The Revenge of Sherlock Holmes

Author’s Note

Many of the characters in this book are historical personages. In this narrative, as well as in history, all were as described herein. However, I’ve taken certain license with timeframe and characters’ ages.

A note about particular Americans, however, is needed. While most of the world may not be familiar with Lucky Luciano, Meyer Lansky, Bugsy Siegel or Arnold Rothstein, these men, founders of what would become organized crime in America, have, through books, movies and time, achieved the mythos akin to Britain’s Robin Hood.

But these men robbed from rich and poor alike, killed and organized crime on a global scale.

A further word, though this about their unique speech patterns. These men were children of recent European immigrants, or immigrants themselves. They spoke the English of the New York City streets; more harsh and hurried than we might wish.

In their speech, they frequently dropped the “g” at the end of any verb, and seemed to forget that the word “to” had an “o” attached; so that the words would flow as in “I’m goin’ t’ the bar.”; and is written as such.

One advantage of their speech was that more educated individuals might mistake their guttural utterances as a sign of lower intelligence; which, in many instances, was a fatal mistake.

It was not a foreign language they were speaking; just lower East Side Manhattan English, circa 1920. And the ethnic slurs they slung at members of any group other than their own, were the norm of the streets at that time. Bullets and bigotry.

Finally, a certain event, herein, may prove evocative of the motion picture, The Godfather. In this narrative, however, the event and the people involved are portrayed as it actually happened.

Historical Characters

BRITISH

Sidney Reilly, SIS (Secret Intelligence Service), Master Spy.

David Lloyd George, Former Prime Minister of England.

Winston Churchill, former First Lord of the Admiralty.

RUSSIAN

The Romanovs, The Imperial Russian Family.

Vladmir Illyich Lenin, Leader of the Bolsheviks.

Leon Trostky, Commander of the Bolshevik Red Army.

Stalin, Enemy of Trotsky and a rising Bolshevik.

AMERICAN

Charles “Lucky” Luciano and Meyer Lansky, The men who organized crime in the United States.

Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel, The closest mobster associate of Luciano and Lansky.

Al Capone, The gangland boss of Chicago.

Salvatore Maranzano and Guiseppe Masseria, the bosses who started the Castellammarese War in New York City.

Legs Diamond, Dutch Schultz, Kid Twsit Reles, Lepke Buchhalter, young mobsters who helped Luciano, Lansky and Siegel.

Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks, Hollywood royalty.

Preface

Although I introduced myself when The Secret Journal of Dr. Watson, was first published, I thought it best to do it again.

I’m Dr. John Watson, the grandson of the more illustrious bearer of that name; the man who not only chronicled the adventures of Sherlock Holmes, but was his invaluable colleague and dearest friend.

It’s been about a year since The Secret Journal of Dr. Watson was published, back in September of 1994; a year that’s not only changed my and my family’s lives, but has changed history with a venal velocity I wasn’t prepared for.

None of us privy to the contents of that journal, except for my grandfather, its author, were prepared. His warnings to me are right there in that journal.

Unless you’ve been living in a cave or under a rock or out in the outback, I’m not sure that you still wouldn’t have heard the outcry. And if you haven’t read or heard about my grandfather’s secret journal, here’s a very brief synopsis; although it might be wise if you read The Secret Journal of Dr. Watson before beginning this:

In June of 1918, as WWI dragged on and the Russian Revolution wasn’t even one year past, King George V and the serving Prime Minster, David Lloyd George, asked Sherlock Holmes to go into Russia and rescue the Romanovs, the Russian Royal family; close cousins to the King and under orders of execution by the Bolsheviks. This request was made in the most confidential manner, of course.

My grandfather had to accompany Holmes because the Tsarevich Alexi was a hemophiliac and would need constant medical attention. Holmes was told he would be met by special people in Russia, already in place, who would help him with the rescue. The most of important of these special people was Sidney Reilly, SIS, master spy.

But as Holmes and my grandfather soon learned, they were not sure who to trust with their lives, much less that of the Romanovs. All this led to the subsequent death of Holmes by the Germans and the chronicle my grandfather wrote describing Holmes’ heroic last adventure, in service to his King and country.

All epic deceit.

Because of world veneration of Sherlock Holmes and my grandfather, and my grandfather’s revelations in his secret journal about the truth of Holmes’ death and the rescue of the Imperial Romanovs, the British government came under intense global, political attack.

And who could blame the world? Certainly I wouldn’t. I’m the one who gave the journal over for publication, positive that it did not offend The Official Secrets Act of1911. I’m the one who was the first to be so shocked and outraged.

But this is now and that was then and therein lays the continuing problem. Because what happened then, if it’s all true, and which, of course, I believe it wholeheartedly to be, may shape current world events in ways we can’t even imagine.

For instance: if there are legitimate direct royal Romanov claimants to the throne of Russia, given that deflated behemoth’s ongoing internal problems, couldn’t this further destabilize the delicate political and social fabric there, so precarious already?

Then what would happen should Russia fragment further? But I’d rather not dwell on that here. In fact, I shiver at the thought. Funny, it seems that we need a stable Russia now, just as we did back then. The more things change, etc.

But I have a different story to tell. A continuation of the bizarre events of my grandfather’s secret journal; answers to the questions I put forward at the end of that journal, and that the whole world has been asking me to answer ever since.

My word, is there any among you who have not seen me on the pages of your daily newspapers, or in the magazines, or on the TV chat shows, or heard me on the radio?

I’ve been interviewed and written about by so many people with such varied agendas that I’ve virtually given up my practice and devoted this past year to speaking about my grandfather’s journal.

The monies or stipends received, except for expenses, have all been donated to various recognised charities; as has been attested to by the various and sundry media. If you ask how my wife, Joan, and our sons were to live, I already had money saved as a successful physician and from a comfortable inheritance from Joan’s father’s business; which had been sold upon his death in 1980.

And I most certainly have not uttered one syllable about the answers to the questions the journal raised.

Until now.

Also, for the past year the whole world has also been trying to discover the incognito identity of Sidney Romanov-Reilly. But to no avail. Only I know who he is, although I don’t know where he is, nor how to contact him. He’s always contacted me and I’ve not heard from him since a few days after our first meeting.

In fact, one of the conditions of me learning about what happened to Holmes and the Romanovs and Clay and the others, was that I wouldn’t disclose this information until one year had passed after the journal’s publication. One year for the world to digest the material, acquire acute dyspepsia from it, recover, and then, when things had sorted themselves out, sort of, the final revelations were to be divulged; which would probably start the process all over again.

And this time, with new people added to the mystery; as seemingly disparate and disconnected as Winston Churchill, Babe Ruth, Al Capone and Lenin.

Sidney, Again

I’ll begin on the afternoon of August 11, 1993; after Sidney and I first met early that morning and when he said he would come round to pick me up and to give me all the answers to all the questions.

At precisely two p.m.,Joan told me there was a rather large man at the door. He was dressed as a chauffeur and she wanted to know who he was and what he wanted with me.

Please remember that Joan knew nothing of the incredible events of the previous night, when I first read my grandfather’s secret journal, and therefore was only asking a concerned and logical question. I did what any other long-married husband would do with earth-shaking secrets to hide: I played for time and tore the truth.

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? One of my patients has sent him around to fetch me to him because he’s too ill to come in to see me.” I’m sure I was trying to be so matter-of-fact that I didn’t convince her one jot.

“Really? Which patient?”

“Why, uh, Mr. Smith, yes, Mr. Smith.” God, couldn’t I have come up with something a tad more inventive?

“I’ve never heard you mention a Mr. Smith before,” she said, with her right eyebrow arched so high it met her hairline.

Joan had that wife’s intuition about a husband when she perceives there’s a fib floating about. She’s far more intelligent than I and a few years older, which seems to have given her the wisdom of the ages.

“Well, uh, he’s a new patient, a new patient. Very ill, very ill.”

I realized I was repeating everything I said and perspiring at an alarming rate, soaking my clothing for all to see. I raced towards the door.

“What’s wrong with him, John?”

“Uh, Fraggums’s Disease, terrible, terrible. Bye.” I slammed the door behind me, breathed hard and let the chauffeur lead the way.

This time, there was no Rolls, as in the morning. This time, the chauffeur held open the door to a large brown Mercedes limo. There sat Sidney, who gestured me in.

“How many of these things do you own?” I asked as I sat.

“Not important. Merely a conveyance.”

Only on much later reflection did I realize that Sidney’s words were not a direct answer to my question, but rather a mere statement. However, once in and with Sidney greeting me warmly, the car began moving with no instruction from him.

“So how did you sleep?” he asked.

“How do you think?”

He laughed.

“Well, my friend, I’m afraid you’re going to have many more nights akin to the last one. We’ll simply drive, and oh, yes...”

With that, he reached into his right suit jacket pocket and pulled out a black cloth.

“John, you’ll indulge if you don’t mind, but please...”

He gestured for me to put on the blindfold.

“You’re serious?”

“I’m afraid so, John. You see, we’re going to my home and while you may know who I am, but not really, there are few others who do. Therefore I don’t want you to know where I live or how to get there. Perhaps one day.”

“Well why can’t we just go sit at a pub or club and you can continue where you left off.”

“Ah, if it were only that easy. Though these kinds of things never are...”

I wondered what he meant by that.

“John, there’s something I must show you to help move things along. But it’s at my home and much too precious for me to carry with me.”

“Ah,” I thought, “he’s going to show me the Romanov crown jewels.” He held the cloth towards me again. This time, however, his face showed an expression that removed all doubt as to what I must do. So, I did.

“Good, good. No peeking now.” He laughed, again.

“We’ll be there in no time, and if you don’t mind, I’d rather we just keep still until we arrive.” Which we did, but I don’t know how long the ride was because he also removed my watch as I sat there, so I couldn’t get a judge on time. Oh, he was clever all right. The old Sidney Reilly DNA was very alive and well with this Sidney, his son.

In good time our car stopped and, I believe, I was led into the house by the chauffeur or another domestic; but it was Sidney’s voice I heard saying, “There’s a step coming up, be careful, that’s it. Good.”

Then I heard him say, “You may remove the blindfold now;”which I did instantaneously.

The first thing I saw when I removed the cloth was Sidney standing in front of me, smiling. It was the first time I’d actually seen him full length, so-to-speak, and I hadn’t thought about his height before. But he was tall, about six-feet, I’d say, and very trim. And very erect. Well, he was a Romanov. Watered down, perhaps, but nonetheless.

The next thing I noticed was the room in which we stood. It was something out of one of those War and Peace type palaces, but smack in the middle of London. Ornate was an understatement. Gold leaf was everywhere; on the cherubs adorning the crown molding, on the edges of the richly decorated ebony furniture, on the Nubian lamps.

The floors were the most beautifully polished woods I’d ever seen, with intricate geometric inlays. And though I didn’t look up, I saw, from a gilded mirror, that I was standing under the most gigantic gold and crystal chandelier one could imagine. I’d never been to Buckingham Palace, but I’d easily wager this room would not go begging in comparison to any room there.

As we stood and Sidney waited and watched my reactions, he finally spoke.

“Now, it may be difficult, John, but please try to follow me.”

“All right.”

“Good. What you’re about to learn may be even more unbelievable than what you read in your grandfather’s journal last night.”

Were I not a doctor I would’ve sworn that my heart stopped beating, albeit only momentarily.

“What you will now learn was also told to me by my father, who was told by Sherlock Holmes; although both my father and Holmes’ stories intertwined at various times and each needed the other to fill out the complete facts of each other’s stories; but without your grandfather knowing anything about either; except when he and your grandmother were directly involved.”

He must’ve seen the look of utter bewilderment on my face, because what he just said made as much sense as someone speaking colloquial Saturnian.

He laughed.

“Yes, yes; I can see how that might sound confusing, but I assure you, it’ll all make sense shortly.”

“And how is that to happen when I didn’t understand one thing you just said?”

“Very easily. I’ll let your grandfather tell you.”

At that, I’m positive my face must’ve born such an expression of utter astonishment that I literally had to force my mouth shut for fear of trapping flies.

“Yes, quite. Just follow me,” he said.

He was still laughing gently to himself, enjoying his joke immensely, as I followed him to an adjoining room. He opened a double door revealing a magnificent, ancient-oak-lined study. And there, on the most ornately carved mahogany desk you could imagine, sat an exquisitely bound, deep burgundy leather volume, with gold tooling around the edges.

His hand made a circular motion gesturing for me to go round and see what the volume was. This I did immediately while my peripheral vision picked up what I perceived to be Romanov family photos in various silver frames on floor-to-ceiling, overstuffed bookshelves and on bric-a-brac jammed tables throughout the study.

I gazed down on the cover of the volume and stopped where I stood. It had the familiar three letters: JHW.

And then I heard Sidney’s words.

“Prepare yourself, John. What you see before you is your grandfather’s retelling of all he learned subsequent to his penning of his secret journal, based upon what I was trying to explain to you just now. I simply had his pages encased in something beautiful, as they deserved to be. Of course I’ve already read everything; just in case I felt particular events should be excised. One must preserve family secrets; even from you.”

He pulled out the chair tucked tightly in the desk and I quite literally fell into it, sitting there transfixed as I stared at the initials.

“You can open it, John. It won’t bite you. And then again, it most certainly might. I’ll leave you two alone. I have a suspicion that I won’t be seeing you again for quite some time.

“Oh, yes, I’ve also had the clocks removed from this room as a further precaution of what time it is right now. When you’ve finished, I’ll return your watch. Though you might want a better one.” Then that Sidney laugh again as he left the room, closing the door behind him.

I was too dazed to answer, to speak, to make any kind of utterance whatsoever. My heart was racing so fast that I took my own pulse and forced myself to calm down.

If what Sidney had said was true, and in my heart I knew that it was, I also knew that I was now going to become privy to events known only to a very few people.

Then I reached for the cover, opened it, and began to read words handwritten by grandfather so very long ago. However, the chapter titles were not his. I’ve added them to make his disclosures easier to follow in his labyrinthine tale.

But not, necessarily, easier to fathom.

My Grandfather Begins

What I am about to divulge, I almost cannot believe myself; although my wife, Elizabeth, and I, actually took part in some of the unfortunate events recounted herein.

After all that I had lived through with the Romanovs and Reilly and Holmes, and detailed in my journal, these events were even more fantastic and unbelievable; if that were at all possible.

Unlike my journal, the events will not be told in chronological order, because many of these disparate events were happening concurrently. So please forgive the occasional leap from one tale focused on one individual or event to another. I hope you understand and will not find it too jarring.

I must admit, as a literary device, I find it rather intriguing.

I also caution you that this is most certainly not one of my usual Holmes tales, where he uses his prodigious powers of intellect and deduction to solve a grave mystery; although there are enough layers upon layers of historical intertwining and involvement of many famous, and infamous, historical personages to give one a migraine trying to weave this twine into a logical fabric.

Except for what Elizabeth and I personally experienced, all that I now commit to these pages were conveyed to me by Sidney Reilly himself, in my home in London, on four separate occasions; and in one final letter and package, well subsequent to our final meeting.

After all that he and I had been through together, I had absolutely no reason to doubt one word of what he told me.

Yet, as Holmes had made me so astutely aware, how much of what Reilly said was truth, and how much was fecund fabrication?

Though Reilly would much later tell me of what happened to Holmes, told to him by Holmes himself when they met much later in the history of these events, in our first meeting at my home in London, he knew nothing of Holmes’ fate. Therefore, he spoke only of what happened to himself, subsequent to his taking leave of us in Russia; in itself an absolutely incredible accumulation of astounding adventures.

It would not be until our second meeting at my home that Reilly told of Holmes’ fate. But since this narrative may prove beyond intricate, I’ve taken the liberty of melding what Reilly told me of Holmes directly into the chronology; as though he had told of the events during our first meeting.

This only sounds confusing, but as you continue, my account will become easier to comprehend.

What you will now read, for the most part, is a retelling of a tale previously told by someone to someone else expert in tailoring tales to his taste; which, in itself, is a sentence needing elucidation by Holmes.

But I trust my own elucidation should suffice: I will be telling you what Reilly told me that Holmes told him. Who, then, can you believe?

In these pages, I have decided to believe Reilly; perhaps because I need to believe Reilly. It will be up to you to decide what you choose to believe.

