PINNACLE BOOKS NEW YORK Page 11

  He was at my side in a moment, gazing anxiously into my eyes, which might have been a bit moist in honor of our opportune reunion.

  "Are you all right, Doctor? Holmes will never forgive me if harm has come to you."

  "Aside from a bruised knee, minor contusions, and a damaged ego, tip-top, old chap." My voice echoed bravado for I was no longer the paunchy doctor but, in my mind's eye, a veritable d'Artagnan. Bravery comes easily when one walks with an armored column.

  "Then we'd best be gone. I'll deal with those who took you later." Even I, his ally, felt a chill at the grim finality in the agent's voice, but a greater chill followed this as we both heard a key turn in the lock. Orloff flew to the door, but it withstood even his strength. There was the sound of a chuckle from beyond the portal and then a mocking voice.

  "Rest easy, Mr. Holmes. We'll attend to you and your companion later."

  Then there was silence as my eyes met with Orloff's. He returned, with a shrug, from the door. My heart sank but then curiosity reared its insistent head. "What does this all mean?" I queried in a hushed voice.

  "They baited a trap and sprung it at the wrong time." Orloff amended this. "Actually they had no choice. Even if they knew I was not Holmes, which they did not, they couldn't have me nosing around."

  I shook my head in complete confusion and chided myself for being so obtuse. "I'm left at the starting gate, dear chap."

  As he explained, Orloff's eyes were surveying our cell, and he moved around it on an inspection tour much like the one I had undertaken.

  "They grabbed you outside the inn but made sure that your hat remained as evidence. The moment I realized you were missing, it took little time to find the hat and to learn of a closed carriage that left Fenley by the river road with a whirl of wheels and a cloud of dust. Picking up the trail was no great thing, but when I located this place it seemed deserted, which was their intention."

  I had begun to nod at his re-creation. "I was the bait, then, to lure Holmes to this spot and bag us both."

  "They did not anticipate my presence and even now think their ruse has succeeded."

  "What are you doing here, by the way?"

  Atop the bed, looking toward the river, Orloff shot me a glance over his shoulder. "Mr. Holmes always takes care of his own."

  His response might have seemed enigmatic but I understood. Tiny and Burlington Bertie, even now, were guarding 221 B Baker Street, and when Holmes left me to my own devices in Fenley, it was with the reassurance that the world's most dangerous man was watching out for my interests.

  I discovered a catch in my throat as I thought of my eccentric, bohemian friend who could be a trial to live with but who was always concerned about the well-being of the plodding, phlegmatic companion cast his way by fate and the presence of young Stamford at the Criterion Bar on that certain day that had become so significant to J. H. Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

  As I recovered from my momentary emotion, Orloff's death-dealing hands had seized the bars of the windows and the back of his coat tightened as those amazing shoulders, biceps, and wrists were put to work. At first glance, or even second, Orloff was completely misleading in appearance. He was unusually broad, though one did not realize it because of his grace of movement. His width made him seem shorter than he was, while his round, almost moon-shaped face gave the impression of a somewhat overweight man. There was not an ounce of surplus flesh on him, for his bulk was solid muscle augmented by reflexes that defied my medically trained mind. He was Orloff, cast from some unknown mold that no master hand could recreate. Suddenly his swelling muscles relaxed and he turned from the bars without a trace of moisture of his brow and breathing in his regular, even cadence.

  As his eyes flashed around our place of confinement, I realized that he had given up on the window and was looking elsewhere for a way out. Concentrating on the single furnishing of this barren place, the security agent elevated the bed from the floor and was gazing at its underpinnings. There might have been a trace of satisfaction in his expression as he cast the blanket and thin pallet in a corner and studied the two angle bars and two smaller crosspieces that formed the rectangular frame.

  "You have a thought?" I asked.

  The man nodded, gesturing toward the door. "They don't want us out, and for the moment, we don't want them in."

