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  "I can understand the meaning though I'm not familiar with the term, but the French have no need for such paper. Like the Bank of England, the Credit Lyonnais has the power to issue currency that is just as convertible as this country's Bank of England notes."

  Wally's statement prompted a groan from Orloff. "I do hope this matter does not involve the Prescott plates, for the C.I.D. is still experiencing nightmares regarding them."

  By this time I was scratching my head in a bewildered fashion, and as he did so often, Holmes noticed my puzzlement. "A counterfeiter named Prescott is said to have created plates capable of producing Bank of England notes that would defy inspection anywhere. Prescott was shot to death by an American criminal, and his engravings have never been located."* Holmes turned back to Wally.

  *Obviously this adventure predates the matter of the Three Garridebs, in which Holmes not only captured Killer Evans, the man who shot the counterfeiter, but also recovered the Prescott plates.

  "You feel the certificates Hananish mentioned are so much rigmarole?"

  "Not necessarily, but it doesn't sound right. Let us pose a model situation in a framework of one on one. You," he pointed to Holmes, "are the Hananish bank while I am the Credit Lyonnais. You have the gold and prepare for its actual delivery, an unusual situation."

  "Hananish pointed that out," said Holmes.

  "I arrange payment with legal tender, undoubtedly using Credit Lyonnais bank notes. These certificates of indebtedness imply a mortgage, chattel, which is not the case. You're selling, I'm buying."

  Had Holmes' aquiline nose been capable, it certainly would have been quivering at this point. Yet he indulged in a lengthy silence, finally breaking it with a suggestion. "Let us proceed with Hananish's explanation of the matter."

  "It may be dead-on," admitted the American. "Financial houses can become mired down with unnecessary complexities while inefficient ones dote on them."

  "The gold is gathered by the consortium of banks. Trelawney is involved, possibly Michaels, and certainly Hananish." Holmes shot a glance at Orloff and I suspected that there had been discussion about the possible connection among the three men named. "The gold is ready for shipment and the bankers are in receipt of the legal tender; certificates, or whatever, from the Credit Lyonnais."

  "How did that happen?" asked Wally bluntly.

  "Hananish said it did."

  "According to him, the French have paid for something they do not have." For the first time, Wally's homeland became apparent in his style of speech. "I mean, we're all friends together and all that. Everybody trusts everybody else, but doesn't it seem a mite casual?"

  "When viewed in that light, it does," admitted the sleuth.

  "Something's amiss in Denmark, Mr. Holmes," said Wally, misquoting.

  "Rotten," I said.

  "What?" queried the American.

  "I was just . . . never mind." I wished I'd kept silent.

  Though we had arrived at a breakthrough and something specific for the confidence expert to explore, Holmes was not prepared to abandon the matter. "How would you arrange this matter?" he asked Wally. "On the up and up, of course." Evidently, Holmes regretted his last sentence for he shot me a quick glance. Fortunately, I was able to preserve a bland expression.

  Wally had a ready answer. "The gold is ready for shipment. On behalf of the Credit Lyonnais, I would make payment to the west coast banks when the Inter-Ocean insurance policy is made out in favor of the Credit Lyonnais. That way if the gold is not delivered, the French banking firm is covered for the entire period of the transaction."

  "Hananish said the insurance policy was made out to the Birmingham and Northern, which was committed to turn it over to the west coast banks if the gold disappeared."

  "Did he, now? Then Hananish and his banking cronies had the French payment and the gold and in addition were covered by the Inter-Ocean insurance policy."

  In spite of myself, I found words again. "Hananish stated specifically that the French certificates became valueless if the gold shipment was stolen."

  The American exhibited a wise smile that had the good grace not to seem condescending. "I'm willing to accept the possibility that the French issued some sort of dated certificates that cease to be convertible if the gold shipment does not cross the Channel. It's cumbersome, but not all things are done the easy way. Even so, for a brief period, the bankers here have half a million in gold and also something more than that in Credit Lyonnais notes. A million pounds all told and when you are dealing with that much money, a day or even an hour can make a big difference."

