The Veiled Detective (13 page)

“That is because I have trained myself to perform such a diagnosis, as you put it. I perhaps ought to add that I had read in
The Times
of an army officer called Watson who had been invalided out of the army and had just arrived back from Afghanistan. Information that merely confirmed my deductions.”

Such a revelation removed much of the magic from his previous claim, and it was the first hint I was to obtain that sometimes Sherlock Holmes pretended to be more brilliant than he actually was. My expression must have revealed my thoughts.

“The end result is the same. In solving crime, one must use every facility at one’s command to reach a satisfactory conclusion. The press is a valuable source of information. I scour the papers every day. Luckily I am blessed with a photographic memory, and I can remember the most obscure and
outré
pieces of information and store them in my brain attic until I should require them. I am sure that in the days to come there will be ample opportunity for me to demonstrate my detective powers in order to convince you of my abilities and to prove that I am no charlatan. However, for now, let me add that this morning you visited Regent’s Park, sheltered under a tree when it came on to rain and then caught a cab back here.”

I opened my mouth in astonishment.

“Adhering to the soles of your shoes are traces of mud and grass which indicate that you have been walking in one of the parks. As Regent’s Park is the nearest, it is fairly safe to assume that to be the one. Also, there is a fragment of an oak leaf caught in the left turn up of your
trousers. As it came on to rain heavily and suddenly, it is most likely that you took shelter under one of the giant oaks in the park. It is still raining heavily, but your raincoat is damp rather than soaking wet, so you obviously did not walk back to Baker Street. Observation and deduction, Doctor Watson.”

With these words, he slumped back down in his chair and closed his eyes, shutting me and the real world out of his drug-induced slumbers.

Working as a cab-driver in London, Jefferson Hope had been able to trail Stangerson and Drebber wherever they went. He took satisfaction in dogging their heels, knowing that they were ignorant of his presence. On some occasions, he had even driven the men in his cab. With his full beard and hat pulled low over his brow, he had no fear of being recognised. It was twenty years since they had set eyes upon him, and, he reckoned, no one really looks at cab-drivers in any case. In a strange perverted way, he wished they
had
recognised him. He could not wait to see the look of shock and horror on their faces when they realised that their nemesis was at hand. That day would come, but it would come when he had planned for it — not before.

Hope had traced Drebber and Stangerson half-way across the world, from St Petersburg, to Paris and then on to Copenhagen. Somehow, they sensed that they were being followed, and their restless sojourning was a clear sign of their guilt. Finally catching up with them in London, Hope had discovered them living in a boarding house in Camberwell. The two men never went out alone, and rarely after dark. This was a stumbling-block for Hope. He knew that he could not tackle both of them at once. He had to wait to catch each one on his own.

However, now he knew he could wait no longer. He could not risk his heart giving out on him — not now that he was so close to his dream. He resolved that today had to be the day. Desperate measures were needed.
But then luck was on his side. It was late afternoon as he drove down Torquay Terrace, the street in which the two men were living, when he saw a cab draw up to their door. Presently, luggage was brought out, and after a time Drebber and Stangerson appeared. They stood on the pavement, engaged in a heated conversation. As always, on seeing the two men, Hope’s pulse quickened. They were the devils responsible for the death of John Ferrier and his darling Lucy, and twenty years had done nothing to dispel the deep hatred he felt for them.

Drebber was the taller of the two. He walked with a swagger, and his slicked-back hair and thin moustache enhanced his air of arrogance. In contrast, Stangerson was short, with stooped shoulders, and bore a constant furtive expression.

As they talked, a red-faced young man in shirtsleeves rushed down the path towards them. He was shouting in a threatening manner at Drebber, who responded by shaking his fist at him. Further angry words were exchanged, and within seconds the two men were locked in a vicious embrace. Hope was too far away to catch the nature of the argument, but both men were hot in temper and threw punches at each other in a wild fashion.

With some effort, Stangerson dragged the two of them apart and pushed his colleague into the cab. With further harsh words hurled at Drebber, the young man returned reluctantly to the boarding-house.

It looked to Hope as though the pair had been evicted from their lodgings for some misdemeanour perpetrated by the arrogant Drebber, and now they were on their travels again. He gave a groan of dismay when he heard Drebber give the driver instructions to take them to Euston Station. No doubt that meant they were planning to take the boat train and leave for the Continent. Once there, he might easily lose them again. With a gnawing feeling of despair in the pit of his stomach, Hope followed them at a safe distance.

At Euston, he tethered his cab and caught up with the two fugitives on the crowded platform. Here, another argument broke out between the men. Hope moved as close as he could in the bustling throng so that he could overhear their conversation. Drebber was castigating Stangerson for having misread the timetable. They had just missed one boat train, and the next was not to be for nearly two hours.

“You damned idiot,” Drebber was saying, and, from his blotchy face and slightly slurred speech, it was clear that he had been drinking.

“It’s only a few hours,” responded Stangerson lamely. “We can take a seat in the waiting-room. The time will soon pass.”

“The hell it will! You take a seat in the waiting-room and look after the luggage. I have a little business to attend to.”

“What business? You’re not going back to the boarding-house?”

“Never you mind. You tend to the luggage.”

“I don’t like us splitting up like this. It might not be safe.”

“Stop fussing. You’re like a goddamned mother hen at times.”

“What if you’re not back in time for the train? It’s the last one tonight.”

“I’ll be back. But if there is a problem, I’ll meet you at Halliday’s Private Hotel. You know the place.

Stangerson nodded.

