Secret Archives of Sherlock Holmes, The, The (23 page)

The waiting was almost unbearable. Mrs Hudson and the boy in buttons had been instructed to keep strictly to their part of the house and under no circumstances to intrude on the hall or the stairs. The house itself was as quiet as a tomb, the only noise the sound of footsteps and the clatter of horses’ hooves and wheels passing by
in the street outside; and the inexorable ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece as the minute hand crept closer and closer to the half hour.

I watched it with a dreadful fascination.

Then, just before it reached it, Holmes lifted his hand, signalling the arrival of the Waiter, and I managed to catch a glimpse of him by half rising from my chair and craning my neck to the right. He was partly hidden by the lace curtain and appeared as little more than a gauzy figure, ghost-like in its vague insubstantiality.

After what seemed like an eternity, the hand of the clock pointed at last to the quarter hour, the time we had decided to put the plan into motion, and, with a glance to the left and right to make sure we were all ready, Holmes nodded and the three of us started for the door, Irving and I first, Holmes waiting for half a minute before following us down the stairs.

As Holmes had instructed us, we walked at a normal pace and, strong though the temptation was, neither of us glanced back to see if the Waiter was following behind, although I imagined I could feel his presence a few paces to the rear, like some evil phantom dogging us at every step we took.

It was Holmes’ decision that the chase should not be drawn out but should be quick and decisive, in order to take the Waiter by surprise and to rob him of any opportunity to guess our movements.

According to the plan, we turned right into Fulbeck
Way about fifty yards from our lodgings in Baker Street, a quiet byroad with very little traffic and, at that time of the morning, few passers-by. Shortly before we took the turning, the policeman, who was acting the part of the postman, overtook us as arranged and walked on a few paces ahead to prevent the Waiter from making a frontal attack, as he did so opening the leather bag he was carrying over one shoulder and extracting a handful of letters. At the same time, he glanced up at the numbers on the houses as if checking the addresses. Unknown to the Waiter, he was also carrying a nightstick
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and a pair of handcuffs in the bag.

Seconds later, as rehearsed the day before, Irving and I turned down a narrow passageway leading to an alley that ran at right angles to Fulbeck Way and gave access to the back gardens that lined the street.

This was the most crucial part of the plan and was vital to the successful arrest of the Waiter. Would he suspect a trap? Or would he follow us into the alley where Stanley Hopkins and two of his colleagues were waiting just out of sight?

It was no more than twenty paces to the corner but never before had such a short distance seemed so interminable. And as I walked, I seemed to hear Holmes’
last-minute instructions ringing in my ears. Walk and act normally. Do not hurry. Whatever you do, you must
not
look back. And lastly, as a special piece of advice to me when Irving was out of earshot: Do not use your gun unless you are forced to do so. There will be several of us in a confined space and you will run the risk of shooting one of them.

‘Besides,’ Holmes added, ‘I would prefer that the Waiter is taken alive.’

In that short walk along the passageway, Sheridan Irving played his part better than I. Perhaps his training as an actor had taught him how to control any stage fright he might feel, or his self-confidence buoyed him up. True to his nature, he talked the whole time, exclusively about himself and, as far as I could make out, although I hardly took in what he was saying, it was about the time he played the leading role in a production of
Hamlet
in Stroud.

‘Ghastly dressing-rooms but you should have heard the applause at the end! Deafening, my dear!’

Instead my attention was fixed on the high brick walls that enclosed the passageway, the ugly monotony of their scabbed, sooty surfaces broken here and there by a stray tendril of ivy that had scrambled over the broken glass that topped them, as if desperate to escape.

I was walking now as an automaton, placing one foot in front of the other, watching as the corner of the alleyway came nearer and waiting for the signal that
would set the whole plan into motion.

It came at last: a double blast on a whistle, and suddenly the whole scene erupted into action. Seizing Irving by the arm, I shouldered him into the angle where the alley and passageway met, drawing my gun at the same time. Simultaneously, I saw Stanley Hopkins dart forward in front of me and place himself between us and the figure of the Waiter that came bounding towards us like a panther, clutching something metallic in his hand that caught the light as he raised it to shoulder level.