  Faced with such logic, I could do naught but agree. "And they were insured as well, as you pointed out," I said.

  "We certainly have meat for the table of thought here," said Holmes, and I knew he was fascinated by the possibilities that had opened up. "Our visit to the financier bore richer dividends than we expected, Watson. Perhaps it was worth the difficulties you encountered later."

  Noting my gesture of agreement, Holmes' attention returned to the American. "We seem to have explored the matter of Burton Hananish thoroughly. Do you have anything to mention?"

  "Yes and it makes more sense now that there is the aroma of stale fish in the air." Wally's eyes shifted to Orloff briefly. "A chance remark by your friend the bank examiner put me on to something just before coming here. Hananish may be trading very heavily in gold, for he just might have sold four hundred thousand pounds' worth to the Deutsche Bank."

  Holmes' noble head, lowered in thought, suddenly jerked upward. Orloff looked puzzled.

  "What does that have to do with this French situation?"

  "Probably nothing, but for a small bank Hananish is certainly active in precious metals. I don't know whether this German sale was made through the consortium of banks or not. If Hananish transacted it solo, he has a lot of gold available."

  Holmes' voice was never calmer, but there was a bright light in his eyes. "When Watson and I spoke with him, the financier mentioned that the Credit Lyonnais might go to the Deutsche Bank for the gold it now needs. He was quick to cover up the statement, but those were his words."

  Wally had bounded to his feet, his handsome face aglow. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Mr. Holmes?"

  "I imagine we are all savoring the idea," responded the sleuth. "A half a million is stolen from the Birmingham and Northern flyer, and of a sudden, Hananish has four hundred thousand available to sell to the Germans."

  "We've got him, Mr. Holmes," exclaimed the American. "He's nailed to the cross."

  "But we shall follow the diplomatic adage and make haste slowly," said my friend in a cautionary manner. Of course he was stimulated, nay downright excited. He had to be, for it would seem that detailed investigation, a careful sifting of facts, and a meticulous piecing together of the pieces of a puzzle had paid off again. All the things that Holmes had lectured me on since our first coming together had again proved their worth, but my intimate friend was always intent on tightening the net until not a minnow could escape.

  His keen face centered on Orloff. "First we must check the amount of gold that Hananish might have access to." Now the sleuth's eyes speared the ebullient American. "The details of the Deutsche Bank sale can be secured, I'm sure."

  Wally, who had recovered his composure, nodded.

  "And now, Watson and I must return to London on the evening train for there is a shooting match between the Bagatelle Club rifle squad and Alvidon Chasseur's Wellington Club team."

  Both Orloff and Wally looked befuddled at this sudden switch of subjects, and Holmes elaborated with a chuckle. "From the very beginning of this tangled skein, the army, in an unofficial way, has been in evidence. The late Ezariah Trelawney and Ramsey Michael were veterans of the Crimea War, as is Burton Hananish. The security chief of the B & N railroad was formerly with the army of India. Lastly, the robbery of the Birmingham and Northern flyer was planned like a military maneuver, while a number of big businesses are hiring former army pers
onnel for their expertise with firearms. I do not choose to accept this as a coincidence. Come, Watson, we'd best make ready for our journey to London." There was a pleased lilt to Holmes' voice, for he was returning to Baker Street.

  Chapter 12

  At the Wellington Gun Club

  ON THE train back from Gloucester, Holmes was wrapped up in his thoughts. I did not intrude on them, feeling that he was planning his next move. While he had made mention of the marksmanship contest, surely there were more leads to be followed and Holmes could not have anticipated the results of our journey to the west coast.

  We were approaching Reading when the sleuth roused himself from a thoughtful silence and seemed disposed to discuss the matter, which found great favor with me, as I had my usual assortment of questions.

  "Watson, there's more to it, you know." He was gazing out the window at the passing countryside, and I forced myself to smother a banal response like, "There is?"

  "But we should be thankful for that," he continued.

  Confound it, I thought. Where is his mind taking him now?

  "The simple matters are the most frustrating."

  "How so?"