Without another word, Enoch Drebber turned and walked unsteadily out of the station.

At last, thought Hope, the moment I have waited for: they are on their own and it is after dark. But the game had been a long and strenuous one, and Hope was not about to spoil things by acting with undue precipitation. He followed Drebber in his cab, and the nature of the business that he wished to attend to soon became clear. Within a five-minute stroll of Euston Station, Drebber went in to an alehouse and stayed there for about an hour. On leaving, he was much the worse for drink.

Another call at another alehouse secured Drebber’s fate. He was
ejected some thirty minutes later by an irate landlord.

“I didn’t know the girl was your daughter!” he growled, as he landed on the pavement.

“I don’t want scum like you in my place,” bellowed the landlord. “If I see you in here again, I’ll break your bleedin’ neck.”

Drebber lay for a moment on the ground as though he was unable to move, and then, with some effort, he gradually pulled himself to his feet and dusted himself down.

“Bastard,” he muttered to himself. “Merely trying to be friendly to the girl.”

Once standing, albeit in an unsteady fashion, he consulted his watch. “Blast! Missed the train.”

“Need a cab, sir?”

Drebber looked up and saw a hansom cab at the kerb. The driver, a broad fellow with a florid face and large grey beard, stared down at him.

Drebber thought for a moment. His brain was sluggish with alcohol, and he had to concentrate hard to formulate any simple plan of action.

“Dammit,” he said, “might as well. Do you know Halliday’s Private Hotel on Little George Street?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. That’s for me.” With some effort, Drebber clambered into the cab and collapsed in the seat. Within seconds of the cab moving off, he had fallen into a drunken slumber.

The cab headed away from Euston. Away from Little George Street. The cab headed for Brixton. Jefferson Hope smiled with a warmth that had not been in evidence for over twenty years.

Enoch Drebber was roused from his sleep by being roughly shaken. As he opened his bleary eyes, he saw the face of the cabbie looming over him.

“It’s time to get out.”

“All right, Cabbie.” The voice was thick and virtually unintelligible.
With assistance from the cabbie, Drebber stepped on to the pavement, but then his legs seemed to give way.

“Need so’ assistance,” he murmured, leaning heavily on the driver.

“Certainly, sir,” came the reply.

Hope hooked his arm under Drebber’s and shepherded him up the path towards the empty house. Unlocking the door, he helped the man inside.

“It’s infernally dark in here. Halliday’s Private Hotel?” said Drebber, a note of uncertainty introduced into his inebriate tones.

“We’ll soon have a light,” said Hope, striking a match and lighting the candle that he had brought with him. The room filled with a gloomy ochre light, revealing it to be empty and derelict. At first, Drebber gazed in wonderment, and then fear caught hold of him.

“What... what the hell’s going on here? Where are we?”

Hope held the candle to his face and threw off his wide-brimmed hat.

“Never mind where we are, Enoch Drebber, you answer my question. Who am I?”

Open-mouthed, Drebber gazed at him with bleary, drunken eyes, and then they widened in horror and convulsed his whole features. He staggered back, his hand to his mouth, gagging the scream.

“You know me, then?” said Hope steadily.

For Drebber, it was the bleakest and most fearful of nightmares. Of course he knew the man. It was the man in all the world he most feared meeting. The terror that rippled through his body brought about a remarkably quick sobering effect. Suddenly his brain began to function with icy clarity. He had been abducted and brought to this godforsaken dwelling by his greatest enemy.

“I have money, lots of money,” he said feebly. “I can give you money.” Jefferson Hope laughed in response.

“What is it that you want?”

“Vengeance,” replied Hope simply. “I want vengeance.”

T
he morning following Holmes’ emotional revelation concerning his detective aspirations, Ifound him in a far more cheerful and bright-eyed mood. Icame down to breakfast as usual, and to my surprise discovered my fellow lodger swathed in an enormous purple dressing-gown at our dining-table, lingering over a plate of buttered toast. He was already grinning about something as Ientered, and on seeing me his smile broadened.

“Ah, Watson, the very man. Ihave good news for us both.”

“Really?” Isaid, with some apprehension, joining him at the table and pouring a cup of coffee.

He scooped up a sheet of paper and waved it triumphantly before his face. “Brain food, at last. You remember yesterday how down in the dumps Iwas because Ihad no criminal investigation to challenge my mind...?”

I nodded.

“Well, here is the answer to my prayers.” He passed the sheet of paper over to me. “Go on, man, read it!” he cried eagerly.

I did so. The letter ran:

Dear Mr Sherlock Holmes,

There has been a bad business during the night at 3 Lauriston Gardens, off the Brixton Road. Our man on the beat saw a light there at about two in the morning, and, as the house was an empty one, he suspected something was amiss. He found the door open, and in the front room, which is bare of furniture, discovered the body of a gentleman, well dressed and having cards in his pocket bearing the name Enoch J. Drebber of Cleveland, Ohio, USA.

There had been no robbery, nor is there evidence as to how the man met his death. There are marks of blood in the room, but there is no wound on the person. We are at a loss as to how he came into the empty house; indeed the whole affair is a puzzler. If you can come round to the house at any time before twelve today, you will find me there.

I have left everything in
status quo
until I hear from you. If you are unable to come, I will call upon you this evening to present you with fuller details of the affair, when I hope you will favour me with your opinion.

Yours sincerely,

Tobias Gregson.

I handed the letter back to Holmes. “It sounds most puzzling,” I said.

“Yes. No robbery; no obvious cause of death; no wounds on the body, but marks of blood in the room. A fine concoction.”