Between the Thames and the Tiber

Sanzio turned pale when he entered. “Mio amico e morto. Chi l’ha ucciso? Who killed him?”

“I have my suspicions, but only time will tell. Note that his position is that of a beheading, Watson, just before the executioner strikes. I suspect that we may find out who the attacker was after we find Mr. Herbert Spenser, and la Signora Santoro. Please call Ispettore Grimaldi,” he continued. “We shall await his arrival.”

Santoro’s body lay stiff on the floor, and I covered it with my coat. He had been dead for several hours and the sound that had alerted us to his presence was, perhaps, an involuntary gasp.

“He is just as much a suppliant as a victim, Holmes. I suppose we must tell Grimaldi to go after Spenser,” I said.

“Indeed, and Santoro’s wife. A well-organized attempt to smuggle all this contraband has fallen apart with Santoro’s death.”

Grimaldi was there within the hour. “So. At last Santoro himself, a war hero,” said Grimaldi, marking his words with deep irony, “one who works for a gang of criminals, all of whom served in Ethiopia.”

“What do you know about them?” asked Holmes.

“Very little,” said Grimaldi. “I know that Santoro and his wife became arms suppliers after the loss at Adowa. This we learned by accident, for one of their shipments was intercepted in Brindisi. It came into the port on the backs of donkeys from the hills of Basilicata, the guns wrapped in thick sheepskins. In the dark, all escaped, but one of our men swore that Santoro was there. He showed a rifle that he had found. It bore Santoro’s military insignia. All signs pointed to him, but because of his prestige as a war hero and the political influence of his wife, he was exonerated. We have an idea of what he was up to, but we never discovered how he managed to do what he did. Until now, my dear Holmes,” he said dryly, “if I am not mistaken. The gang too has broken up. I suspect that your good citizen Spenser is part of the reason for the gang’s breakup.”

Holmes beamed. “Se monumentum qu?ris, circumspice,” he said. “The piano, my dear Grimaldi, is the latest means by which the Santoro gang shipped whatever they wanted to, concealed from all eyes by the deceptive irrelevance to war of this great instrument. A splendid example of what I have referred to as the Dupin Principle: should you wish to hide something, leave it in partial or full view. Examine the pianos at the end there, and you will see pianos that are empty inside. In them, even the metal frame and the pin block have been removed, in order to lessen their weight and to allow for more to be stored. But they still bear the unmistakable form of the piano. Fill one of these cases with counterfeit bills and you have a fortune neatly hidden. Strap it closed and you have a foolproof disguise. Should the odd customs official raise questions, a small emolument coupled with a threat, and you silence the only ones who could open them.”

“Then,” said Grimaldi, “I trust that we no longer must chase Lucanian donkeys in the dark.”

“You need not,” said Holmes with a smile. “I think we should go after Mr. Spenser even though he is no musician. He pretends to be the vice consul, but he is not, we can be sure of that. What started out as the Santoros and Mr. Spenser in a unified company in league with the Khedive and some other African potentates, are now Mr. Spenser and Mrs. Santoro against the dead Colonel. Come, Watson, it is getting late. Will the illustrious signori, Grimaldi and Sanzio, join us at the Campo dei Fior, at La Carbonara, to be precise, in the next hour?”

It was at a very late hour that a courier delivered a note for Holmes as we sat in a small cafe discussing the case. It read:Dear Sherlock Holmes,Sorry to have escaped again, old boy. Please keep trying. It amuses me. I am happy that Santoro is now out of the picture. He should still be in a closet in Sanzio’s basement. A fool who thought he could steal from us.And by the by, I send you best wishes from Alice Morel, who is here beside me as my new bride, now totally free of the burden of that awful instrument. (Signed)Charles Darwin, Jr.(Aboard the Beagle )

“Good Lord, Holmes, can it be—that a young woman of her abilities would run off with a total charlatan like Spenser?”

Holmes smiled ruefully.

“Darwin, old fellow. He has changed his name again. To paraphrase the Sage of KOnigsberg,” he said, with a smile, ‘two things fill me with wonder: the starry heavens above, and the idiocies below.’ I trust that Mr. Darwin is not very far away.”

Grimaldi smiled and held up his glass.

“To innocence—and madness,” he said.

PORLOCK’S DEMISE

AMONG THE MEMBERS OF THE CRIMINAL GANG WITH whom the late professor James Moriarty surrounded himself, none was more formidable than the man who ventured forth under the nom de plume of Fred Porlock. The reader may recall my brief references to him in “The Valley of Fear,” one of the longer accounts that I have dedicated to the exploits of Sherlock Holmes.

Porlock was Moriarty’s right hand. More than Sondberg, the cruel and avaricious murderer, and Vitsle, the extortionist, Porlock showed not only the sinister intelligence required to survive in a world inhabited by such villains, but a contorted spirit surpassed only by that of Moriarty himself. In comparison, even the highly touted Sebastian Moran was no more than a common ruffian.

Unlike such loyal but obsequious minions, however, Porlock maneuvered his position so deftly that he became essential to Moriarty’s success. It was he who transformed the theoretical crimes conceived by the Master into the ever increasing number of disasters that baffled all but my dear friend. It was, as Holmes was wont to say, Porlock’s genius that enabled the evil professor to realize his ambition of criminal supremacy in Britain, if not in all of Europe. Indeed, so fine was Porlock’s touch in concealing his teacher’s presence, that some sincerely came to believe Moriarty to be a figment of Holmes’s overworked imagination. It was as if Moriarty’s invisibility increased as his power grew each day.

And yet, as Holmes was wont to remark on occasion, Porlock too had his weaknesses, the chief of which was his moral ambivalence toward crime. A large part of him desired to be a man like other men. Despite the riches which came his way, he considered the world of crime beneath him, at best a quagmire of fraud and misery, and he both despised and admired Moriarty for having bestowed upon him his career of ill-gotten wealth, but wealth nevertheless.

I laid eyes on Porlock only once in all the years Holmes knew him. It was in early December of 1891 on a snowy morning towards the beginning of the month that I met Holmes at the Rosetta Stone in the British Museum. He had arranged to examine a recently acquired papyrus which contained the earliest Greek treatise on poisons and their antidotes. We were about to follow the attendant to the reading room when Holmes turned and said, “This, my dear friend, is the wizard to the king.”

Holmes bowed in a mocking sort of way to a gentleman who suddenly stood next to him.

“And this, no doubt, the learned chronicler of the great master detective,” said Porlock quietly. Neither of us proffered our hand, and Holmes did not attempt to cover the momentary awkwardness. He merely said, “Please wait for me here, old boy, I shan’t be but a moment.”

A few minutes later, he returned alone, a sombre expression on his face.

“Come, Watson, we haven’t a moment to lose.”

“Where to?” I asked as we hopped into a cab.

“Home,” he said quietly.

Holmes made it a point now never to discuss his work when we were in a public conveyance, and “home” as it turned out, required a walk back of several blocks so that our cabby, if interrogated, could only give a destination other than Baker Street.

As we entered our quarters, my friend became even more pensive. He went to his room, opened the window, and returned to the sitting room. He sat on the sofa without removing his coat and closed his eyes.

I took the opportunity to mull over the little I had seen of Porlock. He was not impressive physically. He wore a grey fedora, wet and stained from the dirty rain now so common in London. A dark blue woollen coat, frayed badly at the sleeves, covered his frame. His shoes and trousers were spattered with mud, and a muffler hid most of his face. What I could see of it was pale and unshaven. I had the impression of someone who was employed in a printer’s shop or perhaps a clerk in an old book store. He was also indistinguishable from the great lot of human