  He had the frame separated in a moment and, taking one of the angle bars, he crossed to the door and placed it laterally in the two attachments I had noted previously.

  "Not as wide as the original timber bar but 'twill do," he said with satisfaction, crossing back to the window. "We'll need something to signal with, for our rescue will come from the river."

  How he knew this I could not guess, but I displayed my pocket-handkerchief. "Will this do?" From his expression I deduced that it would not. "It is all I have save my monocle."

  Orloff's green eyes brightened. Seizing the eyepiece, he cast a rapid glance at the sunlight coming through the cell window. "Should work," he stated in a matter-of-fact way. He surveyed my figure with a speculative manner. "Could you balance me on your shoulders, Doctor, for I've got to be at the window level."

  Doubt was dominant in my mind, and expression as well, for muscle weighs more than fat and I judged that Orloff tipped the scales at fifteen stone. Sensing my thought, he nodded. "There's another way." Suddenly he sprang for the window, one hand grasping a bar. Orloff never jumped, for in motion, he always resembled a ballet star. With part of his weight supported by one hand, I sensed what he had in mind and got his legs around my shoulders, standing beneath him to provide some support. Even with Orloff taking most of his weight on his arm of steel, my leg muscles began to tremble after a while and I was forced to let my rescuer down several times so that I could recover. I knew what he was doing, of course. Using the lens of my monocle to reflect sunlight, he was sending intermittent signals toward passing boats in hopes of attracting someone's eye. Finally, our efforts were rewarded.

  "We've been spotted," he said. "A boat is swerving in toward shore."

  "Thank heavens for that," I said, my shirt soaked with perspiration and my breath coming in gasps.

  Orloff signaled for me to allow him to drop to the floor. "Providence has been doubly generous since it is Holmes," he stated, returning my monocle. Again he sprang upward but this time he had two hands free and was able to hold himself at window-height with ease.

  While I wondered what had alerted the sleuth to use the river, Orloff kept me informed as to happenings. "Evidently he commandeered a river tug and she's fast closing on us." The throb of powerful engines was an accompaniment to his words but they suddenly diminished and I sensed the riverboat was near to shore.

  "Holmes, it is Orloff," called the security agent.

  "What of Watson?" Though from a distance, I thought I sensed a tremor in my friend's voice.

  "With me and all right."

  "Anyone else around?"

  "Don't know. If they are hidden out front, this noise must have alerted them. I'd keep an eye cocked."

  After a short pause, Holmes spoke again. "I'll work my way around to the road and try and release you."

  "Wait," I cried. "There could be too many of them."

  "I've another thought," called the security agent to Holmes, "if you've a stout line available and the means of getting it to us."

  There was a mumble of voices from the river and then Holmes replied. "That can be done. You've a mind to try the window."

  Orloff did not answer but motioned for me to stand clear of the aperture, though I was well below it. Perhaps my nerves were playing me tricks, but I thought I sensed movement from beyond the door to our place of confinement. Suddenly Orloff pulled himself as close to the window as possible and his right hand snaked between the bars, reaching outward. In a moment it reappeared with a round object clutched in his fingers. I recognized it as the weighted end of a heaving line as Orloff dropped to the floor, reeling in the light line. Motioning toward the other angle ba
r of the demolished bed frame, Orloff pulled in the end of a hawser to which the heaving line had been attached with a running hitch. He took the piece of the bed frame from me, running the hawser around it. The sound of the tug's engines had picked up tempo and I sensed that she was being maneuvered around to present her stern to the shoreline. Orloff had the hawser secured around the angle bar with an anchor bend and he pulled himself up to the window, placing the bar across the width of the opening. There was the sound of a key turning a lock and the door behind us opened slightly but the crossbar held it firmly and there was a muffled curse and then a crash as a body tried to force it inward.

