The Lost Radio Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (25 page)

“But, but I can’t
do that. It was only to be opened for your grandfather.”

“No, Mr.
Murdock. The phrase was that it was to be opened ‘on the New Year’s Eve before
the baronet’s twenty-first birthday.’ I am now the baronet, and I shall be
twenty-one next year on August twenty-first. Open the box please, Mr. Murdock.”

“Ian, darling,
how frightfully clever of you,” Dorothy said.

“Good lad,” Holmes
added, “I hoped he’d think of it.”

“But, Sir
Ian . . .”
Murdock said
nervously.

“Murdock, open
that box!”

“Very well, Sir
Ian, but I’m afraid you’re in for something of a shock.”

Murdock pulled a
large key from his pocket and unlocked the box, forcing the lid back on its
rusty hinges.

“Great Scott,” I
exclaimed, “the box is empty!”

“Except for a
sheet of note paper in the bottom!” Holmes said.

“What’s the meaning
of this, Murdock?”

“Read that
paper, Sir Ian, and you’ll understand,” Murdock replied.

“ ‘I.O.U. four
thousand sovereigns.’ And it’s signed Alexander Murdock, on behalf of Murdock
and Murdock, lawyers. You’d better explain this.”

“It’s the family
skeleton, Sir Ian,” Murdock said. “That note is signed by my great grandfather,
the one that witnessed the original deed concerning the box. As soon as Sir
Walter was born on that February the twenty-ninth, my great grandfather
realized the money wouldn’t have to be produced for eighty-four years.”

“And so he stole
it!” Sir Ian said in anger.

“He borrowed it.
He always intended to pay it back, but he was never able to. When he died he
told my father of his secret, and my father in turn told me. We’ve always planned
to put back the money, Sir Ian, but we’ve never been able to.”

“But this is
daylight robbery,” Mr. Small added. “You should prosecute them, Ian; the firm
is still in business. You can ruin them, you can sue them for every penny they
have.”

“Mr. Small,” Sir
Ian said in disgust, “you’ve already shown a marked aversion to my family. I
suggest you allow me to handle this affair.”

“Bravo, Ian,” Dorothy
said with outright glee.

“How dare you,
Dorothy. Go to your room!”

“No one is going
to their room, Mr. Small. No one is leaving here until the police arrive. I’m
convinced that one of you murdered my grandfather tonight.”

“And if you ask
me, it’s obvious who that someone is.”

“Who, Dr.
Watson?” Sir Ian asked.

“You, Mr.
Murdock.” I continued. “You came here planning to kill poor old Sir Walter
because you never intended to open that box. You felt that your secret would
die with him.”

“That’s a lie! I
was going to tell Sir Walter everything and then ask for time to pay the money
back. I didn’t kill him.”

“Of course he
didn’t,” Mr. Small said, “there’s your murderer, you yourself, Sir Ian.”

“Father, what
are you saying?”

“I’m saying that
Ian’s the murderer. He saw that the box wasn’t going to be opened for another
four years. He realized that without the money he couldn’t marry Dorothy, so he
killed his grandfather and then ordered the box opened.”

“You’re trying
to cover yourself!” Sir Ian yelled. “You pushed grandfather out of that window
tonight. You thought that if he died the box would never be opened, so Dorothy
couldn’t marry me.”

Mr. Small was
beside himself in rage. The entire night had turned itself into a series of
invectives as Murdock, Small and Sir Ian battled with each other, their rage
increasing at each accusation. It was then Holmes stepped forward into the
fray, his tall figure commanding attention. I turned to him and spoke.

“Upon my soul,
Holmes, you seem remarkably calm.”

“Do I, my dear
Watson?” Holmes said with a tinge of sarcasm, “I must say I’m absolutely
fascinated by listening to three people accusing each other of murder. And each
of them producing perfectly sound motives. It’s a remarkable example of the
clangers of reasoning from motive alone. We should profit by experience, Watson.”

“Mr. Holmes,” said
young Dorothy in anguish, “how can you be so calm? There’s a murderer in this
room.”

“I suppose this
game of charades is getting a little out of hand, Miss Small. Let’s conclude
it. You’d better come out now!” Holmes yelled at the conclusion of his
statement.

