“Here, Watson, is one of the few photographs of them that exists,” he said, handing me one of his scrapbooks.
I saw a woman who towered over her companion and who looked twice his age.
“They are most odd,” I said, “and rather unattractive to boot.”
“Indeed,” he said. “She is tall and thin, frighteningly pale, her face puckered with wrinkles caused by a powerful acid thrown at her in childhood by an angry relation. The image of her that I carry around with me is not that of a human being but of a high-backed chair, one with wooden arms and legs and tattered upholstery at the top. He, on the other hand, is more human, but in appearance only. He is a rather stout man of half her height. In real life he has a broad face, pinkish in color, half bald, the only clue to his brain being his cruel grey eyes. He is an excellent shot and carries a weapon at all times, but uses it only in moments of crisis. As with all master criminals, the Rouxmonts require that the crime itself be committed by one of their henchmen. They themselves are the leaders of the gang. They plan and conceive, but do not execute. In this way, they maintain the appearance as well as a certain distance from their foul deeds. As chief disciples, they of course revere the memory of the late Professor James Moriarty.”
Holmes became silent for a moment as he paced back and forth, his pipe firmly between his teeth.
“Their weaknesses? There are two. They are brilliant in conception but irregular, even lax, in the execution of their crimes. To put it bluntly, they do not prepare well. Second, they believe erroneously in their own invincibility. Another blunder. They remind one of a playwright, who writes the play and delivers it to the director, who hires the actors to perform it. Having conceived of the play, the odd couple then purchase tickets, so to speak, and sit in the audience watching it as if it is the work of others. It is only at the very end of the chain that they have created that they become active again. At this juncture they evaluate the loot and take their share, which I have been told sometimes reaches a staggering ninety per cent. To defeat them I have a plan, of which you will be the chief executor. After me, of course.”
“And what is it, Holmes?”
“First, you must announce my retirement. Preposterous, you say? Not at all, dear Watson. The time will come when we both think of retirement as a necessity. Even at this early moment, however, it is plausible that I remove myself from the fray. We must make it completely believable if I am to succeed in destroying this strange couple. Do you recall that small cottage in Sussex where we stayed for a few weeks? I think it might be the perfect spot in which to disappear for a time. As I recall, it is isolated but not far from an old Norman ruin still inhabited by friendly people. Let us go there this afternoon and see if it is available to us. I shall reveal to you more of my plans once we are on the train. Come along, old fellow. In time you will see your friend disappear into a number of disguises.”
That afternoon we investigated the cottage. The owner, Major Potter, told us that it had been vacant for some months, and that he welcomed our interest. We found it still to our liking, and upon our return to Baker Street, I called The Times and announced Holmes’s retirement and the end of his active pursuit of the world’s criminals. He would place such endeavors in the capable hands of Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson and the other brave men of Scotland Yard. Later, he stated emphatically in public interviews that he wished only to keep bees and pursue his interests in other subjects, the chief of which would be the motets of Orlando di Lasso. He refused to comment when asked about his memoirs.
A short time later, Holmes moved to the cottage in Sussex. I accompanied him. The world largely ignored the move, but it was vaguely understood from published reports that he would divide his retirement between London and somewhere in Sussex, where he would spend the greater portion of his time. Both the Foreign Office and Scotland Yard posted unobtrusive guards at Baker Street, and I felt largely free of any danger, somewhat foolishly perhaps. A guard was also posted at the cottage. Except for an occasional suspicious incident and near misses such as falling flower pots and runaway horses in the city, we felt safe and scarcely aware of the guard that protected us in our daily lives.
Holmes spent much of his time in the country, cultivating his bees and playing the violin. The suspicious incidents, he assured me, the work of the Rouxmonts, would last only a few weeks. Once they no longer occurred he would begin to put in place the last part of his plan. He counseled patience on my part and said that he was sure that the Rouxmonts would show their hand in time for him to thwart them.