  "Full speed," shouted Orloff. There was a deep-throated roar from the tug's engines and the hawser tightened, pulling the frame piece of the bed against the window bars. Outside, the boat's engines were protesting with wheezes and clankings, trying with twin screws to force the tug into motion. Orloff, hanging from the window by one hand, reached down and grasped me under the arm with his other. Suddenly I was in the air.

  "Grab 'round my neck, Doctor, and hold on for dear life."

  How he got me up to where I could obey his order I'll never know. There were repeated crashes at the door to our rear and suddenly there was a rending sound and a section of the wall including the window and bars gave way to the power of the tug's engines. We were in the open air with stone and the dry dust of masonry around us and plunging toward the water below. All I could do was cling to Orloff, who in turn kept his grip on the bars, which were attached to the hawser. We hit the water but were not allowed to sink, for the tug, released from the anchor that had held it, was racing from the shoreline at high speed and dragging us behind it. Suddenly the ship's engines were cut and a stubby man with a mahogany face appeared at the stern of the craft and began hauling us toward it. There was the crash of an explosion and then another one and I made haste to swim toward the tug, sensing that the ruffians had broken down the cell door and were firing on us. When Orloff and the short man helped me aboard, I saw Holmes standing by the wheelhouse with a long-barreled revolver, firing methodically toward the shore. Coughing up river water, I cast a glance toward our rear. Fully a third of the wall of an aged blockhouse was torn asunder. As I watched, a face appeared in the aperture and ducked promptly as Holmes' revolver barked and there was a spurt of dust and the whine of a ricocheting bullet.

  He's got them pinned down, I thought. Orloff and I have escaped, and Holmes is alive and well. Merry old England will survive.

  Chapter 11

  Back to Baker Street

  IT WAS several hours later that I lay luxuriating in a steaming hot bath. Holmes had secured fresh shirts and undergarments from the local haberdasher, and the innkeeper's wife was ironing my sodden suit. The river tug had deposited us at the Fenley docks, and when Holmes had pressed a considerable payment on the captain, he met with some resistance. That worthy confessed that he had not enjoyed himself so much since he helped run down two escaped prisoners from the Coleford jail who were making for Cardiff in a stolen launch. Holmes had been insistent and had given the lively old sailor a personal card with a number penned on the back.

  "Should there be questions from the local authorities," my friend had said, "have them contact this number at Whitehall."

  "Pshaw," the mahogany-faced captain had responded. "I'll just show 'em your card and that will shut 'em up." Such are the benefits of fame.

  By the time I had toweled off, Orloff joined us in our suite at the Red Grouse Inn. He appeared as calm and polished as though he had spent the morning lecturing the local ladies' sewing circle on the care of ailing cats. Holmes had me swathed in a blanket with a tot of Irish whiskey in my hand, and his solicitude drew a small smile from the security agent and a tinge of warmth entered his normally cold, unemotional green eyes. With Orloff on hand, Holmes bustled off to secure my suit, which allowed me to pose a question or two. Mycroft Holmes' right-hand man and his most feared agent always treated Sherlock Holmes with deference, for he was so good himself that he could recognize greatness in others. With me he exhibited flashes of humor and actual friendship, something I would reveal to no one, for I would be courting disbelief. The shadowy enforcer of the espionage system that officially did not exist was reputed to have all the friendly tendencies of a prowling Bengal tiger. Why he should present a different face toward me was a mystery I was incapable of solving.

  "I say," I mouthed as a curtain raiser, "you never did tell me how you chanced to be down this way."

  "The matter of gold and the solidity of the pound is of interest to Her Majesty's government," he replied, igniting one of the small black cigars he fancied. He was just talking and knew that I saw through his answer that answered nothing. Holmes had asked his brother for Orloff, and Mycroft Holmes had complied as he had done in the past. Now I could identify the associate of Holmes that the mysterious Wally had referred to in the taproom the previous afternoon. Which brought me to the matter I really wanted to touch upon.

  "You're down here smoothing the way for that Wally chap."

  "You've met him, then?" Orloff seemed mildly surprised.