From behind a
nearby tapestry emerged Sir Walter Dunbar. It seemed beyond belief as our small
group stood motionless watching the old man come forth, glee written on his
face like that of a young child. It was Mr. Small who found enough voice to
speak first.

“What kind of
game have you been playing, Sir Walter?”

“ ’Tis a bonnie
game that Holmes and I invented. You might call it forcing the issue. I was
determined to have the box opened before the next four years were out, whilst I
was still alive to look inside it. But the trickery of your family, Murdock,
has made me a very unhappy man.”

“Sir Walter, I
shall pay back the money in a few years. I swear I will.”

“It’ll be too
late to do me any good,” Sir Walter said sternly, “but I’ll take care that Ian
gets it. I’ve half a mind to prosecute you.”

“Grandfather,
the money isn’t important, now that you are all right.”

“Aye, but you
were counting on it just the same, me boy, so that you could marry Dorothy; I
know that.”

“She’ll never
marry a pauper,” Mr. Small said with biting words, “I won’t allow it!”

“When I’m
twenty-one, you can’t stop me, father. And I am going to marry Ian.”

“Be quiet!” Mr.
Small yelled in exasperation. “And you, Sir Walter, have created a very
unsavory business. I think that you owe us an explanation of your behavior
tonight.”

“You tell him,
Holmes,” Sir Walter said with unabashed glee, “I fancy a wee drop of Creme of
Dunbar. Watching you all search for my body in the moat has made me thirsty.”

“The explanation
is a very simple one, ladies and gentlemen,” Holmes said laughingly. “When you
arrived here tonight, Mr. Murdock, I knew from the way you handled the box that
it could not contain the sum of gold it was supposed to.”

“And so you
suspected fraud,” I said, “and devised a plan to force the opening of the box.”

“Yes, and Sir
Walter was an eager conspirator.”

“Of course I
was. Ian is twenty-one next August. Suppose I had died after he came of age and
before my next birthday four years hence? The box would never have been opened.”

“And so we
invented the fake murder story.” Holmes added, “By the way, Ian, I must
congratulate you for grasping the possibilities of the situation so speedily.
If you hadn’t demanded the opening of the box, the Murdock secret might still
be a secret.”

“It’s a clever
plan, Holmes. Too bad that it had to have such a miserable ending,” I said.

“I’m not sure
that we’ve finished with the matter, Watson. Mr. Murdock, you say that your
family took four thousand pounds from that box?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes.”

“Curious. I
would have sworn from its size that it would hold closer to five thousand. And
in your account of the legend, Watson, you told me that Sir Thomas Dunbar
stated on his death bed that he had put something else in the box. Something
for a rainy day, is that it?”

“Quite right,
Holmes.”

“Did the Murdocks
find that extra something?”

“No, Mr. Holmes,
they found nothing but the gold,” Murdock answered.

“That’s very
odd. I think I’ll take a closer look at that box, if you don’t mind.”

Everyone watched
as Holmes closely inspected the box.

Dorothy Small
turned to her father, determination written on her face.

“Since this
seems to be a night of telling secrets, I think you might as well know, father,
that if you don’t give your consent, I shall elope with Ian.”

“Bravo, my dear,
bravo,” I said with pleasure.

“I admire your
resolution towards your father, young lady, but I hardly think it will be
necessary,” Holmes said. “Permit me to show you all the treasure of the Dunbars.”

“What have you
found, Holmes?” Sir Walter asked in surprise.

“The ‘something
for a rainy day’ that old Sir Thomas spoke of. You see, since the cubic
contents of the box obviously differed from my calculations, I deduced the
existence of a false bottom. I was correct. And in that space I found this!”

Holmes thrust
forth a large sheath of yellowing papers.

“It’s a
manuscript,” I declared.

“Quite so,” Holmes
continued, “the manuscript of a book. Look at the title page and see the author’s
name.”

“The
History of the Dunbar Family
by Sir Walter
Scott!” I read aloud.

“I think, Sir
Walter, that an original and unpublished manuscript by your distinguished
namesake will prove worth several times the gold that is missing from that box.”

“You’ve saved
the day for us, Holmes, me boy! God bless you. Aye, this has been as strange a
new year as ever I knew, but it’s turned out to be a bonnie one, thanks to you,
Holmes.”

It seemed to me
there was a tear in old Sir Walter’s eyes, but he quickly raised his arms and
shouted with joy, his mood so bright that I was not sure if I saw correctly.

