Thirty-Nine Steps from Baker Street Read online

“Of course, you may not be able to reveal more than has already been conveyed to me,” Holmes said as I searched the cabinet drawer. “Still, prematurely ending the pursuit of evidence can—”

  “‘Have the effect of negating what has already been gained.’ I believe that is how you often put it,” I said as I took hold of Scudder’s file. Turning round, I saw Holmes’s smile suggest no small satisfaction with my quoting him.

  “It appears you were far more attentive than I supposed,” my friend said, eyes sparkling. “In fact,” he went on, “I have recently added a statement to such effect in The Whole Art of Detection.”

  “And how is that book coming these days?” I asked. “I keep wondering when your magnum opus will finally be completed.”

  “Composition has slowed these past two years, Watson,” he said. “First, by the enterprise that requires this disguise, and second, by work on a very different volume, which is forthcoming.”

  “Truly? And what is this other piece of which you speak?”

  “I wish to surprise in my own time,” said Holmes mischievously. “If my desire does not offend.”

  “I believe I have demonstrated extreme patience in the past, my recent lapse notwithstanding.”

  “Yes,” replied the detective, once more caressing his goatee.

  “I have but one hope in regard to your two literary efforts,” I said while regaining my chair.

  “Oh? And what is that?”

  I stared at the papers on my lap and then added in an even tone, “That either volume will be more interesting than The Martyrdom of Man.”4

  “Tush, Watson!” my friend said with a chuckle. “On with the details of Mr. Franklin Scudder, if you please.”

  “Very well.”

  I leaned back, looking down at the notes that sat before me. “As previously mentioned, I treated the fellow for migraines. Yours have subsided, I assume?” I asked puckishly.

  Holmes silently gestured for me to proceed.

  “And so,” I said, now in a serious tone, “Franklin P. Scudder is—was an American, age thirty-two. From his dress, I gathered that he enjoyed a healthy income. Born in the state of Kentucky, he attended university and apparently had seen much of the world in his relatively short life, for he was a correspondent for some newspaper in Chicago—he did not indicate which. Scudder had reported on the late Balkan hostilities and most recently travelled through the Continent by way of Hamburg, Norway, and Paris before arriving in London.”

  I halted and looked at my friend. His look became expectant.

  “And what about the man?” Holmes asked. “What did you perceive to be his outstanding traits of personality, especially methods of dealing with adversity? Have you insight regarding topics such as those?”

  “Well, it seemed he was a master of several languages,” I said hesitantly before setting the folder aside to give my friend an apologetic look. “I recall him sprinkling his conversation with various epigrams in the original German, French, or Italian. He had a keen interest in the past, citing books he had recently read concerning his own nation’s civil war, as well as the history of Greece.”

  My voice trailed off, and I spent a moment gathering my thoughts. “I am afraid that is all I can say. I have no words to illuminate his person, I fear, other than to remark that he was a rather pleasant chap—certainly, I can make no pronouncement with respect to the qualities you mention. Sadly, I was viewing him as a physician, intent on alleviating his migraines.”

  My friend nodded again. “Yes, of course.” He smiled with a kindly expression. “Perhaps I should not grasp at straws until I first observe Scudder’s flat.”

  Holmes paused, looking at me as if intending to continue, but then he bowed his head and remained silent.

  “And so something is once more afoot, after all these years,” I remarked in a deliberately offhand manner as I rose from my chair to put away Scudder’s file.

  “Indeed it is, old fellow.”

  Again the detective seemed about to ask something of me but appeared hesitant to do so. Then, as I strode to the cabinet, he spoke.

  “I suppose it would an imposition to ask you to share my current paucity of leisure,” Holmes remarked. “However, Watson, would you consider accompanying me to Scudder’s flat today?”

  “Today and any day, as the opportunity arises,” I said with genuine delight.

  I deposited my file of papers and shut the cabinet drawer. “And it is far less an imposition than having one’s chin whiskers pulled.” I looked at my friend with eyes that threatened to brim over. “It would be a joy to accept your offer, Holmes.”

