The Travels of Sherlock Holmes, page 12
‘Is the prince here yet?’ asked Sigerson in a low tone.
Wilberforce glanced round. ‘Not yet. I shall have to present you to the Ambassador, first.’ He gestured towards the far side of the room.
‘The little chap, surrounded by good-looking young men?’ I asked with some distaste.
‘Don’t be fooled by appearances, you cur,’ said Wilberforce in a friendly tone. ‘Most of the fellows at the Legation would hesitate to get in his way on the polo field. Furthermore, he has the maximum number of wives permitted by his religion, and some two dozen children at the last count.’
‘I humbly beg his pardon,’ I muttered, as Wilberforce led us across to the Turkish Ambassador.
‘You must remember that Islam does not assign women a central role in government, which is why this is an all-male gathering,’ Wilberforce told me in a hoarse whisper. ‘Ah, Your Excellency! Many thanks for inviting me here. I took the liberty of bringing two friends along, I knew you would not mind. This is Mr Dyce, who is thinking of commencing a career in diplomacy, and wished to take a look at Persia before accepting a posting here. And this is Mr Sigerson, whom Dyce met, as I understand it, on the way here. Mr Sigerson is a Norwegian,’ he added, in the dismissive tone the British reserve for discussing foreigners.
‘Delighted, delighted!’ said the Ambassador. ‘A drink? I regret I can offer nothing than orange juice, but it is of the finest.’ He snapped his fingers, and a tray of glasses appeared magically. ‘Ah,’ said the Ambassador to Wilberforce, with a nod to the door, ‘more good friends.’
Wilberforce turned and nodded at the two men who were making their way towards the Ambassador. They paid their respects, then turned to us.
‘Mr Dyce, Mr Sigerson,’ said Wilberforce. ‘May I present Count Ulyanov, the Deputy Minister, and Prince Igorov, ah –’ and, evidently not knowing Igorov’s official title, left it there.
Count Ulyanov was a dapper young man of average height with a neat little moustache. He bowed politely and murmured a greeting in excellent English.
Igorov was altogether different, well over six feet tall, with a great black beard, like those of the Cossacks he led. He clicked his heels together and bowed in the German fashion. ‘Delighted, Mr Dyce, and Mr – Sigerson?’ He too spoke good English.
Wilberforce, answering the question in the Russian’s tone, said, ‘Mr Sigerson is a Norwegian.’
‘Indeed?’ said Igorov, and then to my horror he proceeded to speak to Sigerson in some language which I could not place, I assumed it was Norwegian.
But Sigerson did not turn a hair. He waited until the Prince paused, then replied in the same language, finally remarking, ‘However, out of deference to our colleagues, we might be as well to stick to English, do you not think?’
The prince bowed again, and excused himself. As he walked to the far side of the room, I muttered, ‘Thank Heaven you could actually speak Norwegian!’
‘I had all but exhausted my small vocabulary,’ he confessed. ‘As luck would have it, Igorov spoke not Norwegian but Swedish, which is quite close. Their borders run close together, you will remember from your geography lessons. So I do not think he will have spotted any deficiencies in my pronunciation and the like, whilst at the same time I ought to have convinced him that I am indeed from Scandinavia.’
‘And how came you to know any of the language?’ I wanted to know.
‘Oh,’ said he dismissively, ‘I have visited Norway more than once. The salmon fishing, and so forth. More to the point, could you recognize our friend if you saw him again?’
‘I scarcely think one could mistake him.’
‘Good, for we shall need to follow him, and somewhat more closely than he has been followed thus far. No offence intended, Major.’
‘None taken,’ said Wilberforce cheerfully. ‘You are welcome to do what you will, and I’ll give you what help I can. I simply don’t have men available to follow everyone who might be acting suspiciously, I’m afraid. Persia is such a quiet, settled sort of place that cloak-and-dagger work is unnecessary.’
‘Ah, how true!’ said the Turkish Ambassador, who had moved across to us unnoticed. ‘As Mr Dyce will find if he accepts a posting here, nothing could be more delightful, eh, Major?’
