THE ADVENTURE OF THE ECCENTRIC INVENTOR, by Eugene D. Goodwin

It was early in 1891 when my friend Sherlock Holmes and I met one of the most unusual persons we’d ever encountered. That he was a genius is undeniable, though he was indeed an eccentric one. By now, all the world has heard of him; he invented many significant things that have had enormous impact upon modern society. His name: Nikola Tesla. When he entered our parlour at 221B Baker Street, he was just thirty-five years old, though we did not find that out till much later.

Mrs Hudson announced him. A tall man entered. He had the piercing, reflective eyes of one used to self-communing. He had a neatly-trimmed mustache and a smile replete with irony. His clothing was dapper and, I surmised, rather costly. “Dear Mr Holmes and Dr Watson,” said he, “I am Nikola Tesla.”

We leapt to our feet, exclaiming encomiums to his undeniable genius.

With a smile, he thanked us. “I have not come here to dwell upon my achievements, though I think I may be excused for showing some little pride in various of my accomplishments. But the reason that I have wished to meet you both—yes, Dr Watson, I did say both! Your splendid histories of Mr Holmes’s adventures in The Strand are why I have elected to come here today. You see, gentlemen—now isn’t that an interesting word? It’s meaning is, of course, obvious, yet Shakespeare also equated it with ‘Gentile.’”

“Indeed, yes,” Holmes replied. “That would be in the fourth act of The Merchant of Venice. I’ve played the Venetian Duke, and it is he who speaks that line.”

Tesla nodded. “Correct. But I digress. The reason I am here—”

“Is because you believe something has been stolen from you.”

A bit of a gasp. “You are indeed this good doctor’s protagonist! Then you know—”

“Not all that much,” Holmes continued. “Merely that you do not live in London, but in New York—not the state—oh, sorry! Of course you do. What I meant—”

“Is that I make my home in Manhattan.”

“Thank you. Yes, at the New Yorker Hotel at—I believe—34th Street at Eighth Avenue.”

Tesla turned to me and said, “As delightful as your accounts are, they hardly do Mr Holmes justice.”

I laughed ruefully. “He has pointed that out to me on more than one occasion.”

“Well, sir,” Tesla said to Holmes, “I venture to suppose that you might be able to tell some other things about me?”

“Let’s see.” Holmes ticked off points on his fingertips. “One, you were born in Serbia. Two, you have invented—or, rather, discovered—alternating current. Three, you adore pigeons. Four, you live a spartan existence. And fifth and last, you seem to have acquired a formidable enemy.”

Our guest blanched. “Right on all counts. Of course, it is common knowledge where I was born and where I now reside. It is equally well known that I have brought about what is commonly referred to as—”

“A C,” I said.

“Yes, my good doctor. But to proceed, while my love for pigeons has often been noted and reported, my spartan existence, as Mr Holmes calls it, is not all that well known, for I am a rather private person. Yet I suppose some hint of my habits has appeared in print.” He took a deep breath. “But as for my enemy—”

Holmes held up a hand to forestall him. “Before we get into that, Mr Tesla, may I offer you a glass of wine or something stronger?”

“Thank you, but I do not drink. I used to once, but now I regard alcohol as unhealthy.”

“In that case,” Holmes said, “I doubt that you smoke, either.”

“Great Heavens, no!” He shuddered. “I would sooner take a shot of scotch. It is a habit surely injurious to one’s lungs and I think it can and has proven fatal.”

Holmes sighed. “Would it discomfit you if I lit my pipe?”

“No, not at all,” he replied, though I suspect he was not pleased at the prospect. As Holmes lit up and began to puff, he suggested we return to the question of Tesla’s enemy.

“It is a man whom I have known for perhaps five or six years. We began as friends, which he still pretends to be, and he—”

“—is Thomas—”

“Please, Mr Holmes, do not speak his name. But since you know who we are dealing with, how should we proceed?”

Holmes said, “Before I answer that, it would be helpful if we knew the nature of what has gone missing.”

“If I tell you this, may I be assured of your discretion?”

“Watson and I will never say a word about it, not even to Mrs Hudson.”

“Very well. It is a formidable secret weapon; it is not theoretical, it already exists.”

With a slight shake of his head and a deep sigh, Holmes said, “I am afraid that I must now inform you that your enermy is not the person you think he is. It is someone much, much worse. By comparison, your former friend is a bit of puff pastry.” He turned to me. “Yes, Watson, you are correct in your assumption.”

“Then both of you are aware of him,” Tesla observed. “What is his name?”

“For your own protection, I must not reveal that. The most that I may tell you is that he is a mathematics professor with the initials J M.”

