Have you not seen a Kabuki performance, my friend?
How strange that the man who you know to be
quiet and gentle becomes so violent and expressive
once he wears a mask on stage!
The public assumes, quite reasonably, that frequent encounters with crimes of the most shocking variety would have caused members of the constabulary—and certainly Holmes and me—to become hardened. To some extent, this is true. Yes, we recovered our presence of mind faster and tended not to descend into hysterics. But to say that murder did not affect us at all would be grossly untrue.
I had developed a liking for the suave Mr. Hashimoto and had found him an ideal companion, with restrained habits and consideration for his fellow travellers. In itself, to have been so close to extreme violence and not to have known about it was certainly disconcerting. But to have seen a man I was getting to know suddenly become the victim of a heinous crime was a severe shock.
I wished for Holmes’ presence. I knew that he would have seen possibilities and shadows where I could only see tangibles.
The captain insisted on moving me to another large and well-appointed cabin and I gratefully agreed. Then he had the porthole and the cabin sealed. We docked soon in Alexandria. The local police were waiting, having been sent a message earlier. A representative of the British consul and a British police inspector came on board, accompanied by four Egyptian constables and a physician, and set to work. They removed Mr. Hashimoto’s body respectfully.
They then took our passports, quite rightly, and formally told us that we were all under suspicion, but that we would not be detained unless there was some circumstantial evidence pointing at any person or persons. They took our statements separately and then conducted a search of our quarters, which turned up nothing. After being given guarantees by the British consul’s representative, the police allowed us to leave the ship for a short while, if we wished. The captain suggested that we visit the city and take in the sights but return soon, as he felt it was possible the police would have additional questions for us.
Mr. Singh and I set out, accompanied by the efficient Miss Bryant, who seemed a trifle subdued, a perfectly understandable state considering the circumstances.
‘Be careful!’ shouted Simon Fletcher, standing at the railings with Mrs. Andrews by his side. We waved at them and carried on. Someone pointed us toward the famous Jewish Quarter and we decided to go there and soak in the atmosphere. The streets were crowded and full of antique sellers, fruit vendors, men selling dates swarming with flies, and all manner of beggars, foreigners, and natives. Camels, cattle, and dogs roamed unhindered. Swarthy Arab men with keffiyehs on their heads and veiled women walked about. It was noisy, dirty, and exotic—and extremely hot and humid. But the three of us were used to it from our past experiences. I could imagine Mrs. Andrews finding it overwhelming and thought it quite appropriate that she had chosen to stay behind.
‘How horrible, Dr. Watson! A beastly, beastly affair! And such a nice man too! I was hoping to learn so much more from him about Japan! Oh, I wonder about his family!’ exclaimed Miss Bryant suddenly.
‘A tragedy indeed, Miss Bryant. We must, of course, help the police in any way possible.’
‘Did you hear anything at all, Madam?’ asked Mr. Singh, walking onwards purposefully.
I noticed Miss Bryant casting a quick glance at him. ‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘Ah. A pity.’
We carried on. We turned a corner into another noisy, colourful alley filled with hundreds of people. I found myself enjoying the confusion and entirely alien atmosphere.
‘Effendi! You come here, Effendi! Buy! Very cheap! Very cheap, Effendi!’ shouted the vendors. It was all very energetic and stimulating.
Mr. Singh suddenly stumbled against me and I tripped and fell on the road. I heard something whistle past just above. Someone groaned loudly behind us and I turned. An elderly Egyptian was clutching his neck and buckling, blood spurting out, his face contorted in horror. A knife had gone clean through. Mr. Singh pulled Miss Bryant and me to the side as a huge commotion began with screams and shouts, people gesticulating and running. Dozens of agitated Egyptians milled about the dying man.
‘Do not get involved,’ said Mr. Singh in a firm voice. He moved us along as though nothing had happened. I was shaken.
‘How fortuitous, Mr. Singh, that you stumbled. Otherwise, one of us would have been killed. I wonder what happened!’
‘Very lucky, indeed!’ exclaimed Miss Bryant, catching her breath. ‘Now that’s the second murder we’ve seen today and it’s not even noon! Ought we to return to the ship, do you think?’
‘No, I think that would be cowardly. Ah, I see our Japanese friends there, far ahead,’ he pointed. ‘Let us join them.’
I had a glimpse of the two Japanese gentlemen in a crowded narrow lane. They seemed too distant for us to catch up and were moving rapidly away, almost running. ‘Never mind,’ I said. But Mr. Singh had already left us and was weaving his way through the crowd. In no time at all, we lost him.
