who might now try to assassinate Holmes. From the minute I had heard Irene whisper the name “Moran,” I knew my companion was in mortal danger. Moran was Colonel Sebastian Moran, the right-hand man of that Beelzebub of crime, Professor Moriarty, who had sworn to kill Holmes before he left this mortal earth. “Lock the door and call the police,” I shouted to the barkeep. I turned back to Holmes. He had placed his overcoat over Irene’s lifeless body and was looking at the sawdust on the floor.

  “I thought Irene had been dead these many years, captured with Sidney Reilly in Russia. I don’t know how or why, but she came here to warn you, Holmes, she may have saved your life.”

  Holmes stood. Taking out his handkerchief, he placed a few bits of sawdust into it and wrapping it up, stuffed it back into his breast pocket. His face was ashen, filled with a deadly combination of anguish and fury. For only the second time in his career had he been this emotional. The first time was when I stood in the way of a bullet during that business of the three Garridebs.

  Holmes took several deep breaths, exhaling slowly each time. “She wasn’t sent here to warn me, Watson,” he said. “She was sent here to die.”

  I reached into my pocket for my service revolver, suddenly realizing that I had left it in the hotel suite, not wanting to run afoul of New York’s strict gun laws. “You still are in danger,” I said. “Whoever killed Irene could still be here.”

  “Undoubtedly so,” Holmes said. “But killing me was not the purpose of the assassin’s visit.”

  I looked at the crowd sitting at the tables and standing at the bar. “Well, the New York police will be here soon, hopefully they find him.”

  “I will find him first.”

  “How?” I asked. “Among this mob of ale-swillers? Not unless someone points him out to you.”

  “Watson, once again, you denigrate the power of deductive reasoning.” He looked at the bar. “There were twenty-three drinkers, ale-swillers as you call them, at the bar only a few moments before Irene was struck down. Now, there are twenty-four. So that is where I will start my search.”

  “But still, Holmes, it is surely an impossible task. Let the police handle it.”

  “Impossible? Was it impossible in A Study in Scarlet, “The Five Orange Pips,” “A Case of Identity,” or the several dozen other of my solutions you wrote about and were so handsomely rewarded? At least in this moment of grief, do not disparage my abilities and do not stop me from bringing Irene’s killer to swift justice.” His right hand was in his jacket pocket, where I knew he carried the gold-plated derringer he always took with him when he was out for the evening.

  “You won’t have much time before the police arrive,” I said.

  “Whoever killed Irene stabbed her from behind and did it quickly, just as she was at our table. It was intended that we see her die.”

  “By who and why?”

  “Professor Moriarty, of course. He has vowed to kill me, but his diabolical mind would take more intellectual pleasure in having me suffer by seeing the woman struck down before my eyes. But right now, that is a distraction, we must concentrate on the stabbing itself. For there lies the solution to the problem.”

  “What was Irene doing in New York?”

  “I’ll explain later, Watson, it’s inconsequential to the problem at hand.”

  A chill ran through me as I listened to Holmes describe the brutal killing of the only woman he had ever totally respected as “the problem.” I suddenly seized up the unfinished mug of ale and swallowed it, then drank another.

  Holmes ignored me, staring down at the floor. “When the killer withdrew the blade, blood would have immediately started to spurt out. Look at the side of the pot-bellied stove.” He pointed out a trail of tiny red spots on the black metal surface.

  “And the sawdust, too, I take it.”

  “Very good, Watson, but unimportant. Not to worry, however, good fellow, for look at the sawdust on the floor just to right of the corpse.”

  I shuddered again at the cold steel emotion of this man. Yet, I knew the total sublimation of his feelings to scientific examination had a purpose. I looked down and saw that there was a circular scuffing in the sawdust. “But what does it mean, Holmes?” I said.

  “Aha, Watson, it could mean everything. Or it could mean nothing. You see, when the killer reached around to stab Irene, he set his right foot forward. And he would have had to keep it forward as he withdrew the blade from her bosom.” His voice quavered as he said those words but suddenly once again, he was only steel.

