Mrs. Hudson to my needs. The great silver coffee urn was suitably hot, and I made free of its contents in an effort to dissipate my torpid condition. When I heard Holmes' footfalls on the stairs outside, I shook my head vigorously in an effort to deny the lassitude that plagued me. Keeping up with the mercurial mind of my intimate friend was a losing game for my plodding intellect. This particular morning I felt as though the task would prove insurmountable.
To my disgust, Holmes came through our outer door in a smart tweed suit looking for all the world like he had slept the clock around. I knew it was quite possible that he had not been to bed at all, since one could never tell by his appearance. Especially when he felt the need to bustle about and view things with his own eyes. Surely he was nearing the zenith of his career and his sources of information were enormous. But, as in those early days when he was making his name known throughout the civilized world, nothing pleased him more than to be on the move and doing things directly. With a cheery good morning, he hung his Inverness on a peg behind our door and deposited his tweed flapped cap in a convenient chair.
'Delighted to see that you are with us, old fellow. The early morning has proven profitable and we'd best get to Liverpool Station straightaway. If you care to pursue this matter further with me?' he added quickly.
His final remark had been so much twaddle as I well knew and Holmes knew I knew it. The thought of my abandoning a matter involving the robbery of the treasure train and possibly two murders as well was inconceivable.
'Where are we off to?' I asked, disposing of a final rasher of bacon.
'The city of Fenley,' he responded. 'You do recall that certain west coast banks were involved with the missing gold shipment.'
'Then the matter of Ramsey Michael is abandoned?'
'Scotland Yard, in the person of MacDonald, can follow up on that for the moment. The half-million pounds' worth of gold is our principal concern.'
I became somewhat nettled and posed my next question more abruptly than usual. 'All right. What in Gloucester relates to the gold shipment?'
'Burton Hananish, financier, lives there.'
'The name means nothing to me.'
'It would had you gone through the dossier Mycroft placed at our disposal. Hananish was instrumental in creating the cartel that gathered the gold. He has had considerable dealings in the international world of finance. The original idea of the loan to the Credit Lyonnais might have been his.'
'I thought Ezariah Trelawney was the key man there.'
'Actually, I rather fancy another man completely.'
'Michael? The idea man.'
'Correct, old fellow,' he said, accepting the cup of coffee I had poured for him. A few moments with Holmes and my morning fogginess had evaporated. I had a sudden thought. 'A number of bankers must have been involved. What made you settle on this Hananish chap?'
'He's the only one who is a veteran of the Crimea campaign.'
That was all I could get out of Holmes for a while. Fenley was a modest-sized city in Gloucester, north of Bristol on the Severn River. We were able to travel a through train of the Bristol and Western Railroad, a convenience on our considerable journey. During the trip, Holmes seemed intent on avoiding discussion of the matter that took us toward the west coast. Rather, he spent a lengthy period of time with his long legs stretched out in our first-class compartment, his chin on his chest and his hat lowered over his forehead. I could not tell whether his eyes were closed or not. He might have been sleeping or possibly idly regarding the toes of his shoes with his mind elsewhere. We were approaching Swindon when he roused himself and relieved my boredom with reminiscences regarding the matter of the Netherlands-Sumatra Company and the colossal schemes of Baron Maupertuis. I thought at first that the sleuth was merely whiling away the time in a manner calculated to keep me from posing insane questions. But then the thought of the involvement of the Credit Lyonnais in the Netherlands- Sumatra scandal came to mind. Holmes contended that there was a strong family resemblance about misdeeds. Certainly his knowledge of the history of crime was unequaled, for he had the details of a thousand cases at his fingertips. Was there something in common between the Netherlands-Sumatra matter and the stolen gold? I listened with added attention to his recapitulation and even posed some questions relative to points still unclear in my mind. Since I hope to present a complete account of this matter in a future publication, I shall not dwell further on our discussion, which lasted until our arrival in Fenley.
On descending from our train in the small Gloucester town, I anticipated that we would locate Burton Hananish, the man who had captured Holmes' attention, but this was not the case. We made for the local inn, but a block from the railroad station on a pleasant tree-lined street. It was called the Red Grouse and I judged the management had held tenure for some time and was of a diligent nature. The spigots in the barroom and the rail as well were highly polished while the plank flooring had that sheen that came from oil applied with muscle grease. There was the not-unpleasant aroma of malted liquids and a fair sprinkling of customers at the bar consuming same. Holmes not only unerringly walked to the establishment but, without pause, led me to a table in the place that was already occupied. This did not surprise me. My friend had spent a considerable part of the previous twenty-four hours involved in his own pursuits and I suspected that he had established a liaison in Fenley, for he seemed capable of reaching people in almost every locale. We were greeted by a youngish chap, faultlessly dressed, with a low-keyed though hearty voice.
'Gentlemen,' he said, indicating the two vacant chairs available.
'Watson, this is Wally,' said Sherlock Holmes.
As I took the proffered seat, I reflected that our greetings were both limited and unusual. Holmes did not refer to people by their first names, but he did not choose to elaborate. Wally evidently knew of us both, though his face was not familiar to me. His hair was sandy and cut short and his cheeks glowed from a very close shave. There was an aroma of toilet water about him and I judged it to be expensive. He was close to six feet, slim, and certainly would be judged handsome by the fairer sex. His manner was even more pleasing. I realized that while we had just met and barely that, there was a feeling that we were on the threshold of a pleasant association. I could not explain this aura other than that it emanated from Wally like the aftershave I had noted.
There were no preambles to the conversation, and it took no genius to realize that the youngish fellow was present for a purpose with which he was already well acquainted. I got the feeling that Wally and the sleuth did not know each other, though their words did not indicate this.
'How goes it?' asked Holmes.
'Up and up so far, Mr. Holmes. The man in question has a reputation that you might call . . . like Gibraltar.' His searching for a phrase jogged me into the realization that his speech pattern was non-revealing. He sounded like a university man, though I could not guess which one and, indeed, would have been hard-pressed to figure out his point of origin. I assumed he was British, but there was no revealing patois or accent.
'Hananish has an international reputation as well,' said Holmes. 'I'm rather interested in that aspect of his career.'
The barman appeared at this moment and we all ordered stout.
'It is a mite early in the game,' continued Holmes, 'but do you anticipate problems?'
'No, sir,' replied Wally. 'With the assistance you've made available, I can get a surface check in a short while. As to how deep I can dig . . .' He let a shrug complete his sentence.
'It would be better if I had something specific for you to look for,' said the sleuth. 'Perhaps I can come up with something.'
'You're going to see him?'
Holmes nodded.
'He's got a rather spiffy estate on the river road. Bit of the local baronet, though without title.'
'I know,' said Holmes. 'Have we learned anything particular about him? Personal life, I mean.'
'His raft of servants seem to walk in dread of the old boy. There's a similar feeling among his bank employees, I judge. Cripple, you know.'
'I didn't,' admitted Holmes.
'Riding accident some time back. He's limited to a wheelchair, which is handled by a brute of a fellow of local origin who is a mute.'
'Little to be learned from him.' There was a period of silence and then Holmes shoved his half-consumed
