CHAPTER ONE
The Penthouse Robberies
It was customary for my dear wife, Joanna, to situate herself at the window of our parlor at 221b Baker Street and observe the ongoings down below. On more than a few occasions the view of an individual approaching our doorstep heralded the arrival of a most intriguing case which defied resolution. But on this dreary November morning in the year 1917, it was I, John Watson, Jr., M.D., who was stationed at the window, for Joanna was entirely preoccupied with a large blackboard that stood in the center of our parlor. Upon it were listed the features of sensational robberies which had occurred at two of London’s finest hotels, the Fairmont and the St. Regis. Both were known to be frequented by famous, distinguished guests, who expected and received the very best service in every regard, and even the slightest blemish or misstep was quickly corrected and erased from the public’s eye. Thus when these exceptional robberies took place within a ten-day period and were reported in depth by all the newspapers, the hoteliers were mortified and implored Scotland Yard to bring about a rapid resolution. Unfortunately, none were forthcoming, and the hoteliers turned their hopes to the daughter of Sherlock Holmes.
“Data! I require data!” Joanna cried out impatiently. “I cannot make bricks without clay.”
My father looked up from the Daily Telegraph and smiled gently. “That was a favorite quote of your father’s, particularly when he was confronted with a most difficult case.”
“There is a singular hidden thread here which continues to escape my eye,” she continued on, before banging a stick of white chalk against the blackboard. “It will be the common denominator that ties all these features together.”
My gaze turned to the blackboard upon which Joanna had listed the characteristics of the robberies that occurred at the elegant hotels.
“But why no ransom notes?” asked I.
“Because the stolen items can be disposed of at their true market value,” Joanna replied. “Bearer bonds are issued by a business such as a corporation or by a government, and are unregistered. The person who holds them owns them, and there is no way to trace or track the buyer or seller. And the Ming dynasty vase in all likelihood has a predetermined buyer, which accounts for the fact it has not shown up on London’s black market.”
“So the items by themselves represent dead ends, do they not?”
My wife shook her head. “I suspect they represent a key to the puzzle, but it is the lock which remains a mystery.”
My attention returned to the street below as an official limousine stopped in front of our doorstep. The driver, holding up an umbrella against the rain, hurried to the rear compartment and opened the door for the two occupants whom I instantly recognized. “I believe we are about to be presented with yet another difficult puzzle,” said I, tapping on the window.
Joanna and my father strode over quickly to watch Inspector Lestrade and Sir Charles Bradberry, the commissioner of Scotland Yard, alight from the limousine. Passersby stopped and stared unabashedly at the two notables, as they were no doubt able to identify them from their frequent photographs in London’s newspapers. A patrolling constable appeared and motioned for the onlookers to move on, but they only took a step back, for they knew both the men and the famed address they were about to enter.
Joanna looked to her father-in-law and asked, “Watson, in all your years with Sherlock Holmes, were the two of you ever visited by an inspector and commissioner together?”
“Never,” my father replied. “On occasion, Lestrade would call on us unannounced, but never accompanied by the commissioner.”
“Which indicates we are about to be presented with a case of great importance,” she said, stating the obvious before adding an additional clue. “You will note they carry no files or folders, which tells us the crime was recently committed, certainly within the past twelve hours, for no mention was made of it in the morning newspapers.”
“I wonder if it is yet another incidence of espionage, which brings with it the direst of consequences,” my father pondered.
The same thought crossed my mind, for the Great War on the Continent raged on, with terrible and mounting casualties on both sides. More than a few German agents had been apprehended in London itself, all trying to steal valuable information which could turn the tide of the conflict. Only months earlier we had foiled a plot to kidnap England’s foremost cryptographer and transport him to Germany. “God help us if there is another high-ranking traitor involved, for the effect on the country’s morale would be devastating.”
“That is possible, but unlikely,” Joanna argued mildly. “Were that the case, we would not be visited by Scotland Yard, but rather summoned to Whitehall under a cloak of secrecy.”
She moved over to the large blackboard and pushed it to the side of our parlor near the workbench, upon which rested an opened monograph on Ming dynasty vases. Joanna had hoped it might shine some light on the robbery we were currently investigating, but thus far it had proved useless. Next to it was a copy of the New York Times, which detailed the bearer bonds which had been stolen from the suite of the famous American industrialist Robert Boone Hall. That, too, proved to be of little help.
There was a gentle rap on the door and our landlady, Miss Hudson, showed the two visitors in, then, with a half curtsy, backed out and quietly closed the door behind her. The detectives entered with a firm, hurried step, pausing only briefly by our two-log fire to warm their hands. Both men were tall and middle-aged, but there the similarities ended. Lestrade, the son of the inspector who worked with Sherlock Holmes, was slender of frame and had a pleasant face except for his eyes, which seemed fixed in a permanent squint. Other than a fringe of hair above his ears, he was completely bald, and kept his head covered with a worn brown derby. By contrast, Sir Charles Bradberry was well built and broad shouldered, with neatly trimmed hair and a thick mustache. His expression was stern and determined, his eyes cold and gray with no hint of emotion. Unlike his predecessor, he was widely respected by his officers and the public as well, for he was a strict disciplinarian who would not abide any wrongdoings at Scotland Yard, and those found guilty were either discharged or summarily punished.
Skipping the usual amenities, the commissioner studied the blackboard for a moment before saying, “I am afraid the penthouse robber has struck again, but now he has added assault to his criminal activities.”
“Who was the victim?” Joanna asked at once.
“An innocent doorman at the Windsor Hotel who we believe may have witnessed the thief in action.”
Joanna gave the commissioner a long, curious look. “The doorman, you say?”
“The doorman,” the commissioner repeated. “Who now lies in a coma at St. Bartholomew’s.”
My wife hurried over to the Persian slipper that held her Turkish cigarettes and plucked one from its packet. She carefully lighted it and began to pace the floor, head down, a stream of pale smoke trailing her. Her lips moved, but made no sound. It appeared that either the occupation or condition of the victim was of particular note. I could not decipher why that was so, for it was entirely possible that an alert doorman had seen some mischief and attempted to intervene.
Joanna stopped in front of the blackboard and studied it at length, drawing one puff after another on her cigarette before adding the word assault at the end of the list. Only then did she discard her cigarette into the fire and bring her attention to the commissioner. “Sir Charles, please be good enough to review the characteristics of the initial two robberies which I have enumerated and tell me if they fit with the theft at the Windsor.”
In a deep voice he compared the features which occurred at the Fairmont and the St. Regis with those at the Windsor. “All transpired at the West End of London, in the penthouse of each hotel, and on fog-shrouded nights.”
Joanna rapidly reached for the chalk and circled the term Fog-shrouded. “Last night the fog was quite thick, was it not?”
The commissioner nodded. “It was a pea-souper, with a yellowish tinge caused by the accumulation of sulfur gases.”
“Then pray tell, Sir Charles, how does a doorman stationed at the front entrance of the hotel view a robbery taking place five stories up?”
“Perhaps the doorman was alert to an individual exiting the hotel who was out of place and obviously not a guest,” he replied without hesitation. “Say the thief was from the working class and carrying a satchel of tools rather than a suitcase. The doorman confronts him, a struggle ensues, and the poor man is struck by a metal object which causes a skull fracture so severe that the doctors at St. Bartholomew’s hold little hope for his survival.”
“Was the weapon found?”
Copyright © 2022 by Leonard Goldberg
