The Confidential Casebook of Sherlock Holmes (27 page)

BY
“P
ATRICK
L
O
B
RUTTO
”
(
ASCRIBED TO
A
RTHUR
S
TANLEY
J
EFFERSON
)

I
n the thick London night, a lemon-tinted, coal-fouled fog swirled. Although everything beyond ten feet became wavering and indistinct, sound seemed magnified, heavy. Voices, hoofbeat and footfall, the sodden sound of wooden wheels thudding on wet cobblestone came out of the night from all directions.

Two men stepped into the flickering gaslight on a corner by Cavendish Square. The blockier of the two stopped, moaned softly, held a hand to the side of his face for a brief moment, then walked on, his pace quick and determined. His companion hurried to catch up.

They walked through the night, turning west at Wigmore Street. Never uttering a sound, they strode on. At the foot of Baker Street, they turned north, increasing their pace. At Crawford, they stopped and stood in front of the corner shop bearing the sign
CURTIS
&
CO. CHEMISTS
. The lean, grey-eyed gentleman with the deerstalker cap waited quietly while the other went into the shop. He returned after only a few moments, holding a small, square package in one hand.

“I have what I came for, Holmes.” His voice was thick with pain. “We must press on.”

“Yes, Watson. We can go home now.”

Walking back south on Baker Street, they entered 221, walked up the seventeen steps and entered B, Holmes's apartment.

Inside, with the door closed behind them, their coats still on, they paused and looked at each other. Watson nodded. “I'll be only a moment. I hope the laudanum will ease this pain; we must decide what we are to do.” He pulled a sheaf of papers from a pocket inside his coat. “Once you have
observed
these, you will understand my urgency, and why I have ventured out into the streets with this damned toothache when I would much rather be soothed by the tender ministrations of my new wife.” His ill temper was evident and sharp.

Holmes nodded and removed his coat. “Of course, Watson, of course,” he said soothingly. He took the proffered papers. Printed in block letters across the top of the first page were the words:

Mr. Holmes and the Grosvenor Furniture Van or
The True Facts As I Seen Them with My Own Two Eyes

BY Inspector G. Lestrade

Holmes sighed heavily and stared up at the ceiling. “What a revolting development this is,” he said, and began to read . . .

It was a bright and sunny afternoon when I come to Baker Street
to speak to Mr. Sherlock Holmes of 221B, an amateur detective who has occasionally been of some assistance in a few official police matters, and Doctor John Watson, a writer of magazine stories. These two gentlemen—especially Holmes—have accumulated a great deal of the public's admiration in recent times at the expense of our efficient and hard-working Metropolitan Police. By means of this testimony, I hope to address the balance . . .

Holmes stopped and said, “Who could have foreseen, nearly a year ago, that the little sallow, rat-faced fellow would be such a snitcher. I think we shall both be in need of whiskey, Watson, and much of it, before this is done.”

“It's
elementary
, my dear fellow,” said Watson in a sharp tone, wincing with discomfort. “He is, no doubt, having his revenge for the times you went out of your way to show him up.”

“Might I remind you, old friend,” Holmes replied, “that it was you who wrote about it.”

For the briefest of moments, the two men held each other's gaze.

Making a visible effort to rein his billowing temper, Watson said, “Nothing to be done for that now. I'll do the honours. Read on, won't you.”

Holmes said, “Yes, yes, of course,” and did so . . .

. . .
When I arrived, on that day, Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson
both were engaged in an attempt to bring a piano into their apartments on the second floor. I would have thought that Mr. Holmes's way with a fiddle would have been enough to fill any house but now it seems that he must have the tinkle of a piano for Baker Street. Perhaps Mr. Holmes thought to accompany himself whilst he played the violin. I do pity the neighbours.

Holmes put down the papers and looked over to Watson, who stood by the bow window rubbing his sore cheek. “I say, old man, what
do
you suppose Lestrade meant by that remark about my violin playing and pitying the neighbours?”

It seemed, for a few moments, that Watson hadn't heard the question. Slowly, he turned towards the seated detective. He stared at him for a long moment, and said, finally, “Just read on, won't you?”

