BothPinners gave me a look like he didn’t think anything of it at all.
So, I improvised. “But I’m not a good friend, it turns out, as I was only using him to procure employment. Give me a job, all right?”
“Yes. Fine,” Mr. BothPinners said, and turned his attention back to the newspaper.
I knew I could not let him go, so I shook his desk and insisted, “All right, but what’s my title, eh? What are my duties?”
“I don’t know!” he shouted, jumping to his feet and crumpling the newspaper into an untidy wad. In just a moment, he recovered himself, dropped the paper into his rubbish bin and said, “I… I shall have to think on it for a moment. Yes. Please excuse me.”
He then walked to a dusty old door at the back of the office, opened it, stepped inside, gave us a little nod, and closed the door behind him.
“Where’s he going?” I wondered.
“I don’t know,” Watscroft shrugged, “but that’s a closet.”
From behind the door came the gentle swish of someone hanging his jacket from the doorknob and that funny snapping sound trouser suspenders make.
“What? Well that doesn’t make any sense, does it?” I cried, and began to pace back and forth. “There’s something I’m missing here… What am I missing?”
“Nothing,” came Watscroft’s voice, strained and frustrated.
“What am I to do?”
He gave a sigh of exasperation. “Deduce it. Concentrate.”
“Oh, easy for you to say! Just deduce it! Deduce! Well, how? It’s hard!”
“No. It isn’t. We’ve had this same case before.”
“What? You’re not supposed to know that!” I cried. I ceased my pacing and turned my gaze on Watscroft.
He didn’t look well. He was leaning on his desk, sweating, with just a hint of blood visible at one nostril and a strained expression on his face. “All wrong…” he mumbled. “I feel all wrong… Not me… Done this case before…”
“No! No! I’m sure you must be mistaken!” I shouted. “Though, as a point of interest, which case?”
“Red… heads…”
“Eh?” I could hardly fathom his meaning. He did seem to be regaining some of Watson’s memories. Yet there were no charming skull-hair-spiders here. No red-headed soul-sucker. So, he must be wrong, right? There were also distracting grunt noises coming from behind Mr. BothPinners’s door.
Yet I had more pressing worries, for at that moment Watscroft fixed me with an exasperated—and all-too-familiar—gaze and said, “Holmes!”
“Aaaaaagh! No, no, no! Hey, um, what was that expression your mother had?”
“Hip! Pip! To—uuugh!”
“Hip! Pip! Top!” I prompted.
“Derpy, derp—ow!”
“There,” I said, with a self-congratulatory smile. “Now, don’t you feel better, Mr. Pycroft?”
“Yes… Yes, I…”
“Now you just relax over there and be Hall Pycroft. I shall reason this out, all right?”
He nodded his agreement and slumped down at the desk, looking utterly exhausted. Still, I was glad to see it, for the fierce spark of Watson’s intellect had died within his eyes, replaced by a dull, tired stare.
I was so relieved, even the sound of something heavy falling to the floor and a sudden curse from behind the closed door could not dampen my spirits.
“Good,” I sighed. “Good. But you must give me some time, all right, Mr. Pycroft? It’s hard.”
“No! Easy!” he shouted, and pounded his fist upon the desk. A fresh spurt of blood spattered down from his nose. When he looked up at me the sharp, disapproving gaze of John Watson was unmistakable.
“Oh no! Oh no! Quick! Hip! Pip! Top! Derpy-derpy! The whole thing! You must say it! Quickly!”
He did try. I really think the part of him that was Hall Pycroft did its very best. Say what you will about Mr. Pycroft, but this much must be conceded: he always gave forth his maximum effort. He clutched the desk, rocking back and forth with his eyes clenched shut and his nose practically rocketing blood, shouting, “Hip! Pip! Top! Derpy- derpy! Hip! Pip! Top! Derpy-derpy! Hip! Pip! Top! Derpy-derpAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA—”
And then came a horrible sound. Well… I’m not sure if “sound” is the right word. It probably was not audible. Not to most. But to those of us who can hear the hidden voices, who have smelt the sacred smoke and felt the furtive touch of the lonely damned, the sound was unmistakable.
Rhett Khan’s most powerful spell. All my hard work and careful foresight.
Tearing right in half.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAod damn it, Holmes! Don’t you see? Pycroft wrote to the director of Mawson and Williams’s! He never met the man! Therefore, anybody who was able to present themselves Monday morning, bearing a letter that appeared to be written by Hall Pycroft, could pass himself off as the new stockbroker’s clerk. And let us remember: Pycroft was utterly incapable of doing that job, as Mawson and Williams’s well knew. The impostor would not even need to furnish himself with any knowledge of the trade in order to pull off the substitution. All he’d have to do is make up one or two scandalous stories about Coxon & Woodhouse’s and his new employer would be absolutely satisfied!”
“Oh…” I said, somewhat horrified, but still interested to learn what was going on. “So then, Franco-Midland Hardware Company…”
“Is a complete fabrication! Look around you, Holmes! This is not an office! This is a storage room! This is somewhere to stick Hall Pycroft to keep him far from his actual place of business, just like when John Clay dreamed up the League of Red-Headed Men to keep Jabez Wilson away from his pawnshop four hours per day! Remember? He even used the task of repetitive copying to distract his victim!”
“Ah! But then, why would—”
“Last time the motive may have been difficult to divine, Holmes, but this time it is clear. Hall Pycroft—or whoever chose to use his name—would have been expected to handle any number of valuable securities. Many of those bonds are payable to whatever man is currently bearing them. If one could secure a position within
