Sherlock Holmes: Before Baker Street by David Marcum (books to read to be successful TXT) 📗

After you had blundered your way in quest of the crutch, now firmly in possession of the fleet-footed Faraday, de Mornay quietly returned to the table in the hall, removed the silken kerchief with which he had covered the glass case, calmly opened the case, and helped himself to the cuff-links within. That was when I stepped out of the shadows, rather, I think, to de Mornay’s shock.”

“Shock, yes,” agreed de Mornay. “But also relief. Because I wasn’t quite sure what to do with the wretched cuff-links. I may be something of a crass prankster, but I am no thief. The whole object of the exercise was to give Thursgood and his loutish friends a little lesson in common humility, which might persuade them against the notion of succumbing too readily, ever again, to the temptation of flaunting their personal wealth. My idea was to give Thursgood a difficult hour before arranging for the reappearance of the cuff-links. Holmes here understood immediately, and because we thought alike, we quickly agreed on the plan whose execution you, of course, witnessed. Holmes put the cuff-links away in a temporary hiding place, and succeeded later in planting them in Thursgood’s waist-coat pocket when we reassembled at the hall. I am not too proud to say that Holmes here would make as good a pick-pocket as I would if we were both to put our minds to it. So there we are. Holmes greatly exaggerated the injuries sustained by my crutch. Fifty pounds should suffice for necessary repairs, which means we are four-hundred-and-fifty pounds to the good!”

“And what do you propose to do with it?” I asked.

“Not we, my dear fellow. You!” said Holmes. “These four-hundred-and-fifty pounds should see you through this your final year. No, not another word, I beg of you. What would really help is if you were to pour out some more of de Mornay’s splendid vintage with which we may feel justly entitled in offering a toast to the successful conclusion of the singular affair of the aluminium crutch.”

“The aluminium crutch!” we chorused in unison, and drained our glasses. We were undergraduates at the Varsity, and the night was still young.

The Adventure of the Dead Ringer

by Robert Perret

“London black shag, please.”

“Mr. Holmes, couldn’t I interest you in this Turkish blend? I concoct it myself, here on these premises. I’ve yet to find a dissatisfied customer.”

Holmes sighed. He had chosen his new quarters in Montague Street because of the proximity to the British Museum, a whole building of novelties to amuse his easily bored mind. Yet the public displays had provided scant clay for his mental kiln. Infuriatingly, the curators would not allow him access to the storerooms and laboratories where the real treasures and mysteries lay. Instead, he found himself in a neighborhood where the local tobacconist, used to dealing with self-professed scholars and xenophiles, proved overly ambitious in pushing exotic blends over reliable British tobacco.

“I have no interest in Turkish leaf and I don’t believe I ever shall.”

“Someday I’ll slip it into your pouch and you will thank me. I am an artist with cured tobacco leaves. It is in my blood.” The tobacconist accepted Holmes payment, and then sighed heavily just as Holmes was walking through the door. For reasons he couldn’t explain, Holmes turned back.

“Is something the matter, Mr. Wilshire?”

“What’s that?”

“That sigh just now caught my attention. Usually you are an irrepressibly jovial sort. Too much so for some people’s taste.”

“Ta, sir. It’s just that . . . . Well, never mind. Challenges of the trade.”

“I’ve nowhere pressing to be, and could lend a sympathetic ear.” As much as the man grated on Holmes, being on friendly terms with one’s tobacconist could pay dividends. Maybe each pouch is a little fuller, the tobacco a little fresher, the price a little less dear. Holmes, having ended his time at University only recently, was still living on a student’s budget.

“It’s a bit embarrassing, to be honest. You see, one of the costs of running a shop in London is paying for insurance.”

“This tertiary business expense is what has you troubled?”

“It’s just that, well, the cost of this insurance has suddenly increased. I’m having trouble affording it.”

“Can you not negotiate with your current insurer? Or simply change to another.”

“It isn’t that kind of insurance.”

“Ah, I see. You are being extorted by criminals, and these criminals have become greedier. Surely Scotland Yard handles these sorts of things.”

“Other shopkeepers have complained, of course, but fruitlessly. The police here are not well-suited to dealing with subtle crimes, crimes of accounting, that sort of thing. A smashed window, an armed robbery – that they are prepared for. They need crimes they can see with their eyes and bludgeon with a truncheon.”

“Surely you give them too little credit. London is the finest city in the world. It must have the police force to match.”

“It may be the world’s finest police force for all I know. I’m still having my pocket picked every month.” Wilshire sighed.

“If they had the criminal delivered to them, they would effect the arrest?”

“They would have to, I should think.”

“How, exactly, does this criminal transaction take place?” Holmes approached the counter, his eyes now intently focused on the tobacconist.

“She comes to collect in person. I don’t think she trusts any intermediaries. No honor among thieves and all that.”

“She? You mean to tell me you are strong armed by a woman?”

“A woman who can hire a criminal gang at a moment’s notice and for a pittance, what with times in London being what they are. Besides, it was her husband that forged the arrangement.”

“Where is he now?”

“On the run. While he is enough to do for me, in the grand scheme he is a small time crook, who answers to another, who answers