‘Just what I was telling ’em,’ said Wilberforce, and the conversation drifted into safer channels, with the remainder of the evening passing uneventfully.
Wilberforce provided us with a couple of cots in a corner of the Legation, telling us that we should be able to draw sufficient funds from the diplomatic petty cash on the following day to enable us to take a room at the English Hotel – after we had visited one of the many western-style tailors’ shops, he added, with something of his old disdain for our travelling costumes.
Next day, we did indeed visit the haberdasher’s, and engage rooms at the hotel. Then we returned to the Legation, clad respectably enough this time even for Wilberforce, and all three of us took a stroll to the Russian Legation, where Wilberforce showed us the best spot to lurk in order to see who came and went, without ourselves being observed.
‘It would be extremely useful if we might have the use of a corner of the Legation, in order to disguise ourselves before we station ourselves here,’ said Sigerson.
Wilberforce shook his head. ‘Can’t be done, I’m afraid – oh, I’d agree like a shot, despite the fact that I don’t like this secret work, but the Legation is too public, it would attract attention if two villainous wretches were seen going in and coming out on a regular basis.’ He hesitated. ‘I tell you what. I have a small private apartment – nothing more than a couple of rooms – not too far away. Comes in handy,’ he mumbled, by way of explanation, and neither Sigerson nor I saw fit to ask what it came in handy for.
Wilberforce took us along to the rooms. They could not have suited our purpose better, situated as they were in a nondescript building halfway between our hotel and the Russian Legation. As we went into the lobby, we passed Persians in western dress, an Arab, clearly newly arrived from the desert, in his flowing robes, and an attractive woman of twenty or so, who would not have been out of place in a Paris café.
With a certain amount of reluctance, Wilberforce handed over the keys of the place. Heaven only knows what delicious assignations he was forgoing so that we might have our bolthole – once again, we did not see fit to enquire.
And then the next week or so settled down into a fairly regular, indeed a monotonous, pattern. Sigerson and I rose early, went along to Wilberforce’s rooms and changed our western suits for the grimy robes we had worn on the journey to Teheran, then stationed ourselves outside the Russian Legation, hoping to catch a glimpse of Igorov.
I may say that we were inevitably successful in this, for he went out every day, and we duly followed. On one occasion we were obliged to run after his carriage at a discreet distance, only to find that he went to the British Legation! We discovered later that day that he was paying a courtesy call upon the Minister, a fact which Wilberforce had known well enough, but had kept from us as a result of some distorted idea as to what constituted humour.
But for the most part, Igorov went on foot, and he did seem, as Wilberforce had said earlier, to resort to some strange – though not particularly sinister – haunts, seeming mainly interested in the religious side of life in the capital, for he frequently went, not to the mosques which are closed to foreigners, but to some of the religious leaders of the place.
I asked Sigerson what he thought to all this, and he replied, ‘Well, I do not think the prince is particularly concerned as to his eventual salvation, so it is something deeper. But as to what –’ and he shrugged helplessly, and gave a wry grin.
As I have said, this went on for a week or ten days, and I found that the task palled increasingly with each succeeding day. This was, frankly, not the adventure I had hoped for.
Sigerson, too, seemed to find the job wearisome, for one day at breakfast he remarked to me, ‘You know, Dyce, I am capable of the most concentrated bursts of energy, but also of the most pervasive lethargy, and I think that today I am in one of my lethargic moods. Would it bore you terribly to handle the shadowing of Prince Igorov alone? I scarcely think that he will do anything so very staggering that you will be incapable of handling it.’
‘I am flattered by your trust in me,’ said I, honestly enough, for this was the first time that Sigerson had suggested that I was equal to the task of following the prince alone. And if the reason was not quite as complimentary as it might have been, well, what of that? Here was an opportunity to show that I could work without supervision or assistance.
I went along to the Russian Legation, then, as usual, and as usual Igorov emerged with a cheery word to the attendant at the door, then set off down the road. I followed him to the house of one of the religious teachers, a mullah or imam, as they are known, a place he had often visited before.