“Yes, of course.”

Me, I been seeing to the duties of an officer of the law
twenty years nearly, learned it the hard way—through the records division—and I say it's the old hound what's best, when all is said and done. I concentrate on the job and the evidence before me and hunt down criminals. I shall leave fancy theories to amateurs.

Now you take this case here at hand. The search for the mysterious, and missing, S. Terry, the Poet Laureate of the West End, had led me into many strange and dangerous situations with little result. I knew I needed to talk to someone with very specialized and unsavoury information. I took myself, therefore, to Number 221B and attempted to see if some of that useless information in Holmes's skull might be of some use to the good people of London.

The instant I observed the proceedings, I saw that I would have a difficult time in pursuing my original purpose. Old Mrs. Hudson, no fool she, was in a state, indeed. The poor old dear couldn't stop wringing her hands, telling all who'd listen, as well as them that wouldn't, how worried she was that somewhat would befall the house, what was left her by her good dead man, that was her sole support in her old age. You see, Mr. Holmes had hired a driver and a helper to bring the piano in question up the stairs. The two he hires are rather . . . underbalanced . . . and somewhat high-strung. Perhaps they could have done the job, if they hadn't been driven off . . . but I get ahead of my tale.

The helper is a dour, little bald-headed jockey of a Scot, name
of Finlay—couldn't have weighed more than seven stone or stood higher than fifteen hands. Moustachioed like some Baghdad
pasha
, he hardly stood still a second, bobbing about in a birdy way. Had the oddest way of cockin' one eyebrow, too—like it was pulled up by a string—and growling low when his ire was ruffled.

The driver's a hale,
stout
Irishman, Cannady, he calls himself, and he's twice as tall and twice as meaty as his assistant. He's no happy bloke, either, and don't have much more hair than that damned Lowlander. Always clenching up his face like a great wrinkled fist and scowling. Dumb as pisswater, he was, and slow moving, lumbering. Strong as an English ploughhorse, however, I'll say that for him.

They drove up in a van with the words
Grosvenor Square Furniture
written across one side, and
We Haul Ash
on the other. No sooner do they step out than I attempt to ask Holmes a few questions, since I had no intention of getting involved with this piano foolishness. Holmes wouldn't deign to answer—walked away without a word like I hadn't spoken.

Suddenly, I felt an eye boring into the back of me skull. It was this little Finlay fellow. I turned to him like a gentleman, raised my hat, and introduces myself as an officer of the Queen. He juts his neck forward and glowers at me first with the one eye, and then the other. “Officer, ye say,” he growls, then turns away and quick looks back like I was trying to sneak up behind him. He turns, takes a step away and to my utter amazement, swings back yet again! Muttering something incomprehensible and Gaelic—and insulting, I have no doubt—he finally walks right past me. Well. I had never seen the like.

Finlay and Cannady drag the piano to the edge of the wagon, then Cannady jumps down and Finlay pushes one side of the instrument off the wagon onto Cannady, then jumps down, slides it over and tries to lift his end. Unfortunately, Finlay can barely hold it aloft at all. Trembling like a new bride, he sinks to the ground caterwauling, “WhaehaeyedoonyeHiberniansavage?OHHH!” waving
his arms and legs frantically. The Irishman sighs and has to set his end down and go over and push the piano off his partner. Who gives him not a word of thanks. Instead, he leaps to his feet and barking, “Back, ye scrofulous Saxon scum!” Finlay clears a path as the sweating Cannady pushes the business up to the door.

All the while, Holmes has been busy . . . in his own way. With Watson in his wake, he's been walking around whistling tunelessly, peering into, over, around and under everything with a magnifying glass. Since he's bored, obviously, with nothing to do, I make another attempt to engage him in a discussion of my case. “It is your duty, sir, to aid the police in whatever manner possible. Now, here are the facts . . .”

Ignoring me completely, Holmes announces in a loud voice, “I have investigated all of the available evidence and I have deduced the single most efficacious method of bringing the object up the stairs. Based upon that deduction, I have formulated a plan of action.” A hush settles upon Baker Street as the silly blighter continues. “The piano must be pushed up the stairs a stair at a time.”