“Come, everyone,
fill up your glasses! We’re going to drink a toast to the New Year!”

“By Jove, yes,
Sir Walter, this is now a truly happy occasion,” I said, overjoyed at my old
friend’s good fortune.

“And let’s
complete it,” Holmes added, “by singing the traditional song of the season, ‘Auld
Lang Syne.’ In this case, when we sing ‘Should old acquaintance be forgot,’ I
feel that in our hearts we should be thinking of Sir Walter Scott. Though he
died over sixty years ago, he’s made us all very happy here tonight.”

We raised our glasses
high and began to sing. Dorothy and Ian pressed their hands together, and even
Mr. Small, a man I had come to detest, seemed the better for it. Holmes even
exhibited a fairly good singing voice, which surprised me. And my friend, Sir
Walter? Not only was he the happiest man among us, but now, I knew for sure
that I had seen a tear in his eyes. A tear of joy for a man celebrating his
twenty-first birthday.

Return to table of
contents

HOLMES
has always, in my estimation, been a man not only of action but of
great depths that, sad to say, I will never come to understand completely.
Perhaps it is best left that way. Having lived with him for many years, I did
come to understand this moody and intense man beyond that of many around him.
Inspector Lestrade never understood Holmes. Gregson, on the other hand, with
slight reserve, admired my friend for his keen abilities in crime detection.
But few people had the pleasure, and sometimes the irritation, of knowing
Holmes in all aspects of his life. He has always been an intense man, and this
has helped him not only in solving the many crimes I have been witness to, but
allowed him a flexibility to change his mind as well as his manner. But there
is one thing Holmes has never changed: His outright hatred of the most dreaded
criminal of our time, Professor Moriarty.

Ever since their
first meeting, which I have described earlier in THE CASE OF THE APRIL FOOL’S
ADVENTURE, Holmes and Moriarty have tried to best each other. Such an
adventure, as the one I am about to tell, occurred in the Autumn of 1887, I
remember. Holmes and I were seated on either side of the fireplace in our Baker
Street lodgings. The great man, his eyes half closed, his long thin fingers
pressed together, lay back in his chair, pipe lit, filling the room with large
blue clouds of tobacco smoke, and discoursing on one of his favorite subjects,
Professor Moriarty.

“Moriarty is the
Napoleon of crime, Watson. He is the organizer of half that is evil, and nearly
all that is undetected in this great metropolis.”

“Surely that is
a great exaggeration, my dear Holmes.”

“No it isn’t, my
dear fellow. He has a brain of the first order and his agents are numerous and
splendidly organized. He himself sits motionless like a spider in the center of
his web. But that web has a thousand radiations, and he knows every quiver of
each one of them. It’s fortunate for me that there is only one Moriarty! If
every criminal were equally astute, I’d be in bankruptcy within the year.”

“I don’t think
you need to worry about bankruptcy, Holmes,” I said. “As I came in just now, I
picked these letters up from the hall table and slipped them into my pocket.
Here you are. They don’t look like bills to me. I observed the crest of the
Duke of Carlyle on the top envelope.”

I handed the
letters to Holmes who methodically opened each one.

“Oh, dear me,
500 guineas! His grace is extremely generous in his evaluation of my services,”
Holmes said.

“I don’t agree.
After all, you did save him from a shocking scandal.”

“Listen to this
letter, Watson: ‘I seen you yesterday, when you come to the cricket match. You
wasn’t watching the cricket. If you value your life, keep your filthy long nose
to yourself!’ And it’s signed, Joe the Butcher.”

“Who on earth is
Joe the Butcher?”

“A minor
criminal that I was instrumental in sending to prison for a short term,” he
laughed. “He flatters himself, though. I was watching the cricket. I had no
idea that Joe was back in practice again. I must get my Baker Street Irregulars
to keep an eye on him.”

Holmes continued
to open the letters, some of which were unimportant. He stopped at one, his
curiosity peaked.

“Hello, here’s a
letter on Carlton Hotel stationery, Watson. I say, this is interesting. Very
interesting: ‘Dear Mr. Holmes, I have been informed that you are a man of
ability and discretion. My life is in grave danger and I need your help. Upon
receipt of this letter, please come to my hotel at once. I shall be expecting
you.’ And it’s signed Francois Dulac.”

