Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #12 Read online

  Nonetheless, there was an entry under T.

  “Tosca, Giovanni, Cardinal,” it stated. “Born in Venice, ordained in Rome, elevated to Bishop of Palermo, consecrated Cardinal in 1875, personal representative of Pope Leo XIII.”

  “A bare-bones portrait, is it not?” Holmes asked rhetorically as he put aside his notes and replaced the volume in its proper order. “Possibly the Monsignor will oblige us with a more complete biography of the Cardinal. It’s always useful to know as much as one can about a missing person. One never knows where it will lead. I remember the little problem of the missing financier, Jacob Nestor, whose family and the police suspected had been abducted and murdered by a rival’s henchmen. If only they had learned that he secretly kept a wife and daughter in Australia, the puzzle would have been solved before I was consulted. As it so happened, I was forced to expose his secret and cause Nestor to surface here in order to save two men from the gallows for killing him.

  “Well, Watson, here comes our opportunity to learn more about Cardinal Tosca,” Holmes concluded as he was interrupted by a ring at the bell.

  The sound of his rapid footfall on the stairs indicated a young man. Mrs Hudson, our landlady, had been apprised by Holmes to expect the Monsignor, and so no introduction by her was necessary.

  “Come in, Monsignor,” Holmes invited as he opened the door before the priest could knock. “This is my colleague and confidant, Dr Watson, before whom you may say anything which you would say to me alone.”

  Holmes motioned toward the basket-chair as he and I took up positions again in the armchairs, facing Monsignor Rossi.

  The light from our two broad windows bathed his features. Young, as we had presumed, the cleric bore a striking resemblance to the handsome stage actor Sir Godfrey Chambliss, whose stern square jaw, black wavy hair combed straight back, and deep-set eyes were a trademark, as was his youthful vigour. Monsignor Rossi spoke perfect English, but with a distinct Italian accent.

  “I come here today on behalf of His Holiness, the Pope,” said he. “It is he who wishes to engage your services, Mr Holmes, in the interest of locating Cardinal Tosca before any harm comes to him.”

  “I can assure you,” said Holmes, “that I have cleared my calendar to assist in whatever manner I am able. Pray tell, what is the Cardinal’s mission in London?”

  “My, but you do get right to the point, Mr Holmes,” replied Monsignor Rossi. “His mission is very confidential. Were it to be revealed publicly, a scandal would result, no doubt. But I have been authorized to tell you, only if you were to ask, because we believe it may have some bearing on the disposition of this case. What I mean to say is that it could lead you to the Cardinal’s whereabouts.”

  “Your secret is safe with us,” Holmes assured.

  The Monsignor continued:

  “The Cardinal had an appointment with a powerful and influential member of the Italian community, Mario Sacco, whose recent injudicious conduct has come to the attention of His Holiness. Mr Sacco, you see, has divided his loyalties between the Pope and the Archbishop of Canterbury. Mr Sacco began a few months ago to generously give financial support to the Church of England as well as to the Roman Catholic Church, the true church of our Lord, Jesus Christ.

  “Mr Sacco does this under the apprehension that he can expand his power and influence to include many more Protestants of London, among whom he wishes to do a great deal of business.

  “Cardinal Tosca was commissioned to dissuade Mr Sacco from making a mistake that would ensure his eternal damnation. His Eminence was given permission by the Holy Father himself to warn Mr Sacco that continued support of the Church of England would result in his excommunication from the Catholic fold.

  “The appointment with Mr Sacco took place Tuesday afternoon, and it was Tuesday night that the Cardinal was last seen.”

  “Last seen by whom?” Holmes wanted to know.

  “By the coachman for Ambassador Panzini, Ambassador Arturo Panzini, who represents Italy in its dealings with the United Kingdom. His Eminence and I were staying together at the home of Ambassador Panzini. It was I who went to the Cardinal’s room on Wednesday morning and found that his bed was never slept in. As was his custom, he had gone among the servants for night prayers on Tuesday, and in the apartment above the stables he convinced the coachman to take him somewhere after they said the rosary together.”

  “To take him where?”