In that regard, much of these pages deal with Holmes in America, or, to be more precise, in New York City. For there, as hard as it will be to fathom, Holmes became an important part of America’s nascent organized crime world. In fact, he became one of its founding fathers, if I may adopt that familiar Yankee term.

You will now learn what happened to Reilly, to the Romanovs collectively and individually, to young Yardley and all the others whose acquaintances you met in my secret journal. But most of all, you will learn what happened to Holmes.

Therefore, I will begin with what Reilly told me about Holmes’ rescue.

Holmes Rescued

“Sharks. Sharks.”

These were the words Holmes was muttering over and over, his rescuers said. But of course, they didn’t know the man they’d saved was Holmes. They didn’t know who he was, or what he was, he just was; and that was good enough for them for the moment.

By the look of him, he had been out there for days. He was dehydrated, sunburned badly and delirious. But that was because of the all of the above, plus a surfeit of swallowed seawater.

It was lucky that he was found adrift in that lifeboat. But from which ship? There was no ship’s name on the lifeboat. Another mystery.

In Port Royal, South Carolina, the United States, where he now was, he would be nursed back to health by the family who found him. Then the questions would be answered.

When he first opened his eyes, two days after Hank, Lou, and Martin Curtis found him, he wanted to know where he was and when it was.

He was told it was August 18, 1918, and that he’d been picked up two days previously. But they didn’t know how long he’d been out there. They were on their usual fishing run when they happened to see him. Then Hank told him what he’d been repeating when he was hauled aboard their little scow, “Laughing Abby”, after Hank’s wife, and Martin and Lou’s mother, Abigail.

Hank later remarked, when Holmes was well enough to be human again, that when Homes heard the words he’d been repeating in his delirium, Holmes’ eyes flashed open so violently Hank thought both would go popping out and rolling about the floor like the marbles Lou and Martin had played with as young boys.

Holmes remembered: he had been with Captain Yardley, having a comforting nightcap and the next thing he knew, he was here. It was as if a child had suddenly realized his father had just tried to kill him.

Holmes knew what this meant. He had been the victim of attempted murder; and he suspected who was behind it. But if that were so, what of Watson? Was he safe? Had he met with some similar perfidy? And the Romanovs? What of them?

In that instant, Holmes realized that to survive, he must cease being Sherlock Holmes and become one of the pseudo-selves he’d established decades ago; for Holmes always suspected the need to take shelter out of his own identity would come one day.

This was the day.

He surveyed the man who saved him. He looked to be about fifty or so, tall and lithe and giving off the feeling of a tremendous tensile strength. He had a benign face with an easy smile. But it was his eyes that Holmes realized were surveying him as intently as he surveyed Curtis.

“Thank you for saving me.”

“Well, you can thank the Almighty and my son Martin’s eagle eye. He saw ya first and his kid brother, Lou, grabbed ya first. I just cut the engine and let the boys haul ya aboard. You’re in Lou’s bed right now. He figured ya needed it more than him.

“And if ya have a mind to know where that bed happens to be, it happens to be in Port Royal, South Carolina. I hope we’re not too far from where you were headed. Which I gotta ask about because ya been laid up here for two days. We did some checkin’ and we couldn’t find no note of no vessel goin’ down nowhere. Nowhere.

“And we all know ya weren’t dropped down from heaven, and now that I listened to ya I know you ain’t American. So how the hell didya get where ya were? Where’d ya come from? Where were ya goin’? And who the hell are ya? If you don’t mind me askin’ and if you have the strength to be answerin’?”

Holmes had only the strength to smile at the outburst of fact and questions shot at him and marveled at how true it was about Americans: they will tell you their whole life story fifteen seconds after they’ve met you and expect the same from you immediately thereafter.

Since this particular American and his sons had been good enough to save his life, answers were the least he could supply in return; even if they weren’t the truth.

In addition, what puzzled and concerned him was that he was in South Carolina. Why would a simple fishing scow be so far from its home waters? But since he seemed to be in caring hands, he continued with his own masquerade.

“What, what day is it, pray tell?”

“August seventeenth by the calendar on that wall.”

“Thank you. My name is Hamilton. James Hamilton.”

“How ya doin’, Jim ?”

“Jim? Oh, yes. Fine, thanks to you, I believe; and your sons.”

“No, Abby’s been the one really carin’ for ya. She’s been the one feedin’ ya and wipin’ yer head and all. We kinda know how t’ take care of ourselves. And each other.”

“I must thank her, then.”

“Abby’s in town. She’ll be back later. The boys went back to their real job. But you were goin’ to answer those questions I asked; and here ya are askin’ me more questions than I’m askin’ you. We’re all as curious as Pandora about you.”

“I’m originally from London.”

“I thought you were a Limey, uh, sorry, British, when ya opened yer mouth.”

“No offense taken. I was a professor at the Royal Oceanographic Institute on Bermuda. Ichthyology. I must let them know I’m safe.”

Holmes was testing Curtis. After all, Curtis had just made mention of Pandora, and, usually, simple fishermen have little need or knowledge of Greek mythology. Not even if they’re Greek. And his speech pattern was almost as if he was trying to speak English improperly; to give the impression of a coastal yokel. It seemed they were not merely indigenous to England, after all.

“Ichthyologist? So you’re a fisherman, too?” Curtis had to laugh at his own joke. He had also just passed, or failed, the test. Holmes was not, as yet, sure which.

“Yes, I suppose so. Very droll, indeed.”

“But how’d ya come to be floatin’ out there?”

“I was on a day outing and I hate to admit it, being a son of a seafaring nation and an ichthyologist to boot, but I couldn’t handle my little boat very well and somehow I was pitched overboard.

“I must have hit my head on the boat, swallowed enough seawater to quench the thirst of Thetis, then somehow found the strength of drag myself back on the boat, where I surmise, I passed out.” Holmes noticed that Curtis made no inquiry as to the identity of Thethis.

“And ya weren’t with nobody?”

“Just myself. Foolish, what?”

“If you weren’t so fragile, friend, stupid is what I’d call it. But I guess you’ve learned your lesson.”

“Yes, ironic. As a teacher I’m still learning.” Curtis saw that Holmes was still in need of sleep. His energy was waning.

“Yeah, well. I’ll leave ya alone now to rest some more. Abby and I will check in on ya later. And if ya need anythin’, of course just holler.”

“Thank you, again.”

“Don’t mention it.” Curtis closed the door behind him.

Alone in these strange, yet seemingly safe, surroundings, Holmes worried about the fate of Watson, Reilly, the Romanovs and the rest. If he had been the target of assassination, what had happened to them? Were they alive, dead, what did this all mean? But he was still too feeble to give full force to the mystery.

Holmes then heard muffled speech on the other side of that door. One voice was Curtis. The other sounded like a woman. But Abigail was supposed to be in town; and since Holmes’ strength was still small, he drifted back to sleep wondering.

But he had noticed that the wrist chain given him by the Tsar as a token of thanks was still on his wrist.

When Holmes awoke, his blurred eyes beheld what appeared to be a hermaphroditic, two-headed chimera. But as his eyes cleared and the two heads moved, he saw it was Curtis, and, he guessed, Abby.

“I’m Abby.” That confirmed that. “How are you?” Not “ya.” Holmes thought to himself.

“Fine, thanks to you. Thank you.”

“Oh, that’s all right. I had nothing better to do anyway. Do you think you’re fit enough to sit up and take some real nourishment?”

As he propped himself up, with the proffered aid of both, Holmes readily agreed, ate heartily, then prepared himself for the American inquisition sure to come.

“Hank tells me you’re an Englishman.” She laughed as she continued. “We threw you all out over a hundred years ago, and you keep coming back, anyway.”

Holmes laughed. “Well, this time I had no choice. But had I known the royal treatment I would receive, I would have gladly washed up on your shores years ago.” They all laughed.

“Really, I must repay you all for your kindness to me. I’m not without funds. Once I can correspond with my bank in London, I will repay you for all you’ve done.”

“Hank, this gentleman is obviously still out of his head. He doesn’t seem to understand that what we’ve done is simple American courtesy.”

“No, no,” Holmes said,” I don’t wish to offend you nor your courtesy, but this is really too much. I must be able to make this up to you.”

“Well, then, James, get well quickly and get out!” She laughed.

“And she means it, Jim. Abby means it.”

“I shall do everything within my power to retrieve my health and strength and be on my way as soon as possible.” Then his jovial mood changed radically. “There is much that I must do. There is much that I must do.”

At that, Hank and Abby looked at each other and turned to leave Holmes alone once more. That’s when Holmes noticed the handle of a revolver Abby had in her basket.

Reilly and Lenin and Trotsky and Stalin

When Reilly left us all in Russia, he said it was at his government’s behest; Secret Intelligence Service, to be exact. He was Cheka Colonel Relinsky, and had become so firmly entrenched within the Cheka hierarchy, the Bolsheviks’ dreaded secret police, that SIS had instructed him to launch a counter-revolution.

Had it succeeded, with Reilly at the head of a new pro-Western government with strings pulled at Whitehall, perhaps even ready to re-enter the war, the turn in human events could have proved to be nothing short of astounding.

Reilly had become a trusted political pet of Lenin, who referred to him as his bulldog. He had been a huge fan of my accounts of Holmes’ and my adventures, which he read when exiled in Switzerland; and he had never forgotten the favor Reilly had done by introducing him to Holmes and me in Petrograd and his boyish joy when we gave him our autographs.

Leon Trotsky, the founder and commander of the Red Army, had an even greater affinity for Reilly. He was wise enough to see how useful Reilly could be. If the Red Army and the Cheka were allied, nothing could stand in the way of Trotsky achieving supreme power.

He had often said, “Not believing in force is the same as not believing in gravity.” Wielding the Red Army as your hammer turned everyone else into nails.

However, there was a significant new actor upon that bewildering Bolshevik stage; an important member of the Bolshevik Party’s Central Committee, and already a deadly enemy of Trotsky and a malevolent genius of the first order. His name was Iosif Dzhugashvili.

He was a rather small, repugnant Georgian with an already marked ability to remain in the underbrush, sniffing and waiting for the perfect moment to pounce on his prey. A man with no scruples, no morals, no wish for anything other than to make himself the undisputed master of the nascent Soviet Union. He would kill, or have killed, anyone who stood in his way; including Lenin; and, most certainly, Trotsky.

History would come to know this man as Stalin.

Knowing these things about Stalin, Trotksy drew Reilly even closer. He knew that in the inevitable and ultimate confrontation with Stalin, anyone as brilliant and ruthless at obfuscation as Reilly would be an indispensable ally.

In addition, Trotsky already knew Reilly was SIS. With Reilly at his side, perhaps England might be persuaded to come to his aid at his inevitable and crucial clash with Stalin.

The exposing of Reilly’s true identity was the doing of the evil head of the Cheka, Felix Dzerzhinsky, also known as “Bloody Felix”; so subtle and serpentine, that he was playing everyone against everyone else without anyone seemingly knowing it.

Dzerzhinsky sniffed the acrid air and decided the wind was blowing in Stalin’s direction; so he allied firmly with Stalin.

Reilly was then forced to flee, aided in his escape back to Finland by Trotsky; Trotsky thereby incurring further enmity from Stalin. Stalin, too, would have had use for Reilly. After all, as Stalin said, “Traitors are only traitors if they’re not on your side.”

What amazed me in his telling of all this, was that Reilly was actually enjoying the memory. He was laughing as he remembered all these titans of history that to him were mere comrades or enemies. Men who either tried to kill him or help him, but in the end, Reilly survived.

At this time, Reilly still did not know that he had become a father; although he was still in love with Tatiana and now, more than ever, wanted to rejoin her. But where?

With papers of safe passage supplied by Trotsky, he was off to find out.

Holmes Leaves For New York

In the space of seven days, Holmes was himself again. Or rather, he was James Hamilton. But whoever he was, he needed to leave as soon as possible and do all that needed to be done. And to have answered all the questions demanding answers.

Hank was kind enough, one morning, to bring his wagon about and drive Holmes the few miles into Port Royal so that he could contact his bank in London and have funds wired to James Hamilton, of course.

To continue the fiction, Holmes said he was notifying Bermuda of his safety, telling them that he would be returning to London and asking to please ship his belongings to his home there.

This was done quickly enough, but while waiting for the transfer, Holmes could not but wonder at the profusion of U.S. Marines and sailors in town.

“Hank, is there a naval base about?”

“Naval base? Bite your tongue, friend. Ain’t ya never heard of Parris Island?”

“You mean the United States Marine installation?”

“That’s the one, Jim. Yeah, we’re still trainin’ ‘em and sendin’ ‘em off to help you Brits beat the Krauts. The sailors are just around to row the Marines to Europe and clean up their slop.”

At that, Hank’s smiling expression changed, and, looking directly into Holmes’ eyes, he said, “Ya know, Jim, I suspect there just might be more to you and what happened to you then you’re lettin’ on.”

“I don’t understand,” Holmes said.

“Well, ya seem like such a smart fella an’ all, bein’ a fish doctor, that I just can’t imagine you gettin’ yourself into the predicament you were in when we fished ya outa the water.”

“Well, Hank, even scientists can be fools from time to time.”

“Yup, I guess you went and proved that.” They both laughed.

Presently, Holmes received his funds and he offered compensation to Hank.

“My, oh my, it seems yer memory is still quite on the fizzle”, Hank said.

“How do you mean?” asked Holmes.

“Well I seem to remember Abby tellin’ ya that what we did was simple courtesy. From one human bein’ to another. Or don’t they have that in England no more?”

“Yes, of course we do. And it is very much appreciated. But I would like to repay you and your family in some tangible way.”

“Well, I’ll tell ya what,” Hank said as they walked back to the wagon, “once ya get back t’ yer institute, or London, just stay there and be safe. We don’t wanna be fishin’ ya outa the water again.”

“A simple request that can be granted with simple alacrity,” Holmes said.

“If not sooner,” Hank said.

Now let’s get back to home and you can get the things we gave ya, say goodbye to everybody and get out!” They both laughed again. But Holmes took note once more that Hank was more than the simple vocabulary-deprived man he appeared to be. He knew the meaning of the word ‘alacrity’.

After some hasty stops at local stores for Holmes to purchase a travel valise, some clothing and necessities, and booking passage on a mail carrier due to leave for New York that very afternoon, they went back to the Curtis home.

Holmes gathered the clothes they had given him, packed his new valise with them and the new purchases he’d just made, and went to say goodbye to Abby.

“I can’t thank you all enough for what you’ve done for me.”

“Then don’t. Just get going to where you’re going and don’t worry about us, we won’t miss you,” Abby said.

“And now I suppose I have to bring ya back t’ town so ya can get on that ship to New York to take ya back to London. And not a minute too soon, too,” Hank said.

Abby gave Holmes a long, warm hug.

“Okay, stop huggin’ my wife. Get in so I can get ya to the boat in time.”

With that, Holmes and Hank were off to Port Royal again.

It didn’t take long to get to the dock where a small ship was being readied to cast off. The Mercury was a small mail carrier plying the east coast of the United States. She took parcels as well as passengers, and Holmes was to be one of those passengers.

Hank helped Holmes aboard with his belongings and Holmes reached out his hand to him.

“Once again, Hank, I will never forget you or your family and what you’ve done for me. And please thank Lou and Martin for their excellent eyesight and strong arms. I wish them well.”

Suddenly Hank’s speech pattern changed. It seemed that now he wanted to confide in Holmes.

“No worries, Jim. My family and I know you mean what you say. And I trust that you know we never bought that tale you told about how you got where you were. No, Jim, it was better you take us for the simple folk you expected. And as for those young Marines you noted, my oldest son, Don, is over there fighting in France. He was at Bealleau Wood.

“That was one hell of a fight, the papers said. I know you probably didn’t hear, but after that battle, the Krauts called the Marines, Tuefel Hunden, Devil Dogs. Not a bad appellation, at that.

“Yes, Don’s a Marine and a Curtis, and he came out all right. And by the way, Lou and Martin are back at Parris Island. But they’re going to remain Stateside. For now, anyway.”

“That’s very good to hear, Hank. But just so you know, when I saw a revolver handle in Abby’s basket, and your casual understanding of words like alacrity, ichthyologist and Pandora, I suspected there was more there than met the eye, as well. Is there?”

“Well, Jim, let’s just say you’ve got secrets to keep and my family and I may want to keep some secrets, as well.”

“Fair enough,” Holmes said.

