Sherlock Holmes and the Treasure Train

Chapter 11

Back to Baker Street

IT WAS several hours later that I lay luxuriating in a steaming hot bath. Holmes had secured fresh shirts and undergarments from the local haberdasher, and the innkeeper's wife was ironing my sodden suit. The river tug had deposited us at the Fenley docks, and when Holmes had pressed a considerable payment on the captain, he met with some resistance. That worthy confessed that he had not enjoyed himself so much since he helped run down two escaped prisoners from the Coleford jail who were making for Cardiff in a stolen launch. Holmes had been insistent and had given the lively old sailor a personal card with a number penned on the back.

'Should there be questions from the local authorities,' my friend had said, 'have them contact this number at Whitehall.'

'Pshaw,' the mahogany-faced captain had responded. 'I'll just show 'em your card and that will shut 'em up.' Such are the benefits of fame.

By the time I had toweled off, Orloff joined us in our suite at the Red Grouse Inn. He appeared as calm and polished as though he had spent the morning lecturing the local ladies' sewing circle on the care of ailing cats. Holmes had me swathed in a blanket with a tot of Irish whiskey in my hand, and his solicitude drew a small smile from the security agent and a tinge of warmth entered his normally cold, unemotional green eyes. With Orloff on hand, Holmes bustled off to secure my suit, which allowed me to pose a question or two. Mycroft Holmes' right- hand man and his most feared agent always treated Sherlock Holmes with deference, for he was so good himself that he could recognize greatness in others. With me he exhibited flashes of humor and actual friendship, something I would reveal to no one, for I would be courting disbelief. The shadowy enforcer of the espionage system that officially did not exist was reputed to have all the friendly tendencies of a prowling Bengal tiger. Why he should present a different face toward me was a mystery I was incapable of solving.

'I say,' I mouthed as a curtain raiser, 'you never did tell me how you chanced to be down this way.'

'The matter of gold and the solidity of the pound is of interest to Her Majesty's government,' he replied, igniting one of the small black cigars he fancied. He was just talking and knew that I saw through his answer that answered nothing. Holmes had asked his brother for Orloff, and Mycroft Holmes had complied as he had done in the past. Now I could identify the associate of Holmes that the mysterious Wally had referred to in the taproom the previous afternoon. Which brought me to the matter I really wanted to touch upon.

'You're down here smoothing the way for that Wally chap.'

'You've met him, then?' Orloff seemed mildly surprised.

'Very briefly. Don't even know his name or occupation either, but Holmes seems to place great store by him. I'd say he's giving the fellow a free rein, for he provided no instructions during our short meeting.'

'On the theory that some knowledge can be inconvenient, Holmes hasn't chosen to tell you about the gentleman. All right, Doctor, I'll spin you a tale that will be our secret, though it's just a story dealing with no particular person we know.'

I must have leaned forward with a pleased expression, for Holmes did tend to have his little mysteries and nothing delighted me more than to be one up on him.

'You've heard, perhaps, of the confidence game?' asked Orloff, blowing smoke toward the ceiling.

'Bunko, they call it,' I replied. 'Bogus companies, non-existent stock, manipulators who prey on the larceny that lurks in most hearts.'

Again Orloff registered surprise. 'That's an apt remark, for a flimflam man wouldn't get a farthing from a truly honest citizen. But no matter. Who, would you say, is the king of the con men?'

'Get Rich Quick Wallingford,' I responded promptly. 'The exploits of the American are known far and . . .' My voice dwindled away and I stared at Orloff, noting the slight smile teasing the corners of his mouth. 'Wally,' I muttered softly, 'I see.'

'The man you referred to, not I, has no warrants outstanding in the States, though I'm sure the American police would be delighted if he no longer graced their shores. Now, England is a small nation, though many of our people have served, in times gone by, under foreign flags as mercenaries.'

'We've hired a few ourselves on occasion,' I stated, my mind reverting to the revolution of the Colonies and the battle of Trenton.

'Exactly. Now if such a man as you mentioned were to come over here because the climate in his homeland was too warm, possibly his wide experience could be put to use for the benefit of society.'

'To catch a thief . . .' I muttered, and then my mouth snapped shut. I did not wish to pursue the subject for fear that one of us might say too much. Rather, I resorted to the matter at hand. 'But who is the thief?'

'There has to be one for there's a half a million that's missing.'

It was at this moment that Holmes rejoined us, and by the time I had donned my now-presentable outer garments, Wally appeared as well. So it's to be a war council, I thought, regarding the American's handsome face with added respect.

Holmes put the ball in play without a warm-up. 'We've hit onto something,' he stated, filling his short briar, 'for Watson was captured today and they were after me as well.'

Wally's face registered momentary consternation. 'Could it be because of what I'm doing? Surely not, for our brief meeting yesterday could have caused no suspicion.'

A sudden thought flashed through my mind. Could the Red Grouse Inn be part of the widespread apparatus controlled by Mycroft Holmes, the second most powerful man in England? I abandoned the idea.

Sherlock Holmes, his pipe lit, agreed with Wally. 'No, I think your activities have been well covered.' His eyes shifted toward Orloff. 'No chance of a leak, is there?'

Orloff responded in the negative. 'The bank examiner we are using doesn't really know what's going on. As for the teller, I have too much on him.'

So, I thought, some old debts are being paid off.

Holmes seated himself in the armchair. 'I think the sudden attention that came our way was the result of our meeting with Burton Hananish.'

'Which confirms your suspicions regarding him,' said Wally.

'Oh, he has to be a part of it, though possibly unwittingly.' My friend seemed very certain on this point. 'What I'd like to know is what alerted Hananish or someone in his household to the presence of danger and brought about the attack on Watson.'

'You discussed the mechanics of the gold shipment, of course.' The American Wally's warm, gregarious manner was diminished by a glitter in his clear and forthright eyes.

Holmes nodded. 'Hananish went over the reason the French needed the gold, the certificates of indebtedness issued by them to the west coast banks . . .'

My friend would have continued, but something in Wally's manner caused him to fall silent. There was a weighty pause. Wally was leaning forward in his chair regarding Holmes like an Irish setter ready to put up a bird.

'Certificate of indebtedness, you say, Mr. Holmes? Now what might that be?'

Holmes seemed momentarily nonplussed. 'Like a letter of credit, perhaps?'

'I can understand the meaning though I'm not familiar with the term, but the French have no need for such paper. Like the Bank of England, the Credit Lyonnais has the power to issue currency that is just as convertible as this country's Bank of England notes.'

Wally's statement prompted a groan from Orloff. 'I do hope this matter does not involve the Prescott plates, for the C.I.D. is still experiencing nightmares regarding them.'

By this time I was scratching my head in a bewildered fashion, and as he did so often, Holmes noticed my puzzlement. 'A counterfeiter named Prescott is said to have created plates capable of producing Bank of England notes that would defy inspection anywhere. Prescott was shot to death by an American criminal, and his engravings have never been located.'^* Holmes turned back to Wally.

^*Obviously this adventure predates the matter of the Three Garridebs, in which Holmes not only captured Killer Evans, the man who shot the counterfeiter, but also recovered the Prescott plates.

'You feel the certificates Hananish mentioned are so much rigmarole?'

'Not necessarily, but it doesn't sound right. Let us pose a model situation in a framework of one on one. You,' he pointed to Holmes, 'are the Hananish bank while I am the Credit Lyonnais. You have the gold and prepare for its