  "Very briefly. Don't even know his name or occupation either, but Holmes seems to place great store by him. I'd say he's giving the fellow a free rein, for he provided no instructions during our short meeting."

  "On the theory that some knowledge can be inconvenient, Holmes hasn't chosen to tell you about the gentleman. All right, Doctor, I'll spin you a tale that will be our secret, though it's just a story dealing with no particular person we know."

  I must have leaned forward with a pleased expression, for Holmes did tend to have his little mysteries and nothing delighted me more than to be one up on him.

  "You've heard, perhaps, of the confidence game?" asked Orloff, blowing smoke toward the ceiling.

  "Bunko, they call it," I replied. "Bogus companies, non-existent stock, manipulators who prey on the larceny that lurks in most hearts."

  Again Orloff registered surprise. "That's an apt remark, for a flimflam man wouldn't get a farthing from a truly honest citizen. But no matter. Who, would you say, is the king of the con men?"

  "Get Rich Quick Wallingford," I responded promptly. "The exploits of the American are known far and . . ." My voice dwindled away and I stared at Orloff, noting the slight smile teasing the corners of his mouth. "Wally," I muttered softly, "I see."

  "The man you referred to, not I, has no warrants outstanding in the States, though I'm sure the American police would be delighted if he no longer graced their shores. Now, England is a small nation, though many of our people have served, in times gone by, under foreign flags as mercenaries."

  "We've hired a few ourselves on occasion," I stated, my mind reverting to the revolution of the Colonies and the battle of Trenton.

  "Exactly. Now if such a man as you mentioned were to come over here because the climate in his homeland was too warm, possibly his wide experience could be put to use for the benefit of society."

  "To catch a thief . . ." I muttered, and then my mouth snapped shut. I did not wish to pursue the subject for fear that one of us might say too much. Rather, I resorted to the matter at hand. "But who is the thief?"

  "There has to be one for there's a half a million that's missing."

  It was at this moment that Holmes rejoined us, and by the time I had donned my now-presentable outer garments, Wally appeared as well. So it's to be a war council, I thought, regarding the American's handsome face with added respect.

  Holmes put the ball in play without a warm-up. "We've hit onto something," he stated, filling his short briar, "for Watson was captured today and they were after me as well."

  Wally's face registered momentary consternation. "Could it be because of what I'm doing? Surely not, for our brief meeting yesterday could have caused no suspicion."

  A sudden thought flashed through my mind. Could the Red Grouse Inn be part of the widespread apparatus controlled by Mycroft Holmes, the second most powerful man
in England? I abandoned the idea.

  Sherlock Holmes, his pipe lit, agreed with Wally. "No, I think your activities have been well covered." His eyes shifted toward Orloff. "No chance of a leak, is there?"

  Orloff responded in the negative. "The bank examiner we are using doesn't really know what's going on. As for the teller, I have too much on him."

  So, I thought, some old debts are being paid off.

  Holmes seated himself in the armchair. "I think the sudden attention that came our way was the result of our meeting with Burton Hananish."

  "Which confirms your suspicions regarding him," said Wally.

  "Oh, he has to be a part of it, though possibly unwittingly." My friend seemed very certain on this point. "What I'd like to know is what alerted Hananish or someone in his household to the presence of danger and brought about the attack on Watson."

  "You discussed the mechanics of the gold shipment, of course." The American Wally's warm, gregarious manner was diminished by a glitter in his clear and forthright eyes.

  Holmes nodded. "Hananish went over the reason the French needed the gold, the certificates of indebtedness issued by them to the west coast banks . . ."

  My friend would have continued, but something in Wally's manner caused him to fall silent. There was a weighty pause. Wally was leaning forward in his chair regarding Holmes like an Irish setter ready to put up a bird.

  "Certificate of indebtedness, you say, Mr. Holmes? Now what might that be?"

  Holmes seemed momentarily nonplussed. "Like a letter of credit, perhaps?"