With that, Hank turned and just before he walked across the plank to the deck, he turned, stood ramrod straight, gave a perfect and precise Marines salute to Holmes, said, “Semper Fi, friend, Semper Fi,” and walked back to his wagon.

“So,” Holmes thought to himself, “much more there, as I suspected. But what?”

On the Mercury, Holmes was alone to ponder during the two days it took to get to Manhattan Harbour. His fear for my fate gnawed at him constantly. Once in Manhattan he could, anonymously, learn more of me through an associate in London, but how was he to learn of the fate of Reilly, the Romanovs and the rest? He certainly could not approach those who knew of the secret events because any of them could have been the architect of the assassination attempt. But who? And why?

He would lay the groundwork for his return to London in New York. Then, once returned to London, he would learn of the man, or men, upon whom he would take terrible revenge.

Reilly Finds a Finnish Friend

Hurriedly leaving Petrograd with his papers of safe transport from Trotsky, and wishing to keep ahead of what always seemed to be a brutal Finnish winter, it was early October, 1918,Reilly made his way across the Isthmus of Karelia to Viipuri, on the border of Russia and Finland; only about seventy-five miles from Petrograd and about one hundred and fifty miles from Helsinki.

Today, because of the Russo-Finnish Winter War, Viipuri is known as Vyborg and in Soviet territory. The spoils of a bully.

There, he was able to contact someone who would be able to help him further. They met at a little café, “Pieni Kahvila”, which literally translates from Finnish as Little Café.

Yrjö, pronounced “Oor-yuh” - George, in English, was a Finnish double-agent; who, like Reilly, was working for both SIS and the Bolsheviks. However, Yrjö’s loyalty, as it would turn out, was more to honour and to Finland, than to his two seeming masters.

“So, I am to see you safely to Helsinki,” Yrjö said as he and Reilly sat down. To Reilly’s practiced eye, Yrjö was quite young, in his early twenties; tall, firmly built and as appealing as the birch trees so prevalent throughout Finland. And for someone in their profession, he had an anomalous aura of authentic, innate goodness.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Reilly said.

“No trouble, at all, comrade,” Yrjö said with a smile. Reilly detected a distinct British accent in Yrjö’s speech.

“Oxford?” Reilly asked.

“Very good. Yes. For a time. But please, we’re not here to discuss my pitiful personal history, we’re here to get you to Helsinki as quickly as possible, then on a ship back to London. If that’s all right with you, of course?”

“That suits me perfectly, thank you,” Reilly said.

He warmed to Yrjö’s sense of humor; but there were many, in the past, who knew when the time was ripe for a joke or a bullet. For some reason, though, Reilly immediately trusted Yrjö. Of course, in his business, that could be a fatal flaw. But not with this man, he felt. Not with this man.

“Here are your papers, Roland,” Yrjö said as he took them from inside his jacket pocket.

“Roland?” As Reilly opened the passport, he saw that someone else in SIS had his perverse sense of humor, because he was now Roland Windsor.

“Roland Windsor?” Reilly ruminated, “Yes, indeed; why not?”

As hot black coffee was placed before them, Yrjö said, “Here’s to a very safe journey, Roland.”

“Here’s to a very safe journey, George.” They knocked cups, eyes smiled, and sipped slowly.

However, what Reilly and Yrjö did not know, was that they were only a few steps ahead of a secret group called The Patriots, tethered to Stalin. These men, one step above mere murderers, were led by Nicholai Enelkin, a particularly unpleasant butcher; and as cunning as a famished fox.

Enelkin had been trained so thoroughly by Dzerzhinsky, that he could follow a person through the Amazon or the Artic with just a button as a clue. It was Enelkin’s job to find Reilly and bring him back. Or if that was not possible, to be sure he would not be going anywhere again; and to eliminate anyone who stood in his way.

Enelkin and three of these Patriots had followed Reilly from Russia through Karelia to Helsinki, always just a bit behind. Enelkin and his men arrived at the café a few minutes after Reilly and Yrjö had left. The waiter pointed to the direction they had gone. To Enelkin, that was a good beginning.

After three days of uneventful travel via train, cart and foot, Reilly and Yrjö reached Helsinki. They had raced, or jolted, depending on the mode of transport, through towns like Hamina, Loviisa, and Porvoo, each sporting the ever-present stands of birch trees and to Reilly’s mind, seemingly stoic, unsmiling and unfriendly Finns.

At one point, as if reading Reilly’s mind, Yrjö said, “We’re not unfriendly, at all, Roland. It just takes us awhile to warm up.

“Here, imagine a frigid Finnish winter; harsh and very uninviting. Then the spring thaw, the blooming of flowers and the welcome warmth of the sun. That’s us Finns. Once we thaw out and warm to you, we’re the best friends you could have. We’d give you the shirts off our back; especially if we’re going to the sauna. Then we’d give up all our clothing.” Both laughed.

Yrjö took Reilly to a safe location on Kalevalankatu, Kalevalan Street in English, in a residential district not far from a small harbour and an open-air market on the Gulf of Finland.

Yrjö then went off to book transit for Reilly to London. As it happened, The Merenneito, Finnish for “The Mermaid”, was due to leave for London the very next day. None too soon for Reilly or Yrjö; because as soon as Reilly was on that ship and off to London, Yrjö could breathe easily again. But he most certainly would not be able to do so until then.

Late that night, as an inordinately hard rain strafed Reilly and Yrjö as they neared their safe location after a fine Finnish restaurant dinner of meat, potatoes and a surfeit of vodka, they didn’t notice the two men following, nor the other man who quietly and suddenly appeared in front of them, coming from behind some of the stalls in the darkened market, already closed.

The man in front called out to Reilly in Russian, from a distance of no more than ten feet, “Good evening, Comrade Colonel. Perhaps you might like to come with us and get out of this horrid rain?”

Though Reilly had to keep rubbing his eyes because of the incessant downpour, as did the man in front, he saw the man had a revolver in his hand. Now, hearing the men behind, Yrjö instinctively turned towards them, his back touching Reilly’s; and he saw that they, too, had pistols in their hands. The two advancing men stopped; but they held their pistols pointing directly at Yrjö’s head.

Reilly answered in Russian, aware that Yrjö understood the conversation, “Oh, come now, comrade. You and your little friends didn’t come all this way just for a few nocturnal pleasantries?” As he said this, his right hand moved almost imperceptibly in the rain and dark, until he found his pistol behind his back.

“Thank you for making them angry,” Yrjö said, beneath his breath.

The man in front took one step closer. He continued to speak in Russian, “Of course not, comrade. We are here to take you on a little journey, you and your Finnish friend.”

“You see, Reilly, even this Russian dog knows that we Finns do make friends,” Yrjö said very quietly.

“Well, comrade, my Finnish friend and I are quite exhausted after our last journey, and I truly can’t see beginning another one. But I can see you taking one.”

With that, Reilly pulled out his pistol with lightning speed and fired, sending the man face downwards into the water-soaked street.

Yrjö then fired instantaneously, felling one man. The other was about to take his shot at Yrjö when Reilly, seeing what was about to happen, pushed Yrjö aside and shot him. However one of the Patriots’ bullets connected with Yrjö’s right arm. As Yrjö felt the bullet shatter the bone, he fell to one knee.

“I told you not to make them angry,” he said.

Reilly saw that while Yrjö was wounded, it was not serious, so he went to the man he shot, as Yrjö did the same to his two targets.

Reilly prodded him with his pistol. He was alive, but badly wounded in his stomach, perhaps fatally.

“There, there, comrade,” Reilly said, making sure the man had no more weapons. He held his head in his hands, the rain still raging in torrents.

“Tell me, who are you? Who sent you? If you tell me, I can get a doctor for you and promise that you’ll live. If you don’t tell me, I can make another promise. You’ll die.” Reilly placed his pistol against the man’s temple. Then he pressed it even more tightly.

“Comrade, comrade, you’re a smart man. Surely you want to live,” Reilly said.

“Da, da,” the man stammered, “I want to live.”

“Good, good. So, now tell me, who sent you and who are you?”

“Enelkin, Nickolai Enelkin.”

“Good, very good. Now is that your name or the name of the man who sent you?”

The man was spitting up blood now, “My...my name.”

“All right, then who sent you?” This time Reilly put the pistol into the man’s ear and cocked it.

“Stalin. Stalin. He wants you...back... to question you...to learn things.”

“Oh, to learn things, I see. Well, I have something for you to learn; I lied about helping you live.” And with that, Reilly pulled the trigger.

“It’s good the rain is covering the gunshots,” Yrjö said as he came next to Reilly, looking down at Enelkin. Reilly motioned with his head in the direction of the other two. “They, too are taking that journey,” Yrjö said, then asked, “Did he give you any information?” He was holding his right arm with his left for support.

“He said Stalin sent him. His name was Enelkin.”

“Enelkin? I know that name. He led a special group for Stalin. They did the work too difficult, or distasteful, for others. It’s good he’s dead. He was not human.”

“We have to get out of here and tend to that arm. But first I’m going to drag them over to the harbour and dump them into the Gulf. Will you be all right?”

“Yes; the current should take them far away, especially with the wind and rain,” Yrjö said. “It will give our police something more to do than investigate peddlers of rotten fish.”

Reilly returned about ten minutes later, and though further drained from the extra exertion, he said, “Here, let me help,” as he put his arm around Yrjö to bolster his walking.

“Not needed. We Finns have ‘sisu’.”

“Oh,” said Reilly, not knowing what he meant, making a mental note to ask him later, but not wanting Yrjö to expend any more energy than necessary as they slowly walked back to their haven on Kalevalankatu.

“Reilly, I owe you one.”

“Only one? I thought you Finns had nine lives,” Reilly joked.

“Only our wives,” Yrjö joked back.

What neither noticed because of the dark and rain, was a fourth man. A man who had silently watched and remained hidden.

Holmes Meets “The Brain”

Once in New York and in contact with that associate in London, Holmes was able to set his mind at ease as to my well-being and also that of his brother, Mycroft. But of Reilly, the Romanovs and the rest, his mind still churned. But he was absolutely astonished to learn of his own death and that he was a national war hero.

He knew stories like that are spread throughout the Empire and the world from such heights as blizzards fall. So he began to postulate, and shiver. But if I had been left in peace, perhaps the others had, as well. Then why had he, alone, been a mortal target?

For a little more than a year after arriving in New York, it was now late October, 1919, Holmes examined every possibility, every nuance, every microscopic bit of information that he could extract from his prodigious memory to discover who had been responsible for the attempt on his life; though he, as yet, had not come to a definitive conclusion. As he had so frequently reminded me, “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” This didn’t seem to help him now.

His plan was simple, and, based upon subsequent events, so malevolently coincidental, that I believe there were forces of nature at play that I will not even begin to divine. The fear for me, even at this late passage of time, is still palpable. You will learn why, presently.

Holmes’ reasoning was thus: he would remain deceased so that he had no fear of any further attempts at assassination. Then, free of that fear, he could begin to lay plans to safely return to London, discover the true identities of those responsible for this death, and wreak his revenge.

But, perhaps, the most disquieting part of his plan was to assume the identity of his complete opposite, John Clay. Yes, John Clay.

Having almost been assassinated at the hands of those who should have been his shield, I don’t know if Holmes had become unhinged. He was always fragile, that fine line between genius and madness on which we ruminate.

It had become his firm belief that since he could no longer trust those he thought he could previously trust, he would turn to those who opposed them; strong criminal elements whose affiliations might merge with those of Clay. He was following the dictum, “the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

Of course, he had no idea that Clay was searching for him.

He would find strong allies he absolutely knew had nothing to do with his government’s perfidy; allies he may need to call upon for what lay ahead. Quite frankly, allies more ruthless and seemingly unconcerned by their ruthlessness, than anyone in Holmes’ memory; the emerging American gangsters.

Since Holmes considered himself to be the intellectual pinnacle of whichever world he chose to inhabit at any particular moment, he would aim for the top man. His circumspect inquiries led him to the man they called “The Brain”, “Mr. Big”, “The Big Bankroll” and “The Fixer”. In fact, the man who had recently fixed the largest sporting event in America, the 1919 World Series, generating the infamous “Black Sox” scandal.

This was the man who controlled much of the burgeoning underworld; especially illegal gambling. This was the man who Holmes learned was a distant business associate of Clay’s, but who had never met him personally. Indeed, he was the man who Holmes regarded as the American Clay. This was the man who Holmes chose to become his ally.

His name was Arnold Rothstein.

Holmes learned that because of the coming of Prohibition in America, of which I will speak more of later in this narrative, Rothstein and Clay had been formulating a deal for his Scottish distilleries to supply spirits to Rothstein.

Holmes grudgingly admired their international business influence. He thought it would have been sporting to thwart them had not his “death” forced him in a decidedly divergent direction.

Holmes believed no one in New York knew what Clay looked like so he would impersonate Clay to the hilt; and though some may have known of Holmes, a simple disguise would solve that problem. It had to be real, though, so he grew a mustache, full beard and colored all his hair a cross between russet and brown.

But as Reilly relayed, it was more than a disguise, for when they met for the first time, Holmes seemed to have changed physically. Not just with age, but his whole persona seemed to have darkened. Those were Reilly’s words precisely, “His whole persona seemed to have darkened.” Chilling words. Chilling.

From what Reilly recounted further, Holmes, though further on in age, had now become enmeshed in the social and literary nightlife of New York. As Clay, a supposed master British criminal with a rapier intellect, he lent an air of danger to pampered literati and feted Broadway celebrities.

Of course he would do nothing to overtly draw attention from the authorities, but it was his belief that any new acquaintance made at this level of public fascination, might be of future help in his overarching search for retribution.

He became a regular of Manhattan’s famed Algonquin Roundtable and could be seen in battles of verbal barbs with the intellectually glittering likes of Alexander Woollcott, George S. Kaufman, Robert Benchley and Dorothy Parker. They called themselves “The Vicious Circle” and all would defer to Holmes for a mortal, terminating retort.

Yet it was not only these titans of the literary set who would attend the festivities. Holmes struck up friendships with the great American baseball behemoth Babe Ruth, the legendary thespian Tallulah Bankhead, and the World’s Heavyweight Boxing Champion, Jack Dempsey. To all, Holmes was Clay. And to Holmes, all were pieces of a puzzle that were to fall into a particular place when needed.

Holmes gleefully reported tweaking Ruth’s nose, only to find that Ruth “hit one out of the park” at him:

“Mr. Ruth, I understand that you are the king of your sport; something akin to cricket.”

“Hey, ‘keed’,” to Ruth everyone was ‘keed’,”I swing a bat, not bugs.”

That garnered an incredible laugh from all around the table, not the least of whom was Holmes who rarely was bested verbally or otherwise.

Holmes spoke of Dempsey and he playfully jabbing at each other while members of The Vicious Circle, and joyful onlookers, rooted uproariously for one or the other to connect with a decisive punch. After all, Holmes reminded Reilly, he had been a singular amateur boxer in his youth.

Above all, there was the American underworld. The men who were part of that sinister brotherhood were already organizing to take advantage of the passage of the Eighteenth Amendment to the American Constitution, better known as Prohibition.

This bizarre law which would ban the creation, sale and distribution of alcoholic beverages had been ratified by the American congress on January 16, 1919. It was to go into formal effect quite soon, on January 17, 1920.

Through particular intermediaries, pieces of the puzzle now used, a meeting was set with Holmes to meet Rothstein at his office suite at Manhattan’s Park Central Hotel, on Seventh Avenue and 55th Street, slightly north of the Great White Way.

What happened at that meeting harkens back to my previous mention of a malevolent coincidence.

As Holmes approached the Park Central Hotel, he noticed three young men by the entranceway. By their dress, these men were not hotel employees. They wore camel-hair or mohair overcoats against the November chill. Their wide-brimmed fedoras were expensive and color-matched to their overcoats. Holmes noticed razor-creases in the trousers showing below the elongated overcoats and exquisitely polished lizard-clad shoes below the trousers.

Holmes wondered how three such young men would have the funds to expend on such finery. His answer came swiftly.

The men noticed this stranger approaching and, in unison, turned towards Holmes, all thrusting their hands into their overcoats, and taking one step towards him. But one took two.

“Who you?” Curt question asked, this man’s hand stayed firmly in his overcoat and his body rocked to-and-fro ominously towards Holmes; as would a king cobra in front of its charmer.