  "Recall, if you will, that Jack the Ripper fellow. Back in eighty-eight, it was."

  "I'm not likely to forget him. But you can't consider those brutal murders a simple affair."

  Holmes turned from our carriage window with surprise in his eyes. "Was there any indication that the Ripper even knew his victims?"

  "Well, the killings were most all in Whitechapel."

  "But no one was uncovered who had known the seven poor souls and could have been the murderer."

  "What is your point?"

  "The matter of Jack the Ripper was basically a simple one."

  "Oh come now, he was never found. There was much hue and cry that you should be put on the case."

  An expression of distaste crossed Holmes' features. "I well remember those newspaper stories—all motivated by a desire for sensationalism, which our press is not averse to. They were certainly not the result of honest conviction unless written by idiots, which is within the realm of possibility."

  "Your use of simple jars me."

  "I did not say easy. The fact is that the streetwalker murders were committed with no thought of profit or gain. They were wanton killings by an insane person to fulfill some inner compulsion. What was the prime clue? The occupation of the victims, somehow tied in with the force that drove the Ripper to raw murder. How could I have been of service in the matter? Catching him required a dragnet effort—the searching of doctor's records to locate someone with a deranged mind who might have been impelled to launch a vendetta against prostitutes. The far-flung facilities of Scotland Yard were much more suited for a search of that type than you or I, Watson."

  "You feel, then, that he will never be caught?"

  "Unless he starts up again—a possibility. Or unless he makes some deathbed confession, which I think is very doubtful."

  I shrugged and my mind took an obvious tack. "How is this associated with the treasure train?"

  "Ah, that matter is beset with complexities. But the more angles to a case, the more chance for the lunge of the rapier that will impale the kernel of truth, the key to unlock the door of mystery."

  "If complexities aid your investigation, you have plenty."

  "Agreed. Had a group of thieves with access to inside information raided the train and removed the gold, we would have had little to work with. How did they get their information? What disposition did they make of the bullion? As it is, I feel this case embraces a wider canvas."

  "It certainly does if the Trelawney and Michael deaths are part of the plot."

  "That, Watson, will be settled for us. If Cedric Folks killed Michael, then I must abandon my redheaded-man theory."

  "Not without regrets," I hazarded. "You do seem quite taken by the idea."

  "Because of a remark you made, good fellow."

  As I regarded him with puzzlement, he chuckled. "Ah, you haven't figured it out yet. No matter, since for the moment it is a dead issue. Our thoughts must go elsewhere."

  "Where, specifically?" I queried, with a show of impatience.

  "If Hananish, the banker, is the mastermind, he certainly was not directly involved in the train robbery."

  "A man in a wheelchair? I should think not."

  "Who, then, did the actual deed? I mean to bag them all, Watson. You recall that when Moriarty went down, the Yard allowed him to escape, along with two of his top henchmen. It was several years later that we convicted Colonel Moran. Then, in that Golden Bird affair, Chu San Fu was not brought to justice and he rose again to plague us. We'll make a clean sweep of it this time, old friend."

  That happy prospect caused Holmes to fall silent again, and I could get no more from him during our return trip.

  The following morning, we had scarcely completed our morning repast when a despondent Inspector MacDonald was ushered into our quarters. The Scot's habitually glum expression was more pronounced than usual.

  "I'll not be guessin' how you figured it, Mr. Holmes, but you did give me fair warning," he said, lowering himself into our cane-backed chair.

  "The matter of Cedric Folks," stated Holmes.

  "Exactly. I located the artist without much trouble. Of course he denied any association with Michael's death, though he was honest enough to admit that he was not grief-stricken over the happening. But he couldn't come up with an alibi for the time of the murder. Were I a gambling man, I'd have given rather long odds on his being the culprit. Then I ran into a roadblock."

  "The hansom driver who had come to the Michael mansion."

  MacDonald threw me a dark look. "There's little I can tell him, is there?"

  "Come now, Mr. Mac, your case against Folks revolved around the hansom driver. Both Watson and I knew you would track him down straightaway." As Holmes continued in his soothing tone, I poured the inspector a cup of coffee, which he accepted with gratitude.

