The Lost Radio Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (16 page)

“Yes, Watson,
and he knows something. You see, Lestrade, there is a possibility that Binyon
is innocent.”

“Yes, I began to
see that, sir, when you were talking to the butler.”

“You’re being
rather cryptic, Holmes. What possibility are you talking about?”

“The possibility
that Binyon is shielding the real murderer. And whom would he be most certain
to shield?”

“You mean his fiancée,”
I said in surprise, “Miss Irvin?”

“That’s right,
old fellow.”

“Ah, here we are,”
said Lestrade as we arrived at our destination. “This is the anteroom where
young Binyon worked. And that door there leads into the study where Sir Edward
was found.”

“Nothing’s been
touched since the discovery of the crime?”

“Oh no, Mr.
Holmes. That’s why we’ve had a constable on duty in there night and day. Before
the trial we’re bringing experts in to test the room for secret panels or
anything of that kind.”

“Let’s examine
the dead man’s room, shall we?”

We went into Sir
Edward’s room. It was sumptuously arranged with a large desk and oak paneling
everywhere. Seated before us in a chair was a constable.

“Webster!”
Lestrade yelled, “get out of that chair and stand up, can’t you? You’re on
duty!”

There was no
answer. I moved to the constable’s side and examined him. He didn’t move as I
shook him.

“Great Scott, he’s
dead!”

“Yes,” said
Holmes, “I can see now the trickle of blood oozing from the base of his skull.”

“Well strike me
pink, he’s been killed the same way as Sir Edward was!” said a shaken Lestrade.

“I presume you’ll
agree that Mr. Binyon didn’t commit this murder, Lestrade.”

“Course not, Mr.
Holmes, he couldn’t have done it. He’s locked up at the yard!”

“Ask the butler
to come here, will you?” said Holmes. I could see Holmes was in his element, at
last beginning to take over the case from the confused Lestrade. I again bent
over the body, examining it carefully.

“Yes, there’s a
fine puncture here at the base of the skull. By Jove, Holmes, the report
mentioned a stiletto or ice pick. A wound like this might be caused by one of
those long steel hat pins that women wear!”

“Yes. It’s a
possibility, Watson, a distinct possibility. And Miss Irvin was wearing a long
hat pin this morning, if you remember.”

Holmes was
quickly about the room, examining every corner and crevice, his eyes darting
this way and that as his hands touched the various seams of the oak paneling.

“No, Watson, I
cannot discern anything but the finest craftsmanship to this room. There’s
little chance of secret panels here, I should say.”

“And the windows
are locked from the inside, eh?”

“Yes. Ah,
Lestrade, you’ve found him. What’s your name?” Holmes said to the butler.

“Travers, sir.”

“You see what’s
happened, Travers?”

“Yes sir, I see.
The constable’s been killed just like my master.”

“Tell me,
Travers, is this room exactly as it was in Sir Edward’s lifetime?”

“Yes sir, except
that my master was not in the habit of keeping the corpses of policemen in
here!”

“Don’t try to be
funny, Travers,” said an angry Lestrade. “Don’t you realize that you’re mixed
up in a murder case!”

“The point of my
question, Travers,” Holmes went on, “was to find out if any of the furniture in
here had been moved lately.”

“Not moved, sir,
but there has been a piece of furniture added. That armchair the dead man’s
lying in.”

“The same chair
in which Sir Edward’s body was found! Of course, that’s the answer! Travers,
when was that chair delivered? And who delivered it?”

“It was
delivered the day before Sir Edward died. It came from Silverschwantz’s antique
shop in Bond Street.”

“Ah ha! The game’s
afoot, Lestrade! See to the removal of this poor man’s body, seal the room, and
for Heavens sake keep this latest death a secret for a day at least. Within
that time I hope to have your murderer for you!”

“Then we’re
going—”

“Yes, Watson, we’re
going to Silverschwantz’s antique shop in Bond Street!”

I have often
described the feeling of excitement Holmes felt when a case began to bring
forth bits of evidence that he was able to piece together to move him
dramatically towards a final solution. I must add to that my own excitement,
not only in watching Holmes at work, but in his allowing me to help him in
every way possible. It was just that same sort of feeling I held as our cab
pulled up in front of Silverschwantz’s antique store and we stepped inside.

The place was
filled almost to the ceiling with furniture, toys, nicknacks and the most
delightful music boxes I had ever seen. So delightful was all this, that I
found myself being distracted from our purpose for being there.

“These music
boxes are quite charming, aren’t they Holmes?”

“Yes,” he said,
looking about, “but where’s Mr. Silverschwantz?”

From a back room
stepped an elderly man with a huge white mane of hair and a pair of pince-nez
on his nose. He looked like a little gnome, and I could not help but smile as
he came towards us.

“Mr.
Silverschwantz?” asked Holmes.

“Yes, gentlemen.
You are interested in musical boxes?”

“No, sir, in
chairs. Particularly in the handsomely carved chair you delivered to Sir Edward
Irvin a few days ago.”

“Ach, yah, a
magnificent specimen. He is pleased with it?”

“He was found
dead in it, Mr. Silverschwantz,” I said.

“And half an
hour ago someone else was found dead in it, also,” Holmes pressed on, “that
chair was one of a pair, wasn’t it?”

“Yah, but—”

Suddenly Mr.
Silverschwantz turned as white as a ghost.

“Gott in Himmel!
That’s impossible, I—Gentlemen, please to follow me!”

Mr.
Silverschwantz led us into the back where he had a small warehouse room filled
with furniture.

“Look,
gentlemen, look at this chair.”

“It’s exactly
like the one at Sir Edward’s house,” I said.

“But my friend,
there is such a difference,” said the bespeckled old storekeeper.

“Fifteenth
century Italian, isn’t it?” Holmes asked.