This man was the youngest of the group, looking no more than in his late teens, muscular and tall. But it was his ice-blue eyes that truly caught Holmes’ attention. They were, perhaps, the eyes of a nascent psychopath. They were held menacingly wide open and even without the “Who you?” were demanding an answer.

“My name is John Clay. I have an appointment with Mr. Rothstein at ten.”

“Ya talk funny, Johnny. Where ya from, Philly?”

“Why, no, London.”

“Ya mean like in England?”

“Yes, as in England.”

With his head tilted slightly backward towards the other men, “Hey, we got a guy here from England. He says he got an appointment with Mr. Rothstein.” The men said nothing and stood with their hands as before, inside their overcoats and apparently clutching pistols.

“You know the King?” this man asked.

“No, we’ve never met,” Holmes answered.

“Well, I ain’t met the president, neither, so I guess we’re even. Here, lift yer arms, I gotta frisk ya.” With that, Holmes raised his arms, the young man patted him from armpit to foot, then stood upright again.

“He’s clean,” he said to the men in back, with that same head-tilt, never taking those iceberg eyes off Holmes.

“Let him by. Mr. Rothstein is expecting him, remember?” This came from the man in the longest camel-hair overcoat. The one Holmes now knew to be the leader of this curious Yankee troika. And he now knew from where these young men drew their funds.

“Oh, yeah,” said ice-eyes. “Damn, Johnny boy, I thought I could dust ya, now I gotta make nice to ya. Screwy world, huh?”

“Yes, quite.”

“Ya still talk funny.”

“Here, come up here”. The long camel hair overcoat gestured Holmes to follow him. The third man followed in back of Holmes. This man was quite short, only about five-foot-four, but when Holmes had a quick look at his face, he saw steel.

As Holmes followed the leader, ice-eyes called out, “Yeah, and give my love to the King and Queen if you see ‘em, okay?”

“Of course.”

The leader took the group through the hotel lobby, nothing fancy, then to the elevator. As they walked, Holmes noticed the way in which others in the lobby would part to facilitate the trio’s progress.

“Mr. Rothstein told me you’d be here. We’re goin’ up to his suite. You just follow me and Meyer will just follow you. Benny’s staying down here.”

“Of course. Whatever procedure might be best.”

“Yeah.” This man looked to be in his mid-twenties, but carried himself as the leader he already knew he was. The short one, the one now in back of Holmes, looked to be a bit younger.

As they got into the elevator, they both faced Holmes and he was able to finally a good luck at both of the men, who had now doffed their fedoras.

The leader was about five-foot-ten, lean, with a hard, pock-marked face and wavy black hair. His dark eyes stared straight at Holmes with neither menace nor contempt, nor with any discernable expression, for that matter. Holmes realized that to this man, he was nothing. Just a parcel to be delivered, un-damaged, to his master, Arnold Rothstein.

The small man was a different story. His eyes kept studying Homes from head to toe and back again, never stopping in the few scant minutes it took to arrive on the ninth floor, where Rothstein had his suite. But to Holmes, those few minutes told insightful tales.

When the elevator doors opened, they turned right and right again around a corner and there Holmes saw another young man, also in his twenties, about the same height as the leader, a bit corpulent, and with a rather nasty scar along the left side of his face. He noticed us and became rigid.

“Relax, Al. This guy’s here to see Mr. Rothstein.”

“Okay.” He opened the door but stayed outside as Holmes and his two escorts went in.

They all stood in the middle of what appeared to be a sparse foyer. Then the only door leading further inside opened. Arnold Rothstein walked out. He was of medium height, slight of build, slicked back black hair, much younger than Holmes had imagined, in this late thirties, and dressed in what Americans might consider a gentleman’s attire; an artfully tailored suit, complete with waistcoat.

“Mr. Rothstein, Benny said this guy’s here to see you.”

“Mr. Rothstein,” Holmes said.

“Mr. Clay. Please come in. It’s nice to finally meet you after our transatlantic courtship. I hope we can make this ‘shittach’ happen.”

“Pardon me?”

“Sorry, John, That was Yiddish for ‘marriage’. Sometimes I forget that not everyone speaks Yiddish.”

Though Rothstein was being charming, Holmes was well aware of Rothstein’s nefarious acumen, and now, able to look into Rothstein’s eyes, he was finally able to gauge the wheels upon wheels and tumbling gears behind them. Perhaps Rothstein was more calculator than corporeal being.

“Please call me Arnold,” Rothstein said.

“Very well, then, Arnold.”

A big smile crossed Rothstein’s face, as if he had just completed his first move of successful seduction.

“So I guess I can call you John?”

“I don’t surmise it would hurt.”

Another smile from Rothstein.

As Holmes followed Rothstein into his office, he was surprised at the minimum of extrannea; essentials and nothing more. Which mirrored Rothstein, himself.

“So, John, what’s on your mind? What do we have to do to shake hands?”

“I believe you’re already aware of that. Someone with your intellect, interest and incisive disposition has already decided that this meeting would, indeed, bring our hoped-for endeavor to a mutually beneficial conclusion or there would have been no meeting.”

Rothstein laughed again. Louder, this time, with an inflection intimating his appreciation of the kindred intelligence of the man before him.

“Right-O, John. You hit the nail on the head. You have the distilleries in Scotland and I have a whole damn country filled with yokels who want to drink the stuff. You have supply, I have demand, we have a deal?” He extended his hand.

Now it was Holmes’ turn to laugh. Not only at the presumption of Rothstein but at his witty encapsulation of the state of the United States.

“I’ve appreciate how quickly you Americans come to the point, but, I believe, you may be putting the cart before the horse?”

“How come?” His hand was withdrawn with a slight frown.

“Well before one can agree on a deal, one must have a clear appreciation of what, precisely, that deal might be.”

That laugh again.

“Yeah, yeah,’course, ‘course. You were supposed to come up with a price per crate of the scotch, delivered by your ships offshore to where I tell you and if it sounded good, we shake hands, have a drink on it and we have a deal.”

“And if we cannot agree on a price?”

At this, his facial disposition hardened.

“Well then, John, if you’re not selling to me, you might decide to sell to one my, shall we say ‘competitors’, and that just wouldn’t do.”

“Oh, I see.”

“I certainly hope so.”

The presumption, once again, on Rothstein’s part, that the hint of a threat might unnerve him, gave Holmes further insight into Rothstein’s egomania or complete and matter-of-fact acceptance of his power.

“John, you met some of my boys outside.”

“Oh, yes, interesting young men.”

“Well, those interesting young men are more interesting than you could know. Let me clue you in.

“Charlie Luciano, the one you can spot as the leader of those guys, is a Sicilian, but he thinks like us.

“Benny Siegel, the guy you left in front of the hotel, may be just a kid, but he’s already killed three guys. That we know of.

“And Meyer Lansky, the little man. Imagine me at his age and that’s Meyer. Yeah, he’s short, but let me tell ya, he and Benny were runnin’ a real tough gang before they came to work for me. It was called ‘the Bugs and Meyer Mob’.”

“Bugs?” Holmes asked.

“Yeah. Benny is a little, shall we say, nuts. So some guys started in calling him Bugsy, a nickname. He didn’t like it. They didn’t call him that anymore. So never, ever, call him Bugsy. His name is Ben or Benny or Benjamin; but never Bugsy.”

“Thank you. Benjamin will suit. As in Disraeli.”

Rothstein continued. “Disraeli. Very good. And that’s just the tip. I got guys all over the country. I got that kid outside the door, from Brooklyn, Al Capone, going up to Chicago to work for a friend of mine, Johnny Torrio. Johnny runs Chicago. Like Browning said: ‘Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?’ Right?”

“In that case...” But before Holmes could speak, Rothstein cut him short. He was tiring of his cat and mouse.

“Nah, don’t waste your time. The game has gone on long enough. John Clay, I very much would like you to meet someone.”

“And whom might that be?” asked Holmes.

“John Clay.”

Reilly Leaves For London

After tending to Yrjö’s wound and satisfied there would be no lasting ill effect, Reilly and Yrjö finally fell into a fitful sleep.

There would be no more intrusion to mar that night, nor any the next day as Reilly was ready to board The Merenneito.

“Well, my Finnish friend, we seemed to have had a bit of an adventure.”

“My arm says so,” Yrjö said. “But, Roland, you are now on your own. I won’t be there to take any more bullets for you.”

“Now that’s a comforting thought.”

“I wish you luck with what you must do, and to find the peace you deserve once you have done it,” Yrjö said.

“That’s practically poetic,” Reilly said.

“I guess you never read Kalevala.” Yrjö said.

“Yrjö, before I leave, I want to ask a question. Personal courtesy. Do you know who I am?”

“Personal courtesy?” Yrjö made a show of rubbing his chin as one does when in deep thought. “Roland, we have no such thing as personal courtesy in what we do.”

Reilly shrugged, and after a gentle handshake so as not to disturb Yrjö’s wounded arm, he went up onto the deck. He turned to see Yrjö with a very broad smile and waving slowly, with his good arm, of course.

“You see, Sidney, what good friends we Finns can be?” he shouted as Merenneito carefully left the dock.

So Yrjö knew his name, after all. Of course, he’d know.

“I do know now, I most certainly do,” Reilly shouted back. And in short order, the ship pulled out of Yrjö’s sight.

Also out of sight of both Yrjö and Reilly, hidden from view, near the far right bow, stood the man who stood hidden in the dark and the rain the night before.

Mr. Clay, I Presume

Another door opened, towards the right in Rothstein’s office and through it walked John Clay. A very startled John Clay.

“Holmes!”

“Clay.”

Clay went quickly to Holmes and began shaking his hand, which, of course, completely startled Holmes, not knowing that Clay had come to America in search of him.

As Holmes fought to gain composure, Clay said, “Well, I should think the least I should expect from you is something akin to ‘What on earth are you doing here?’, or some such drollery.”

Rothstein watched the two men as a Roman emperor had watched two gladiators in the ring. Clay noticed Rothstein’s Cheshire-cat-grin and decided to show this American that perhaps he was not as omniscient as he thought. He looked at Rothstein and said, “Mr. Arnold Rothstein, I have the rapturous pleasure of presenting to you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

Clay received the reaction he had hoped from Rothstein; total and complete incredulity.

“Holmes? The limey dick?”

Holmes gave Rothstein a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, come, come, Arnold; surely you mean the great British consulting detective,” said Clay, taking deep delight in Rothstein’s continued discomfort. “Arnold, say ‘hello’ to Mr. Holmes; he’s really a quite interesting fellow.”

Rothstein was angry. “You think this is funny, Clay? You think this is one big joke?”His voice was so loud now that Luciano and Lansky came running in with pistols drawn.

Rothstein waved them away. “Nah, nah, put the gats down, boys, but keep ‘em ready. These two Brits just tried to put one over on me, but it didn’t work.”

It was Lansky who spoke. “We know who this guy is, Mr. Rothstein,” nodding his head towards Holmes, believing him to be Clay, “but who’s that guy?” He was pointing at Clay.

“Not important now. But hang around outside while they explain to me just what the hell is so funny and what the hell is going on.”

He turned back to Holmes and Clay once Lansky and Luciano had left the room and closed the door.”Okay, talk. And I don’t care which of you opens his trap first.” Clay did.

“It’s quite simple, really. Arnold, you and I have done business for quite some time through trans-Atlantic cables and trusted intermediaries, but we’d never met. With your Prohibition rapidly approaching and our cables about supplying scotch to you and your friends, I thought the time quite ripe for us to finally meet, raise a glass or two, and consummate our arrangement.”

“Yeah. so? So what the hell is this Holmes guy doing going around town telling people he’s you?” Rothstein asked.

Then he turned to Holmes. “You may be some wise guy dick in London, but I run this town and when somebody goes around saying they’re somebody I do business with, but who ain’t, I know somethin’s screwy. Get me?”

“I can’t shed any light on that,” Clay said, “but I’m sure Mr. Holmes can.” Both Clay and Rothstein were looking at Holmes.

“Yes, well, it’s rather elementary, really. But Arnold, before I explain my charade, would it be possible for me to speak with Mr. Clay alone for a brief moment?”

“Why, so you can cook up another scheme?” asked Rothstein.

“No, no scheme, I can assure you. But there are certain matters I need to discuss with Mr. Clay which would impact any arrangement the two of you might conclude; and I promise, Arnold, this will only be to your ultimate benefit.”

Clay looked at him suspiciously, but was shrewd enough to know whatever Holmes had in mind would ultimately benefit only Holmes. However, since he was still coming to grips with the fact that this was actually a living, breathing Sherlock Holmes and that his quest to find him was over, he said nothing and nodded assent to Rothstein.

“Okay, okay. Two minutes. But when I come back, you better have some nice big news for me with big green dollars in the headline. Get me?”

“Oh, most assuredly,” said Holmes. Clay nodded again in assent.

“I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone for two minutes. Then Meyer and Charlie and me’ll be back.” And with that, he walked out of the room.

“Holmes, you have no idea how happy I am to see you.”

Holmes could see, but could not believe, that Clay seemed utterly sincere. “Clay, I have no idea what you mean.”

With that, Clay began to divulge what had happened since Holmes had disappeared. Holmes’ seeming death at the hands of the Germans, Watson’s safe and happy return, and Clay’s own quest and promise to Watson to find Holmes.

“As I told Watson, without someone of your caliber to joust with, much of the fun of my crimes was slipping away. I needed my wits constantly sharpened and only your wits served as sharpener.”

At first, Holmes maintained his suspicion of Clay, but as he slowly came to believe him and was about to inquire further about what he had learned about his death in London, he and Clay heard shots in the other room. Their first reaction was to stoop for cover, but then, in unison, both bolted for the door.

There, on the floor, lay Rothstein, wounded and bleeding profusely. Luciano and Lansky had already run after those who had fired the shots, but leaving one of them dead already.

Just as Holmes bent down to tend to Rothstein, another gunman suddenly appeared at the doorway and took a shot at the prone body of Rothstein. It would have surely hit Holmes had not Clay dropped in front of Holmes. The bullet hit Clay.

Holmes examined Clay, trying to determine where he had been wounded,

“Why did you do that, Clay?” asked Holmes.

“Ponder it.” He gave a faint laugh-cough. “Funny, now you truly must be me,” Clay whispered. And with that, the remaining air in lungs slowly slid out and he died.

Luciano and Lansky came running back into the room to see the dead gunman, the dead Clay, the now-dead Rothstein, but a much alive Holmes.

Lansky knelt by Rothstein. “I shoulda protected him better. I shoulda shot those guys first.”

Luciano just stood there, pistol still in hand, giving a rational, cold-blooded summation, “Nah, we just got surprised, that’s all. It happens. Now what Mr. Rothstein had, maybe we can have. We gotta talk about this with Benny and Al. And you,” he was gesturing with his pistol towards Holmes, “we gotta talk to you, too. About the booze. But not now.

“Now we gotta get outta here. The cops’ll take care of the bodies. Al got winged at the door, he’s downstairs with Benny. Meyer, you go down there with Clay here,” he was nodding towards Holmes, “and you,” still looking at Holmes, “you go with Meyer to Benny and Al downstairs. You mean too much dough to us now for anything to happen to you, too.”

It was obvious to Holmes that Luciano and Lansky believed him to be Clay, since Rothstein had accepted him as such in front of them. Therefore, with Luciano as the new leader, all of Rothstein’s underlings would accept him as Clay.

This made it now even more imperative that his original plan move forward. It struck him as cosmically ironic that he, Sherlock Holmes, would have to subsume his identity and henceforth become John Clay, in reality. Then, upon his return to England, with Clay’s rule of the London underworld now his, how much easier and vicious would be his vendetta?

Safely escorted by Lansky away from the bloody scene and down to the entrance of the hotel, Holmes was virtually pushed into a mammoth Packard, an American automobile so large that he felt a Rolls Royce could fit comfortably within its interior. Already inside were Siegelat the wheel and Capone in the passenger seat, who, though wounded, turned to Holmes, motioned nonchalantly with his thumb to his face and said, “I had worse.”

“We gotta get ‘em. We gotta kill ‘em all,” Siegel was yelling.

“We will,” Lansky said, but keep yer mind on yer drivin’, Benny.”

“Just who is ‘them’?” Holmes asked.

“Numbers Malone and his gang,” Lansky said. “Damn micks.”

“Another example of the American love of apropos nicknames,” thought Holmes.