I heaved a sigh, for the day was quite chilly – winter was almost upon us – and I knew well enough that Igorov, unless he had changed his habits dramatically in the last two days, would be here until dusk. Still, I had been entrusted with the task of watching him, and watch him I would, so I looked around for a convenient place to settle.
Almost directly opposite the house which Igorov had just entered, there was one of the little coffee houses which correspond to the French cabaret or café. There were a few chairs outside, and I did not see why I should not watch in comfort, so I made my way across to the place.
I sat down, fully expecting the owner, or a waiter, to take my order, but no-one appeared, so I got up and went inside. The café was deserted, but as I stood there irresolute, a curtain at the back of the little bar opened, and a girl came into the room. She was dark and attractive, but dressed respectably enough in the western fashion, none of the diaphanous draperies that clothe the dancers and other less respectable professions in those parts.
For all her respectable dress, she gave me a smile that could not be mistaken for anything save frank invitation, and I wondered for a moment what sort of an establishment I had inadvertently entered.
But then to my astonishment, she said in a low tone and in good English, ‘You are watching the house across the road, yes? You follow the Russian nobleman?’
‘Why, yes. That is –’
‘Quickly!’ she said. ‘I have some important news for you. But not out here, we must speak privately,’ and she held the curtain open for me.
I did not know what to think. I had no idea that anyone save Sigerson and myself knew of our activities, and here it seemed it was the common gossip of the bazaar! But I should never forgive myself if I failed to gather all the information I might as to the doings of Prince Igorov, so, after a short moment’s hesitation, I went through the curtain and into a dark, musty-smelling room.
I could not tell you anything more about the room, for as soon as I stepped inside, someone threw a blanket or something similar over my head, and a brawny pair of arms circled my chest.
I struggled, but it was useless. I could see nothing, and hear only a few words of Arabic, grunted in hoarse voices, two, perhaps three, of them. I was bound – trussed like a turkey, would be nearer the mark – then flung on some sort of cart and driven off.
I seemed to be on that cart for hours, rattling over cobblestones, then squelching through mud, then more cobbles. At last the cart halted, and I was roughly unloaded on to a hard floor, stood more or less upright and half carried and half dragged up a short flight of steps, before being thrust unceremoniously through a doorway – I knew it was a doorway for the jamb of the door bruised my shoulder as I crashed against it. Then, before I had time to realize what was happening, much less do anything about it, my bonds were untied, and my captors left me alone, locking the door after them.
As soon as I had gathered my scattered wits, I threw off the rug or sack that was still over my head, and made a dash for the door, but it was hopeless, it was solid wood, with a huge lock to it, and it was firmly closed against me.
Then, more calmly, I bethought me to take a look at my prison. I was in a small, but not cramped, room, with a cot in one corner. The only light came from a tiny window, a fanlight I should have said, were this England, high up towards the ceiling. Even if I moved the cot and stood on it, I could not reach the window, and if I did manage to reach it, I could never get through it. Still, it was worth a try, better failure than simply sitting here awaiting whatever fate my captors – captor, rather, for it was now only too clear to me that Igorov was behind this – had in mind for me. I tried to move the cot, but it was bolted to the floor. Evidently the room had been used for a similar nefarious purpose before today.
There was nothing to be done but wait. Towards evening, a sort of trapdoor in the bottom of the main door opened, and food was pushed through for me, plenty of it, and well enough cooked, though at first I hesitated to taste it, thinking it might be drugged. Then I thought, they have me at their mercy in any event, so what could they gain by drugging me now? I ate heartily, and without ill effects, then, astounding though it is, went off into a sound sleep.
I was fed again in the morning, and in the evening of that second day. By this time I was heartily tired of the whole thing. I endeavoured to attract the attention of my attendants when they put my meals through the door, but they refused to speak in return, nor did they take any notice when, my temper strained beyond limitation, I banged for half an hour on the door with the tray which had held my breakfast.