  "The driver did not identify Folks as his redheaded passenger, I take it."

  "For a fact, Mr. Holmes. I was a mite stern with him, bein' somewhat taken aback; but he stood his ground. Said the man in his hansom had a longer nose than Folks; and the color of his hair wasn't the same, bein' more auburn than red."

  "The cabbie certainly wasn't color-blind," I remarked.

  "I see your point," said Holmes quickly.

  This surprised me, for I did not know I'd made one.

  "Auburn is an unusual word for a cabbie to use, but no matter. The point is that the case against Cedric Folks has evaporated."

  "Completely," agreed MacDonald, lighting up a cigar, which I had secured for him. "Now I'm back where I started."

  "Hardly," replied Holmes. "We do know that Michael's ward was not involved, the assassin being the cabbie's passenger. It is possible that I may be able to unearth something about him. Just yesterday I was speaking to Watson about the fall of Moriarty."

  I sensed that the sleuth was choosing his words carefully, for MacDonald had been completely hoodwinked by the master criminal's college-professor façade.

  "The professor met his end in Switzerland, and we got Moran in connection with that Ronald Adair matter. But one man of the Moriarty ring is still at large."

  "Porlock," exclaimed MacDonald.

  "No, the informer is free as a convenience. An arrangement you know of, Mr. Mac. I refer to the late professor's hatchet man."

  "Lightfoot," breathed MacDonald. "'Tis said he died on the Continent."

  "No body was found."

  As Holmes and the Scot mused on this, I rallied my thoughts. The name meant nothing to me, but I could deduce who they were referring to. Holmes had specifically said that he had spent his years in self-imposed exile from London because two particularly vindictive members of Moriarty's infamous crew had escaped. Sebastian Moran was one, and this Lightfoot fellow must have been the other.

  "What makes you suspect McTigue?" asked
the inspector.

  So, I thought, that's the rascal's name.

  Holmes seemed to read my mind. "He used a number of names, and you'll recall that Moriarty only sent him on special assignments. He'd appear at the victim's home as a chimney sweep, a deacon of the church, and on one occasion, he masqueraded as a nurse. A clever fellow was Lightfoot, and I've a thought that he's adopted a redheaded disguise and is back in business again. But there is no concrete proof of this."

  MacDonald rose with alacrity. "We've a few people who are helpful on occasion that date back to the Moriarty days. I'll be asking some questions about McTigue and checkin' out his supposed death as well."

  The inspector departed forthwith. Given a lead, he needed little urging.

  I was completely befuddled by this revelation of Holmes', and he did not seem disposed to discuss it. Something had alerted my friend to the possibility of the presence of an old enemy, but there were so many ifs involved that he had to be playing a hunch. This was contrary to his usual style; and if pressed, I knew he would resort to evasions. Actually, further discussion of the matter was not practical, since Holmes informed me he had an invitation to the rifle contest at the Wellington Club. Not long thereafter we departed for this plaything of the rich and titled.

  It was a bit of a trip to the establishment, situated in Bermondsey, close onto the Deptford Reach curve in the Thames. I realized immediately that the Wellington Gun Club served a variety of purposes, boasting a tip-top grillroom, with an adjacent area suitable for the playing of cards. A hideaway where business leaders could consort with their own kind, and I assumed that many a deal had been broached within its stately walls. On this day the club was crowded. It took no brilliance to realize that the match had become an excuse for ladies to don their latest finery and gentlemen, who would not have known a breech from a bolt, to hobnob with the upper strata of society. There was a great to-do about invitations, and there were even some who were denied admission; but the engraved card presented by Holmes secured immediate entry and a carte blanche obsequiousness from the major-domo guarding the entrance. It crossed my mind that we might be present by royal patronage, since Holmes was summoned to Buckingham from time to time, usually after one of his masterly actions on behalf of the Empire. Few indeed were the elite functions that he could not attend if he wished. A humorous droit civil, since Holmes was rather antisocial and, contrary to those around us, availed himself of few of the opportunities open to him.