It was the first time I had seen him without the intervening screen of the lace curtain and I was struck by his youth and the pallor of his face, accentuated by the blackness of his eyes and hair, a flap of which fell across his forehead. But there was some other quality about him that made an even deeper impression on me. It was the madness of his expression and the look of utter hatred such as I had never seen before on a human face, and I instinctively drew back, shocked by the nakedness of the emotion.

The next moment, his face had disappeared under a scrum of bodies amongst which I recognised that of Hopkins and the erstwhile postman, shoulder bag abandoned, who were in the thick of the mêlée. Holmes stood a little to one side, like a referee.

The Waiter fought so fiercely that it took several minutes before he was subdued and led away in handcuffs by two uniformed constables, followed by Stanley
Hopkins, who was carrying a sharp knife with a six-inch blade that he had retrieved when the Waiter had dropped it to the ground. It was a deadly-looking weapon which even Stanley Hopkins handled with respect.

At my side, Sheridan Irving expelled a long,
drawn-out
sigh of relief and admiration.

‘That was excellent!’ he remarked. ‘I haven’t seen a fight so well staged for years. Congratulations to your stage manager!’

It had been arranged that Stanley Hopkins would call on us at Baker Street later that evening, once the formalities of charging the Waiter of attempted murder and committing him to the cells had been completed; a lengthy process, it seemed, for it was nearly nine o’clock before he arrived.

Holmes had gone out of his way to make him feel welcome. A cheerful fire was burning on the hearth, coffee had been made and one of Mrs Hudson’s excellent fruit cakes was set out on the low table, together with the necessary china and cutlery. I also noticed the decanters in the tantalus were topped up with whisky and brandy, should a more celebratory refreshment be called for.

‘Well, gentlemen, that was a most satisfactory day’s work!’ Hopkins declared, rubbing his hands together as the boy in buttons ushered him into the room. ‘The arrest of the Waiter was an enormous feather in our caps, including mine. But, of course, you don’t know yet who he is. His real name is Hans Tetzner and he’s wanted by
the Austrian police on several serious charges, including murder, attempted assassination and suspected treason.’

In his eagerness to pass on this information, he had remained standing by the door, looking flushed with excitement. He was a young inspector – only in his thirties – alert, intelligent and very impressed by Holmes’ methods of detection. In his turn, Holmes respected him and had high hopes for his future career in the force. There was an enthusiasm about him that was almost boyish in its fervour and was immediately disarming.

Smiling, Holmes waved him forward to a chair by the fire.

‘Coffee?’ he suggested. ‘Or something stronger?’

‘Well,’ Hopkins began, his glance straying toward the tantalus as he took his seat, ‘I am off duty and it is a bit nippy out tonight, sir.’

‘Then whisky all round it shall be,’ Holmes declared, nodding to me to do the honours with the glasses and the decanter.

When the three of us were settled, Holmes turned to our guest.

‘Now, my good Hopkins, tell us all you know about Hans Tetzner. But before you begin, there is a question I must ask you about a matter that needs settling first. Does a Colonel Sebastian Moran figure at all in your account?’

Hopkins immediately sat up, his glass halfway to his lips.

‘Not under that name, Mr Holmes. But my Swiss contact, Erik Werner, did mention a Colonel Victor Norland. A big man, he said; late Indian army; excellent shot.’

‘It must be the same man,’ Holmes replied with a satisfied air. ‘So the old
shikari
is still alive. I thought he might be. It would be a good day’s work to see the pair of them, Tetzner and Moran, in handcuffs together. An excellent bag indeed!’

Hopkins pulled a rueful face.

‘Then I’m afraid I shall have to disappoint you, Mr Holmes. According to Herr Werner, the Swiss authorities have lost sight of him. It seems he jumped ship, so to speak, a couple of days ago. But they’re looking for him and we are also determined to round him up, together with his little gang.’

‘Gang?’ Holmes repeated, his eyes brightening.

‘Oh, yes, Mr Holmes. There’s quite a little nest of them, some of them counts and young army officers.’

‘Do you know the names of any of them?’ Holmes inquired, leaning forward eagerly.

‘Now I come to think of it, Herr Werner did mention two or three names. Let me have a think …’ Hopkins replied, setting down his empty glass in order to rub his chin with a display of concentration that would have impressed even Irving.