“Who is this
Dulac, anyway, Holmes?”

“Watson, old
fellow,” Holmes said, his facial expression turning hard, “we were talking of
Moriarty just now. I have a notion that this letter may lead us to him.
Francois Dulac, the writer of this letter, is recognized in France as the one
indisputable authority on the paintings of Jean Baptiste Greuze.”

“I still don’t
see the connection with Moriarty,” I said, quite puzzled.

“If there is one
thing Moriarty loves more than the dazzling abstractions of mathematics, and
the even more dazzling achievements of crime, it is the paintings of Greuze!
The suggested combination of impending danger and a Greuze expert spells
Moriarty to me. Get your hat and coat, old fellow, we’re off to the Carlton
Hotel to see Monsieur Dulac at once!”

Before Holmes
had given me a chance to fully absorb the portent of his words, he was up and
putting on his Inverness cape and deerstalker cap. I followed hurriedly as we
left our Baker Street lodgings and hailed a cab. Enroute, Holmes took the time
to explain in greater detail the history of Dulac as well as Moriarty’s
uncompromising interest in the paintings of Greuze. It was not long before we
stood at Monsieur Dulac’s very door.

Holmes knocked
on the door and we waited, but there was no answer. He knocked again.

“Should I go and
get someone to unlock the door?” I said.

“No, no, old
chap. I don’t want to attract attention to our prospective client. A hotel lock
shouldn’t be very hard to pick.”

Holmes pulled
various implements from his pocket.

“I think a
skeleton key should do the trick quite easily.”

Holmes carefully
placed the key in the lock and began adjusting it in his attempt to open the
door.

“Well, the man
at the desk downstairs said that Monsieur Dulac was in his room.”

“No, Watson. He
said he
thought
he was in his room. Ah, there it is. Easier than I had anticipated.
Come on, let’s go in.”

Holmes entered
the room cautiously, I behind him.

“It doesn’t look
as if anyone’s occupied this room, Holmes. No signs of any personal belongings.”

“Very observant,
Watson. See here, no clothes hanging in the wardrobe, and no luggage.”

“Yet, he’s still
registered here. I don’t understand.”

“Hello. What’s
this stain on the carpet by the bed here, Watson?”

“Great Scott,
could he have been murdered?”

“It’s a blood
stain, Watson, and the blood is still damp. I’m afraid we’re too late. Come on,
we can do no more good here.”

“You’re not
giving up, Holmes?”

“Of course not,
my dear fellow. Let’s see what we can find out from the hotel manager. I refuse
to believe that in the 19th century a distinguished foreigner can vanish into
thin air!”

Holmes and I
quickly descended to the main floor and approached the desk. He asked for the
manager and shortly a very thin and well dressed man came forward. Holmes, now
intense and completely motivated by the events that had so far transpired,
quite bluntly asked about the whereabouts of Monsieur Dulac. I could see that
old excitement return to his eyes as I observed and listened to everything that
was said.

“Yes,” the
manager spoke, “Monsieur Dulac did have a visitor early on today, Mr. Holmes.”

“Do you remember
his name?”

“I think it was
Perkins, or Parsons, but I’m not sure.”

“Can you
describe his appearance?” Holmes said.

“I think so, Mr.
Holmes. He was a very tall gentleman. Tall and thin, with deep sunk eyes.”

“Clean shaven?”
Holmes pressed on with his questions.

“Oh yes, sir. He
had a high forehead, and a funny way of moving his head from side to side.”

“By Jove, Holmes,”
I said in astonishment, “that’s almost an exact description of Moriarty!”

“Exactly,
Watson. Have you seen Monsieur Dulac since this Mr. Perkins or Parsons called
on him?”

“No I haven’t,
sir, but his visitor came back only an hour ago. He had some men with him and
they carried some large packages out of the hotel.”

“Packages,” Holmes
said with curiosity, “but not luggage?”

“No. Packages,
Mr. Holmes.”

“Has Monsieur
Dulac received any other visitors since he arrived here?”

“None that have
been here to see him, sir. But I understand that Sir Henry Davenant has been
most anxious to get in touch with him.”

“Sir Henry
Davenant!” Holmes exclaimed, “thank you! I’m extremely obliged to you. Come on,
Watson!”