  “Can you close this early?”

  “Time be damned,” I replied, walking back across the consulting room. “In more ways than one, I suppose. There are no appointments scheduled for the afternoon, and on the morrow but two, which I will simply drop.”

  “You need not go so far as that.”

  “I choose to do so. One never knows what each day may bring,” I declared. “If I am to be of use to you, I must first be available.”

  “I take it,” he said with a faint smile, “that you have not wed again in my absence.”

  “Indeed,” I said with mock severity. “I have not.”

  “I realise it must be a shock to have me reappear so abruptly after these many months, let alone ask for your assistance in the field.”

  “Old soldiers never completely stand down,” I told Holmes, and I thought I saw a watery glint in his own eye before he once more donned the tinted spectacles. “I will close up once I fetch my coat and hat,” I said, “and then we may depart.”

  “In truth, I should wish to meet you inside Scudder’s building rather than journey there in your company,” Holmes declared as he stood.

  I gave a start, surprised by my friend’s statement.

  “You will have your full explanation in time, recall.”

  “Of course,” I replied, stepping toward a closet door. “I know better than to question your instructions. And so, we are to meet at Scudder’s flat, you say?”

  “Yes. It is in a new building a few blocks away, near Portland Place.”

  “I am familiar with it, having watched the structure go up last year.”

  “Good, then directions will be unnecessary. When you pass through the front entrance, that Inspector Magillivray I referred to earlier will greet you in the lobby. He is a rather prim-looking man with a clean-shaven lawyer’s face and a prominent dimple upon his chin. I take him to be an amateur woodworker, an avocation he pursues in the early morning, before reporting to the Yard, for though his waistcoat betrays a light sprinkling of sawdust, his jacket and shoes are—”

  “Do you wish me to bring anything?” I asked abruptly.

  “Yes, Watson,” Holmes replied in an abstracted tone. “Your medical bag is hereabouts?”

  “It is.”

  “Good. Please have it with you.”

  I promised to do so as I withdrew my coat and hat from the closet. Putting one arm into the former, my back to the detective, I added, “I must say, I feel myself limbering up already, Holmes. I can once again feel the thrill of the hunt, though you have not yet disclosed the nature of the quarry. It is all very much like strolling through a familiar forest of old—”

  I stopped suddenly, for having turned round, I realised that my friend had already left the room.

  After closing Blanding’s office and sending his assistant home for the day with instructions to call off Friday’s appointments, I stepped onto the pavement and made my way to New Cavendish Street and thence into Harley Street, passing near Queen’s College on the way toward Scudder’s flat.

  Traversing this burgeoning local community of physicians and surgeons, sprinkled with clerks and shop-girls, as well as an occasional policeman, I found myself feeling as if I inhabited a metropolis that had become suddenly fresh, one into which Holmes’s returning presence had breathed new life. The avenues were filled with traffic, though motors now claimed m
ajority status, scooting past horse-drawn vehicles whose numbers had sharply declined in the past decade. My stride became more confident as I basked in the glow of sentimental reflection, and I marched briskly in late morning light toward the new building near Portland Place.

  Entering that block of flats, I immediately espied a man standing at the lobby entrance who fit Holmes’s brief description of the Scotland Yard inspector perfectly, down to the sober look in his eyes and a dimple set at the midpoint of his chin.

  “Dr. Watson?” he enquired. “I am Inspector Magillivray. I have already let in Mr. Holmes through a rear entrance as arranged, and he awaits us above.”

  While the building’s porter looked on from across the lobby, the inspector and I shook hands before he directed me away from the lift.

  “The flat in question is on the top floor, but Mr. Holmes instructed that we are to employ the common staircase. Follow me, please.”

  As we ascended, the inspector cast a smile in my direction, billycock hat in hand. Trailing behind, I thought I could detect the aroma of wood glue wafting from him.