“That tells me almost nothing.”

Holmes dashed out the contents of his pipe and somewhat acerbically replied, “You must trust me, sir.”

“Yes, but—”

My friend shook his head, but then added, “Mr Tesla, did you ever hear of a master criminal of many years back whose name was Jonathan Wild?”

A nod. “He was the inspiration for Mr Peachum in John Gay’s The Beggar’s Opera, as well as the title character of Henry Fielding’s novel, Jonathan Wild.”1

“Correct. London thought Wild was on the side of the law. The man who arranged to steal your plans patterns himself on Jonathan Wild. He has organized nearly all crime in England, as well as Scotland and Wales, though not Ireland.” [Holmes didn’t explain how he knew this, but it is because Moriarty has an Irish brother who is a Catholic priest. Details are in “The Revenge of the Fenian Brotherhood,” transcribed by Miss Carole Buggé, elsewhere in this issue. –Ed.]

Holmes continued. “This professor covers his traces so well that even my brother Mycroft, who knows all that goes on in England, never heard of him till I gave him warning.”

Tesla shuddered. “How may we combat such a formidable foe?”

“We don’t. Anything that we do must be on as hushed a level as we can manage, and as inconspicuously as possible. Now I need you to provide further information regarding your secret weapon.”

Tesla did so (I cannot report the details), and then told us that he must leave for an appointment. “But before I do, there is one more thing I should like to know, Mr Holmes.”

“And that is?”

“However did you know that I came to you because something was stolen from me?”

With a smile, Holmes answered, “You place me in the position of a magician who must tell his secrets. When he does, the inquirer is almost certainly disappointed. I promise to answer you at a later time, if only to preserve the mystery a bit longer.”

Tesla accepted that and after shaking hands with us, our new client departed.

* * * *

Once we were alone, I said that I could have answered Tesla’s last question. “You learned that he was coming and why from your brother.”

“True, Watson.”

“Therefore you also know where to look for the stolen plans.”

“I am afraid not. Mycroft is working on it, but encouraged me to do so as well.”

I poured myself a cup of tepid tea. “This business is quite serious. You’ve told me—well, you practically threatened me about Moriarty.”

“But fortunately, Watson, so far I have only crossed his path once—I think it was during that business of the Naval Treaty, though I could be mistaken—but though my efforts frustrated the professor, he does not realize that it was I who was responsible.”

We later learned that this was one of the few times that Sherlock Holmes was mistaken.

* * * *

The next morning, Holmes disguised himself as a brick-layer, but before setting out he found little Jimmy Stuart, one of the most reliable of the Baker Street Irregulars (the ragamuffins who serve as Holmes’s secret eyes and ears).

“Master James,” he said to the lad, “I want you to scour the landscape for any rumours of offers to sell plans for secret weapons.”

“But, Mr ’Olmes,” said Jimmy, “that’s too big a job for me to do meself.”

“Quite right. Gather any of the other Irregulars you require to assist.”

The boy smiled. “Right-o, guv! We’ll report back as soon as we can.” And with that, he scampered off with more energy that I’ve had since I was a field doctor.

“Holmes, may I inquire where you are off to?”

“I have no idea.” He left and I did not see him until the following morning, when he appeared, hungry and in need of a shave.

“Good morning, Holmes. Were your efforts successful?”

“Too much so, Watson. There are at least seventy-five secret weapons on the market.”

Just then, in walked Jimmy. “Mr ’Olmes,” he said, “we’ve found seventy-five weapons up for sale.”

Holmes nodded. “So did I.”

But when they compared their efforts, Holmes learned to his dismay that not one of Jimmy’s seventy-five secrets were the same as the other group!

“This means,” Holmes groaned, “that we must compare all one hundred and fifty.”

They did so, and to our mutual relief, nearly all of them not only canceled each other out, but were clearly not Tesla’s weapon. This left only three secrets for Holmes to investigate.

He devoted himself to that labour all day. When he was finished, it was about 6:30 in the evening and he made the first order of business a request to Mrs Hudson for dinner. Well, she’d been waiting for him to say so and quite patiently, I might add—I have no idea how!

Soon we sat down to a kingly feast: Lamb de Beauville, potatoes amandine, spinach Sherwood (named for the forest), and for dessert, cherries and pineapple in rum.

As we relaxed over brandy and coffee, Holmes said, “This has been a frustrating day. I’ve learned nothing.”

“Then what do you propose to do?”

“Visit my brother to begin with. But I am worried, Watson, quite worried.”

“Indeed, yes. So am I. You must engage the professor a second time, and unlike your first encounter he may learn about you.”