  “So Irene’s blood spattered onto the killer’s right shoe.” I was able to follow his reasoning so far. “Holmes, please sit back down for a minute.”

  “I’m all right, Watson.”

  “You may be the detective, but I am the surgeon. So sit down.”

  Holmes took the chair next to the stove and I sat across the table from him.

  “Holmes, you have told me many times that detection is an exact method, an exercise in logic and science, that there is no room for emotion. Only analytical reasoning.”

  He sipped some of the ale. “Yes, but to what purpose, Watson? The law can never provide the justice that the fiend behind this deserves.” He reached into the watch-pocket of his vest and withdrew a small sack of tobacco and some papers. I watched as he deftly rolled a thick cigarette.

  “Reminds me of the time we were in Jamaica,” I said. “The Problem of the Rum Keg.”

  “Those were the days, Watson. Heroin, cocaine, all still legal.”

  “The police are outside,” the barkeep announced, walking towards the front door. He unlocked it and went back to his station by the ale pumps.

  “Let the police do their job,” I said.

  “Much of this is elementary, as you know, but I cannot let the hired hand get away.”

  Again, Holmes fumbled with the derringer in his pocket.

  I grabbed Holmes by the wrist. “Just don’t doing anything foolish. The killer might provide something useful against Moriarty.”

  “Good old Watson. Don’t you see, the woman’s death was a mere taunt to let me know how helpless I am to stop what devilish machinations the fiend is conjuring up? Nevertheless, I intend to bring him to justice. But I’ll need help. Lestrade always acts as a spur to my deductive reasoning as he always seems to get it wrong. But since he’s not here, you’ll have to do.”

  “Me, Holmes? Once again, you’re asking me to assist you in solving a crime?”

  He nodded slowly, a wan smile on his face.

  A rush of cold air caressed my neck as the inner doors flew open and were held by two uniformed police officers. They stood at attention as a short stout man in a long grey coat and bowler hat strode in behind them. An unlit cigar was jammed into a pair of grim lips that were as red as his face. Wisps of snow drifted to the floor as he shook his coat.

  Holmes looked at the New York detective. “Yes, Watson, let’s see if you’re up to the task.”

  The detective took the cigar out of his mouth and looked around the tavern room, his eyes stopping when they saw the body of Irene Adler on the floor. He moved towards the bar, the crowd in front of him parting like the Red Sea before Moses. The barkeep had already pumped two mugs of cold dark ale for the detective and slid them down the damp wooden surface. Without blinking, the detective seized the mugs of ale and lifting one to his lips, drained it without taking it away from his mouth, then set it down and polished off the second one, again in one long swig.

  The detective leaned back against the bar and nodded slightly towards the barkeep, who immediately drew two more ales from the tap. Stretching his right arm out,
he caught the two fresh mugs as they slid towards him. This time, he sipped the ale more slowly. Looking at Holmes, his face broke into a mischievous grin.

  “So you’re the famous Sherlock Holmes,” he said,

  The crowd in the room all turned towards us, gawking to see the British consulting detective they had read about in the barbershops while waiting to get their hair cut.

  Holmes lifted his fedora. “Aloysius G. Murphy, I presume. Vicious Aloysius, to be more precise.”

  Murphy’s grin widened. “You Englishmen and your preciseness. Yes, Vicious Aloysius is a name I’ve picked up over the years.” The grin was still on his face.

  “My gawd, Holmes, he looks like a common street hoodlum,” I said.

  “This is New York, Watson. Societal distinctions such as we have in that blessed little plot called England don’t matter very much here.”

  Suddenly, the detective’s voice bellowed out. “My name is Aloysius G. Murphy. Police Captain Aloysius G. Murphy.”

  He grinned at the assemblage. “That’s right. Vicious Aloysius. But only my enemies call me that. Is anyone here my enemy?” His bellow was higher pitched now, just below a scream.

  The tavern room was silent.

  “My worst enemies just call me Vicious. Is anyone here my worst enemy?”

  The room stayed silent.

