The Adventure of the Plated Spoon and Other Tales of Sherlock Holmes Read online

  Exactly at 8:00, Margo Collier met me in the reception room on the saloon deck. “My cabin is second class,” she confided. “I feared they might put another woman in with me to occupy the other bunk, but happily, I’m alone.”

  “That is more pleasant,” I agreed as were shown to our table.

  “Did you know that the passengers’ maids and valets eat in a separate dining room on Shelter Deck C? I saw it yesterday as I was touring the ship. They just have long communal tables, of course.”

  “Nothing about this ship would surprise me,” I admitted. “It must be the grandest thing afloat.” At the far end of the dining saloon an orchestra had begun to play.

  The menu was a delight, as it had been each night of the voyage thus far. Margo Collier ordered the roast duckling with apple sauce. After some debate between the lamb and the filet mignon, I chose the latter with boiled new potatoes and creamed carrots, preceded by oysters and cream of barley soup.

  “Now let us get down to business,” I told the young woman. “Tell me about your marriage to Pierre Glacet.”

  She sighed and began her story. “As you can see, there is a great difference in our ages. I met him on a weekend holiday in Cherbourg last year, and he persuaded me to work for him.”

  “Work? What sort of work?”

  “He is a consulting detective like yourself, Mr. Holmes.”

  At last I understood the meaning of the man’s words, “I am like yourself.” He, too, knew my identity, as most everyone on the ship seemed to. “Being in his employ hardly necessitated marriage, did it?” I asked.

  “He specializes in cases involving family matters. Often his investigations involve checking into hotels to keep certain parties under surveillance. He needed me to pose as his wife, and since he is a moral man he felt we should be truly married if we were to share a hotel room.”

  “You agreed to this?” I asked with some astonishment.

  “Not at first. The idea of being married to a man more than twice my age, who had a greying beard and walked with a cane, was more than I could imagine. I agreed to it only when he assured me it would be a marriage in name only, for business purposes. The pay he offered was quite good, and I agreed to try it for one year.”

  “What happened next?”

  “We went through a brief civil ceremony, which he assured me could be easily annulled. I quickly found out, Mr. Holmes, that I had made a foolish mistake. The first time we shared a hotel room while shadowing someone, he was a perfect gentleman, sleeping on the sofa while I took the only bed. After that things began to change. He mentioned the troubles with his leg, and how uncomfortable hotel room sofas were. I allowed him to share the bed, but nothing more. Gradually he began taking liberties, and when I objected he reminded me that we were legally man and wife. After a few months of that, I left him.”

  “And he has been following you ever since?”

  “No. Even though I remained in Cherbourg through the winter months, he made no effort to bother me. It was when I decided to go to America and purchased my ticket on the Titanic that I saw him again. He wanted me to stay in Cherbourg.”

  Over a dessert of Waldorf pudding I tried to learn more about the French detective’s cases. “Were they all divorces?”

  “No, no. Some involved confidence men trying to swindle wealthy widows. I remember a pair of them, Cozel and Sanbey, who operated as a team. We followed them to Paris once, and I kept Mr. Cozel occupied in a café while Pierre searched his room.” She smiled at the memory. “We had some good times together.”

  “Then why did you seek my protection?”

  “He wanted more than I was willing to give,” she said with a sigh. “When I saw him on the ship, I feared I would end up having to fight him off.”

  “I will speak with him again before we dock in New York,” I promised. “Perhaps I can persuade him to leave you alone.”

  We parted around eleven as the orchestra was playing The Tales of Hoffmann, and I decided to go up to the boat deck for a stroll. The temperature was just below freezing, with a mist that cut visibility sharply. I thought of the poor seamen in the crow’s nest and shivered for them. Then I retreated inside to the first-class smoking room on A Deck. I could hear the orchestra still playing. May had already retired for the evening, but Futrelle was sitting alone enjoying a nightcap. I joined him and ordered one myself. We were having a lively conversation about detective stories when there was a faint grinding jar to the ship.