“Watson,” he said somberly, “I’ve bad news. I was mistaken about that earlier contretemps. He knows that I was behind it. It is surprising that he took no action against me, but this time I will not be so lucky. Nor—”

He stopped himself, but I completed his thought. “He may also come after me and perhaps even Mrs Hudson.”

He nodded. “I do not think he would bother with either of you, but the man is so unscrupulous, I cannot ignore the potential risks.”

“I have a suggestion, Holmes. She has an uncle in Yorkshire and she says he has been ailing. Perhaps we could persuade her to pay him a visit, or better yet, travel to him as an errand of mercy.”

“Excellent, Watson!” The very next morning, Mrs Hudson departed for the North. We went to the station to see her off (and to guard against any possible attack). As we rode off in a hansom toward Baker Street, Holmes said, “I’m relieved that that’s taken care of. Now as for you—”

“As for Yours Truly, I shall not—never will!—quit your side. By now you should know that.”

“I do, my dear Watson. I just needed to hear it once more.” And without further regrets or qualms, he outlined what we were about to do. For a moment I wished I could rejoin my regiment wherever they be, no matter how bloody. It did seem like the more prudent course of action.

For what he expected of me was to perfect a German accent. Now I have a good ear for music but it does not extend to languages. But later that day he devoted himself to teach me and I began to feel like Eliza Doolittle. (No, that is inaccurate. I did not see Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion till quite a few years later). At length I was sufficiently schooled to feel confident (not much, though) that I could pose as a German purchasing agent. Holmes had already placed a pertinent advertisement in several local newspapers.

Our answer came that very afternoon when little Jimmy Stuart arrived from Holmes’s postal drop with a sealed envelope that he handed to the sleuth.

Three billion marks, plus thirty per cent of all subsequent profits. If you are able to purchase the item in question, then come to the Porter’s Rest on Fleet Street tomorrow at two p m. Approach the table under the German flag hanging on the wall.

Shortly after noon the following day we set out, somewhat early, I thought.

“Are you ready, Herr Obermann?”

“I certainly hope so.”

But before going to Fleet Street, Holmes diverted us to the Diogenes Club. In the event that you have not read my remarks concerning Mycroft Holmes and the Diogenes Club, let me satisfy your curiosity. Mycroft is both older and smarter than Sherlock and this by Holmes’s own admission. But the senior member of the clan is decidedly rotund and equally indolent. His daily rounds are from his home2 to his offices in Whitehall and thence to the Diogenes. He has a governmental function that his sibling assures me is of paramount importance and he apparently never sloughs off his duties. But most of the time each day he is at his club, which caters to very private individuals. Only the visitor’s room permits talking, but in all other parts of the club, speech is strictly forbidden!

It is important that you understand Mycroft Holmes’s laziness. (Sherlock says his daily routine is as fixed as a planet’s orbit.) For then you will realize why both Holmes and I were astonished to learn that he was not there.)

“I presume he is at work,” Holmes said.

“Perhaps he has been summoned.”

“No one summons my—wait, that is not true. Her Majesty could fetch him at a moment’s notice, for she can find him even when I could not without considerable effort. If he was called for, then it would be a matter of national—perhaps international importance.”

“Wouldn’t Tesla’s problem qualify?”

“Indeed it would.”

Just then, the club’s major-domo arrived, scant of breath. “Ah, Mr Sherlock.” (I supposed he dared this familiarity by way of Mycroft) “I am so glad that you are still here.” He proffered a folded scrap of paper, which Holmes accepted. “Your brother was certain that you would show up on the way to your appointment.”

Holmes’s brows shot up. “You know about that?”

“No, no, not at all! I was merely quoting your brother.”

“Ah, of course.” As the functionary gratefully retired, Holmes unfolded the missive, read it and then handed it to me. “This is interesting. See what you make of it, Watson.”

Here is what I read—

S—by all means tell the enemy that we shall meet any price.—M

“Obviously,” I said, “he is prepared to commit our government to pay a considerable sum of money.”

“True, but what else do you notice?”

“Well, your brother’s handwriting is quite graceful.”

“He studied penmanship. For that matter, so did I, but only as a tool in the interpretation of clues. Now focus on his words. What do you see now?”

I reread it several times. “I do note how economically he expresses himself.”

“There, Watson…you have hit upon it.”

“You mean that I’m right?”

He shook his head. “Sorry. You have found what I’ve been giving you grief about and that is something. This is the passage in question—‘…tell the enemy we shall meet any price….’”

“That’s what I said, Holmes. Ever so succinct.”

“But not quite. Mycroft’s laziness extends to language. All he need have said was, ‘We shall meet any price.’”

