The Holmes-Dracula File Fred Saberhagen (feel good fiction books txt) 📖

brought much of the cargo on to London. In it, some peculiar items had turned up, evidently of American manufacture; Mr. Moore was known to be the owner of an American firm that builds medical and laboratory equipment, and by good fortune he was in London; would he be kind enough to give an opinion on the goods?

   “He agreed. Then he was naturally very surprised when he arrived at the warehouse and found the very equipment, most of it still intact, that John had purchased from him for the Sumatran expedition.

   “Peter’s first impulse was to cable me. But he didn’t know that John had been so long unreported, and he was afraid of frightening me. He decided to try to learn, first, who the things now belong to, and why they had been aboard the Matilda Briggs. Was John in England, too? The people at the warehouse could be of no more help than to say that the material did seem to belong to a Dr. John Scott of New York. Nor could Morrison, Morrison, and Dodd provide any more information.

   “His own business kept Peter occupied for a day or two. Then he went back to the warehouse, intending to complete his inspection of the equipment and write out a report for the assessors. He was greatly surprised to find that every bit of the material in question had been claimed, signed for and paid for, and already removed, apparently by John himself.”

   “One moment, Miss Tarlton,” Holmes interposed. “Has Dr. Scott actually been seen in London by Peter Moore? Or by anyone who knows him well?”

   “He has not. But the superintendent of the warehouse describes the man who claimed the equipment as blond, tall—John is tall, about the same height as you are, Mr. Holmes—with a narrow face and a thick mustache. All this fits very well. Here is the photograph I promised to bring. It shows John just a few days before leaving for Sumatra.”

   The small picture showed an eager, manly face, smiling and squinting a trifle in bright sunshine.

   “This is a good likeness?” Holmes asked.

   “Yes, very good, so I believe.”

   He put it into his pocket. “Now, the man who came to the warehouse of course presented identification? And he must have left there at least one copy of his signature.”

   “He did. The men at the warehouse insist that he presented them with letters of credit bearing John’s name, with—oh, with a mass of documents, evidently. And he described the equipment he was claiming in such detail, even to the crates that it was packed in, that those in charge were fully satisfied of his identity.” Miss Tarlton sighed, and the weariness behind her energy showed through. “There was also the matter of—I think they called it salvage money—and of storage charges, and I don’t know what other fees. This came to almost five hundred pounds, which sum I understand was paid all at once, in cash. As to the man’s signature, they would not give me a counterfoil, but I was permitted to see it.” Here our lovely visitor hesitated.

   “Yes?” Holmes prompted.

   “It was John’s name, of course, and the writing was quite similar to his. But I do not believe that it was written by his hand.”

   “Have you been to the police?” I asked. “I have, Dr. Watson. We—Peter Moore and I—went to Scotland Yard yesterday, as soon as I had checked into a hotel. The gentlemen there were sympathetic, and they assured me that some inquiries will be made. But I did not get the impression that they are going to push an investigation with the urgency that is required. There is, as they told me so soothingly, no real evidence of any crime. No doubt they have a thousand other urgent problems demanding their attention…no doubt you, too, Mr. Holmes, are a very busy man. And yet I dare to—to demand your help. I am prepared to pay handsomely for it. I feel that you are my only hope!”

   This last sentence was delivered in tones so brave and yet so piteous that I had little doubt of what Holmes’ answer must be. Nor was I disappointed.

   “I will undertake to look into your problem, Miss Tarlton,” my friend replied. “The man who signed the goods out of the warehouse must have given some London address?”

   “Yes, Mr. Holmes; the Northumberland Hotel. I was there inquiring, with Peter, just this morning. No John Scott was presently registered. I pursued my inquiries no further, but instead waited till I could see you.”

   “In that you acted wisely.” Holmes rose casually, went to the window, and stood there for a few seconds almost as if daydreaming. Then he gave his head a little shake. Miss Tarlton I suppose read little or nothing into these actions, but I knew from long experience that he had just surveyed Baker Street for anyone who might be watching our house, and had observed nothing suspicious.

   My friend came back to us. “I must warn you, Miss Tarlton, that I foresee no great probability of a happy outcome in this case.”

   Her chin lifted. “I am determined to find out the truth.”

   “And there is something I must ask you at the outset: Had you written angrily to your fiancé? Or had there been any suggestion, on either side, of breaking the engagement?”

   The girl stood up, color flushing her cheeks. Her blue eyes flashed. “No, Mr. Holmes, to both questions. I have given you copies of all John’s letters, which I believe spoke his true feelings. On my part—I would rather have died than cease to love him. If you mean to imply that John has willingly abandoned me, without a word, without a letter of explanation, I simply refuse to believe it. He may be dead, in shipwreck or by some other means. He may have suffered some terrible loss of memory…”

   She could not go on, and