  “This is the inexplicable part of the story, Mr Holmes. His Eminence asked the coachman to take him to Upper Swandam Lane, a vile alley on the north side of the river to the east of London Bridge.”

  “Curious, very curious,” said Holmes. “What business could Cardinal Tosca have had there?” he asked, putting his fingertips together and closing his eyelids.

  “None, none whatsoever,” answered the Monsignor. “After all, I, his consort, would know if he had any purpose in going there. In any event, the coachman did as requested after hitching up his team to the Ambassador’s brougham at almost midnight.”

  “It defies explanation, but we have so few facts upon which to base a theory,” said Holmes. “It may be that after an interview with the Ambassador and the coachman we may know enough to make some suppositions.”

  “Scotland Yard already has talked with them,” informed the Monsignor, “and is no clearer on the matter than in the beginning. Four of Scotland Yard’s best men have been put on the case because of the importance of the Cardinal. Inspector Lestrade is in charge. His Holiness wishes for you to assist him.”

  “Ah, Lestrade,” Holmes moaned. “He is one of their best men, to be sure, but my hopes of their bringing the case to a successful conclusion are no brighter because of it. Did he ask you for a biography of the Cardinal? I assumed not. Do your best to write one up for me, then.”

  Holmes promised to visit the residence of the Ambassador in the next few hours, and he escorted the Monsignor down the stairs and to the front door, where a hansom awaited him. When Holmes returned to the sitting-room he was pensive.

  “Well, Watson, what do you make of it?” he asked without first offering an opinion.

  “I can make nothing of it, except that the Cardinal has placed himself in jeopardy,” came my exasperated reply.

  “I fear the worst for Cardinal Tosca,” said he. “This man Sacco is more than a common businessman. He is the head of a criminal enterprise, the patriarch of a violent family that deals in prostitution and usury. He is connected to the Mafia. Have you heard of it? No? It is a secret society originating in Sicily that relies on murder and extortion to accomplish its ends. If the Cardinal came here to issue a warning, I suspect it was he who could have used some precautionary advice. But surely he knew the background of Mr Sacco before setting foot in the city. The Pope always knows with whom he is dealing.”

  As an afterthought, Holmes added: “Upper Swandam Lane after midnight holds plenty of danger on its own without the participation of Mr Sacco.”

  Holmes sat back down in his armchair, but just before he did he swept his hand across the mantle to grasp the Persian slipper containing his shag tobacco. He filled his black clay pipe and lit the choking mixture, sending acrid clouds of blue smoke hurling toward the ceiling. He then opened one of the windows to let in the refreshing breeze of a fine spring day. “This certainly is more than a one-pipe problem,” said he. “Later, we shall call upon the Ambassador and his coachman to see if Lestrade and Company asked them the right questions. Then, a tour of Upper Swandam Lane should be in order.”

  * * * *

  Before we hailed a cab to take us to Whitehall, where the Ambassador’s mansion was nestled among the scattered government buildings, Holmes changed our itinerary and we drove first to Scotland Yard headquarters to see if Lestrade had learned anything beyond what The Times had reported.

  The inspector came to the lobby to gre
et us, more warmly than I would have predicted, considering he had guessed the purpose of our calling.

  “Well, Mr Holmes, to what do I owe this honour, as if I didn’t already know?”

  Holmes played along. “Lestrade, I seek your help in the matter of Cardinal Tosca. The Yard is always ready to help the amateur, I have come to realize,” said he with exaggerated sarcasm.

  “If you tell me where he is hiding, that is all the help I shall need,” said Lestrade rather mournfully. “It never ceases to amaze me how many minions can be attracted to the cause of a single big-wig when there is trouble. As it stands, Mr Holmes, we have done all there is to be done and merely are awaiting the next development.”

  “Have your investigations in Upper Swandam Lane come to anything?” Holmes inquired.

  “We have covered the neighbourhood up and down in the daylight and in the dark to find a witness, but it all came to nothing,” Lestrade advised. “If anyone saw anything, they’re not saying so, which remains a possibility, taking into consideration the low-lifes in that vicinity. None too friendly with the police, and none too eager to cooperate, you know. So, other than to tell you we have come up empty-handed, I have no news.”

