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

in a few moments he turned back to face us, his appearance was somewhat crestfallen. “Mr. Marlowe, I advise you to keep these papers in a secure place. With regard to your claim to have accurately identified John Scott, they will be of enormous importance should this matter ever come to the courts.”

   “Ha! The courts, is it? Indeed, I’ll keep ’em safe.” And Marlowe hastily accepted the papers back. “Another question or two, if you would, Superintendent, before we go.”

   “Of course.”

   “Did any of the men who came for the equipment—I am assuming there were several, even if some were only carters—did any of them say anything about the purpose for which the items were wanted, or where they were being taken?”

   “Yes, Dr. Scott had carters with him, and a pair of wagons.” Marlowe, who had just sat down again behind his desk, got up, to stand as if lost in thought. “Wait a bit. I did ask if the things were going to be wanted in London; if so, it might have been easiest and best for him to let ’em stop right here for a time. But ‘No,’ says he, ‘I mean to put them on a goods train for Portsmouth. The ship I want next is sailing from there.’ And so I thought no more about it.”

   “Indeed.” Holmes looked at the superintendent keenly. “Those were his exact words?”

   “Yes, I’ll testify to that. I pride myself that I’ve a fine memory for where things are kept, and whose they are, and also for who says what.”

   “I am glad to hear it. Did you by any chance mention to Dr. Scott that his friend Peter Moore had been here only a day earlier?”

“Why, yes sir, of course I did; but the doctor just gave me a quick look, as much as to say it was none of my particular business. The way he looked just made me think that there was perhaps some rivalry or trouble between the two of them.”

    “I see. But did Mr. Peter Moore give you the same impression?”

“Why, no sir. I had the idea from him that the other was his particular friend, and they should be very glad to see each other again.” Our visit was soon finished. When Holmes and I were once more outside the warehouse, I asked: “Then the papers showed conclusively that the man who signed and paid for the equipment was indeed John Scott?”

   “Let us walk a little, Watson, before we try to hail a cab. How bracing the atmosphere of the docks can sometimes be—the sense of the great world impinging upon us with all its mysteries and complications. No, I am afraid that the signatures show that the man who wrote them was an imposter—though he must have put in a good deal of time and effort in practicing from a true copy. I have no doubt that any first-rate handwriting expert will be able to convince a jury of the forgery. But let the superintendent and his staff believe that those documents justify them, and you may depend upon it that the signatures will be secure until we need them. Also, a real American would have said ‘freight train’ and not ‘goods train’—unless he were consciously practicing to speak like an Englishman. It is an additional point, though hardly in itself conclusive.

   “Meanwhile, Watson, the question to which we must address ourselves is—why?”

   “You mean, why should a man have posed as Dr. Scott to steal the things? Their value must be considerable.”

   “Considerable, but hardly vast. Remember that the impostor paid, without a murmur, several hundred pounds to get them. Now, there are surely only a few places where a thief could hope to sell such specialized equipment. Honest researchers would hesitate to buy it from him. So why on earth should a clever rogue, or a gang of them, go to such trouble and expense for loot which one might think would do them little good?”

   “It does seem odd, put in that way.”

   “There is another question, Watson, by no means unrelated—how were they able to obtain or forge good identification papers for Dr. Scott?…but halloa! Is that not the figure of our old friend Lestrade I see?”

   We happened to be crossing a short street which ended right at dockside, thirty or forty yards away. Standing on a pier near the street’s end was a short, wiry man in a gray coat. Two uniformed policemen stood talking with this individual, or rather listening to him. He waved his arms, and made emphatic nodding motions with his head to give force to his words, which at our distance were inaudible.

   By silent agreement, Holmes and I at once turned in that direction, and presently we had stepped onto the pier. There was a tension visible in Lestrade, as we drew near him, that I had seldom seen before. His sallow face was pinched and worried when he dismissed the constables and turned toward us, but his expression changed wonderfully as soon as he caught sight of Sherlock Holmes.

“Mr. Holmes…Dr. Watson…I’m blessed if there’s anyone in the world I’d rather set eyes on at this moment. In fact, Mr. Holmes, I sent a man to Baker Street an hour ago to try to fetch you.”

   Holmes nodded. “No doubt there is a murder at hand which presents some features of uncommon interest? Where is the body?”

   Lestrade lowered his voice. “It’s not thirty yards behind me, lying right on this pier. And this is the worst one I’ve seen since the days of Jack the Ripper. Thank heaven there’s a clue or two…” Lestrade paused, frowning at Holmes. “Here now! I hadn’t said a word about its being murder.”

   “Tut! When I see one of the leading detectives of Scotland Yard so obviously worried, I know that he is baffled, if only temporarily, by some mystery of the first importance. And the Thames is surely