As we left,
Holmes must have seen how completely in the dark I was about all the answers he
had received.

“The plot begins
to clear, Watson. Sir Henry Davenant is a millionaire whose art collection is
world famous. A year ago the papers were full of his latest acquisition, the
gem of his collection. And what do you suppose it was? Jean Baptiste Greuze’
painting called ‘Young Girl with the Gazelle.’ And now it would appear that for
some reason Moriarty wishes to prevent a meeting between Sir Henry Davenant and
Monsieur Dulac. Now do you see why the plot begins to clear, Watson?”

“Yes, of course.
It seems quite logical, Holmes, but what are you going to do?”

“Davenant is
said to be somewhat of a hermit. He won’t have anything to do with officials,
interviewers and people of that sort, but we know that he wishes to consult an
expert on the paintings of Jean Baptiste Greuze. The next move should be
obvious, old chap!”

“Gracious me,
you mean that you’ll impersonate one!”

“Certainly. If a
Greuze expert is what he wants, than a Greuze expert is what he is going to
get!”

It was back to
Baker Street where I sat quite fascinated, as usual, by Holmes’ adept hand at
makeup.

There, Watson, I
am now an expert on Greuze paintings!”

“Holmes,” I
said, quite amused, “your disguise is amazingly effective.”

“Monsieur,” Holmes
said with a French accent, “you do me the great honor. If I appear convincing
to the astute Dr. Watson, how can I fail to convince Sir Henry Davenant?”

“My dear fellow,
it’s marvelous. Appallingly good!”

“Come, Watson.
It’s off to Sir Henry’s home with us.”

Like a
whirlwind, the entire evening so far had been spent mostly in traveling back
and forth from our lodgings in Baker Street. It was just such events that
lifted me to the state of excitement as I knew it always did for my good friend
Holmes. No sooner had Holmes transformed himself, than we were again off in a
Hansom, to find ourselves before the home of Sir Henry Davenant. Once again
Holmes knocked upon a door, but this time that of one of the most elegant
mansions I had ever seen, its large front facade made up of the most exotic,
and beautiful woods.

“I only hope
that I can be equally convincing in the role of a patron of the arts,” I said,
as Holmes and I waited for someone to come.

“Watson, you are
fine dressed just as you are in your own clothes. Well tailored and, if I may
say so, quite neat. I would venture to say that the clothes of a doctor and
that of an art patron are not unsimilar. Ah, here comes someone now.”

Holmes
introduced himself as Andre Vernet, art expert and protégé of Monsieur Dulac,
and I as an art patron by the name of Mr. Watson. Although Sir Henry’s servant
was quite reluctant to grant us an interview with his master, Holmes, in his
inimitable way, managed to convince the servant to at least have our presence
made aware to Davenant. He ushered us into the hallway where I was quite awed
by the elegant and very expensive tapestries, furniture and objet d’art, to say
the least.

“Well, Holmes,
we got into the house. Now let’s hope that you can impress the master of it.”

“Not as easy a
task I fear, old fellow. I have to match opinions on the paintings of Greuze
with an expert. My own knowledge of the subject is somewhat sketchy, I’m afraid.”

“Yes. But mine
is absolutely nil,” I said rather bemused.

“Greuze was a
naturalistic painter who flourished at the close of the 18th century. Though
his paintings command a fabulous fee in this day and age, he himself died in
great poverty.”

A door opened at
the other end of the hallway and a young lady stepped forward. She was petite
in appearance with long and beautiful hair, handsomely dressed and bore herself
with some elegance.

“Monsieur Vernet,”
she said, “will you and Mr. Watson come with me, please. Sir Henry is most
anxious to meet you.”

“Merci,
Mademoiselle,” said Holmes bowing.

“My name is
Violet Jackson. I look after Sir Henry’s art collection.”

“Indeed,” I
said, “a very pleasurable job, I am sure, my dear. From what I hear he has a
magnificent gallery.”

“He has one of
the finest in the world.”

Miss Jackson led
us down another hallway, this one of shorter length, and opened a door to a large
room that I could only surmise was Sir Henry’s den. There, standing in the
middle of the room was a man of medium height, slightly balding white hair,
dressed in the most expensive silk suit I had ever seen. This, then, was the
famous millionaire, Sir Henry Davenant.