Holmes hastened forward with the decanter to top up the inspector’s glass before retiring to his own chair where he sat, elbows on knees, looking across at
Hopkins with such avid intensity, as if trying to extract the information from him by sheer willpower. Aware of this fixed scrutiny, Hopkins cleared his throat and took a sip from his replenished glass.

‘Well, Mr Holmes,’ he said at last, ‘there was a Baron von Staffen, an Ernst Hiedler
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and Gustav somebody-or-other, but I can’t remember the rest of his name.’

‘Were they all Swiss nationals?’

‘No, not all of them. As Herr Werner pointed out, quite a few were German, including that waiter we arrested.’

‘Was he indeed?’ Holmes murmured in a nonchalant manner, having apparently lost interest in the subject, although, knowing him as well as I do, I realised his interest had been aroused, an assumption that was later to prove correct after Stanley Hopkins had taken his leave.

‘You realise how important this matter is, Watson?’ he asked as soon as the door closed behind the inspector.

‘You mean the Waiter being German and not Swiss?’

‘Exactly! But there is more to it than the mere matter of nationality. Hopkins named two other members of the gang associated with the Waiter, alias Hans Tetzner. I wondered if we might know of others who could be included in the list.’

‘Others?’ I queried, unsure as to whom he was referring.

‘Eduardo Lucas?’
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Holmes suggested, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

‘Eduardo Lucas!’ I exclaimed. ‘But surely you are not referring to the Second Stain case? You yourself stated at the time that the inquiry was a matter of high international politics and that, if the missing letter was published, it could involve this country – and I use your very words – in a “great war that could lead to the loss of thousands of lives”.’

‘Indeed I did. And I meant every word,’ Holmes replied in a sombre voice.

‘But Lucas is dead, Holmes!’ I protested. ‘He was murdered by his French wife!’

‘I am well aware of that, my dear fellow. But that does not exclude him from having been a member when he was alive of that “little gang” that Hopkins referred to. We must also consider adding another name to that list – Hugo Oberstein’s.’

‘You mean …!’ I cried, aghast at the implication.

‘Yes, I am indeed referring to the theft of the Bruce-Partington plans and the subsequent murder of Arthur Cadogan West.
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As Mycroft himself pointed out
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at the time, that too could lead to an international crisis. In fact, he took the situation so seriously that he promised me, should I undertake to recover the documents, I would have the whole force of the State behind me. In both cases I could see the hand of a certain European head of state who regards himself as a latter-day Caesar who, together with his chancellor, would seize control not only of our empire but of the high seas as well. If we do not heed the warnings, it will be pointless to urge Britannia to rule the waves as the song says because we shall have lost the game and, while we may not exactly be enslaved, we shall certainly become second-class citizens of the world.

‘And that is not the end of it, Watson. There are even more sinister names that I believe should be included in
that roll-call of international gangsters and murderers who, if given the opportunity, would certainly rule the world. I am speaking, of course, of Colonel Moran who, as far as we know, is still alive.’

‘So you see a connection between the two organisations, Moriarty’s criminal gang and these international spies?’ I asked, greatly puzzled by Holmes’ assertion.

‘Indeed I do, Watson, for while they may appear to be quite separate, they both share the same aims: to seize control of any independent countries and to destroy all democratic principles. Both groups are inspired by greed for power and for the loot which power can provide once they have conquered Western Europe. Think of the gold in the banks, the profits made from international trade, not to mention the museums and the art galleries with their priceless paintings and historic treasures that will be theirs for the plundering! The line between ruthless politicians, avaricious businessmen and members of the criminal underworld can be very fine indeed and, at times, can become virtually invisible.

‘We can, however, thank God that loathsome spider that sat in the centre of the web has gone. I witnessed his death at the Reichenbach Falls.
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Those of his organisation who remain are mere insects compared
to him, although, if roused, they can still sting and, if there are enough of them, they can, like soldier ants, come swarming out of their nests and devour much larger creatures than themselves. Hans Tetzner was one of them. His mission, entrusted to him by Moriarty himself, I believe, was to destroy me should his other plans, such as the one involving the Dutch steamship
Friesland
, fail.