“That Numbers is completely nuts,” Siegel yelled. Holmes just listened. “They been comin’ down from the Bronx, shakin’ down our guys at our joints, wantin’ more of the numbers, wantin’ more of this, wantin’ more of that. I’ll give ‘em more of my gun in their heads.”

“Calm down, Benny. I don’t wanna be in no traffic accident,” Lansky said.

Siegel drove them to a toney area of Manhattan known as Central Park West, and, as its name implied, bordered the extreme western part of Central Park. They stopped in front of a tall, new Art Deco residential building at 72 Central Park West.

“This is Al’s place,” said Lansky to Holmes. “Get out.” This they all did. Capone in some discomfort. The doorman took the car.

Holmes noted that the entranceway, or lobby, to this building was quite opulent and that not many would be able to afford such luxury. From there, they took the lift to the penthouse. Lansky knocked and the door was opened by someone who appeared to be a cohort of these men, rather than a domestic. Holmes was greeted by even more luxury and a commanding view of Central Park and, it seemed, the entirety of Manhattan.

“Sit,” said Lansky, which Holmes proceeded to do, while the men went to a bathroom to tend to dress Capone’s wound. All except for Lansky, who sat down opposite Holmes and continued his study of Holmes as assiduously as Holmes studied Lansky.

This Lansky, whose eyes and behavior betrayed an intelligence that eerily reminded Holmes of his own, was the one man of all these men who would never be arrested for anything major and who would, with Charlie Luciano, become the true “inventors”, if that is the proper word for anything so improper, of organized crime in America.

“He’ll live, the schmuck,” Siegel said as he came back and, to use an American colloquialism, plopped himself into a chair next to Lansky. “Dago putz,” joked Siegel about Capone.

Benjamin Siegel, with a menacing, misdirected kinetic energy, better known to history as “Bugsy” Siegel, was a true seductive sociopath who could smile and kill with simultaneous ease.

The “Al” to whom he was referring, was Al Capone, a man who, I surmise, needs no detailed introduction. He emerged from the bathroom shortly, arm bandaged, hanging out of his sleeve and held with a makeshift sling of silk.

“I’m definitely gonna go out to Chicago, like Mr. Rothstein wanted,” Capone said, lifting his arm and puffing his cheeks in a gesture of ‘I don’t need this grief anymore’.

“But first, we get Malone and his guys. I ain’t goin’ nowhere till they’re so dead even rats won’t eat ‘em.”

`”Watch yourself, Al,” Siegel warned, “I hear Chicago is a very scary town. You can get real hurt in Chicago.”

“Very funny, very funny,” said Capone, swatting at Siegel’s head with his good arm. He and Siegel laughed. Lansky was still looking at Holmes.

Presently, Luciano returned. I should introduce him properly. This was, at the moment, the man known to the New York constabulary as Salvatore Lucania; though he was Charlie Luciano. But within a short space of time, he would be known to the world as “Lucky” Luciano. As previously stated, the man, who, along with Lansky, organized crime in America. But more of that later.

“Hey, Mr. Clay, who the hell was that other guy; none of us saw him go up to Mr. Rothstein?” Luciano asked.

“His name was Glover. He and I were having a business disagreement when Mr. Rothstein intervened. He won’t be missed and I removed any identification before we left.”

“Smart,” Luciano said, admiringly. He sat next to Lansky.

“Maybe he was Houdini and he just appeared in that room. Houdini is Jewish, ya know,” Siegel said to Holmes.

“No, I wasn’t aware.”

“Yeah, his real name is Erich Weiss. Somethin’, huh?”

“Most assuredly,” agreed Holmes, hoping that Siegel would stop.

Luciano interrupted and Siegel stopped.

“Okay, forget that crap. We should be takin’ over from Mr. Rothstein, not Malone and his mob. All the stuff that was Mr. Rothstein’s, is now ours.” He made a sweeping, circular gesture with his outstretched arms, indicating all the men in the room.

“I’ll go up there myself and kill ‘em all,” Siegel said.

“I appreciate you volunteerin’, Ben, but it’s gonna take some plannin’,” Luciano said.

It was now Holmes turn to interrupt and surprised himself at what he now said.

“Gentlemen, you cannot wait and plan. Right now, this Numbers Malone and his men are up in that Bronx place, probably laughing and drinking and congratulating themselves on killing Mr. Rothstein.

“He probably thinks that you’re too young and too disorganized to seek immediate retribution.”

“Huh?” Siegel asked.

“Clay is sayin’ we go up to the Bronx and take care of ‘em now,” said Lansky.

“Yes, in any successful military operation, surprise is always a key element. If you wait any longer, they’ll just come back down and pick you all off one by one.

“He’s right,” Capone said.

“I agree,” Lansky said.

“So what you’re sayin’ is that we get some more of our guys and go up there now and end this right away?” Luciano stated, more than asked.

“Precisely,” Holmes answered.

Seeing that he was not only being accepted into this unfortunate fold, but had just become an architect of a major crime, he called upon what he knew to be the surface loyalty of felons and took the next step in their business relationship.

“Gentlemen, before we settle the details of how best to eliminate Mr. Malone and his minions, and while this might not be the most propitious of times, would it be improper to conclude the agreement Mr. Rothstein and I were finalizing?” Holmes asked.

“Nah, it’s okay,” explained Lansky, “Mr. Rothstein was the smartest of the smart. And he could always choose a winner. If he chose you, he already played it from every angle. So you and Charlie and me’ll fill in the details later.”

“Yeah, first we fill Malone with bullets,” Siegel said. Lansky just shrugged.

What would happen over the next few months, while setting Holmes’ timetable for retribution behind, in the long run, would only strengthen his ties to these hoodlums and permit him to inflict his very particular brand of retribution on those who had tried to kill him.

Reilly In London, August 2, 1919

Reilly’s boat trip to London was happily uneventful; a short respite used to reflect, to suppose and to hope.

Without stopping to report to SIS that he was there, or alive, and to be debriefed, he first came to me. He knew that Yrjö would have alerted London as to his whereabouts.

It was early on the evening of August 2, 1919, when he knocked on my door. He heard me addressing Elizabeth, “Don’t mind, Elizabeth, I’ll tend to this.”

Pause for a moment and, if possible, picture from my point of view, opening the door to find Reilly standing before you. Exactly.

“Wha...wha...Rei.,” all I could do was stammer.

Reilly let out a laugh, grabbed me in an all-encompassing bear hug, and stood there silently rocking us for a brief moment.

When he freed me he asked, “Well, am I not to be invited in?”

“Why...why... of course,” I was still stammering as if I had just seen the spirit of Christmas past. And in a way, I had.

“Reilly, Reilly, please, in there, in there,” I said pointing Reilly to my study. “How, Reilly, how? Pray, tell me everything, I’m so speechless at your sudden appearance.”

“Under the circumstances, quite understandable. Watson, might you have a libation to offer a poor traveler?”

“Most assuredly, most assuredly,” and I gingerly removed a bottle of aged scotch and two glasses from my desk.

“Ah, that’s good scotch, Watson. You’re more discerning that I had imagined.”

Playing the wounded individual, “Why, Reilly, in all the time we spent together and with your supreme level of intelligence, I am abashed to learn of your failure to discern that.” We laughed.

“But, please, Reilly, you left us in July of last year. I cannot even begin to think of the correct questions to ask and in what order.”

“No, Watson, wait. Before I tell you, I have one all-important question.”

“Yes, yes, of course. But I believe I know what it is. Tatiana is well, at least I believe so. As are all the Romanovs.”

Reilly must have let out all the air in his lungs with relief. “Thank heaven for that.”

“But, Reilly, there is more. Are you seated securely?”

“Pardon me?”

“Reilly, it gives me the greatest of pleasure to report to you, that you are a father.”

For perhaps the first time in his life, Reilly was speechless. And, it seemed, paralyzed, as well.

“It is a boy, Reilly, a boy. He was born on March 2. He is now six months old. And Tatiana named him after you. His name is Sidney.”

With that, again perhaps for the first time in his life, Reilly lowered his head and wept.

Holmes Becomes Consigliere

Luciano, Lansky, Siegel and Capone were in one car. Other men with interesting nicknames were in a second: Legs Diamond, Dutch Schultz, Kid Twist Reles and Lepke Buchalter. This last man would go on to found “Murder, Inc.”; literally contract killers with no allegiance to anyone or any group.

“It’s good we’re gonna get those guys now. By tomorrow, we’ll have to attend Mr. Rothstein’s funeral, if they let him be buried like he’s supposed to be,” Lansky said. “Ain’t no use in any of us stayin’ away as the cops know we all worked for him.”

All in the first car agreed.

It was early afternoon when the cars pulled up in front of Rusty’s, a bar on West Farms Square in the Bronx that was Malone’s headquarters. It flourished because it sat on a terminus of trolley cars, buses, an American equivalent to our underground called a subway, and only a few minute walk to one of the world’s truly great nature attractions, the Bronx Zoo. The lithe Bronx River ran along the exterior rear of Rusty’s.

The men in both cars had either pistols or “Tommy Guns”; so called because they were Thompson submachine guns from WWI. Neither car had any tags or plates of identification.

As Holmes had predicted, Malone and his men were inside drinking, celebrating their killing of Rothstein. They were sloppy and left no guards on the outside.

With almost military precision, all doors swung open and the men from both cars ran into Rusty’s. Malone, his seven men and the bartender were completely surprised and held their hands up in surrender.

“Now nobody is gonnna do nothin’ stupid,” Luciano said. “Guns out, barrel first, and throw ‘em on the floor! Now!”

When one of the men looked as if he was going to do something stupid, Siegel shot him in the head and said, “See what happens when you do something stupid?”

Schultz, Diamond and Reles waved all the men except Malone to the far end of the long, oak bar and stood there with their Tommy Guns on the remaining six, including the bartender. Malone remained at mid-bar. Buchalter remained at the front doors, watching.

Luciano walked slowly over to Malone with Siegel, Lansky and Capone right behind.

Malone was the same age and height and had the same ferocity as Luciano, but he didn’t have one tenth the brains. Luciano could see the fear in Malone. But Malone didn’t think he was showing it.

“So whaddaya gonna do now, Charlie? That Jew ya worked for is dead. Why not join up with me and the guys and we can own this town?” Malone asked.

“I’m Jewish, too,” yelled Siegel and he shot Malone in the knee. Malone crumpled. His men made a slight move but Schultz, Diamond and Reles just waved their Tommy Guns and the men moved back.

As Malone lay on the floor howling in pain, Capone kicked him in the wound and said, “We ain’t even yet.”

Luciano then walked over to the men at the end of the bar.

“T’ hell with ya, ya dago piece of garbage,” said one of the men.

“See what I mean about doin’ stupid’ stuff. Now, how the hell stupid do ya have t’ be t’curse me out with me and my guys havin’ guns on ya and you got your brains up your ass?” Luciano asked.

Capone had come over. “Dago piece a crap, did ya say?” Capone shot him in the testicles. The other men recoiled and grabbed their own in reflex. Capone then gave a nod of the head to Schultz, Diamond and Reles who, with their Tommy Guns, dispatched the other men quickly, professionally, and with no wasted bullets. Diamond stood far enough back so that no blood would spatter his spats. He was unsuccessful.

This left only Malone, still on the floor and still howling in pain.

“Oh gee whiz, Numbers; you’re bleedin’ all over the nice floor and screechin’ like one of your freakin’ banshees. You’ll wake up the whole damn neighbourhood.

“I know, you need to cool off. How about I take ya for a swim? Would you like that, Numbers?”

With that, Siegel dragged Malone by the neck of his jacket to the back of Rusty’s, opened the back door and then dragged Malone down the rocky, little hill to the Bronx River.

“See, Numbers? You’re gonna cool off. Forever.”

Siegel turned Malone upside down so his head was in the water and he held his head down until Malone had, indeed, cooled off forever.

Siegel then joined the others and they went back to Manhattan.

In Capone’s apartment, Holmes had no idea of the savagery he had unwittingly unleashed. He would learn more, however, with time and become more inurned to it; drifting farther into a persona from which it might be impossible to disengage.

Upon their return, Luciano, Lansky and Siegel began to formalize their new partnership with Holmes; Capone would be leaving for Chicago in a few days and whatever his three colleagues decided was fine with him. He knew he’d get what he was due.

“Hey, Meyer, count good,” Capone said as a fond goodbye when he finally left for Chicago.

With Capone gone and many of his men with him, Luciano, Lansky and Siegel had to come to grips with the power vacuum left by Rothstein’s death; and if not handled properly, would most certainly lead to their own. There were much larger fish than Numbers Malone befouling the filthy waters of the Hudson and the East River.

Salvatore Maranzano and Giuseppe Masseria were the biggest of these fish. While these names remain unknown to most outside of the United States, to New Yorkers of this period, the names literally were equated with evil and death.

With Rothstein gone, the old “Mustache Petes”, as they were referred to by Luciano and other young gangsters on the rise, would soon begin a war to divide Rothstein’s territory and to enlist his young mobsters into their ranks.

After all, they reasoned, more territory needed more soldiers to protect it. Then you needed more soldiers to conquer more territory and to hold that territory. Ad nauseum. The Roman emperors had taught these men too well.

It was called the Castellammarese War because both Masseria and Maranzano had emigrated from that region in Sicily. And it was fought brutally and with no quarter. Right on the streets of New York.

Luciano, Lansky and Sigel, though very smart and very tough, did not have the numbers to overtly challenge either Maranzano or Masseria; even with Diamond, Schultz Buchalter and Reles. So they began to quietly gather other young mobsters who wanted no part of the Mustache Petes and who would gladly ally to eliminate Masseria and Maranzano.

The young Sicilian immigrants who fell in with Luciano would all to go on to criminal infamy: Carlo Gambino, Albert Anastasia, Frank Costello, Vito Genovese, and Joe Adonis, to name a few.

Yet in the midst of the war, Holmes continued the planning with his new business partners and tried not to become directly involved.

It was at an intense planning session between Luciano, Lansky, Siegel and Holmes, on how the spirits were to be delivered from Scotland to America that Lansky suddenly changed the topic.

Lansky said, “John, over the last few months, getting to know you and see how you think, and how you helped us with Malone, we agree that you think like Mr. Rothstein and not too many people could do that.” Luciano and Siegel nodded assent.

Luciano spoke next. “What Meyer is saying, is that with what we have going on, and which could hurt our business arrangement with you, we want you to be our consigliere.”

“I beg your pardon,” Holmes said.

Siegel said, “You know, our counselor. Like Meyer said, you got brains. You’re like Mr. Rothstein was, may he rest in peace.”

Lansky continued, “We need someone to trust as we go to war with them guys. Someone we can plan strategy with and bounce ideas off of, if you know what I mean.”

“A consigliere is a very special person in our thing. He’s the one who can see all the angles and help us play the right one,” Luciano said.

“I see,” said Holmes. And knowing that he could not refuse such an important request without fear of suspicion and then, perhaps, worse, he said, “Gentlemen, I am truly honoured that you hold me in such high regard and I solemnly accept your offer.”

“Good, it’s settled,” Luciano said and all three men rose from the table to shake hands with Holmes.

“Imagine that, a limey consigliere. It’s like a Hebe Pope,” said Siegel.

“Crude, but true. Welcome,” Meyer said.

“C’ent anni,” Luciano said. “To a hundred years, John.”

“Yeah, right. We should live so long,” said Siegel.

And with what was to happen to Luciano in the midst of the Castellammarese War, that statement proved preternaturally prescient.

Reilly Leaves London

After Reilly had regained his composure, and with assistance of some brandy, he looked at me and said, “A son. I never imagined that I’d be a father. Not with my life. Never. And tell me again, Tatiana, she’s completely all right?”

“Yes, yes. As a doctor and as a friend, when I left her and the family she was fine.”

“My God, where are they? Are they in London? Where are they?” He was practically shaking me.

“Calm down, Reilly, calm down. No, they’re not here. They’re in the Bahamas. On the island of Eleuthera.”

“I haven’t heard of it.”

“Don’t worry, it’s a beautiful place. I was with them for about a year. And, I must tell you, I’m the one you have to thank for spanking your namesake into the world.”

“You, you were the doctor for Tatiana?”

“Well, of course. Who the dickens did you think? The bloody head of the Royal Medical Society?”

“No, no, I meant that I couldn’t be happier that Tatiana and the baby were in your hands. They couldn’t have been safer.”

“Quite true, quite true. Now compose yourself further because Elizabeth will most certainly be here shortly to see just what has become of me. I’ll simply introduce you as an old and dear friend from the army, a comrade I haven’t seen in years.”