“Yah, this is
one of a pair of the famous Malapierri armchairs. There are only three pairs in
the world, my friends. Of this pair, one, the one I delivered to Sir Edward, is
simply a great specimen of the carver’s art. This one, its mate, looks exactly
like it, does it not?”

“Exactly,” I
said, “I can’t see any difference, myself.”

“You would if
you sat in it, old chap.”

“Precisely,” said
Silverschwantz, “that is why I have these cords stretched from one arm of the
chair to the other. If anyone were to sit in
it . . .
well, sometimes
nothing will happen. But sooner or later a hand will press on this hidden
spring in the arm here, and death will strike.”

“But nothing
happened when you pressed the spring, Mr. Silverschwantz.”

“I . .
.
I don’t understand—”

“I do,” Holmes
blurted out, “this is the harmless chair! The lethal one was sent to Sir
Edward! He sat in it, accidentally pressed the spring, and drove the fatal
needle into his brain!”

“I see it now,
Holmes, it’s just as that poor constable did today!”

“Sir Edward
bought both chairs, I presume?”

“Yah, I would
not sell the chairs separately.”

“Then why didn’t
you deliver both at the same time?” I asked.

“He was afraid
of the deadly one. He asked me to keep it here until he found a safe place for
it in his home.”

“It makes sense,
Watson. Some devil switched the arm cord from the fatal chair to the harmless
one so that you delivered death to Sir Edward! There is a subtlety in this
crime worthy of the fiendish maker of the chairs, himself. Silverschwantz, didn’t
Malapierri die by being tricked into being seated in one of his own chairs?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Now I think I
know how to trap our killer!” exclaimed Holmes. “Please allow me to ask you
some further questions, Mr. Silverschwantz. Then, Watson, we’ve much work ahead
of us!”

We had found out
how the murders had been committed, but not who had been responsible for them.
Holmes spent a long time cross-examining Mr. Silverschwantz as to who might
have had the opportunity of switching the tell-tale cord from the fatal chair.
It transpired that four people might have been responsible. Sir Edward’s
daughter, and his secretary, Mr. Binyon, had been in the shop with him at
various times. So had the butler, Travers. The fourth suspect was Sir Edward’s
brother, Peregren, who it appeared had dropped into the shop the day after the
purchase had been made. With this last information, Holmes became very excited
and launched into eager preparations to determine if Peregren Irvin was the
guilty party.

“Holmes,” I said
in anger when we had returned to our lodgings, “I refuse to assume another disguise
with you!”

“Come now,
Watson, it’s only for a short time, and it will be most fun assuming the roles
of furniture removers.”

“No! An emphatic
no! I’m not an actor, confound it, I’m a doctor!”

Holmes looked at
me with total exasperation. Then, as quickly, he cheered up and went back to
clothing himself and making himself look like a typical furniture remover.

“All right,
Watson, you can stay here. But you’ll miss all the fun, I tell you!”

“Stay here? You
mean I can’t come along?”

“That’s right.
No need for you to help. I just thought that—”

“All right,
Holmes, I’ll do as you wish.”

“I knew you’d
see it my way. I will tell you what, Watson, instead of disguising yourself,
just put some old clothes on and come along as a clerk who is there to see
everything is going all right for the store. I’ll do the talking and you just
answer a bit when I speak to you. Here, these are some sales slips and orders I
use for just such an occasion.”

Mumbling angrily
to myself, I slipped into some old clothes that I should have thrown out a long
time ago. In no time at all we had rented a horse and van and were driving it
along a quiet country lane near Dorking. We soon approached the house of Sir
Edward’s brother, Peregren.

“There’s the
house, Watson. Ramshackle looking place, isn’t it?”

“Yes, extremely
so.”

“Why are you so
morose, my dear chap?” he said laughingly. “You’ve hardly spoken a word on our
drive down here.”

“You never tell
me anything,” I said in a fit of depression. “Why are we trundling off into the
wilds of the country disguised as furniture removers, and carrying the harmless
chair with us?”

“Surely the
reason is transparent, old chap. It’s obvious we are up against an extremely
cunning murderer. Now what advantage accrues to him in using the Malapierri
chair?”

“An alibi, of
course. He’s nowhere near the place when it happens.”

“Precisely.
Apply your logic a little further. Three of the suspects, the daughter, Mr.
Binyon, and Travers, the butler, live in the house and would almost certainly
be present at the time of death. Therefore, who gains most by such an alibi?”

“Well, the
brother, Peregren.”

“Elementary, my
dear Watson! Now you see why we trundled off into the wilds of Dorking.”

“Look Holmes,” I
whispered as we came up to the house, “that must be Peregren standing up on the
porch. He seems a funny looking fellow.”

“Follow my lead,
Watson. Good afternoon, G’vnor.”

“You two fellows
must have come to the wrong house,” said Peregren, coming forward to our van.

“You are Mr.
Peregrine Irvin, ain’tcha, G’vnor?”

“Yes.”

“Then we come to
the right house, all right, all right. Come on, Bertie, give us a hand.”

Holmes and I
unloaded the harmless chair onto the porch.

“Jimminy
crickets, ain’t that a pretty chair, G’vnor? Bertie and me was admirin’ it on
our way down ’ere.”

“Who told you to
bring it here?” Peregren asked, quite puzzled by all this.

“Orders, G’vnor.
A Mr. Silversnitch, or whatever his name is. Tells us your brother didn’ want
the chair and said as how we was to bring it to you,” Holmes went on in the
most dreadful accent.

“But my brother’s
dead!”

“Mr.
Silversnitch said that your brother gave the order afore he died. Mind if I sit
down in it, G’vnor?”

Without waiting
for an answer, Holmes seated himself in the chair, laughing loudly.