The Baker Street Boys - The Case of the Disappearing Detective (10 page)

“Well, we’re here,” the Stationmaster said. “What now?”

“I dunno,” Wiggins replied. “I don’t… Wait a minute – yes, I do. Look!”

He pointed to a tall figure among the crowd. It was the American with the broad, black hat and the heavy moustache.

“Sergeant,” he said urgently. “That’s our man. That’s the leader of the gang.”

“Is it indeed?” the Sergeant replied. “Right.”

The Stationmaster drew in his breath sharply. “He looks a nasty piece of work,” he warned. “You’d best take care.”

The Sergeant nodded. “You stay here,” he told the Boys. “Out of harm’s way. I’ll get reinforcements.”

He and the Constable moved quietly to the edge of the crowd, summoning two other policemen from the pavement to join them. The Boys watched as they slipped behind the spectators, then approached the big man from either side. A moment later, they had seized his arms and were leading him away to the station office.

“Excellent!” the Stationmaster declared. “Very well done. Come along, boys. Let’s see what the villain has to say for himself.”

In the station office, the big man, who was now in handcuffs, was protesting vigorously in a strong American accent, “Lemme loose, you numbskulls! You don’t know what you’re getting involved in!”

“Oh yes, we do,” said Wiggins. And then continued in his best Sherlock Holmes voice, “The game’s up! You might as well come clean.”

The man stared at him as though he were mad. “Who is this kid? And what’s he talking about?”

“We know you’re in league with the Professor to blow up the Queen and Mr Holmes.”

“Mr Holmes? Mr Sherlock Holmes?”

“Exac’ly. Now, where’s the bomb?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out, stupid! I’m not a terrorist – I’m a detective.”

They all stared at him in complete disbelief.

“My name is Thaddeus T. Judd, of the Pinkerton Detective Agency in the United States of America. Kindly feel in my inside pocket, Sergeant – and look sharp about it.”

He raised his hands to show that he could not do it himself because of the handcuffs. The Sergeant did as he was asked, and produced a small, black leather wallet, which contained a silver badge and an identity card, which he read quickly.

“He’s telling the truth,” he said.

“You’re not a terrorist?” Wiggins asked, amazed by this sudden turn of events.

“No, I’m not. Your terrorists are still out there – with their bomb.”

“I’ve been tracking these guys all the way from Boston, Massachusetts, in the US of A,” Thaddeus T. Judd explained, as the sergeant released him from the handcuffs. “The Boston police chief called in my agency to help catch them. They are Fenians and they’ve come over here to cause mischief.”

“What are Fenians?” Wiggins asked.

“It’s another name for the Irish Brotherhood,” Judd explained. “They’re revolutionaries and crooks.”

“And murderers,” the Sergeant added meaningfully.

“And they want to kill Her Majesty the Queen?” the Stationmaster asked, deeply shocked.

“Looks like it,” Judd replied.

“And Mr Holmes,” said Wiggins.

“I don’t know about that. But I sure wouldn’t put it past them.”

“Then we must stop them!” the Stationmaster exclaimed. “Where are they now?”

“That, sir, is the hundred-dollar question. I’ve hunted through every inch of this station, and I can’t see any trace of them, and no sign of any bomb, either.”

“But they must be here somewhere,” the Sergeant said, pushing back his helmet and scratching his head. “Where else would they be?”

Wiggins had begun pacing up and down the room, thinking hard. Now he stopped and held up one hand. “Half a mo,” he said sharply. “Sparrow, tell me again what you heard ’em saying. Besides the bit about the grand opening going with a bang.”

“Well,” said Sparrow, “there was all that about a train and the widow…”

“Yes, yes. Go on!”

“Oh, yeah, there was that bit we couldn’t work out, about over the water…”

“That’s it!” Wiggins’s face lit up. “Over the water – over the river, more like!”

“I don’t get it,” Judd said.

“What goes over the river?” Wiggins yelled excitedly.

“Why, a bridge, I guess.”

“Exac’ly!” Wiggins turned to the other Boys. “When we was running along the river from Eton, there was another bridge close by.”

