'You'll have to explain that.'
'Captain Spaulding, retired from his explorations, settles down in England and raises dogs. Not the racing breed but Doberman pinschers, the fiercest watchdogs in the world. A reaction to canine hair causes him to drop this activity, and he turns to horse-breeding.'
'What is unusual about that?'
'Nothing, until you consider the way Mayswood is laid out. Deets did say it was somewhat like a fortress. In addition, it is surrounded by fenced pastures containing, on all sides, high-spirited stallions and skittish yearlings. Were I intent on approaching the Deets menage surreptitiously, I would think twice before crossing a field at the risk of being run down by a temperamental thoroughbred. When track champions are set out to stud, they evidence frisky ways. Captain Spaulding was intent on protecting something, and with his passing, his son has remained true to the task.'
Holmes had given me plenty to think about. He was, as was his custom, diligently turning his theory this way and that in his mind to allow the light of reason to reflect on its various facets.
The remainder of our trip to Baker Street was made in silence.
Chapter Six
The Call to Colors
I well knew what twists and turns were in store at this point. The world's only consulting detective had involved himself in two matters, not unusually, for at times he had as many as a dozen cases that he handled simultaneously. His 'calling out the reserves,' as it were, merely signified that one or both ranked as a major challenge, and I had seen the sheaf of cables that Billy had dispatched two nights before. The harvest they produced had to be reaped.
Returning to our chambers was a signal for Holmes to depart after reading messages that had been delivered in our absence. In olden times I had chafed at being suddenly out of things, but I now realized that this was standard procedure in certain of Holmes's investigations. The cables had been dispatched to that ragtag army that his brother had referred to. Some Holmes met elsewhere, like Porlock, the informer, formerly connected with Moriarty of infamous memory. I had never seen the man, and Porlock was not his real name. But Holmes used him along with others whom I did know, some well.
They fell into two camps, this heterogeneous crew with strange backgrounds and unusual, specialized talents. The outside group were seldom spoken of. On rare occasions, an unidentified person of either sex might make a surreptitious visit to Baker Street because of the exigencies of a situation. I took pains not to make note of their features and, as much as possible, to wipe them from my mind's slate lest an unwitting slip of the tongue would cause harm.
The inside group were known by name to Billy, Mrs. Hudson, and myself. They appeared at our chambers frequently and on most occasions I was privy to their conferences with the master sleuth.
I pictured my friend, possibly in one of the many disguises he used so well, now involved with the outside group. Certainly he would be loosening his hounds on the scent of Chu San Fu, and the memory of the Chinese criminal caused me to spend part of the dying day oiling my trusty Webley and checking its load. Holmes had a seeming disregard for his personal safety, which I tried to counterbalance by being as prepared as I could.
When nightfall came, I ate a solitary meal and tried to cushion Mrs. Hudson's concern about the eating habits of her famous tenant. The nutritive needs of the detective were one of the many worries of the dear lady and revealed her extreme patience. When Holmes disappeared, one never knew when he would return, and when he did, he would like as not decide to have a bite, which might range from a nibble of cheese to half a joint of beef. When frustrated by a case, and on the premises, he frequently sat brooding at the table, his meal untouched, and our landlady's wheedling was to no avail. But if Holmes has a problem, Mrs. Hudson had some cause to feel pride in her skill with stove and skillet. Even in those early days when I was still recovering from my wartime wound and subsequent illness, I had been blessed with a good appetite and consistently did justice to her provender.
The dishes had been cleared away and, possibly spurred by our trip to the Mayswood stud, I had made some check marks against entries in the Southgate Plate due to be run over the weekend. Our news dealer, who delivered copies of all editions, included a biweekly racing sheet that I fancied. I had narrowed my choice to Vortex out of Grand Dame by Nurania when there were footsteps on the stairs.
Before I could arise, Holmes opened the door and Slim Gilligan, a valise in one hand, followed him in. The former master-cracksman was our most frequent visitor from the inside group. His lock-and-key establishment, originally financed by Sherlock Holmes, was a successful business venture, small wonder since his workmen, mostly graduates of Dartmoor or Princetown, were skillful indeed. Installing a lock on a front door or making a new key for a file case was child's play to one who has opened a Mills-Stroffner safe in the dead of night by the light of a bull's- eye lantern. It was bruited about in certain circles that Holmes was a silent partner in Gilligan's business, which must have acted as a deterrent should any of the employees consider resuming their wayward paths.
Holmes favored me with a quick nod as he crossed to the desk, unlocking the cash drawer. Gilligan, his cloth hat at a jaunty angle and an unlit cigarette stuck behind one ear, winked in my direction. His expression indicated, 'We're at it again.'
'There is an inn in the village, Slim,' my friend was saying, 'and I'm sure you can work out a good cover story.'
'A breeze, Guv,' was the abnormally thin man's response.
Holmes removed some currency from the desk, placed it in an envelope, and handed it to Gilligan.
'A cable here will reach me or Watson. If not, Billy will find us. I don't know of any other problems save those we've discussed. How about Styles?'
Oh ho! I thought. Slippery Styles, the human shadow, is involved.
''E's at Waterloo, waitin' fer me. You'll 'ave yer cable, Guv—in jig time.'
With a cheerful wave in my direction, the cracksman was gone. I did not hear the downstairs door open or close, but when Slim came or went I never did. He just seemed to materialize like a genie at Holmes's call and then vanish. For a time, I had thought that by night he came and went via the roof. Gilligan was a great fancier of rooftops. Of late, it had crossed my mind that he might know about the house next door and the secret entrance to our establishment. I refrained from bringing this matter up. If Holmes wanted me to know, he would tell me. One of my friend's catch phrases was: 'I tell as much or as little as I choose.' Usually, he modified this somewhat cavalier statement with the additive: 'That is the advantage of being unofficial.' The years had taught me that this was an elastic phrase meaning that he alone possessed carte blanche. In truth, he had on occasion chosen to appoint himself as the prosecution, judge, and jury as well, but no harm had come of it.
During my musings, Holmes had gotten his pipe going and now saw fit to break his silence.
'Any visitors, Watson?'
'None. Nor messages, either.'
'No matter.'
Followed by a trail of smoke, he began to pace our sitting room with that purposeful manner. Holmes was tall and amazingly strong, the best amateur boxer I had ever seen. As a result, his movements were graceful and his footfall light. Had it not been so, I imagine there would have been paths worn in our carpets, for he did like to think on his feet. I imagined that his mind, so capable of absolute concentration, was completely immersed in the Deets matter and whatever errand he had sent Gilligan on. Slim's mention of Waterloo had led me to associate the cracksman with the Mayswood affair. As usual, Holmes surprised me.
'I agree with your selection, Watson. Vortex should win the Plate with ease.'
There must have been exasperation on my face as I followed his moving figure. My racing sheet was on the end table, though how he spotted it and my pencil work I could not fathom.
'Look here, Holmes, I checked at least four of the horses.'
'But you underlined Nurania, Vortex's sire, said former champion being the leading stud at Mayswood Farm. Your final choice is obvious, is it not?'
I suppressed a sigh. Everything was obvious, once Holmes explained it.
Having produced his surprise, which gave him joy, the sleuth switched to the matter at hand. His words, presumably directed at me, might well have been delivered to the walls in my absence. But I was a fixture like the commonplace books and his voluminous files, a sounding board that he had become accustomed to.