I was perplexed by what appeared to be an unexpected streak of irresponsibility in the man. Here we were, in the middle of an unfamiliar crowded market in the Jewish Quarter of Alexandria, having just been witness to the murder of a man in broad daylight and Mr. Singh was apparently intent on giving us further cause for anxiety.
‘Look, a souk, a market! We really must go there and buy a few things!’ cried Miss Bryant, excited by the prospect. Her enthusiasm was both charming and refreshing.
‘I shall stay here, if you please, and wait for Mr. Singh. I expect he will be by presently,’ I said, pausing under the awning of a shop. ‘But please do return soon.’
Assuring me she would be back in an hour, Miss Bryant disappeared inside and I waited at the entrance of the souk, looking anxiously for the tall Sikh. But there was no sign of him. Almost three-quarters of an hour later, when I was becoming increasingly restless, a little boy rushed up to me and started jabbering in Arabic. I assumed he was a beggar and ignored him. He persisted. I tried to wave him off. He grabbed my hand and thrust a scrap of paper in my palm and ran away.
‘I’m back, Dr. Watson! Look what I found! Scarabs and interesting odds and ends!’ Miss Bryant held up some bags triumphantly, as she emerged from the souk.
‘Let me help you with those,’ I put the paper in the pocket of my trousers and extended a hand.
Miss Bryant gave me a few bags, gratefully. ‘Thank you,’ she beamed. ‘I shall hold on to the rest! Has Mr. Singh returned?’
‘No,’ I said, feeling very anxious now. ‘But I think it would be wise for us to return and wait for him on board.’
Miss Bryant agreed and we walked back to the dock. Simon Fletcher was waiting for us at the railings of the North Star. He waved cheerfully.
‘Welcome back! How was your day? Soaked in the local atmosphere?’
‘Well, a mixed morning, Fletcher,’ I responded.
I briefly described our singular experience.
‘Well, these ports are not civilized, Dr. Watson. I did warn you. Wasn’t Mr. Singh with you? I don’t see the gentleman.’
‘We lost each other an hour ago, but I imagine he should be back soon. He is a most resourceful man.’
We repaired to our rooms and agreed to meet for lunch in an hour.
I felt hot and sweaty and loosened my collar, sitting on the bed in my new room. I decided a short nap would be in order. Presently, I woke up with a mild headache and stretched my limbs. Something crinkled in my trouser pocket. It was the paper I had slipped in earlier.
On it, in Holmes’ unmistakable handwriting, were the words ‘Be careful, Watson’.
I stared at the slip for a long time. I did not know what to think.
Presently, there was a knock on the door and, on my invitation, the captain entered.
‘Mr. Singh has not returned and the police would like to speak with him.’ He sounded very worried.
‘Extraordinary! Has everyone else reported?’
The captain was overwrought. All this had been very trying for him. He was sweating profusely and was intensely agitated.
‘Yes. And I’m afraid we will have to leave for Port Suez this evening with or without him. If he does not return, the police will certainly issue a warrant for his arrest on suspicion of having murdered Mr. Hashimoto. When will this nightmare end?’
We walked to the deck and scanned the dock anxiously. All were accounted for except Mr. Singh. Simon Fletcher was silent and smoking, lost in thought. The captain grew more anxious by the minute.
But his dread was shortly put to rest when we saw Mr. Singh walk up to the North Star, striding quickly up the gangplank.
‘I apologize for the delay, Captain,’ he said with sincerity, nodding at Miss Bryant and at me. ‘I thought I saw our Japanese friends at a distance and went looking for them. I soon lost my way and by the time I returned to the last point where we were together, you had left too.’
‘All accounted for, Captain?’ enquired Fletcher. ‘The ladies are in their cabin, are they not? The Japanese gentlemen returned quite some time ago, if I recall.’
‘Yes, thank heavens!’ said the captain, relief evident in his voice. ‘Let me go and retrieve our passports!’
He walked down to the port office and returned presently with the British police inspector, Baynes, and his Egyptian staff. Baynes was a taciturn individual and after conferring with the captain in his room, returned our passports to us and bade us good-bye. We were soon on our way to Port Said, at the mouth of the Suez Canal.
In Paris, Professor Moriarty studied the wire that had just been brought to him.
‘Incompetence! Sheer incompetence!’ he hissed.
He opened a map and studied a certain section with considerable attention.
Presently, he closed his eyes and sat back in his chair. He was not asleep.