As if that were a great revelation. And there's seventeen stairs (Holmes ain't the only one to have a sharp sense of the world about himself). Throwing my hands up in the air, I have to walk away.

The crowd by now has grown raucous—so raucous, in fact, that it even penetrates the glaze around Holmes. Once the piano, surrounded by Finlay, Cannady and Watson—and myself, of course; by now I have decided there is more entertainment than information to be got at Baker Street—is in the foyer of Number 221, Holmes closes the door, though the rumbling of voices outside can still be heard.

Well, up Cannady goes, pushing the piano, whilst Finlay bleats encouragement at him in that horrible Scots bray.

Poor Mrs. Hudson is making little high noises in the back of her throat, knowing that the weight and banging is doing damage to the steps. It doesn't help when Watson suddenly turns to her,
smiles and gives his tie what I'm sure he believes is a reassuring little wiggle from the bottom.

Nearing the top step, Cannady puts on a last burst of fantastic strength and the piano turns straight up and crashes to the floor of the landing, cracking several of the wooden slats. Mrs. Hudson screams in anguish.

“EXcuse me, Holmes!” yells Watson. “Stand aside, Watson!” orders Holmes.

Finlay decides to act the peacemaker and push the two gentlemen apart. Holmes shoves him back; the Scot collides with Watson, who pushes him towards Holmes. Before you can say “Robert Peel,” Finlay's grimacing something fearful and latching his scrawny hands around Holmes's throat, shaking for all he's worth. Doctor Watson gets him by one of his legs trying to pull him away, but pulls instead on Finlay's pants, the only place he can get a grip.

Leaning against the wall, arms crossed in front of my chest, I can only shake my head. I am a trained professional and I can see that there is an exceptional situation developing here. I'm thinking, too, that a
professional
policeman'd be trained in taking his man along, but your civilian thinks he can do without training. Which explains why the doctor's got Finlay by the pants leg, pulling the man's breeches half down. Which is just what the little blighter is screeching—except when it comes from his gizzard it sounds more like “YERPUILLINM'TROOZERSDOON!OHHH!”

Cannady, up top of the steps, bellows loyally, “I'm a'comin, Finn!” and barrels down the stairs with a full head of steam. Holmes sees the Irish juggernaut and shouts to Watson, “Look out, old man!” They drop the squirming Finlay and dive to either side. Cannady, unable to stop, trips over his helper and sails through the door—the
closed
door—with a resounding
CRASH
. Leaving a neat hole the width of his shoulders in the wood, he tumbles like a boulder into the crowd pressed thick right up against the door. His size and the force of his flight is such that perhaps twenty all told are laying about moaning and rolling around in the filth of the
street. Those that are left standing take to their heels yelling for the police.

As I walk up behind Holmes and Watson peeking through the hole, the great deducer, Holmes, says in very cool tones, “Deucedly difficult getting good help these days. Don't you agree?”

Finlay sees this as an opportunity to attack from behind. Unfortunately, his pants are still around his ankles, so he trips and falls flat on his face. Holmes at this point has had quite enough—and I must say that I concur. He turns to Watson and says, “Heave-ho, eh?” Watson smiles and opens the door. “Quite so.”

I step aside as the two take Finlay by his arms and legs, swing him several times and heave him—pants still around his ankles—into the crowd around Cannady. The hollow
ratatat
of night-sticks beating the sidewalk can now be heard in the distance. Whistles screech, sounding closer, as the brave protectors of London's citizenry answer the call for help.

Holmes and Watson take all this in, look at each other, smile and nod emphatically.

The police arrive as Cannady is helping Finlay pull up his pants. Finlay, is caterwauling at the top of his lungs and bouncing quite energetically, so Cannady is having a hard time of it.

Not surprisingly, the police jump onto Cannady, and Finlay, who rushes to his partner's defense yelling a battle cry of “Sodamtin'NormansOHHH!” at the rather surprised officers. A wave of police break over the wildly struggling Cannady and Finlay and they drag the two off into a wagon and away.