  “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance at last,” Magillivray said. “You were a mite before my time at the Yard, but Inspector Hopkins spoke often of you before he retired, and I have read all your stories about Mr. Holmes. Most instructive, they are.”

  I nodded appreciatively as we trod the risers upward.

  “Are there to be any more?”

  “What?”

  Stories, I mean.” The inspector slowed somewhat to accommodate my measured pace toward the top. “They seem to have become a bit sparse of late.”

  “I have been writing a new piece,” I informed him. “It will be coming out later this year.”5

  “Oh, that will grand,” he declared as we reached the upmost storey. Magillivray smiled and gestured in the direction of the corridor that lay before us. At its far end stood Sherlock Holmes.

  “Halloa again, Inspector,” called out Holmes. As we approached, my friend nodded to me with an apologetic expression. “And, Watson, do forgive me for slipping away unannounced.”

  “I considered it a spur to keep me alert and in practice,” I assured him.

  “Shall we go inside, then?” Holmes impatiently asked Magillivray, motioning to the door nearest us. “From the condition of the knobs and locks, I have assumed No. 15 to be Scudder’s flat.”

  “It is indeed, sir,” replied the inspector, stepping to the door and fitting a key into the lock. “I suppose I did fail to tell you the number, did I not?”

  “And where is Scudder’s man?” Holmes enquired.

  “The one who valets him?” Magillivray said, pausing with the key still in its lock, unturned. “The boys are bringing him back here, for he has been held at the local station since he came to us with his report of Scudder’s death. Fortunately, I was on hand when he told his story and, recognising the American’s name from Mr. Bullivant’s list, took charge of the matter at once.”

  I made note of this Mr. Bullivant, whose name was completely new to me.

  “That was fortunate indeed,” remarked Holmes. “And so, will I have an opportunity to speak here with the valet?”

  “Oh yes,” said the inspector.

  “Good. Now then,” my friend said, smiling expectantly, “may we enter the flat?”

  Magillivray quickly unlocked the door, opened it, and then backed away, allowing Holmes to pass before him. I followed.

  “It is the only set of rooms occupied on this floor at present, as I suppose you deduced,” said the man from Scotland Yard upon entering the flat. “The body is in the bedroom, Mr. Holmes. It appears to be a case of suicide.”

  The remark did not cause me to break stride as we crossed a cluttered sitting room, where two empty bottles of spirits sat prominently beside one another upon a table. Holmes approached the windows and within seconds had shut every curtain and blind. Then, after snapping the switch for additional light, he turned round and round slowly, giving the area a quick visual examination.

  “If you wish me to leave, Mr. Holmes, I will do so,” Magillivray said. “Mr. Bullivant indicated you might wish privacy.”

  I glanced at Holmes after this second mention of that mysterious name, but my friend showed no inclination to enlighten me. Instead, he waved his hand. “Pray remain, Inspector. You may be able to assist us with the body. It is in the adjoining room, you say?”

  He stepped to a large trunk that lay upon the carpet, lifted its lid, and then quickly closed it before passing through an open doorway. Magillivray and I followed him into another room, there finding, upon a bed, the corpse of a man in pyjamas. Its jaw was horribly mutilated by what I took to have been a gunshot, for a revolver lay beside the body.

  Stepping with care so as not to disturb the mess that had resulted, Holmes pulled shut the curtains, motioned for me to turn the switch, and then planted himself at the foot of the bed to take stock.

  “Behold the remains, Watson, the face now past recognition,” he said. “Do you nonetheless discern the obvious?”

  I stared intently at the figure on the bed, sensing Magillivray step up behind me as I pondered the scene for several seconds.

  “Are you referring to the fact that this was not suicide by gunshot?” I replied after a moment.

  “I am.”

  “What?” said the inspector. “You mean he didn’t kill himself?”

  “That the man took his own life is not yet a logical impossibility,” remarked Holmes, “though I would hesitate to lay a wager on it. Still, there is a glass of what may be more than mere sleeping-draught there upon that bedside table. I suggest you take it to the Yard for analysis, for I suppose it could contain poison.”