At last I saw what he was driving at. “So by suggesting to ‘tell the enemy,’ et cetera, his true meaning is that we must lie to them.”

“Precisely!”

* * * *

When we finally arrived at our destination, I was surprised, and perhaps Holmes was, too, to find that only one man was seated at the table beneath the German flag. He looked vaguely familiar. He did not rise, but gestured for us to take seats opposite him.

“My name,” he said, “is Isadora Persano. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

“Indeed, yes!” I exclaimed. “You are England’s preeminent duellist.”

He patted the cane that he gripped in one hand. “If you say so.” He gestured to the bartender and that worthy stopped in mid-conversation and hurried over to our table.

“Another round for me, and take orders from these gentlemen, who are my guests.”

The bartender ducked his head like the world’s foremost toadie.

Holmes ordered a dry sherry, whilst I indulged myself with coffee and a single malt scotch (which was at that time a fairly new thing in London).

Said Holmes, “Allow me to introduce Major Blantyre. He has been empowered by the German government to purchase Mr Tesla’s invention at the stipulated price.”

Persano sipped his drink, then smiled coldly, reminding me of a serpent about to strike. “That is gratifying news, Mr Holmes.”

“Who?” my friend sputtered. “You have me mistaken for someone else. I am merely a minor attaché sent here in case you and the Major require an interpreter.”

Persano shook his head. “What you claim to be I might have credited, but my employer instructed me minutely on who I should expect to meet. Therefore, I repeat—Mr Holmes.” He turned to me. “And you are, of course, Dr John H (for Hamish, I do believe) Watson, M D, late of an Indian regiment.”

Holmes threw up his hands. “Well, you—or, rather, the professor—are on to us. We might as well go back to Baker Street.”

And I had not even had an opportunity to try out my German accent!

Persano held up a forestalling hand. “My dear Mr Holmes, why do you think that you must give up? Do you have proof that you can meet the terms of our offer?”

Holmes sat back down again, smiling (which ought to have warned Persano). “As a matter of fact, I do have a missive here from my brother Mycroft.” He offered the folded paper to him, which the duellist read it, then bestowed a decisive nod on us.

“You may not be aware, Dr Watson, that I always read and enjoy your accounts of Mr Holmes’s adventures in The Strand. I recollect in one of them the information that at some times Mr Holmes’s elder brother is the British government. In other words, we will happily return the object in question upon receipts of the necessary funds, which must be in small denominations.

“Because this will prove somewhat onerous, we will supply a brougham at our expense to carry the treasure. Will you meet us tomorrow in front of this establishment at, say, three in the afternoon? That should give you, or rather, Mr Mycroft Holmes, enough time to obtain the cash.”

Holmes agreed and we left the place, hailed a cab and hurried off again to the Diogenes Club. This time, Mycroft Holmes was present.

“Particulars?” he asked.

“The entire sum must be delivered by three o’clock tomorrow,” Holmes replied. “It must be in small denominations.”

Mycroft rang for the major-domo, who swiftly supplied libations to our trio. After he was gone, Mycroft said, “Small denominations will be a nuisance but not impossible. I am concerned, though, about you both.”

“Why?” I wondered, but Holmes—the younger one—answered me.

“Because when Moriarty does not receive his money, you and I, Watson, will be his targets.”

A moment of troubled silence, and then Mycroft said, “That’s understood. Now, gentlemen, here is what you must do.”

* * * *

The next day at three o’clock the exchange took place. We watched the brougham waddle off and then Holmes suggested that we take in an early concert at the Tivoli Hall, which we did. Afterward, we travelled some distance to dine together. We did not return to Baker Street till it was nearly ten at night.

Isadora Persano, fuming, was there to greet us.

“Holmes!” he snapped. “I should not have thought you capable of this!”

Holmes took off his cape and hat, poured glasses of wine for all of us and said, “This is an amontillado almost worth being walled up for.” He took a sip, then added, “I have no idea why you are so upset. Watson and I have been attending a splendid concert—look, here are our programmes! I’d thought our business was concluded successfully.”

Persano tasted his amontillado and his eyes widened appreciably.

“Gentlemen, my apologies…I have been too precipitate. But shortly after the brougham rode off, it was stopped by three masked men with pistols. They stole every last shilling!”

“I am quite upset to hear this,” said Holmes. “After the concert, we dined and, as you see, have just returned. But if you don’t mind waiting, I will immediately seek out my brother. It should not take long. While I’m gone, do have more wine or whatever else might appeal to you.”

The duellist nodded. “I do feel rather peckish.”