“Yes. The railway bridge,” the Stationmaster said.

“Right. And I saw two boats under that bridge. One was a posh steamboat with a funnel and all; the other was a rowing boat. And I noticed there was a bloke sitting in it, on his own.”

“So?”

“When there’s all this going on up here, with the Queen and everything, why would anybody want to sit in a boat, underneath the railway bridge, where you can’t see nothing?”

“By golly!” Judd gasped. “The kid’s right! They’re going to blow up the bridge as the royal train passes over it.”

“We gotta get down there!” Wiggins yelled. “Quick! Come on, everybody!”

“The quickest way is along the track,” the Stationmaster cried, flinging open the office door.

With Wiggins and the Boys leading, the whole party rushed out and raced past an astonished line of dignitaries who were waiting by the royal train, its sparkling green and gold locomotive gently letting off steam in readiness. At the end of the platform, they hopped down onto the track and ran along it. Behind them, they heard the band strike up the National Anthem, a sign that the Queen had arrived at the station.

The Boys, being younger and fitter, soon left everyone else behind. The track curved sharply to the right, and they could see the river and the metal bridge about two hundred yards ahead, where the town gave way to fields and the towpath was lined with bushes. The bridge looked like two giant silver coat-hangers laid above the water on brick pillars, carrying the track between them. The tops of the two metal arches were decorated for the occasion with Union Jack flags and golden crowns.

The steamboat that Wiggins had noticed was pulling out and steaming away fast downstream. In the stern stood the two Fenians, grinning as they looked back towards the bridge. At the wheel was a gaunt figure Wiggins recognized as Professor Moriarty, wearing a white yachting cap and a grim smile of satisfaction. The other, smaller, boat was still moored under the bridge. The solitary man was sitting upright in its centre, gagged and tied up with rope. He turned his head, and Wiggins saw with horror that it was Sherlock Holmes.

In a few seconds, the Boys were on the bridge, looking down at the river and the bow of the boat, about fifteen feet below.

“Hang on, Mr Holmes!” Wiggins shouted, “We’re coming!”

“Yeah, but how d’we get down?” Sparrow asked.

“Jump!” said Gertie, clambering onto the parapet.

“I can’t swim,” Wiggins admitted.

“Nor me,” wailed Sparrow and Shiner in unison.

“I can,” said Gertie, launching herself into the air.

She landed with a splash, struck out swiftly for the boat and hauled herself aboard.

“Don’t fret, Mr Holmes!” she said, pulling the gag from his mouth. “The Baker Street Boys is here. Soon have you untied.”

“Never mind about me,” Mr Holmes told her. “You must deal with that first.”

He turned his eyes upwards. Gertie followed his gaze, and saw a bundle of sticks of dynamite tied to a girder on the underside of the bridge. A fuse dangled from it, sizzling and sparking – it had already burned dangerously low.

“Can you climb to it?” Mr Holmes demanded.

“Me, sir? I can climb anythin’,” she answered, and in an instant was shinning up the latticework of the bridge with all the agility of a monkey. As Gertie approached the bundle of dynamite, Wiggins appeared and started clambering awkwardly down the side of the bridge.

“Pull the fuse out!” he yelled at her.

“That’s what I
am
doin’!” she shouted back.

Gertie yanked the fuse free, and threw it into the river, where it fizzled briefly and went out.

In the silence that followed, they heard a train whistle, a puffing and hissing, and then a heavy rumble as the royal train passed over their heads. The Queen was safely on her way to London.

Sherlock Holmes looked up and gave them a grateful smile. “Well done,” he said. “Very well done, my Boys.”

Inspector Lestrade, Beaver, Queenie, Rosie and Dr Watson were waiting for the rescuers in the station office when they returned with Mr Holmes, who seemed none the worse for his ordeal.

“Holmes!” Dr Watson burst out, with some emotion. “Are you all right?”

“Never better, my dear fellow. Thanks to my splendid Irregulars.”

“Yes, indeed. They have been truly splendid.”

“The whole country owes them a great debt of gratitude,” the Stationmaster boomed. “I shall make it my business to see that their service is properly recognized.”