“Perhaps you can choose a word other than ‘comrade’, doctor.”

“Yes, yes. Of course.” And they both laughed just as Elizabeth knocked at my study door.

After Elizabeth satisfied herself as to my safety and saw how sincerely happy Reilly and I were, she left us in peace once again with a twinkling, “Please don’t get too rowdy. We wouldn’t want to disturb our nice neighbours, now, would we?”

I then began to relate all that happened to me and Holmes and the Romanovs after Reilly had taken leave of us in Russia.

I told him of our voyage to the island, of our becoming settled and happy, of the hurricane, of the birth of baby Sidney, and of everyone’s health when I departed on the fifth of July. It seemed so long ago, but had only been less than a month since I left Eleuthera.

Then, after a very deep breath, I told him of the supposed death of Holmes and Yardley and Preston, their homeward-bound ship supposedly sunk by the Germans. I told him of the visit of the man with the red beard and what he had told me: that “they” whoever “they” are, had Holmes in their captivity and if I wrote of his last great adventure serving his King and country in the Great War, Holmes would remain alive. If not, he would disappear “like coins the hands of a cheap magician.”

I told him of the killing of Newsome, of my direct meeting with Lloyd George. I told of my meeting with Clay who had gone off to discover if Holmes was still alive, and of my promise to dramatize Clay’s own death at the hands of disgruntled henchmen, which I did in “Feet of Clay”, so that he could adopt another identity and be free.

“So Holmes may still be alive somewhere?” he asked.

“I most fervently hope so.”

I then took from one of my desk drawers a sheaf of newspaper clippings I had saved about Holmes’ heroic death and then my own deceitful tale of his death.

Finally, I told of the visit of my smaller nanny who had come to repay a favour Holmes and I had done for his family, by unspooling the web woven by Lloyd George and what I had dubbed “the Black Faction”. But Reilly knew nothing of a red-bearded man and his tale of Holmes still being alive.

Now, spent myself, I said to Reilly, “I’ve told you everything, I believe. But I’ve not the mind to decipher the puzzles that you and Holmes find so elementary. Other than Holmes, I cannot think of another, but you, who I would expect to untangle this Gordian’s knot.”

He said not one word, at first, but sat immobile looking into my eyes. But I saw wheels turning behind them, as I had so often in Russia.

Finally, he spoke. “Watson, while I appreciate my equation with Holmes, our minds work in a very different manner. Holmes’ mind divines the mystery, my mind devises it. I’ve listened very carefully to all you’ve just said, but until I have the time to ponder this at length, I have no answer or assurance of Holmes’ fate to give you.”

“However, our government has separate divisions, which, ironically, remain divided in every respect. One will work against the good of the other so that it may be more successful even though it may cost England most dear.

“As you may suspect, I have my resources both within and without, government which I will use to the utmost. But, Watson, as much as I truly wish to aid you about Holmes, I wish to see my wife and baby even more. I’m going to see them first, before anything else.”

And though he immediately saw my desperate disappointment, he heard me quietly say, “I understand. I do.” I then gave him the secret and detailed information he would need to find Tatiana, baby Sidney and the Romanovs at the compound on Winding Bay.

As Reilly left me, with one hand holding hard my right and his other on my shoulder, he said, “John, for the good of your family, if only the loyal, loving hound could but turn into a jackal.”

With that he was gone. And I could not have known at that moment that the faint words of hope he had given me about Holmes were nothing more than gossamer comfort.

I was not to hear from him until he appeared once again at my door, more than two years later.

The Castellammarese War

“To paraphrase Machiavelli, ‘Hold your friends close and your enemies closer’,” said Holmes.

“I ain’t holdin’ nobody close but dollies,” smirked Siegel.

“Will you shuddup and listen to the man,” said Lansky as he playfully hit Siegel in the back of his head.

“Charlie,” Holmes said, “you must meet with Masseria and offer him fealty.”

“Huh?” Siegel asked.

“It means, Benny,” Luciano said, “that I gotta go to Masseria and tell him that we’re all gonna be workin’ for him. We’re gonna be soldiers for him.”

“No way, no way I’m gonna work for that fat, greaseball, dago bag of crap.”

“Calm down, Benny and listen,” Lansky cautioned again.

“Ben,” said Holmes as calmly a parent would when trying to teach a child to obey, “you’re not really going to be working for him. You must make him believe that you and Meyer and Charlie can be trusted. Then, when he’s lulled into false security, he can be dealt with.”

“Dealt with? What’s dealt with?” asked Siegel, only a bit more calmly.

“We can kill him,” Luciano said.

“Now, that I understand. Yeah, I’ll deal with him, all right,” and Siegel pulled out the pistol he had in his pants.

“Put it away, putz,” said Lansky.

“And just how do I convince him that Ben and Meyer and me and the rest of the guys with us are gonna be working for him?”

“Quite simple, really. Bring him a bag full of money. A very large bag filled with money. In ancient times it was called an offering. One gave a valuable gift to prove one’s oath of fealty.”

“Money’s no problem,” said Lansky. “How much do you think we should give?”

“Large enough to wet his appetite and that by working for him, you’ll be able to bring him much more. Now be sure to have your pistols with you. You’ll be searched anyway and if you came without your weapons, they would think something is awry. And don’t become alarmed when they rummage through the money in your bag. They’ll just to be sure there are no weapons hidden inside.”

“Can’t you talk English,” said a frustrated Siegel.

“Yes, I can. Can you?” answered Holmes in jest.

But though both Lansky and Luciano expected some usually demented outburst by Siegel, he just reared his head back, slapped his knee and said, “Good one, Johnny, good one.”

“Anything else?” asked Luciano.

“Yes. No matter what he demands of you, agree. Most assuredly he’s going to demand too much. That will be a test. Hesitate, negotiate. If you give in immediately to his demands he’ll know you’re lying; and all three of you might as well dig your graves right there.”

“And Ben, though you and Meyer will be separated from Charlie by Masseria’s men, please don’t become worried. They’ll do no harm to him unless Masseria doesn’t believe him. But, of course, Charlie will make him believe him.”

“Done,” said Luciano.

The very next day, Luciano, along with Lansky and Siegel, went to meet Masseria at one of his favorite restaurants, Nuova Villa Tammaro in Coney Island, Brooklyn. Outside the front door, and after all three men were frisked, as the Americans say, by one of Masseria’s guards, Luciano was told to follow him inside to Masseria’s table, but Lansky and Siegel were detained by other guards.

Remembering Holmes’ injunction, Siegel’s only outward sign of discontent was his incessant smoking and an almost involuntary walking in circles. This, however, because of Siegel’s reputation, was looked upon with humor by Masseria’s guards, one of whom muttered under his breath, “Crazy, kike.”

Though both Siegel and Lansky heard the remark, before Siegel erupted, Lansky had grabbed his arm, looked straight into his eyes, as he had hundreds of times before in their young lives, and willed Siegel to calm down and continue walking in his ceaseless circles.

Luciano was walked through what appeared to be the normal Italian restaurant of the day in lower New York. A large dark, oak bar was to the right, with a few small tables with red and white checkered tablecloths to the left. Then they walked through two frosted-glass doors to a private room. There were guards seated at tables to the right and left rear, with a large center table where sat Giuseppe, “Joe the Boss”, Masseria.

“Sit,” said Masseria.

Masseria was much overweight and slovenly. His tie and shirt were already soiled by some sauce earlier spilled. To Luciano’s polished esthetic, learned from Rothstein, Masseria resembled nothing more than a particularly repulsive pig.

As Luciano sat, he handed over the satchel with the money.

Masseria wiped his mouth with his right hand, then onto the table cloth.

“I see you brought me a present and it ain’t even my boithday?” With this he laughed uproariously, as did the guards.

“I bring this for you, Don Masseria, as a gesture of good will from me and my men.”

“And why should you bring me such a present?” Masseria leaned over the table, as far as he could to be as close to Luciano as possible. Luciano knew that the next few words out of his mouth might be the most important he had ever spoken. Or might be his last.

“Because, Don Masseria, with Mr. Rothstein gone, you or Don Maranzano will take over everything. And me and boys are bettin’ on you.”

Masseria’s eyes betrayed a mild glint of acceptance of those words, but still bore into Luciano.

“And why do you and your boys think that?”

“Because of the way you took over Don Rasata’s territory; and we think you got bigger guns than Maranzano. You both want each other dead and we can help you make him dead. If you know anything about me and my boys you know plenty about what happened to Numbers Malone and his guys. And you know about Benny Siegel.”

“That Bugsy of yours. Yeah, I know about that crazy Jew.”

“Don Masseria, with all due respect, that crazy Jew is gonna kill Maranzano and keep you living. Nobody will know we’re working for you. So Ben and Meyer and them other Jew guys we got, will kill Maranzano and it will be the Jewish gang that did it. The heat’ll be off you. Then the whole thing will be yours.”

“Yeah, how come you work with Jews? Our thing is Sicilian. I don’t like it that you work with Jews.”

“Again, with all due respect, Don Masseria. You like money, right? What do you care where it comes from? Or who gets it for you?

Masseria leaned back in his chair.

Luciano then told him a story he knew Masseria would totally understand.

“Don Masseria, I know you know of the Roman Emperor Vespasian,” and he paused.

Masseria made a face as if to say, “Of course, I do.”

Luciano continued, “Well, he gets in a bind for dough and he comes up with a real good idea. He puts a tax on the public toilets and the dough starts comin’ in.

“Well, his advisors don’t like that. It ain’t proper t’collect money like that. So Vespasian, he calls over his top advisor guy, holds a coin under his nose and asks him if he smells anything?”

It took Masseria a few moments to finally understand, but even though he’s smiling, he says, “I still don’t like it; but as long as nobody is gonna know they’re working for me, okay.” What he said next, however, really took Luciano aback.

“Now the first thing I want you to do is go to Maranzano and tell him the same exact thing you just told me?

“Say that again, Don Masseria?” asked Luciano.

“You heard me. You ain’t deaf. Now move. And I don’t want to see you again until Maranzano is dead. Dead!” Masseria stood up now, shouting, “Dead! I want him dead!”

Luciano stood, bowed his head crisply to Masseria, and walked out of the room. He still heard him shouting as he got to the front door of the restaurant where Lansky and Siegel were waiting. Siegel abruptly stopped walking in circles.

All were given back their weapons, got into their auto and drove off.

“So what was all that yelling about?” Lansky asked.

“Nothing much. He just wants me to tell Maranzano what I just told him.”

“Wait till Johnny hears about this,” Siegel said, laughing.

Holmes Meets A Tourist In New York

In Liverpool one day later, Reilly, still traveling as Roland Windsor, booked passage on RMS Olympic, the queen of the White Star Line and, at the time, the largest ocean liner in the world. She would leave the next day.

Olympic had served nobly in the Great War as a troop ship, but was recently reconverted to her passenger grandeur; she was the swiftest way in which to reach New York, a leisurely five days. From there, Reilly had already booked passage on a ship to take him to the Bahamas, SS Brookland, an American cargo ship accepting a significant number of passengers, as well.

As promised, a few hours passed five days, Reilly was in New York on August 9. Though he had been all over the world, he was not quite prepared for the sheer electric air of Manhattan.

While London was the center of the Empire and the world, New York seemed to be the veritable center of dynamic energy. While London could boast historic architecture, nothing there could compare with the new “skyscrapers”, as they were being called. The Woolworth Building, the tallest of all, built in 1913, stood an incredible fifty-seven stories. At that time, one could get a nose bleed just thinking about the height.

Reilly had two days to pass while he waited for the final stage of his journey to begin to the Bahamas. And it was early on his second day in Manhattan, while his head stretched upward, straining to look at the top of the Woolworth Building, as all tourists did, that he thought he heard a familiar voice speaking his name, but in a question, “Reilly?”

Upon turning to see who would be addressing him so, he saw a tall, elderly man standing directly before him. The man was dressed in the mode of the day, expensively, too, Reilly noted. But immediately suspicious, Reilly reverted to SIS mode.

“Are you addressing me, sir?”

“I surmise my disguise has once again gotten the best of you. Just something I’m toying with at the moment.”

Holmes was dressed in the usual gentleman’s apparel, but with his new facial hair and color it would have been quite impossible to recognise him at hurried glance.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. Now good day, sir.” But as Reilly turned to leave, the man gently, but firmly, grabbed his arm, turning Reilly back to face him.

“Oh, come, come Colonel Relinsky, don’t you recognise me?” And Holmes winked at Reilly.

One closer look and, “What the devil? Holmes?”

“Your hearing is, at least, as good as ever,” said Holmes. “But come with me where we can sit and quietly speak without this incessant New York noise.”

Reilly said nothing, but continued to examine Holmes as he led them into a corner café directly opposite the Woolworth Building. Holmes chose a table towards the rear and they sat.

Though each shared the exceptional privilege of an incalculably keen mind, it seemed that neither could entirely digest the simple circumstance of the other’s existence at that particular moment.

“This is unbelievable, Holmes. Quite unbelievable. The world thinks you’re dead at the hands of the Huns. At least, most of the world.”

“And so I shall remain, Reilly, so I shall remain. But you’re wrong about this being unbelievable. The odds that you and I should meet like this here, now, are nothing short of astronomical.”

“No, Holmes, you don’t understand. I saw Dr. Watson at his home before I left for New York. What he told me was so incredible that I’m still sorting through it. But it concerned information of life and death for you. Perhaps you’ll understand and be able to make sense of it.”

He then told Holmes everything I had told him. And now Holmes knew, or thought he knew, who was responsible for his attempted murder; Lloyd George. Holmes would now be able to devise an appropriate revenge.

Reilly continued.

“Holmes, Watson is sick with worry about you.

“Poor Watson.”

“I’ve got to let him know you’re alive.”

Holmes cut him short with a stringent command, “No. Under no circumstances must he know that.”

“But Holmes, that’s inhuman. The man loves you like a brother and should be told.”

“Surely, Reilly, I don’t have to explain why he cannot be made aware.”

Reilly understood after a moment’s thought and nodded acquiescence.

“Agreed,” Reilly said, “though I’ll feel that I’ve betrayed the trust of a man who deserves better.”

“Well, I am equally sure that this is an experience not unknown to you.” The remark was biting and cut to Reilly’s very being.

For a long moment Reilly stared hard into the impassive face of the Holmes that sat before him, but realized the words were true.

“Yes,” he said quietly, then abruptly changed the subject to an immediate matter.

“Holmes, what did happen to you and why this disguise?”

“I will explain presently, but what about you?” Holmes’ demeanor now shifted to the guise of old friend, though Reilly saw through it to its harsh marrow.

“My word, it is so good to see you alive, as well. What happened to you after you left us? What devilish plot had SIS devised for you back then?”

“I propose a truce,” said Reilly. “I’ll tell you my tale once you’ve told me yours.”

Large pots of tea and pastry were ordered, and with much tea downed between them, each told of all that had happened subsequent to their last time together; with Holmes’ account of his hopes for a criminal alliance disturbing Reilly greatly. Since Reilly was fully aware of Holmes’ penchant for disguise in certain circumstances, Holmes did not need to explain further.

“How,” asked Reilly, “do you propose Watson chronicle what we’ve just told each other? If ever he’s able.”

“Precisely,” said Holmes. “For the tale to be truly told, I must succeed in what I must do.”

Reilly leaned in closer. “Holmes, this criminal business of yours; I don’t quite understand why you’ve not only allied with these murderers, but are giving them the blessing of your intellect.”

“I will need them when I return to London. Clay’s men there are hard, but there is a steel-hard malignancy among these American thugs that cannot be duplicated. I will need that.

“And besides, if one group of criminals do away with another group of criminals, so much less the tasks for the police here and in England. And I shall always be many steps ahead of them all, wherever they may be.”

The words and Holmes’ demeanor unsettled Reilly greatly. Holmes’ whole being had darkened, even without his latest disguise.

“Holmes, you don’t need those men. I can help you. Men I know and trust can help you. But you must wait till after I’ve returned.”

“Reilly, I don’t know when you’ll return, of if you’ll return and my business here will be concluded shortly. I most probably will be back in London while you’re still in Eleuthera. I will need these men.” He said this emphatically and with finality.

“I cannot steer you from this course?”

“Not Jove, himself.”

“Then I can only wish you luck and my hand. You know that if our paths cross again, and I hope they do, I’ll aid in any way I’m able.”