  Our cab rattled through the bustling streets and avenues until it wound its way to Whitehall. For the entire trip, Holmes sat silently, his lips taut and his grey eyes staring blankly at the passing scenery of the dun-coloured buildings. Once, he stirred, and I anticipated that he would make a comment, but he only changed positions and pushed his cloth cap partially over his face. Finally, as we arrived at our destination, he offered a remark—“Most perplexing, Watson”—and stepped down from the cab, sending the driver on his way.

  The Ambassador’s home abutted the road, a brick and stone edifice with a broad oak door ornamented by shiny hardware. Holmes rapped with the knocker and we waited but a few seconds before an impeccably dressed butler with a long face and grizzled side-whiskers ushered us into a comfortable vestibule with electric lights.

  Holmes placed his card on the butler’s brass salver and asked if the Ambassador and Monsignor Rossi were at home. With a deep baritone voice, the butler informed him that the Ambassador was occupied in some diplomacy in his study and the Monsignor was expecting him in the library. A footman in a dapper brown tweed suit took us down a long hallway adorned with the portraits of dignitaries, presumably from Italy. We were shown into a large, luxuriously furnished room lined wall to wall with bound volumes. Despite the pleasant temperature outside, there were the embers of a fire in the grate, apparently to discourage dampness in the room, which was encased in stone from the outside. The Monsignor was on a settee awaiting our arrival, and he rose when we entered, closing a Bible as he approached us.

  “Welcome. Have you anything to report?” he asked. He was anxious and he nervously fingered the book, demonstrating that he was hoping for good news.

  “Only that we have come from Scotland Yard and they are still as baffled as the rest of us,” Holmes responded. “Tell me, Monsignor, is it possible that Cardinal Tosca wanted to make himself disappear because of some clandestine aspect to his assignment?”

  “Anything is possible, I imagine, but it is highly unlikely,” said the Monsignor after a moment of reflection. “This was his first venture into London, so I do not think he was prepared to go off on his own for any length of time.”

  Then he changed the subject. “I have done as you asked and prepared a history of the Cardinal, dating to the time he was a parish priest,” said the Monsignor, walking over to a writing table and withdrawing a sheet of foolscap with script from top to bottom.

  “Thank you,” said Holmes, taking the biography from the Monsignor and folding it into his notebook after briefly examining the entries. “In the absence of the Ambassador, it would be an efficient use of our time to see the coachman. It is he, so far, who holds the key to our mystery.”

  Monsignor Rossi led the way to the back of the house. It overlooked a small, neat lawn and immaculate garden, from which a footpath led through laurel bushes to a stable and adjacent paddock. The coachman, wearing his top-hat and waistcoat, was playing cards with the groom and a stable boy at a table just inside the entrance, the doors wide open to take advantage of the glorious weather. The stable was clean and tidy and without an odour, save for the sweet smell of hay. On one wall hung freshly oiled leather—two harnesses, two collars, two bridles and a set of long reins. A pair of bay geldings, fit and well fed, was standing in the stalls watching the card game.

  An immigrant, the sour-faced coachman, who was introduced as Pietro Guidotti, spoke broken English, but he seemed to understand the language better when spoken to than when trying to express himself. Monsignor Rossi was forced to act as interpreter for several of Holmes’s questions and for many of the answers. Guidotti seemed perturbed for having to handle the same inquiries that the police had posed to him, but there were some questions he had never heard before.

  “Did the Cardinal meet anyone when he left the carriage?”

  “Yes, a man in working clothes.”

  “Did the Cardinal speak in English or in Italian to the man?”

  “Italiano!” Guidotti proclaimed proudly, gesturing with his fist in the air.

  The emotional coachman’s barrel chest and bulging, muscled arms were more pronounced now as he stood.

  “How did you find Upper Swandam Lane? It is a short, secluded alley, no?”

  Guidotti said he knew a woman from that area and had visited her at times.

