days. I'll be asking some questions about McTigue and checkin' out his supposed death as well.'
The inspector departed forthwith. Given a lead, he needed little urging.
I was completely befuddled by this revelation of Holmes', and he did not seem disposed to discuss it. Something had alerted my friend to the possibility of the presence of an old enemy, but there were so many ifs involved that he had to be playing a hunch. This was contrary to his usual style; and if pressed, I knew he would resort to evasions. Actually, further discussion of the matter was not practical, since Holmes informed me he had an invitation to the rifle contest at the Wellington Club. Not long thereafter we departed for this plaything of the rich and titled.
It was a bit of a trip to the establishment, situated in Bermondsey, close onto the Deptford Reach curve in the Thames. I realized immediately that the Wellington Gun Club served a variety of purposes, boasting a tip-top grillroom, with an adjacent area suitable for the playing of cards. A hideaway where business leaders could consort with their own kind, and I assumed that many a deal had been broached within its stately walls. On this day the club was crowded. It took no brilliance to realize that the match had become an excuse for ladies to don their latest finery and gentlemen, who would not have known a breech from a bolt, to hobnob with the upper strata of society. There was a great to-do about invitations, and there were even some who were denied admission; but the engraved card presented by Holmes secured immediate entry and a carte blanche obsequiousness from the major- domo guarding the entrance. It crossed my mind that we might be present by royal patronage, since Holmes was summoned to Buckingham from time to time, usually after one of his masterly actions on behalf of the Empire. Few indeed were the elite functions that he could not attend if he wished. A humorous
Lord Balmoral was in evidence, of course, since his Bagatelle Club team were the challengers. I nodded to Lady Windemere and the duchess of Paisley, present with their usual entourage, and exchanged pleasantries with Baroness Jeurdon and Lady Lind-Mead.
When the competition finally got under way, I was at a bit of a loss to understand how they managed the whole thing. There were a number of events, and the paper targets, with circled bull's-eyes, were gradually moved farther and farther from the riflemen. There was much measuring of distances from bullet hole to target center, and the endeavors of various contestants were accompanied by suitable
The shooting took place in a sizeable fenced area at the rear of the Wellington Club building. Chairs were arranged on the brick-paved terrace, and the back wall was sandbagged to a considerable height. Due to the position of the property in conjunction with the Deptford Reach, there were no buildings immediately adjacent and a fortuitous breeze off the river served to disperse the fumes of the gunpowder. With a gay crowd sipping tea or other more potent libations, and the marksmen in uniforms of paramilitary design banging away at targets, it made for a colorful scene. Holmes seemed to understand what was going on and informed me that the results of the match now depended on the final encounter between the ace of the Bagatelle Club, one Gerald Stolte, and our acquaintance Richard Ledger.
The groundswell of conversation interspersed with tinkles of laughter faded out as the two contestants made for their firing positions. Lord Arthur Seville was acting as an announcer, and he informed the multitude that this would be the penultimate event, since the victor would then entertain his audience with an individual display. This deciding match would be five shots per contestant with no time limit. A two-by-four timber was placed on the ground to serve as the marker for the shootists, they being allowed to change position as long as they remained behind the length of wood.
Holmes and I were standing at the rear of the seated crowd, on the four steps leading from the clubhouse to the terrace and the rifle range beyond. A well-dressed though somewhat sly-looking citizen standing next to me advanced some inside news for no reason that I could fathom.
'That bit about changing positions was introduced into the procedural rules by Chasseur, you can bet,' he whispered to me.
I noted an oversized diamond on one of his fingers that struck me as gauche, though I judged the gem to be real. My questioning look prompted him to continue in a conspiratorial tone.
'Chasseur has more than a few bob wagered on this contest, and Ledger is his hole card.' My eyebrows must have escalated, for he elaborated. 'His sleeve ace, but the bloke is a nervous type, as you shall shortly see.'
As though in fear that he had been too revealing, my unknown ally changed his position. I found out later from Holmes that he was Odds-On Olderman, London's leading bookmaker, though he was surely present under an alias.
Representing the challengers, Gerald Stolte was first to take position and proved to be a textbook marksman, as immobile as a block of stone. Once positioned in a widespread stance, with the butt of the stock against his shoulder, he might as well have been a statue. I noted that his right thumb was not curved over the throat of the butt but rested parallel to the barrel, close to the bolt of the army-issue rifle he was using. His right eye glued to the rear sight, he remained stationary for a nerve-racking time before loosing his first shot. I could barely see the target, but Stolte obviously could, and the bull's-eye as well. He did not move other than a quick back-and-forth of the bolt with his thumb and index finger. Then, with a gentle caress of the trigger, he sent off his second shot. With the same approximate period between, his final three bullets spun down the barrel's rifling and boomed their way to the target.
With no expression on his face, Stolte lowered his weapon and retreated toward a group of his Bagatelle teammates, to discuss his efforts no doubt. A club attendant raced out to retrieve the target, bringing it to Lord Arthur Seville after affixing a new one.
I must say the large gathering was suitably quiet, and I felt caught up by the suspense myself. Seville inspected the target, conferred with two other gentlemen, and then made an announcement.
'Mr. Stolte's five shots were all within the inner three rings, and two are judged to be bull's-eyes.'
There were cheers from the Bagatelle Club supporters and I noted Alvidon Chasseur, standing with a group of men, looking confident, nay somewhat smug.
When Richard Ledger advanced to the shooting position, I was surprised to see that he carried a lever-action rifle loosely in his hand. I would have thought that the contestants would use similar pieces of ordinance, but some words between two men slightly to our rear informed me that the marksmen had their choice of guns, providing the caliber was within the specified limits allowed.
Whereas Stolte had been pedantic in his actions, Richard Ledger was not, and his style was as far from that of his opponent as could be imagined. He stood with his gun held in his right hand, barrel to the sky, surveying the target. Then he ran his left thumb across his mouth and passed that finger across the front sight, lowering the barrel to make this action possible. Suddenly the butt was against his shoulder and he fired almost without pause. His right hand levered the empty cartridge from the firing chamber as his legs moved him a step or two to his right and he got off another quick shot. Then his stance shifted to his left and the next three bullets were fired in rapid succession as Ledger continued to change position.
Throughout the crowd there was an exchange of looks and shrugs, and I surmised that most of those present could not quite believe the marksman's unusual methods. There were some who did not register surprise, Chasseur among them, and I judged that Ledger's unorthodox approach was normal to him. The crowd obviously felt that Stolte had triumphed for the Bagatelle Club, since the Wellington man, because of his speed, had seemed not to care about the result and had almost given the impression that he was throwing the match.
With the thought that the result was obvious, small talk started up again, but when the target was brought to Lord Seville, there was something about his manner and that of the two other judges that stilled eager tongues. Finally, Seville addressed the gathering.
'Mr. Ledger's target has no bull's-eye, since it has been blown away. The Wellington Club retains its championship of the London Rifle League.'
His lordship's words were greeted by a stunned silence, and then a series of cheers arose from the amazed gallery and there was a babble of sound. It took Seville some time to quiet the spectators, which he finally did by removing his topper and waving it as an attention-getter.
'Now, ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Ledger will give a demonstration of trick-shooting as the final event of the