“I trust that you will. Good luck to you. Please give my regards to Tatiana and her family. As to your baby, I wish him a long, happy life.”

But to Reilly, these words seemed nothing more than perfunctory. Any sincerity to be detected in the eyes of someone saying those words was not there. All that showed was a cold, blank stare.

With that, Reilly left Holmes sitting at the table and walked out of the cafe. Once outside, he stopped as if to return, then stopped himself from doing so. As much as he would have wanted to aid Holmes, he wanted to see his wife and baby even more. He also had the unsettling feeling that the man inside did not seem to be Holmes anymore. So he continued his tour of Manhattan.

In his unaccustomed role as tourist, Reilly failed to notice a man looking at him while he was looking at the buildings. It was the same man who had been watching him since that night in Helsinki.

Luciano Gets The Once Over Twice

Luciano’s meeting with Maranzano went according to plan. Maranzano seemed more polished than Masseria, but only barely. He certainly dressed better, in Luciano’s keen sartorial eye, but he had a perpetual look of disdain that just further raised Luciano’s ire.

Maranzano seemed happy to have Luciano and his men come under his thumb. It would make it that much easier to do away with Masseria and become the capo di tutti capi, the boss of all bosses.

But two days after that meeting, as Luciano strolled long his familiar streets of the lower east side of Manhattan alone, a large black motor car stopped at the curb beside him. Two men jumped out of the car and pushed Luciano into the rear, at pistol point; one on either side of him.

“What’s with the gats, guys? I was just takin’ a walk.”

The man to the right of Luciano had already removed Luciano’s revolver from his jacket and then quickly searched him for any other weapons that may have been hidden; but found none. He nodded to the other man that Luciano was “clean”.

The man to the left, answered Luciano. “Nope, Charlie. We’re takin’ ya for a ride.” This, in American gangster slang meant they were going to kill him.

What happened next was nothing less than inhuman. The men blindfolded Luciano and tied his hands. Though it seemed that they were driving for a long period of time, Luciano could not tell just how long. He further felt that the auto was on the water and thought, “Holy crap, they’re gonna kill me in Jersey and dump me out there somewhere.”

Then he felt they were back on a road and when the auto stopped, he was pulled out of the auto and he heard what sounded like a warehouse door sliding open. He was walked inside, pushed down into a chair and tied to that chair.

When the blindfold was removed, Luciano could see that he was, indeed, inside what looked like a bare warehouse. There were three big and beefy men looking at him as they removed their suit jackets. Luciano suspected what would happen next.

The biggest of the men spoke first.

“So, Charlie, how ya doin’?”

Luciano gave a laugh-grunt. “Okay, guys, what do ya wanna know?”

“I don’t wanna know nothin’. You guys wanna know anythin’?” The two other men shook their heads.

“Ya see, Charlie, we already know everythin’ we need t’ know. What we want you t’ know is this.” And with that, he punched Luciano hard in his right eye, which began to bleed profusely.

The second man stepped forward. He had a knife in his hand. “And this.” He stabbed Luciano numerous times in the chest; but not deeply.

The third man stepped forward. He had a tyre chain in his hand. “Oh, yeah, and this.” He hit Luciano across his shins. But Luciano was already unconscious.

He regained his senses as water lapped at his battered head and body. He found himself on a beach. He was in excruciating pain and blind in his right eye. His bonds had been untied and all he could do was crawl a few inches.

“Hey, mister, you okay?” Of all people, a police officer had found him.

“Help me,” said Luciano. He could barely make the sound, but enough for the officer to hear and then to summon an ambulance to take him to the nearest hospital.

Luciano was in Staten Island, the least populated borough of New York City, mostly still undeveloped and considered another planet by most other New Yorkers. So out of the way was its location, in fact, that the only way to reach Staten Island at this time was by ferry boat from the foot of Manhattan or by train.

The police questioned him thoroughly, but for once, what he told the police was the absolute truth: he didn’t know who the men were who beat him, where he had been taken, what they wanted, nor how he wound up on that beach in Staten Island. And since it was difficult for Luciano to speak, the police ceased their interrogation at the order of the physicians.

Though professionally skeptical of any criminal’s statements, there wasn’t much they could do. There was no need to leave officers outside Luciano’s room, because if those men had wanted him dead, he would already be so. So the police left. It wasn’t long after the police had departed before Lansky, Siegel and a few of their men arrived. Luciano had asked the nurses to ring Lansky.

When Lansky and Siegel entered Luciano’s room, the other men were posted outside, they couldn’t believe what lay before them. Most of Luciano was encased in bandages. But he was awake and aware. Lansky held back tears. Even Siegel was sickened at what he saw. Yet he still quipped, “Jesus Christ, Charlie, who turned you into a mummy?”

Though it was difficult to speak, Luciano said, “Very funny, Ben.”

It was Lansky who spoke next. “Enough. No more talkin’ for Charlie. He gotta get strong and rest. Charlie, we’re gonna take you home as soon as you’re okay, but I gotta ask, who did this. Don’t talk, just nod or somethin’.” Luciano shrugged his shoulders.

“You really don’t know?” asked Lansky. Luciano very slowly shook his head “no”.

It was Siegel’s turn. “One thing, the minute I find out who did this, they’re dead.”

“We know that, Benny. Charlie, we had to come to see you just to be sure you’re okay. We’ll leave a couple of the guys outside just in case, but we’d never of heard from you again if those guys wanted you dead.” Luciano nodded assent.

“Take it easy, Charlie. You look good,” laughed Siegel as they walked out.

“Don’t worry about anything, Charlie. We got you covered. We’ll talk with Clay about this, too. Gey shluffin,” Lansky said as he walked out. Those last words were Yiddish for “go to sleep.”

On the ride back to Manhattan, Lansky turned to Siegel seated next to him in the rear. “I didn’t want Charlie t’ know, but this can really spell trouble. When we’re back we’ll get a hold of Clay. I got some ideas of what happened and I wanna go over them with you and him.”

“Good,” Siegel said. “But I just wanna make somebody dead.”

Sidney Reilly Meets Sidney Reilly

Even though Reilly had been exquisitely trained to bury feelings and emotions when on assignment, he was not on assignment now. He had just boarded the Brookland and he actually believed he felt the proverbial butterflies in his stomach. And, he thought, if he felt this way now, just how would he feel gazing upon Tatiana once again, and little Sidney, for the first time?

Normally, it would take about two days from New York to Nassau, but with its stops along the way to deliver and pick up cargo, it would take Brookland four. Then a few more hours by local boat or ferry to Eleuthera. To Reilly, the incongruity of a mere four days equating with the eternity of four days caused him to smile to himself.

At last, he was in Nassau and he wasted no time in securing a small, private boat to bring him to Eleuthera, which would take only two to three hours. Once docked, with the instructions and directions I had given him, Reilly knew it best for him to walk to the Romanov compound on Winding Bay, and not to hire a conveyance to bring him there. He arrived in another hour’s time.

He skirted the main path of the house and slowly walked up the gentle incline to the right, eyes fixed on the house for any sign of the Romanovs and trusting his peripheral vision to alert him of anyone else.

There were busy workers who seemed to pay him no mind. But there was one who watched from the shade of a banana tree as Reilly passed by. The man followed quietly from some distance without Reilly knowing, so intent was Reilly on seeing Tatiana and Sidney.

Then, as he passed the main house and could see around to the rear, he let out an audible gasp. There, not fifty feet away, were Tatiana, baby Sidney, and the Grand Duchesses. Marie was tickling Sidney on a large white blanket while Tatiana and the others were watching and laughing as baby Sidney, only six months old, laughed.

It was Anastasia who spied Reilly first, and as had just happened with Reilly, she let out a gasp. Tatiana, Marie and Olga looked at Anastasia, then looked in the direction that she was looking and all gave out loud gasps.

Tatiana seemed frozen as she stood staring at Reilly; as frozen as was he. Then they ran at each other with ecstatic velocity. That was the precise term used by Reilly when he told me about their reunion.

The man watching Reilly simply turned and went back to his spot under the banana tree.

The Grand Duchesses were all now crying, as were Tatiana and Reilly. All, but baby Sidney who may have sensed his father’s presence and was laughing loudly as Reilly lifted him in his arms, high against the azure Eleutheran sky and quietly said, “My son, my son. If only you knew how much I love you.”

Tatiana took hold of Reilly’s shoulders as he held baby Sidney and laughed and cried as she repeated, “Your father is home, your father is home.” Then, to herself, “You are home, you’re here.”

Marie went to take baby Sidney from Reilly so that he and Tatiana could further embrace and kiss, but Tatiana pushed her away gently. “No, Marie, let the father and son be together. Let them feel each other. Let them love.”

It was at this point that the Tsar and the Tsarevich, Alexei, now quite a young man of fifteen, came out of the main house and were also taken aback at what they saw.

Alexei, once again not thinking as he should to protect himself, went running to the happy group. Luckily, there was no incident. As Tatiana scooped up baby Sidney from Reilly, Alexei held Reilly in the tightest hug he could muster as he proudly whispered, “Reilly. Pretty strong now, huh?”

“And who is this man holding my grandson so?” asked the Tsar with an immense grin and dressed as a peasant of the fields; which he had loved to do in the gardens of the Livadia Palace at Yalta.

“It’s Reilly, Papa; don’t you recognise him?” Alexei asked, in a now more mature and masculine voice.

“Of course, I do, of course, I do,” the Tsar said as he gently patted Alexei’s back.”My word, Colonel, how did you get here? Are you all right?” asked the Tsar as he gave Reilly the two kiss greeting.

“Father,” said Tatiana, “please, not now. I’m sure there will be plenty of time for Sidney to tell us everything. But for now, I just want to be alone with him and our son. And that means you, too Alexei. Don’t bother him now.”

With that, Tatiana put her arm around Reilly’s waist and they walked away from the house, away from the Tsar, away from the Tsarevich, away from the Grand Duchesses, across the beautiful lawn and sat on a bench facing the sea. Away from the entire world.

Alexei joined the Grand Duchesses who had stopped their happy crying and were now just smiling at the reunited family. The Tsar returned to the house.

In a beautiful, white and lavender solarium, facing that same serene sea, the sun illuminating the room till it glowed as if in a fairy tale, the Tsar went to sit with the Tsarina. He took her hands in his as she sat staring blankly out the window, her once-thick chestnut hair now almost completely gray.

“Sonny. Sonny,” the Tsar gently said, calling her by his loving nickname for her. “Reilly is here. He’s come back. He’s with Tatiana and baby Sidney.”

The Tsarina turned her face to him, but her expression was still blank. She was sinking father into her own, deep dimension.

How Lucky Can You Get?

Once back on home territory, Lansky and Siegel sat down with Holmes at a table in Lansky’s trucking company office. Lansky reported on the state of Luciano’s health and what had happened to him.

“From what you’ve described,” said Holmes, “Charlie is lucky to be alive.”

“Hey, that’s good. That’s real good,” said Siegel laughing. “From now on Charlie is gonna be ‘Lucky’. Lucky Luciano. I bet he’s really gonna like that.”

“I think he’s gonna like it better if you call him Charlie, like always,” reasoned Lansky.

“So, John, I got some ideas on what happened, but I’d like to hear what you think,” Lansky said to Holmes.

“Yes, well, from what you’ve related, we have a number of possible scenarios and one overarching question which may provide an answer: why was Charlie left alive?”

“Yeah, that’s the big question. Like I said, I have my ideas but I wanna hear yours.”

“Me, too,” said Siegel.

“All right, then, these are my thoughts. If Maranzano suspected Charlie of duplicity, what happened was a message delivered that he could be killed whenever Maranzano chose. But he was left alive because Maranzano wasn’t entirely sure; and if Charlie were telling the truth about serving him, then he was certainly worth more alive than dead. And now he would truly fear Maranzano.

“If it was Masseria who had this done, the same holds true. Which leaves us with a rather profound conundrum.”

“What’s this conderbum crap?” Siegel asked.

“It’s a puzzle, a riddle. And right now, it looks like none of us can solve it,” Lansky said.

“Unfortunately,” said Holmes.

Upon that, it seemed as if stilted silence had taken sway. Lansky and Holmes could do nothing but look at each other, as if by that simple act one of them might deduce why what happened, happened.

“One thing’s definite, though,” Siegel said, “since we can’t be sure who did that to Charlie, they both gotta die. And the sooner the better because I don’t wanna end up like Charlie or worse and I don’t think that either of you do, too.”

“I believe that Ben has grasped the central point quite nicely,” Holmes said.

“Yeah, I agree. We’ll start planning this now, but we don’t do nothin’ till Charlie’s back,” Lansky said.

“That would be most efficacious,” agreed Holmes.

“Goddammit, Johnny, can’t you just talk English?” asked Siegel with some exasperation.

“Hey, I don’t even know that word,” said Lansky with a smile and a shrug, easing the tension.

“It means that you are one hundred percent correct, Meyer. Your idea is the most efficient for our purposes.”

“Great. I can’t wait for Charlie to get back,” said Siegel.

Holmes then got up from his chair, went to a large cabinet he knew was used to house Meyer’s alcohol, retrieved some glasses and some scotch and returned to the table, setting the glasses carefully down in front of Lansky and Siegel, with one where he would be sitting. He then proceeded slowly to pour the scotch into each glass, never taking his eyes off the scotch as it fell, circled the table and sat, head down, looking at his glass of scotch.

At first, Lansky thought Holmes’ actions odd, but then realized he was in the grip of a plan and that he needed those simple movements to help him formulate that plan. Holmes then lifted his head, looked at Lansky, then Siegel.

“Now, I don’t want you gentlemen to think I have lost my sanity, but this is how I believe we should proceed,” Holmes said.

Neither Lansky nor Siegel said a word, so intent to hear what Holmes had next to say.

“You are going to dispense with them both at the same time. I don’t mean precisely at the same time, but one right after the other. Within a very few hours.” Siegel and Lansky looked at each other.

Siegel spoke first. “Johnny, you know I think you got brains like Meyer, but how we gonna kill those guys on the same day with all the muscle they got?”

“Yeah, John,” said Lansky, “it seems like we might be bitin’ off more than we can chew.”

Holmes smiled and said, “That depends on where you bite.”

After convalescing for two weeks, Luciano was discharged. He was met by Lansky and Siegel in his room and a half dozen of their men at the entrance. Now that the bandages were completely removed, they noticed a nasty scar on his right cheek and that his right eyelid was drooping badly. But they said nothing.

As Luciano left the hospital, the men greeted him heartily with:

“Hey, Lucky; glad you’re back!”

“Good t’ see ya, Lucky!”

“Ya never looked better, Lucky!”

Luciano turned to Lansky, “What’s with all this ‘Lucky’ crap?” Siegel gave a big laugh. Lansky said, “Get in the car, Charlie, and I’ll tell you what’s up.”

By the time they were safe in Luciano’s sumptuous apartment in the Waldorf Towers a few hours later, one of Manhattan’s most posh residences, in fact one in which one of America’s ex-presidents, Herbert Hoover, would call home later, Luciano had been completely briefed by Lansky in such detail that even napkin colors were mentioned, so thorough were the preparations. All venues had been scouted and every contingency planned for.

Charlie agreed that according to Holmes’ plan, they would move ahead the very next day. Holmes came to pay his respects a few hours after their return.

“I must say that it’s truly good to see you again, Charlie. I hope that eye isn’t causing you any trouble.”

“Nah. Just makes me look half sleepy; but both eyes are always open. It’s good t’ see you, too. Please sit. Johnny, I like your plan; Meyer filled me in.”

“With even a modicum of luck, you should succeed,” Holmes said, reassuringly.

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I think,” said Luciano.

“But I’ve added a twist, Charlie,” Holmes said, as all now gave full attention to Holmes. “I expanded on the plan, and I’d like to discuss it now with all of you.”

“We’re all ears,” Siegel said, flapping both of his with his hands.

Holmes then laid out his expanded plan as all sat and listened.

When Holmes had finished, all Siegel could do was give out with an elongated whistle. Lansky just sat, the permutations going through his mind as quickly as a roulette ball spinning in the wheel.

Of them all, it was Luciano who grasped the true significance of the plan’s audacity, and what it would mean for him and his closest allies.

“John, obviously you know what this will do for me and Meyer and Ben and our guys ?” Luciano asked, but was really making a statement.