  “I believe the valet said he did mix such a draught for Scudder, but I will do as you recommend,” Magillivray said. “And so then, Mr. Holmes, you believe someone else shot him while he slept?”

  “To be sure, someone else fired the gun as he lay sleeping,” the detective remarked. “However, it was already the eternal sleep.”

  Magillivray looked at me with a questioning expression.

  “There is far less blood than would be expected had the revolver been fired into the jaw of a living man,” I explained. “He was already dead when the bullet struck.”

  “But if he wasn’t killed with the revolver, how did he die? And if Mr. Scudder was no longer alive and therefore unable to fire the shot, who discharged the gun?”

  “Dr. Watson may, perhaps, be able to respond to your first query after examining the body more closely,” Holmes replied. “In the meanwhile, I will attempt to enlighten us with regard to the second issue. Of course, the third question already has an answer.”

  “But I asked no third question,” said Magillivray.

  “I have answered it, nonetheless.”

  “And what is that question?”

  “Why the shot was even fired,” said Sherlock Holmes.

  “And you say you have a reason for that?” replied the inspector. “What would it be? To disguise how the man actually died?”

  “With the rest of the body seemingly undisturbed, quite ready to disclose the real cause of death to any thorough examiner? Hardly,” my friend declared.

  Magillivray made a pleading gesture. “Mr. Holmes, will you perhaps explain—”

  “Patience, Inspector,” said the detective with a soothing tone. “I will elaborate shortly. Watson,” he went on, looking me in the eye, “is my proposed division of labour acceptable?”

  “It is eminently fair.” I turned and re-entered the sitting room to doff my coat. Both it and my hat found a place upon a chair, and then I removed my jacket as well. With cuffs loosened and rolled up past my elbows, I smiled at Magillivray as I returned to the bedroom and stood beside a small table, upon which I had left my bag.

  “Will you assist me, Inspector?” I asked. Then, as Sherlock Holmes busied himself about the rooms of the flat, Magillivray and I separated the corpse from its pyjamas
before I myself performed a more careful examination of the remains.

  It was slightly more than a quarter hour later when I stepped into the sitting room, where Holmes reposed in an armchair, deep in thought.

  I discreetly cleared my throat, and he glanced up, his eyes luminous.

  “I cannot with absolute confidence declare cause of death without a complete autopsy,” I said. “However, after feeling the region of the man’s liver, I believe excessive drink may have played a role. There are other signs not inconsistent with that theory, and of course it is supported by the presence of those bottles there.”

  Holmes did not look toward the direction in which I pointed but merely nodded.

  “It is certainly true that the man did not die from any physical attack upon his person,” I added.

  “Yes. Thank you, Watson.”

  “And have you reached any conclusions of your own, Mr. Holmes?” Magillivray asked from the open bedroom doorway.

  “I have compiled a speculation or two,” said my friend, speaking in abstracted tones. “But I have also formulated one additional question of importance.”

  “And what is that?” asked the inspector.

  Holmes stroked his goatee twice and then rose from the chair to walk past me and Magillivray and into the bedroom.

  “I wish to know,” he said, “whether the man’s shoes fit his feet.”

  The inspector looked dumbfounded, but I gestured for him to follow, and we stepped through the doorway after Holmes. Approaching my friend, I watched as he knelt at an open wardrobe door and rummaged about.

  “Here, Watson, can you help me rise?”

  I assisted the detective to his feet. He held in his hands a pair of well-polished short boots.

  “Thank you. Now then,” Holmes said, “which of us will put these on the body?”

  Magillivray cocked his head and awkwardly scratched the nape of his neck. “Well, sir, since you seem the most enthusiastic about it…”

  “Then I will shoe the corpse,” replied my friend, who stepped to the bed and attempted to insert the dead man’s left foot into its corresponding boot.

  “It is a mite too small,” I commented. “The boot, that is.”