“I fear that may not be,” Mr Holmes replied. “They shall certainly be rewarded, but this whole affair must remain a closely guarded secret. Her Majesty must never know of the plot to murder her.”

“Quite so,” Dr Watson agreed. “It would break her heart.”

“And the British public would be alarmed to learn how close the villains came to succeeding,” Holmes continued.

“Not to mention how they managed to outsmart our greatest detective,” Lestrade added, with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

“And Scotland Yard,” Mr Holmes responded, with a cool smile.

“And the Pinkerton Detective Agency, I have to admit,” Judd said ruefully. “Let’s face it, gentlemen, the kids are the only ones who got it right.”

“Even though we did have you down as a villain,” Wiggins said, grinning.

“Well, I guess I can’t blame you, the way I look,” the big American said, fingering the scar on his face. “Though sometimes it helps to look tough when you’re dealing with crooks and gangsters.”

“Speaking of which,” Dr Watson said, “how did Professor Moriarty come to be involved in all this?”

“An excellent question, Watson. Wiggins, my young friend,” Mr Holmes said, turning to him. “You appear to have been one step ahead of the rest of us in this business. Do you have any ideas?”

Wiggins thought for a moment then said, “The way I see it is this: the Professor is Mr Holmes’s sworn enemy – Mr Holmes has beat him in the past, right?”

“Right,” Mr Holmes affirmed. “Go on.”

“So he wants to get his own back. Like, revenge. He hears that these Fenian geezers are plotting to kill the Queen … he might even have put ’em up to it.”

“A good point. Excellent. And?”

“He reckons if he can trap Mr Holmes, instead of just killing him – what would be too easy for a clever bloke like the Professor – he can make it look like he was in on the plot. And that way, he won’t have just done him in, he’ll have ruined his good name as well. Everybody’d think he’d gone wrong, and remember him as a bad egg.”

“Bravo, Wiggins!” Sherlock Holmes cried. “I could not have put it better myself.”

“Well, I never!” Dr Watson was amazed.

“Fiendish! Truly fiendish!” Lestrade exclaimed.

Wiggins grinned from ear to ear, and the other Boys gazed at him in admiration.

“What I don’t understand,” said Beaver, frowning heavily, “is why they had that funny door. Why couldn’t they have had just a good lock and key?”

“Wiggins?” Mr Holmes asked.

Wiggins looked perplexed, and shook his head.

“I mean,” Beaver went on, “it was bound to get noticed.”

“Precisely,” said Mr Holmes, tilting his head enquiringly at Wiggins.

After a moment Wiggins’s face cleared.

“Oh, I get it,” he said. “Bait!”

“Well done, Wiggins. You’re going to make a fine detective one day. It was indeed bait for the trap. Moriarty knew I would get to hear of the strange door – indeed, he made sure I did by having one of his associates engage me to follow Mr Judd in the belief that he was up to no good. Moriarty guessed that I would be drawn to that door to discover its purpose and who was using it. Once they had me in that alleyway, they were able to overpower me with a liberal dose of chloroform.”

“The brutes!” Dr Watson cried.

“Better than cracking my skull with a blow to the head.”

“But how did you manage to leave a trail, if you was knocked out?” Rosie asked.

“Ah, the matches!” Mr Holmes smiled at her. “You spotted them.”

“
I
did,” she said proudly. “And I smelled the chlorywhatsit, but I didn’t know what it was then.”

“Well done. Very well done. When I first caught a whiff of the drug, I was able to resist its effects for a little while by holding my breath. Long enough to spill a box-full of matches from my tray as they were dragging me inside.”

“Good job you did,” Wiggins told him. “Else we wouldn’t have known where you was.”

“I knew I could rely on my Irregulars,” Mr Holmes replied.

“I guess I have to take the blame for leading you into his trap,” Judd admitted. “I was so intent on tracking those two Fenians, I never thought there might be another side to it.”

“No need to reproach yourself on that score, my friend,” Mr Holmes responded generously. “Moriarty’s fiendish cunning has outwitted better men than you.”