  I leaned towards Holmes’s ear. “Still,” I said, “can we trust him? A policeman who goes by the moniker of Vicious Aloysius?”

  “A well-earned moniker, no doubt,” Holmes whispered back. “But the only thing we have to fear is that he will find and kill Moriarty before I do. And that is something I cannot allow.”

  Murphy suddenly slammed one of the ale mugs on the bar top, the sharp sound bringing my attention back to him. “This is a homicide investigation. That’s murder to you louts. No one can leave. Everyone is a suspect and everyone will be searched. And then we will all have a little talk.” His grin turned to a leer with that last pronouncement. “Barkeep, close down the kitchen, I’m going to need it. But leave the stove on.” He made a circular motion with his hand, walked over to our table and sat down.

  “So, Holmes,” he said, “do you think your vaunted deductive reasoning can solve this case before I can?”

  “Undoubtedly,” said Holmes. “Are you turning the investigation over to me?”

  Murphy reached into a back pocket of his trousers and pulled out a leather covered, lead weighted sapper and set it on the table. Then he reached into the outer pocket of his overcoat and pulled out a pair of brass knuckles, their inside surfaces covered with a pink padding. He set the knuckle dusters down next to the sapper.

  One of the waiters came over and set a half-dozen mugs of ale on the table. “These are on the house, Captain,” he said to Murphy.

  Murphy ignored the man and kept his eyes locked on Holmes. “Since the barkeep locked the door right away, the killer is still in this tavern. When I leave here, I’ll have him in cuffs and a written confession in my pocket.”

  “You mean you’ll beat a suspect in front of all the witnesses?” I said.

  The evident shock on my face made Murphy’s grin even wider. “Anybody here wanna be a witness?” he yelled out. The uniformed officers guarding the front door laughed. Everyone else was silent. Murphy stood up and placed his fists on his hips. He stared at the crowd and pointed to a large wooden sign above the ice cooler.

  “Be Good or Begone,” he read the sign out loud. “This is me precinct and that’s me motto.”

  He sat back down and nodded towards Holmes. “Okay, let’s see what you can come up with.”

  Holmes nodded back and then stood. Now Murphy, the hoodlum detective, would be receiving a lesson in how a fine mind would triumph over his crude police methods. Holmes looked at the men drinking at the bar and then slowly sauntered along the row until he reached the end, then started walking back. Midway, he stopped and seized the collar of a rough-looking fellow who tried to twist loose. Holmes held the collar tighter. “He’s all yours, Vicious,” he said.

  Murphy picked up his sapper and knuckle duster and walked over to the bar. “Come along you,” he said to the man as he shoved him towards the kitchen. The door closed behind them. I sat there stunned. What had Holmes done? Or rather not done. What kind of detecting had that been? Where were the connected principles of deductive reasoning, where were the repeated applications of modus ponens? Had Holmes’s mind gone soft over the murder of Irene Adler?

  My worrisome fugue was interrupted by a fearful slamming and banging from the kitchen, followed by sharp screams of anguish. Everyone in the tavern turned towards the closed door. More slamming and banging caused some of the patrons to turn back to their ales. This was followed by more screaming, muted and mixed with long sobs. The kitchen door flew open and Murphy stood there, wiping sweat off his face with an apron. Kneeling on the floor, moaning in pain was the suspect, his face bruised and bloodied. Murphy latched onto his collar and dragged him across the sawdust floor to the front door. “Let him go, boys,” he said to the pair of uniforms.

  The hoodlum-detective came back to our table and sat down. “You were wrong, Holmes. The great Sherlock Holmes was wrong. That man is innocent.”

  “Holmes is never wrong,” I said.

  “No, Watson, this time I’m afraid Captain Murphy is right. I seem to have made a terrible mistake.”

  “Don’t you worry, old-fashioned police methods will get the right man.” A smirk crept over Murphy’s face. He drank another mug of ale.

  “Holmes will solve this murder,” I said. “He always has.”

  “You are as stubborn as your scientific friend, aren’t you, Dr. Watson?” The smirk was still on Murphy’s face. “Do you think I should let Holmes continue his ‘investigation’ or spare him further embarrassment?”