I spent a second night in my cell, and this time I could not sleep, but lay there blaming myself for my stupidity.
The dawn came, lighting up a corner of my room, but today, just as I was hoping for some breakfast, and perhaps some explanation, there was a terrific commotion outside my door.
I stood ready, thinking that some violence was intended against me at last. There was a last crash from outside, a rattle of the key in the lock, and the door was flung open. I braced myself for the expected attack, but it never came.
Instead, I heard Sigerson’s voice, bitter with anger, saying, ‘Well, Lieutenant Dyce, a very pretty hash you have made of things!’
Chapter Thirteen - ‘Call me Selim’
‘Well, really!’ said Sigerson, as I staggered out into the daylight. ‘It does seem as if all my associates must needs be susceptible to feminine wiles of the most obvious sort. A winsome smile, and the work of days, weeks, even years, goes out of the window at once. Heaven only knows what effect a glimpse of a shapely ankle might produce.’
‘Really, sir,’ I said, with as much dignity as I could muster, ‘that is most uncalled for. The lady assured me that she had some information concerning Igorov, and that was the only, the sole, reason for my dropping my guard in what was, I freely confess, a most reckless manner.’
‘Indeed?’ Sigerson’s tone was a touch more sympathetic now. ‘That means that the owner of the café must have been in on it. We must return there, and try to catch the scent once more.’ He smiled at me. ‘But I am forgetting my manners. Lieutenant Dyce, this is the man you have to thank for your rescue, Monsieur Selim Barakat.’
‘Please, call me Selim.’ A tall young man, with olive skin, dark hair and a moustache which might have been pen-cilled on with kohl, stepped out of the shadows, bowed, and extended his hand to me.
‘Monsieur Barakat – Selim, then, if you insist upon it – is attached to the Turkish Legation. You may have noticed him at the reception a week ago?’
‘Ah –’
‘There were many people there,’ said Selim, with a deprecating smile. ‘It was difficult to remember everyone.’ He looked at Sigerson, and the smile broadened. ‘Unless you have been trained to do so,’ he added.
‘Well,’ said Sigerson, with the air of a man who would change the subject, ‘the next task is to question the café owner – though frankly I do not hold out much hope from that quarter – and try to cut Igorov’s trail.’
‘That is the second time you have used that phrase,’ said I. ‘Do I conclude that he has decamped whilst I have been locked up here?’
‘And whilst we have been looking for you,’ said Sigerson bitterly, ‘yes.’
‘I can only repeat that I acted for the best.’
Selim snapped out a command in a language that was unfamiliar to me, and a couple of soldiers in Turkish uniform stepped forward and stood to attention. ‘There is little purpose questioning the ruffians who kidnapped Lieutenant Dyce and held him here,’ said Selim, ‘for they would recognize only the money they were paid for the task. But the café owner may respond to our questions.’ He nodded at one of his men, who led the way out into the street, down a mean alley, and into that self-same street in which I had been abducted. The very café itself was just across the road.
‘Why!’ said I, ‘I would have sworn that I had been taken miles away.’
‘A circular journey,’ said Selim.
Sigerson added in a bored tone, ‘A simple device. And now let us see what my genial host might have to tell us.’
We entered the little coffee shop, and the proprietor, a short man of fifty or so, came forward with an obsequious smile on his face. I stepped forward, so that he might get a good look at me, but there was no trace of guilt or recognition apparent on his face. Clearly he had not been directly involved in the attack upon me.
‘If you will forgive me?’ Selim murmured, and before we had realized what he intended, he and the two soldiers seized the café owner gently but firmly and took him behind the bar, and through that curtain with which I was already acquainted.
Sigerson looked at me, and raised an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps a trifle unorthodox, but I have no doubt Monsieur Barakat’s methods will prove most effective. Ah,’ he cried, as Selim emerged from the den at the back, ‘finished already?’
Selim shrugged. ‘He knows nothing. He was paid – well paid – to close the café and absent himself for the day.’