My friend rang for Mrs Hudson and asked her to accommodate our guest. Then he left us and I wondered what on earth we could do to pass the time, but Persano turned out to be a gifted conversationalist and as we shared Mrs H’s “impromptu,” we talked about everything from art and literature to politics and world history.

In less than an hour, Holmes was back. “I have some good news—well, not as good as you’d wish, yet better than you may have expected.”

“Do tell!”

“Yes, Mr Persano, I will. It consists of two items. First, Mycroft not only already knew about the theft, he has identified its perpetrator. Have you heard of a thug who calls himself Jack Sheppard?”

I recognized the name, having read about him in The Newgate Calendar. Originally, he worked for Jonathan Wild, but then set out on his own, even stealing from Wild himself! That worthy, of course, “peached” on him and Sheppard was arrested and imprisoned in a maximum security cell, from which, however, he escaped.

“My employer is well aware of Sheppard,” our guest replied. “The fool created his own criminal network and has been getting in our way too often. This clinches it—he shall be taught a lesson he will only need to learn once.”

That bothered me.

Persano began to leave, but then stopped himself. “You said there were two items on your agenda?”

“Yes,” said Holmes. “My brother offers to reimburse you for half of the amount that was taken.”

“Excellent! As a matter of fact, our price was deliberately inflated, so we would gladly have been bargained down to half. I shall go tell my employer about this at once!” He hurried off.

“Holmes,” I said, “how can you and Mycroft throw Sheppard to the wolves? Even though he is a criminal—”

“A criminal who has committed murder and worse. Don’t be concerned, Watson. Moriarty already has formed his plans to eliminate his enemy.”

* * * *

The following afternoon, Mrs Hudson opened the door and in came a man bearing three gift-wrapped packages, two of which he bestowed upon Holmes and the other larger one on me.

“Mr Tesla,” Holmes said, surprised, “to what do we owe the honour?”

“I recently visited your brother … his club is quite appealing! If I lived here, I should apply for membership. Anyway, he told me that you have recovered my plans.”

“Yes, we have.”

“He also said that you would not accept any fee for your services.”

A nod. “I was working for the British government.”

“So do open your presents!”

I let Holmes go first. The slightly bulkier one contained a new calabash pipe. “Ahh”, my friend smiled, “some artists have depicted me as smoking one of these, whereas I always use a straight clay pipe. Now I can make their portraiture come true.” He then opened the second package and promptly sniffed its contents. “Good heavens, Mr Tesla! This is one of the finest—and most expensive—pipe tobaccos in the world!”

“Do enjoy it, Mr Holmes.”

“But you are opposed to smoking!”

“For myself, but I never impose my opinions on anyone else. Now, Dr Watson, what are you waiting for?”

I removed the gift paper and discovered a bottle of single malt scotch!

* * * *

Tesla soon left. The balance of the afternoon was devoted to relaxation and enjoyment of our respective gifts. But just when we were about to retire for the evening, Isadora Persano returned. He had an envelope that he gave to Holmes, then said good night and departed.

Holmes opened the letter, read it and passed it to me.

S— you must know that I saw right through this charade. You had very little to do with it. It positively reeks of your brother. But I let you stay out of it, for he was merely exercising his ego. His counter-offer is wholly acceptable. As long as you do not get in my way in future, there shall be no repercussions. —J M

I poured more scotch. But I was worried.

“Yes, Watson? Say it.”

“I know you all too well, Holmes. You have no intention of leaving Moriarty alone.”

A deep sigh. “Thanks to me, his entire organization is about to come crashing down. He will not be apprehended, though, for he has covered his tracks too well, as have both Persano and a certain former military man who I shall tell you about later.”

I set down my glass. “Then sometime soon, you, myself, and Mrs H may expect severe retaliations?”

“I think it unlikely that he will bother either of you. No, I shall be his target, though perhaps Mrs Hudson, at least, should go on a long vacation. Ah, Watson, may I have a taste—?” I gestured for him to have some scotch.

“This is superb!” He exhaled and enjoyed its after-taste. “You see, my friend, Moriarty has climbed so high that it is inevitable that he must suffer a great fall. When that happens, I do intend to be there to witness it.”

As it happened—with surprising celerity—Holmes’s prediction came true.

I mean that quite literally.

1 Wild was also the model for Peachum in Bertolt Brecht’s The Three-Penny Opera, as well as the villainous Arnold Zeck in a trio of murder mystery novels featuring the Mycroft-sized New York City consulting detective Nero Wolfe; its author was Rex Stout.

2 I am not at liberty to provide particulars. Indeed, I do not know them. But Holmes says that it would be easier to track down Queen Victoria at a secret retreat than Mycroft Holmes if he elected to disappear.