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By A. Conan Fats
Special
to the Gazette
Editor’s
note: A. Conan Fats is a maternal-side descendant of
English mystery writer A. Conan Doyle, author of the Sherlock
Holmes stories. He is currently a resident of Greater Grace and
owns and operates a rare-book shop that specializes in first
editions of British mystery fiction. Acey (for A.C.) as he is
commonly known around Grace, is also a collector of notebooks,
unpublished manuscript fragments and letters attributed to A.
Conan Doyle. From these he has now written a story about a
hitherto unknown visit by Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson to
Grace in 1899 to solve what seemed at the time an insoluble
mystery. As was usual in the Holmes stories, the narration is by
Dr. Watson.
Chapter
9
Spud
Russet received us in his private office at the Bank of Wishful
Thinking. He was a roly-poly fellow of middle age with a
handlebar mustache and the gregarious nature of the hale fellow
well met. A judgment reinforced by myriad pictures of himself
shaking hands with various gentlemen I assumed to be politicians
and public officials.
“Welcome,
gentlemen,” Russet said with a beaming smile. “It is indeed
an honor to meet two such luminaries of the war against crime. I
have read your stories avidly, Dr. Watson, and eagerly await
your next publication.”
“Thank
you, Mr. Russet,” I said, “you’re very kind.”
“Not
at all. Well, gents, what can I do for you?”
“We
are investigating the disappearance of the Jarvis motorcar,”
Holmes said. “I imagine you have a finger on the pulse of
economic activities in this area, so who might benefit
financially by stealing or suppressing the invention?”
“I
can’t think of anyone, offhand,” Russet replied
dismissively. “First of all, the contraption doesn’t appear
to be economically viable. I mean, where is the market for a
horseless carriage that will cost substantially more than the
reliable horse and buggy. Furthermore, the average citizen
doesn’t have the skill to operate such a vehicle, much less
maintain it in proper working order. Finally, it runs on
kerosene or gasoline, whatever, and what happens when you’re
out in the country and run out of fuel? A horse can graze in the
countryside, but a motorcar can’t.”
“Admittedly,”
I said, “a certain infrastructure would need to be built, but
wouldn’t that be of economic value to the community at large?
New construction, new jobs and the like?”
Russet
shrugged a bit condescendingly. “I haven’t noticed any great
interest in risky ventures of that sort. I suggest you confine
yourself to sleuthing and storytelling, and leave business
issues to those of us with more practical experience.”
Holmes
smiled at the banker’s comment. “Tell me, sir, is anyone in
this locality planning a stock or bond flotation in the near
future?”
Russet’s
eyes narrowed. “Why would you think that, sir?”
“Only
because of a remark Dr. Watson inadvertently overheard. From a
fellow I believe is called Fitz Fritz. Apparently he was quite
excited about the rewards of such an issue.”
The
banker cursed under his breath, but quickly regained his aplomb.
“Was this conversation in the presence of an attractive woman,
perchance?”
“Yes,
it was,” I said.
“Well,
then, that explains it. Young Fitz is quite the ladies’ man,
or perhaps I should say ladies’ chaser. He would do almost
anything to impress a potential conquest. I imagine it was
another of such embellishments.”
“I
see. Well, Watson, we should not take up any more of Mr.
Russet’s valuable time. We should probably speak directly to
Mr. Fitz about the matter.”
Outside
of the bank, we positioned ourselves discreetly behind a
delivery wagon. Within minutes banker Russet came out, looked up
and down the street as if searching for us, then hurried to a
livery stable. Shortly afterward he emerged at the reins of
horse-drawn buckboard. He whipped the horse into a gallop as
they headed in the direction of Casa Grande de los Fontaneros.
“It
seems we have incited a singular reaction in the banker,”
Holmes said.
“Yes,”
I responded. “The plot thickens.”
Holmes
chuckled. “Only a writer of pot-boilers would use that phrase.
Now I suggest we retire to the comfort of the Bella Grace for a
pint or two. Perhaps the Sundown Kid will soon make an
appearance. And I imagine he will be looking for us, old
fellow.”
We
found a corner table in the saloon that gave us a clear vies of
the swinging doors. After we had finished a lunch of roast beef
sandwiches and pints of the rather bland local beer, Holmes
withdrew his pocket watch and said, “I expect our visitors
will be arriving shortly.”
“Visitors?”
I said. “You expect the Sundown Kid will bring
reinforcements?”
“Yes,
I think the redoubtable Mr. Fitz will come along to observe
whatever they call a confrontation in the parlance of the Old
West.”
“Showdown,
if I recall Buntline correctly. Should I have my pistol at the
ready?”
“Not
in plain sight, Watson, but certainly within comfortable reach.
I doubt that we shall be shot in cold blood without provocation.
It is more likely that they wish to keep us incommunicado until
the stock flotation is completed.”
I
was about to ask Holmes to explain what he had deduced about
this stock business when the swinging doors burst open rather
violently. In walked Fritz Fitz and the Sundown Kid, both armed
and looking dangerous. They spotted us and headed directly
toward our table.
“We
want you gents to come with us,” Fitz said. “For a private
meeting.”
Holmes
smiled and shook his head. “I see no reason why any discussion
cannot be held here.”
Sundown
pulled his revolver and pointed it at Holmes. “Here’s a good
reason, tenderfoot,” he said with a snarl, “now get movin’.”
Holmes
fussed with the handle of his walking stick as he rose, then
held it out as if about to use it to fend off Sundown.
The
gunman laughed, grabbed the shaft of the stick and yanked at it.
He was thrown off balance as the shaft came away from the
handle, unsheathing a short sword whose point Holmes quickly
pressed against his adversary’s throat.
“Touché,”
Holmes said with a vestige of schoolboy abandon. “Now drop
your gun, sir. At peril of your life.” Sundown complied
without argument.
Meanwhile,
I had aimed my pistol at Fitz and ordered him to raise his
hands. I stepped forward and disarmed Fitz and then picked up
Sundown’s pistol.
At
that moment Marshall Jonsen came bustling in, perhaps once again
demonstrating his reluctance to be at the forefront of dangerous
confrontations. “I was just coming over to protect you, Mr.
Holmes. A trifle late, I guess, but I did manage to see the
crime being perpetrated. I’ll take those guns off your hands,
and I’ll haul these two miscreants down to the jail and book
them on attempted assault with a deadly weapon.”
“Capital,
marshal,” Holmes said, “and I suggest you arrest Spud Russet
as an accomplice. Dr. Watson and I will prefer charges if Mr.
Fitz and the banker decline to explain their stock market
scheme, and of course the whereabouts of the Jarvis motorcar.”
The
marshal handcuffed the prisoners and herded them out. Holmes and
I sat down, and I was about to order another libation when the
waiter arrived with an ice bucket chilling a bottle of
champagne. “From the lady,” he said, nodding toward the
stage.
Irene
Adler clapped her hands three times and shouted, “Bravo!”
And then she exited stage left.
“Extraordinary!”
I said.
“Exceedingly
so,” Holmes replied.
And,
Finally, In concluding chapter 10 ....
Holmes finds Russet blabbing like there's no tomorrow.
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