  “Iceberg!” someone shouted. Several of us ran outside to look. We were in time to see a giant berg, almost as high as the boat deck, vanishing into the mist astern.

  “That was a close call,” Futrelle said. “I think we actually scraped it going past!”

  We went back inside to finish our drinks. After about ten minutes I observed that the level of liquid in my glass was beginning to tilt a bit toward the bow of the ship. Before that fact could register in my mind, Margo Collier came running in. “What is it?” I asked, seeing her ashen face.

  “I’ve been seeking you everywhere, Mr. Holmes. My husband has fallen down the elevator shaft! He’s dead.”

  It was true. One of the first-class stewards had noticed the open gate on the top deck. Looking into the shaft, he’d been able to make out a body on top of the elevator car four floors below. Futrelle and I reached the scene just as the broken body of Pierre Glacet was being removed.

  I stared hard at the body as it lay in the corridor, then said, “Let me through here, please.”

  A ship’s officer blocked the way. “Sorry, sir. You’re too near the shaft.”

  “I want to examine it.”

  “Nothing to see in there, sir. Just the elevator cables.”

  He was correct, of course. The top of the car had nothing on it. “Can you raise it up so I can see to the bottom of the shaft?” I asked.

  Futrelle smiled at my request. “Are you searching for a murder weapon, Mr. Holmes?”

  I did not answer, but merely stared at the bottom of the shaft as it came into view beneath the rising car. It was empty, as I suspected it would be. Some first-class passengers came in to use the elevator, but the officer directed them to the main staircase or the aft elevator. “Why is the ship listing?” one of the gentlemen asked.

  “We’re looking into it,” the officer said. For the first time I was aware that we were tilting forward, and I remembered the liquid in my glass. From far off came the sudden sound of a lively ragtime tune being played by the orchestra.

  Franklin Baynes, the spiritualist, was coming down the stairs from the boat deck. “What’s going on?” he asked. “The crew is uncovering the lifeboats.”

  Captain Smith himself appeared on the stairs in time to hear the question. “It’s just a precaution,” he told them. “The ship is taking on water.”

  “From that iceberg?” Futrelle asked.

  “Yes. Please gather your families and follow directions to your lifeboat stations.”

  Margo Collier seemed dazed. “This ship is unsinkable! There are waterproof compartments. I read all the literature.”

  “Please follow instructions,” the captain said, a bit more sharply. “Leave that body where it is.”

  “I must get to May,” Futrelle said. I hurried after him. There would be time for the rest later.

  Within minutes we were on the deck with May. She was clinging to her husband, unwilling to let go. “Aren’t there enough lifeboats for everyone?” she asked. The answer was already plain. The Titanic was sinking and there was room enough for only half the passengers in the lifeboats. It was 12:25 A.M. when the order came for women and children to abandon ship. We had scraped against the iceberg only forty-five minutes earlier.

  “Jacques!” May Futrelle screamed, and he pushed her to safety in the nearest lifeboat. “Now what?” he asked me, as the half-full lifeboat was being lowered to the dark churning waters. “Do we go back for our murderer?”

  “So you spotted it, too?” I asked, already leadin
g the way.

  “The missing cane. I only saw Glacet once, but he walked with the aid of a stout walking stick.”

  “Exactly,” I agreed. “And I’m told he used it regularly. It wasn’t on top of the elevator car and it hadn’t slipped down to the bottom of the shaft. That meant he didn’t step into that empty shaft accidentally. He had help.” We were on the Grand Staircase now, and spotted our quarry. “Didn’t he, Mr. Baynes?”

  He turned at the sound of his name, and drew a revolver from under his coat. “Damn you, Holmes! You’ll go down with the ship.”

  “We all will, Baynes. The women and children are leaving. The rest of us will stay. Glacet recognized you as a confidence man he’d once pursued, a man named Sanbey—a simple anagram for Baynes. Somehow you got him into your cabin tonight to stare at your electric crystal ball. When the bright light had temporarily blinded him, you helped him to the elevator, then sent the car down and pushed him after it. Only you forgot his walking stick. That probably went over the side when you discovered it.”