  “It’s you that’ll be embarrassed.”

  Murphy finished his ale and made another circular motion with his hand. “We shall see, Dr. Watson, we shall just see.” He turned back to Holmes. “Although I’m in charge here, I could be induced to allow you to continue your floundering. A friendly wager as to which of us nabs the miscreant? I’ll even let you proceed first.”

  Holmes stared at him. “Justice is not something that follows the turn of a roulette wheel; to be dispensed in return for pecuniary rewards.”

  “I was thinking of something more to your liking,” the policeman said.

  Holmes slowly sipped his ale. “Pray continue,” he said.

  Murphy reached inside his suit jacket and took out a small wooden box. He casually set the object on the table in front of Holmes. “Go ahead, open it.”

  Holmes ran his fingers over the top of the box, then fiddled with a small brass clasp. Yet he still waited, not undoing the clasp, only watching Murphy’s face.

  “Afraid, Holmes? Afraid of what’s inside? Or perhaps you are afraid your so-called powers of deductive reasoning have abandoned you?”

  “Holmes is afraid of nothing,” I said, reaching for the box.

  My good friend clamped his hand over it. “Watson, I am truly touched by your support, but I think I can do this myself.” Flicking the brass clasp, he lifted up the top of the box. His face paled as he saw the contents: a small hypodermic needle, a length of rubber tubing, and a half-dozen glassine envelopes (the kind stamp collectors use) that contained a white powder. I remembered the many nights when Holmes had nodded off in our rooms at 221B Baker Street after injecting heroin, and I felt sick, for I knew the desire that must be coursing through his mind and body at that very moment.

  “Holmes is not interested in your silly wager,” I said, anger filling my voice.

  “Why don’t you let Holmes speak for himself, Dr. Watson?”

  Holmes slowly closed the box. “And if I should fail to find the killer this time?” he asked.

  The hoodlum-detective leaned back in his chair and made a sweeping gesture with his ale mug. “Then you shall announce to this motley group that Aloysius G. Mu
rphy is the greatest detective of all time, not you. Then you will salute me.” He laughed at the thought. “And you, Dr. Watson, will write one of your stories, describing it exactly.”

  “That’s a story that never will be written!” I declared.

  Holmes tapped his fingers on the top of the box. “The wager is on,” he finally said.

  Murphy made another sweeping gesture with the ale mug. “The stage is all yours.”

  Holmes stood and bowed. “And I shall perform an act far greater than you have dreamt of.” He took his walking stick and strode the length of the bar, his hand running lightly over the backs of the drinkers. When he reached the end, he nodded at the barkeep and turned, walking slowly back towards the other end. When he reached the middle of the bar, he stopped and rapped his walking stick on the bar top. The man to the right of the stick swiveled his head and smiled. “You’ll never pin this me on me, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” He took a saltine cracker and daubed it with mustard from a mug on the bar. He popped it into his mouth and chewed and swallowed. Saluting Holmes with his right hand, he collapsed to the floor.

  Dead.

  * * * *

  “I don’t know how you did it, Holmes,” the hoodlum-detective said.

  “The clues were all elementary, my dear Captain. Anyone with half a brain could have followed them to the conclusion that the happily-departed imbiber was the man who stabbed the woman to death.”

  Murphy stared at Holmes. “What clues? I don’t see any clues.”

  “You wouldn’t. Your kind of detective never does.” Holmes took out his tobacco pouch and rolled another cigarette. Lighting it, he puffed casually and sat back. Exhaling the smoke through his nostrils, he smiled grimly. “I’ll explain it to you, although I doubt it will make a difference in how you conduct your future investigations. First, just before the woman was stabbed there were twenty-three men drinking at the bar. As I knelt beside her on the floor, I counted twenty-four. The original twenty-three imbibers I had only glanced at, as any study of their faces would have been banal compared to the first-hand account of the Battle of Waterloo.” He gestured at the ancient newspaper on the wall. “That was certainly more worthy of my intellectual attention.”