The Three Locks Bonnie MacBird (best non fiction books to read .TXT) 📖

fifteen minutes to assail my mysterious box. He then handed it back, unopened.

‘Trick lock,’ he said. ‘Specialty item. No one can open this. You’ll need the key, and instructions.’

‘What do you mean a trick lock?’ I demanded.

‘I mean it’s tricked. Picking won’t work. It will either take more than one key or something like a key partially inserted, turned, then inserted further and turned another way two times, followed by pressure on this little lever – some odd combination like that. Unless you know how to open this lock, you won’t be able to.’

‘I thought all locks were assailable in some fashion,’ I said.

‘No, they are not. Would you like me to try drilling it open?’

I hesitated. Not knowing the contents, or their placement in the box, I was leery to progress to this. ‘Let me consider it,’ I said, and pocketed the box.

I arrived back at Baker Street in a surly mood, aggravated by Holmes’s irritation at having been made to wait. We then set out at once for Colangelo’s new address.

The rain had done nothing to dispel the tropical heat which suffocated London. As we rattled towards the Strand past limp plane trees and drooping pedestrians, Holmes exuded a jittery energy I had seen often enough when he had not enough to occupy that great, churning mind.

Borelli’s fate was of marginal interest to him, of that I was sure. Holmes was convinced the fellow could look after himself and was perhaps even guilty of rigging his own accident. Nevertheless, he had promised Ilaria Borelli to investigate her former lover, magician Santo Colangelo, to determine conclusively his involvement with last night’s near fiasco.

Santo Colangelo’s lodgings were in The Blackbird Arms, on a dingy side street off the Strand. As we stood outside the door to his rooms, the strong smell of onion soup filled the shabby, dimly lit hallway. Holmes admonished me to say little. I wondered what story he had concocted for the man to receive us.

Santo Colangelo opened the door and I was struck by his strong resemblance to the Great Borelli. Tall, dark-complexioned, and with some heaviness about the middle, he sported the same pointed beard and moustache, making him appear like an older, less athletic brother of the more famous man. There was something softer about him, rounder, less aggressive, but still quite handsome. Like Borelli, he had a thatch of thick, shiny black hair, worn long, but groomed back from his face.

Madame must have a particular kind of man who attracted her, I thought. I wondered if her new love, the professor, also fit the mould.

Colangelo was dressed in threadbare street clothes, over which he had thrown a once expensive but equally worn Chinese silk dressing gown. In the room behind him, I could make out a massive clutter of books, papers and magic paraphernalia. A crystal ball glinted in the sun from an open window, and decks of cards spilled onto the floor. Various other items which I did not recognize, decorated imaginatively with glittering stars and symbols, were strewn about the room. No fewer than four cats were draped on the backs of chairs, the sofa and a table. They appeared to be asleep and I hoped they remained so. I disliked cats for their sudden surprises.

The man fingered a coin in his left hand which he made dance between his fingers, right to left, then left to right. I noticed his right hand stayed in the pocket of his dressing gown.

‘Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson,’ said Colangelo, greeting us with a certain chilly reserve. ‘Ilaria sent word you were coming. I would otherwise have turned down your request, Mr Holmes. If you forgive me, I no longer shake hands. Enter.’

Something strange glinted in his mouth as he spoke.

We stepped into a large room which served as both a sitting-room and bedroom in this hotel. A small double bed was tucked into a corner and two large armoires were cracked slightly open, revealing a jumble of items and what I presumed was the man’s entire wardrobe, including some rather garish velvet jackets. Several tables were about, including one containing foodstuff and a heating device not unlike Holmes’s Bunsen burner, and another that served as a dressing table. A sink sat in one corner; piled in it were several cheap dishes encrusted with food. A makeshift living arrangement, I thought, poor yet infinitely better than those of the many vagrants who littered the parks and alleyways of London.

We were invited to sit on a lumpy velvet sofa which faced the windows, and Colangelo took a seat on a high-backed wooden chair, sharply silhouetted. It put us, or at least me, at a distinct disadvantage, for the man’s features were hard to make out.

Holmes hesitated to join me and moved instead to the windows, where he pulled back the curtain and glanced out at the street.

Colangelo regarded him strangely.

‘Do sit, Mr Holmes,’ he said.

Holmes scanned the room once more, then joined me on the sofa and proceeded to waste no time.

‘Mr Colangelo, you know that I am here on behalf of Madame Ilaria Borelli. She is concerned about the incident in which you lost a finger from a small device provided to you by the Borellis. She believes that you blame her husband for this accident. Do you, in fact, believe he tampered with the device in order to cause you injury?’

The magician shrugged. The coin continued to dance across the fingers of his left hand.

‘She fears retribution,’ continued Holmes. ‘We all are wondering if perhaps you were behind the accident which befell Mr Borelli the night before last. You know of it?’

‘Of course. The police questioned me.’ His English had only the slightest trace of an Italian accent.

‘And—?’

The man snorted. ‘If I were guilty, I would hardly say so.’

‘Where were you throughout that day?’

‘Here. Practising.’

‘Alone?’

The man nodded. But his sideways glance gave evidence, even to me, that he was lying.

‘Then you have no alibi?’ persisted Holmes.

‘The police did not ask for one.’

‘But I