  The great ship listed suddenly, throwing us against the staircase railing. “I’m getting out of here, Holmes! I’ll find room in a lifeboat if I have to don women’s clothes!” He raised the revolver and fired.

  And in that instant, before I could move, Futrelle jumped between us. He took the bullet meant for me and collided with Baynes, sending them both over the railing of the Grand Staircase.

  Somehow I made my way into the night air. It was just after one o’clock, and the orchestra had moved to the boat deck to continue playing. The remaining passengers were beginning to panic. Suddenly someone grabbed me and shoved me toward a lifeboat. “Only twelve aboard Starboard Number One, sir. Plenty of room for you.”

  “I’ll stay,” I said, but it was not to be. I was pushed bodily into the boat as it was being lowered.

  It was from there, an hour later, that I saw the last of the great Titanic vanish beneath the waves, carrying a victim, a murderer, and a mystery writer with it. Two hours after that, a ship called the Carpathia plucked us from the water, amidst floating ice and debris. Margo Collier was among the survivors, but I never saw her again.

  A final note by Dr. Watson: It was not until 1918, at the close of the Great War, that my old friend Holmes entrusted this account to my care. By that time, my literary agent, Arthur Conan Doyle, had embraced spiritualism. He refused to handle a story in which a spiritualist was revealed to be a sham and a murderer. This most dramatic of adventures has remained unpublished.

  EXCERPT FROM THE INSIDIOUS DR. FU-MANCHU

  SAX ROHMER

  History doesn’t tell us what Conan Doyle thought of Sax Rohmer’s series about Dr. Fu-Manchu, an international supercriminal bent on conquering the western world; but the similarities between the pipe-smoking, blunt-spoken Denis Nayland-Smith and his amanuensis, Dr. Petrie, and Holmes and Watson certainly suggest Rohmer was more than familiar with Conan Doyle’s adventures. There is a school of thought, too, that maintains the very concept of the underworld mastermind was first introduced in “The Final Problem,” in which Holmes did battle with Professor Moriarty. But just as Rohmer’s predecessor built upon Poe’s Dupin, this series brought intriguing twists to the fog-shrouded world known to Holmes and Watson. This excerpt is from The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu (published previously in England as The Mystery of Dr. Fu-Manchu), the first in the series, which stretched from 1913 to 1959 (with new material discovered and published in 1970 and 1973, decades after the author’s death). It is reprinted by permission of the Sax Rohmer Estate.

  CHAPTER II

  Sir Crichton Davey’s study was a small one, and a glance sufficed to show that, as the secretary had said, it offered no hiding place. It was heavily carpeted, and overly full of Burmese and Chinese ornaments and curios, and upon the mantelpiece stood several framed photographs that showed this to be the sanctum of a wealthy bachelor who was no misogynist. A map of the Indian Empire occupied the larger part of one wall. The grate was empty, for the weather was extremely warm, and a green-shaded lamp on the littered writing-table afforded the only light. The air was stale, for both windows were closed and fastened.

  Smith immediately pounced upon a large, square envelope that lay beside the blotting pad. Sir Crichton had not even troubled to open it, but my friend did so. It contained a blank sheet of paper!

  “Smell!” he directed, handing the letter to me. I raised it to my nostrils. It was scented with some pungent perfume.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “It is a rather rare essential oil,” was the reply, “which I have met with before, though never in Europe. I begin to understand, Petrie.”

  He tilted the lampshade and made a close examination of the scraps of paper, matches, and other debris that lay in the grate and on the hearth. I took up a copper vase from the mantelpiece, and was examining it curiously when he turned, a strange expression upon his face.

  “Put that back, old man,” he said quietly.

  Much surprised, I did as he directed.

  “Don’t touch anything in the room. It may be dangerous.”

  Something in the tone of his voice chilled me, and I hastily replaced the vase, and stood by the door of the study, watching him search, methodically, every inch of the room—behind the books, in all the ornaments, in table drawers, in cupboards, on shelves.