  “Did Cardinal Tosca say why he wanted to go there at such an hour?” Holmes continued.

  “He did not say, but it was to minister to the down-trodden, I suppose, since they are awake at night and asleep in the day-time,” Guidotti answered, seeming to take offense at what appeared to him to be Holmes’s implied suggestion that the Cardinal possessed an ulterior motive.

  “Did the Cardinal pay you in lira or in pounds?”

  “Sir,” said Guidotti, “I am a poor boy from Pistoia, but I never would take money from a man of the cloth for doing him a favour. He offered to pay, but when I refused, he thanked me and told me to drive off, so I did.”

  Holmes concluded the interview by trying to obtain a description of the man in working clothes, but he could get no farther with the coachman. He, therefore, returned to the house to see the Ambassador, who was now free.

  Ambassador Arturo Panzini, an aristocrat in manner and in dress, was stoic and helpful. He stroked his straight white hair while he recalled dining with Cardinal Tosca at eight o’clock and entertaining him in the study until about ten, when the Cardinal asked his leave to pray with the servants. The Ambassador said he went to his room and remained there for the night, discovering in the morning that the Cardinal’s bed was undisturbed. The Cardinal had mentioned nothing about traveling through the city and had not asked permission to use the brougham.

  * * * *

  We were in another cab and well on our way to Baker Street when Holmes said he had decided to forego our trip to Upper Swandam Lane. “I doubt we will have any success where the official police have failed,” said he. “It seems more of a job for Shinwell Johnson.”

  Johnson, who had been Holmes’s contact with the underworld after a good-behaviour release from prison, was trusted where the police were regarded with suspicion. He could glean information from the most wretched of characters, his portly and coarse figure a commonplace sight in the worst of places. The inhabitants knew him by the nickname Porky.

  Once back in our chambers, Holmes went up to his bedroom and several minutes later emerged into the sitting-room in the garb of a sailor, his pea-jacket opened to expose a turtle-neck jersey. “I’m off, Watson, to locate agent Johnson and give him his assignment. Do remain here in the event Lestrade or the Monsignor attempt to reach me. Respond to them by messenger that I shall return t
o Baker Street by nine o’clock.”

  We had not eaten a morsel since breakfast, and so I asked Mrs Hudson to prepare a moderate cold supper, for I was hungry enough that I did not want to wait for something she would have to cook. While she was busy with the supper, I glanced through the Echo, which we had picked up from the corner news agent on the way home, to see if there had been any reported new developments in the Cardinal’s disappearance. The newspaper was devoid of any mention of the subject. The news was uninteresting: a common burglary, a social event, a government appointment, and many other mundane topics, all reported without a hint of flair or humour. Time dragged until, finally, I heard a key in the latch.

  “Shinwell Johnson is on duty,” Holmes announced as he came through the door shortly before nine. With a single motion, he seated himself at the table and gathered up some roast beef with two slices of bread that he used to make a sandwich. “I am encouraged, Watson, because Johnson says he knows Upper Swandam Lane like the back of his hand.”

  When the table was cleared, Holmes stretched out on the sofa with his violin, putting forth dreamy melodies and, alternately, movements or overtures that charged the soul, some of them his own making and others composed by the masters. He kept up the serenade well into the night.

  Whether his music-making was therapeutic or an inducement to think about a problem never became clear to me, but it certainly cost me several hours of sleep during the years I shared rooms with Holmes. It was not an unpleasant experience, however, for he had fairly conquered the instrument, and the sounds were cushioned by my bedroom door.

  * * * *

  Next morning, I awoke at my usual hour but Holmes already was finishing breakfast. The coffee pot was half empty when I seated myself at the table. “I confess, Watson, that I am confused by the antics of the Cardinal. Unless…” said he, softly, and never completed the sentence. Sherlock Holmes soon curled up in his armchair, smoking a briar root pipe, his knees drawn up to his chin, deep in thought. “A coincidence in this instance is not an occurrence to ignore,” said he after a lapse of some five minutes. “In this instance, it is a coincidence on two counts, a coincidence of time and of place. It could mean nothing, or it could mean everything.”