And so, for a precious while, the world at large forgot Sherlock Holmes, convinced that he was no longer active in the world of crime. The underworld of London and Rome no longer had to fear him. Indeed, I gathered from Lestrade that the younger criminals now active had never heard of him, even though his retirement had commenced only a few months before.
I visited Holmes often, and the two of us took our long walks together through the still, thick forests of Sussex. Holmes usually had a list of periodicals that he required, and I did my best to find them when I returned to the city. It was through them and reports from Scotland Yard that he kept in touch with the world in which he had lived and worked for so long. Far too often for my nerves, however, he still returned to London, solving several cases that baffled the police, but only Lestrade was made aware of these activities. Holmes’s so-called “retirement” continued without untoward incident, and his mind was sharper than ever.
On our walks, he spoke of his plans for the Rouxmonts, but did not reveal them to me until he had been in Sussex for almost six months. During that time he often disappeared for long periods. He refused to let me know what he had been doing or where he had been.
“Patience,” he proclaimed softly, continuing in the same low voice. “The time has come, old boy, for us to act. I have just learned from one of my many sources that the Rouxmonts are on their way to Italy, after waiting for a time to see if I were about to re-enter the world of crime. I am told that their henchmen are gorging themselves on the recently discovered treasures of Sybaris, a city justly famous as one of the richest of the ancient world. It is their intention to remove all of Sybaris that can be moved and sell it to the highest bidder. The Rouxmont gang have been working tirelessly to have the site closed. ‘Closed’ not by the Italian government but by the Rouxmonts themselves, of course. One of the odd couple, Rene, has got himself appointed as assistant superintendent of the excavation. At night, the odd couple unleash their archaeological ants that dig as fast as they can and carry their loot to a small village somewhere in Lucania where it is packed carefully for sale. You can imagine the joyful greed now passing through the hearts of the richest of Europe and America as the rumours grow. The prize? Sybaris, the ancient centre of world hedonism, now for sale down to the last sherd.
“From Italy, they will transport their booty by ship to the Moroccan coast. There they will meet with their prospective buyers, Americans presumably, who have succeeded in having one of their own henchmen appointed as head of the American legation in Tangiers. Once inside the legation, it being the diplomatic equivalent of an embassy, the treasure is beyond our reach.”
Holmes spoke in a matter-of-fact manner, but I could feel his enthusiasm as he continued.
“After you return to Baker Street today, you are not to visit Sussex again. I have hired two actors to replace us. They will travel regularly as we have between London and our cottage. They are quite good at impersonations and might fool even Mrs. Hudson. Look out there, old boy, and tell me what you see,” he said, pointing to the window.
I did as he asked and saw to my amazement Holmes and me strolling slowly towards the house, apparently conversing in our voices as well.
“I’m not sure who we are, Holmes. They are very good indeed.”
“I would have you meet them, but we haven’t the time. Here are your instructions in this small envelope. Memorise them, and then destroy the paper as soon as you reach Baker Street. Tomorrow morning at eight, you must be on the train from London to Rome. You will travel in the costume of an English monk, by name Friar Odoric. Your disguise is in this valise. Everything you will need for the trip is in there. Talk to no one, concentrate on your Latin prayers. I assume that you can still mumble convincingly.”
“And where will you be?” I asked.
“Not far away, old fellow, at least for the time being. Do not concern yourself. If I am correct, the gang will not notice you. Do not forget: they want me, not you, but are content for the moment for me to be a retired bee keeper in Sussex. Take the valise, Watson, and return to Baker Street. Quickly, old boy, your double is about to enter the room. If all goes well, humanity will be rid of the odd couple just as we meet again.”
I returned to Baker Street as Holmes had instructed. His note was terse and to the point:
I was puzzled by the note, particularly by the phrase “I Sassi,” but I found it quickly in one of Holmes’s indices: the phrase means “The Rocks” and refers to some ancient caves carved in the side of a cliff in the town of