  “That will do,” he said at last. “There is nothing here and I have no time to search further.”

  We returned to the library.

  “Inspector Weymouth,” said my friend, “I have a particular reason for asking that Sir Crichton’s body be removed from this room at once and the library locked. Let no one be admitted on any pretense whatever until you hear from me.” It spoke volumes for the mysterious credentials borne by my friend that the man from Scotland Yard accepted his orders without demur, and, after a brief chat with Mr. Burboyne, Smith passed briskly downstairs. In the hall, a man who looked like a groom out of livery was waiting.

  “Are you Wills?” asked Smith.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It was you who heard a cry of some kind at the rear of the house about the time of Sir Crichton’s death?”

  “Yes, sir. I was locking the garage door, and, happening to look up at the window of Sir Crichton’s study, I saw him jump out of his chair. Where he used to sit at his writing, sir, you could see his shadow on the blind. Next minute I heard a call out in the lane.”

  “What kind of call?”

  The man, whom the uncanny happening clearly had frightened, seemed puzzled for a suitable description.

  “A sort of wail, sir,” he said at last. “I never heard anything like it before, and don’t want to again.”

  “Like this?” inquired Smith, and he uttered a low, wailing cry, impossible to describe. Wills perceptibly shuddered; and, indeed, it was an eerie sound.

  “The same, sir, I think,” he said, “but much louder.”

  “That will do,” said Smith, and I thought I detected a note of triumph in his voice. “But stay! Take us through to the back of the house.”

  The man bowed and led the way, so that shortly we found ourselves in a small, paved courtyard. It was a perfect summer’s night, and the deep blue vault above was jeweled with myriads of starry points. How impossible it seemed to reconcile that vast, eternal calm with the hideous passions and fiendish agencies, which that night had loosed a soul upon the infinite.

  “Up yonder are the study windows, sir. Over that wall on your left is the back lane from which the cry came, and beyond is Regent’s Park.”

  “Are the study windows visible from there?”

  “Oh, yes, sir.”

  “Who occupies the adjoining house?”

  “Major-General Platt-Houston, sir; but the family is out of town.”

  “Those iron stairs are a means of communication between the domestic offices and the servants’ quarters, I take it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then send someone to make my bus
iness known to the Major-General’s housekeeper; I want to examine those stairs.”

  Singular though my friend’s proceedings appeared to me, I had ceased to wonder at anything. Since Nayland Smith’s arrival at my rooms, I seemed to have been moving through the fitful phases of a nightmare. My friend’s account of how he came by the wound in his arm; the scene on our arrival at the house of Sir Crichton Davey; the secretary’s story of the dying man’s cry, “The red hand!”; the hidden perils of the study; the wail in the lane—all were fitter incidents of delirium than of sane reality. So, when a white-faced butler made us known to a nervous old lady who proved to be the housekeeper of the next-door residence, I was not surprised at Smith’s saying:

  “Lounge up and down outside, Petrie. Everyone has cleared off now. It is getting late. Keep your eyes open and be on your guard. I thought I had the start, but he is here before me, and, what is worse, he probably knows by now that I am here, too.”

  With which he entered the house and left me out in the square, with leisure to think, to try to understand.

  The crowd that usually haunts the scene of a sensational crime had been cleared away, and it had been circulated that Sir Crichton had died from natural causes. The intense heat having driven most of the residents out of town, I practically had the square to myself, and I gave myself up to a brief consideration of the mystery in which I so suddenly had found myself involved.

  By what agency had Sir Crichton met his death? Did Nayland Smith know? I rather suspected that he did. What was the hidden significance of the perfumed envelope? Who was that mysterious personage whom Smith so evidently dreaded, who had attempted to take his life, who—presumably—had murdered Sir Crichton? Sir Crichton Davey, during the time that he had held office in India, and during his long term of service at home, had earned the good will of all, British and native alike. Who was his secret enemy?