“Of course I do. But no matter what should happen today, I believe it imperative you move as soon as you make the arrangements. Hopefully within a week,” Holmes said.

“I can’t wait,” Siegel said, exhibiting that eccentric back-and-forth rocking motion of his.

“Most assuredly,” Holmes said.

“Ben, get us some glasses and booze, huh?” Luciano asked.

“No problem. I could use a belt right now, anyway,” Siegel said.

When their glasses had been filled, the four of them stood in a circle and Luciano toasted.

“Domani, guys, Domani!”

“Domani!”

“Domani!”

Domani

Domani came. It was November 5, 1919.

Masseria greeted Luciano at the same table of the same restaurant in which they’d first met; and as at that first meeting, Masseria was eating lustily. Luciano sat down opposite Masseria when gestured to do so.

“Too bad that, Charlie,” said Masseria, as he made a motion with his knife across his cheek. Luciano wasn’t sure if it was a mocking gesture or simply an imitative one. “So tell me, what happened? I hear they’re calling you ‘Lucky’ now. I like that. Lucky Luciano. So tell me, what happened?”

Luciano began to unfold the tale, but after a few minutes, he looked uncomfortable and said to Masseria, “Don Masseria, you must forgive me, but after this happened, I gotta go t’ the bathroom a lot. Do you mind?”

“What do I care? I certainly don’t want you to piss all over the floor right here.” He laughed, expecting the bodyguards who were usually there to laugh with him. But they weren’t there. And he didn’t notice, or seem to care, as he dug his fork deep into a dish of spaghetti and meatballs.

It took only a minute or two after Luciano entered the bathroom before he heard the pistols discharging. Many pistols discharging. When they stopped, he slowly walked back to where Masseria had been sitting. He was now splayed out on the floor with the table on top of him, meatballs and blood everywhere. But he still held a fork in his hand.

The first part of Lansky’s plan had been carried out perfectly by Siegel, Reles and Buchalter.

Three hours later, in midtown Manhattan, on the ninth floor of the Helmsley Building, an office door burst open and three police officers charged in with pistols drawn. The two guards in the outer office wouldn’t stop the police and handed over their weapons as soon as directed to do so.

The other two policemen went into the inner office, that of Salvatore Maranzano. He rose immediately from his desk, went around and addressed them in a calm manner.

“Officers, officers, I’m sure this must be a misunderstanding. You know your captain and me are friends and that...” He didn’t finish the sentence as one of the police officers stabbed him. The other officer shot him three times.

When the guards outside heard the pistol shots, they rushed the first officer but he shot them dead before they could reach him.

The officers were, in reality, the same cast as in Coney Island; Siegel, Reles and Buchalter.

That night, across the United States, many of the old Mustache Petes met similar fates; as they were shot, stabbed, garroted, or made to disappear through other means of local disposal. The American tabloids, looking for one all-encompassing sensational phrase, called it “The Night of the Sicilian Vespers”.

In one horrific night, a new group of young gangsters had emerged to take command of the American underworld; and Charlie “Lucky” Luciano emerged as the most powerful gangster in the country.

The plan that Holmes had devised and to which Lansky and Luciano had given their blessing, had been accomplished purely, perfectly and with clinical precision. Holmes smiled to himself. He had chosen these allies most wisely, indeed.

The plan to organize the disparate criminal groups was presented by Luciano and Lansky at a meeting of all the bosses, after Holmes had returned to London; but taken from a simple idea that he had proposed: conduct your business as would any American corporation.

The men who led various gangs in the cities across the country were now heads of “families;” the capo, or boss. And each capo of each family sat at the corporate table and had an equal vote.

Luciano would act as a kind of chairman of the board and ultimate arbiter of disagreements between these families if they could not be resolved peacefully among themselves. Gang warfare was bad for business. Too much heat from the press, the politicians and the police. Better to buy them all off and have them in your pocket.

Luciano was the capo di tutti capi. The boss of all bosses.

Lansky, however, was more of a member emeritus because he was Jewish; and only Italians, preferably Sicilians, were members of this syndicate. To Italians, it was La Cosa Nostra, literally “our thing”.

Yet, these men who disdained him as a Jew, listened when Lansky spoke and almost universally heeded his advice. This was not because Luciano and Lansky were so close, but for the simple reason that Lansky was usually right. And he could always be trusted.

Siegel was just a feared and powerful underling. He answered to Luciano, Lansky and the syndicate. He was nothing more than an angry bee who could sting, but who could also be swatted.

Holmes And Fairbanks And Pickford

All was now at the ready. It was the fourteenth of November and Holmes was taking leave of his rather unsavory associates in New York.

He had booked first class passage on RMS Aquitania and Luciano, Lansky and Siegel had personally brought Holmes down to Aquitania for his voyage back to London. Upon their arrival, all were amused to literally encounter not one, but two brass bands and a multitude of people so densely packed together on the dock that Holmes’ sardonic thought was that of sardines.

“What the hell?”Siegel asked. “This for us?”

Lansky, Luciano and Holmes had no idea why such an enraptured throng should be dockside until Holmes spied numerous signs with various sayings, such as “WE LOVE YOU MARY!”, “WE LOVE YOU DOUG!”, “CONGRATULATIONS!”, “HAPPY HONEYMOON!”, “COME BACK SOON!”

It seems that Holmes had booked passage on the very liner carrying the international motion picture stars from Hollywood, Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks, on their honeymoon voyage to Europe.

As Pickford and Fairbanks made royal progress up the gangway, Siegel said, “Holy mackerel, wouldya get a load of those two. Holy cow! Hey, Johnny, that’s our royalty,” he laughed.

It was now time for Luciano, Lansky and Siegel to each give Holmes a personal goodbye.

Siegel said, “Take care, Johnny. We got a lot ridin’ on ya. I forgot to ask all this time, they got Jews in England?”

“Yes, Ben, quite a few.”

“Good. Hey, I just thought a somethin’ funny, now get this: Eng-lish, Jew-ish. We’re related by ishes.” He laughed as he shook Holmes’ hand and gave him a hug. “And don’t hit no icebergs. Greenbergs, okay, though.” He continued to laugh.

Lansky was next. “It was real interesting thinking with you, Johnny. I know you’ll be keepin’ tabs. And I know that you know that we’ll be keepin’ tabs, too. Gay mit mazel.” Yiddish for “good luck.” He, too, shook Holmes’ hand and gave him a hug.

Luciano was last. “You done good helpin’ us here. Now the big help comes. You gotta keep that booze comin’, Johnny. We know you been makin’ those arrangements with your guys in England. A couple more months and Prohibition kicks in. We’re countin’ on ya.”

“No fear, Charlie. I need you as much as you need me. The first shipment of scotch will be delivered as planned to your boats off Long Island and then I’ll wait for further instructions on when and where the next shall go.”

“Right,” Luciano paused, then leaned close to Holmes’ ear and said, “Johnny, all that happened since Mr. Rothstein got bumped off, we owe it t’ you. You planned everythin’. I don’t know if we ever coulda done it without you.

“Buona fortuna, Johnny. I hope we can meet again.” Then he took Holmes hand.

“I, as well, Charlie, I, as well.” With that, Holmes turned and went up the gangway, turning one last time to wave down to the three men who were waving up.

Once settled into his stateroom, Holmes grasped that with Pickford and Fairbanks aboard, and with such lavish attention surely to be paid such Hollywood royalty, he could remain even more incognito. And so he would have been if not for an unfortunate event on the first night out.

It seems that while Holmes patrolled the deck in the silent morning hours, when all to attend one’s ears were the sounds of the sea being pushed aside by the liner lithely slicing the waves, unable to sleep and pondering his actions when back in London, a door suddenly thrust open and a very inebriated, tiny woman came rushing out, quite unsteadily; and had not Holmes been there to come between her and the railing, the woman would have most certainly gone overboard.

As she tangled in Holmes’ overcoat, a man came running out and instantly uncoupled her from Holmes, while trying to hold her up. It was Fairbanks and Pickford.

“I am so sorry to cause you this trouble,” said Fairbanks, “unfortunately, Mary likes her spirits perhaps a bit too much for her own good.” He hadn’t even looked up at Holmes, just speaking while he tried to hold his wife upright as she went limp.

“No trouble, at all, I can assure you. It’s a good thing I was here, however, or your wife would’ve become one with Neptune.”

Fairbanks laughed. “Yes, that’s a good one. Listen, pal, I know you’ve already done me a great favor just saving my wife’s life, but do you think I could ask for another one?”

“What is it?” asked Holmes.

“I’d really appreciate it if you kept this under your hat. There’s no need for anyone other than us to know what just happened; you get it? If the papers ever got wind of this, boy, oh, boy would they go haywire.”

“Yes, I can easily see that. Of course, I’ll keep silent. There’s no reason for me tell anyone. “

“Hey, that’s really great of you. I’ll owe you big time.” He was still holding Pickford in his arms as if she were nothing more than a doll, so small was she and so strong was he. “Say, pal, what’s your name, anyway?” All this as he inched his way back to the door from which Ms. Pickford had so recently burst.

“Clay, John Clay.”

“Well, John, I’ll ask the captain to seat you at our table. It’s the least I can do.”

“Oh, please no; that’s totally unnecessary.”

“That may be,” as he opened the door to go back inside, “but I always pay a debt. I just hope I don’t bump into anyone on the way back to our stateroom. Our table isn’t that big.” With that, he laughed, the door closed and they were gone.

Holmes shrugged and continued his patrol of the deck.

The very next day as promised, a brief, personal invitation was slipped under his stateroom door.

“The captain requests the pleasure of your company for dinner tonight at this personal table. Dinner will be at eight precisely. Formal dress required.”

“Oh, blast,” thought Holmes, “I should have let her go over the side.”

However, he attended and pretended.

He and the loving couple were the only guests of the captain on this particular night. Miss Pickford continued her unrelenting quest to quench her thirst, and Mr. Fairbanks made jokes, performed some sleight of hand to make playing cards disappear, and Holmes thought that Fairbanks would much rather have done the trick using his wife.

The captain was effusive in his praise and his toasts to his celebrated guests and Pickford seemed especially pleased with each toast. Not the words, but the implied invitation to raise one’s glass again.

Fairbanks, having obviously seen this act before, and before Pickford could spoil the act, graciously suggested that they retire to their stateroom because he felt a tad under the weather.

“You go, Dougie,” she said to her grimacing husband, literally pushing him at his chest, “I’m gonna stay here with the captain and Mr. Clay.” She was slurring her words and sloshing her drink. The captain had now also realized the situation and very cleverly stated, “Oh, I hate to be one to stifle a party, but I’ve just received word that I’m urgently needed on the bridge.”

“You got a bridge on this thing?” she asked. “Any trolls underneath?” It was now vibrantly evident that she was seriously snookered.

“Unfortunately, yes. You will excuse me.” With that the captain left us as Fairbanks looked at me and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “Now what?”

“Ah, well,” Holmes said, winking to Fairbanks, “I believe I heard that there’s an amazing party being held in stateroom number 180 and from what I hear, the champagne is flowing free and cold like the Atlantic outside.”

“That’s good enough for me,” she said; and though she rose unsteadily and even with Fairbanks’ aid walked awkwardly, they made it out of the dining hall, and Holmes supposed, back to their stateroom where, no doubt, Pickford would pass out and, hopefully, would remain in that state until morning.

As they left the table, Fairbanks held up his fingers indicated the number “two”, as in “That makes two I owe you.” However, Holmes felt he needed no more debts be repaid. He therefore devised a simple stratagem to avoid such repayment: as Fairbanks had been trying to do with the playing cards, he would disappear.

What this meant was that he would no longer appear for meals in the first-class dining room, he would, instead, frequent the second-class dining room and accommodations and keep to their deck, as well.

He would have succeeded in this newest transformation from Holmes to Clay to invisible man, except for the fact that on the fourth day, returning to his cabin after another brisk walk on the second-class deck, he found Fairbanks waiting for him.

“Hey, John, there you are!”

“Yes, indeed. Here I am.”

“Where have you been, pal? I’ve been looking for you for days. I finally had to get the purser to give me your stateroom number so I could find you. Funny, I just got here and then you showed up. Talk about perfect timing.”

“Or imperfect.”

“Huh? Well, look. I owe you and I owe you big. So don’t worry.” He took out a paper and handed it to Holmes.

“I was gonna leave this for you when you showed up. It’s very hush-hush, but I know you can keep a secret. It’s where Mary and I will be in London. We’re staying at the swankiest place in town, the Savoy. That musical fella, built it. You know, whatshizname, Coylie Dart or something like that?”

“You mean D’Oyly Carte?”

“Yeah, that’s it! It’s supposed to be the bees’ knees! We have the bridal suite, of course, and I can’t wait to see the joint.”

“I’m sure you’ll be suitably impressed. As will they.”

“Yeah, and our ambassador is trying to get us in to see the King. He said the King’s a big fan of ours. But then ain’t everyone?”

“I have certainly not missed one of your epics.”

“Yeah? Which one did you like the best?”

“The one where you rescued the girl.” Of course, Holmes, to my knowledge, had never seen one of Fairbanks’ motion pictures; but to Holmes, probably all had the swashbuckler rescuing some damsel devilishly imperiled.

“Yeah, that’s swell. And here’s our private phone number at Pickfair in Hollywood if you ever come over. You don’t need an address, just jump in a cab. Everyone knows where Pickfair is. Hey, we might bump into Rudy if he’s there, or Charlie. He’s a Brit, too, so you two should have a lot to talk about.”

He was speaking of Rudolph Valentino and Charlie Chaplin, of course. But to Fairbanks, though those two men were at the summit of international stardom and anyone other than Holmes would have immediately made arrangements to show up at the Pickfair doorstep, to Fairbanks, the names were toss-aways; simply friends and business associates.

“Thank you. I promise to contact you should I find myself in Hollywood,” Holmes said.

“Great, great! And don’t forget that we’ll be in London for a few weeks before we head off to Paris, then we’re off to do one of those Grand Tours all over Europe and we won’t be back in London till after the New Year some time. But keep that to yourself, too, okay?”

“Most assuredly.”

“Great, great. Maybe we can even get together in London. Okay, hope to see you soon.” And he was gone with that peripatetic pace for which Fairbanks was universally known and admired.

Once inside his stateroom, Holmes put the paper aside, sank into a chair and began to gather his thoughts, for he would be docking in London the next day. And his life as John Clay was about to begin in earnest.

Idyll In Eleuthera

After all the turmoil of Russia, the mayhem in Helsinki, the visit with Watson and hearing his disturbing story, this idyll in Eleuthera seemed so fragile, so ephemeral, as mere vapor which would dissipate in an instant.

Reilly had known no true surcease in his lifetime, and now he was truly sampling its mythic, unrelenting joy. His wife was more beautiful and loving than he even remembered and his son was the sun, itself.

Baby Sidney, at seven months, had the black hair of his mother, the silly disposition of his Aunt Anastasia, the playfulness of his Uncle Alexei, and the strength and stubbornness of his father.

There was the simple joy of experiencing family; though the Tsarina was still living in her own secluded world and growing more detached with each day.

Other than that one ever-expanding shadow, Reilly could not want for more. Every day he felt ancient tensions released from not only his body, but his mind. A life of duplicity and deceit and mistrust and murder was evaporating at his baby’s tiny touch.

Tatiana knew better than to ask what had happened when he left them in Russia; at least for the moment. And the rest of the family was cautioned by her to just enjoy his presence and, as yet, not to seek answers to all the questions they so anxiously wanted to ask.

Finally, after two weeks of seamless tranquility, Reilly turned to Tatiana as they sat with baby Sidney on that big, beautiful white blanket in the soothing Eleutheran sun.

“Tatiana, thank you.”

“For what?”

“For letting me just be and not poking and prodding and pestering me about where I was, who I was with, what happened; the usual answers a wife would demand from a gallivanting husband gone for over a year.”

Rather than laughing, Tatiana took his face in her hands.

“I know how deeply you mean that, Sidney; though even now you must wrap your truest emotions in a jest. Someday I’ll ask you about all that, but not now, not now. It’s not important. What’s important is that you’re here with our son, with me. That we have each other to love again in every sense of the word. That the time flown between us didn’t matter. It didn’t lessen our love or keep us from each other’s thoughts every moment of every day. “

Reilly simply reached over to pull Tatiana to him and they embraced as baby Sidney lay at their feet, happily asleep.

But Reilly knew that the time had come to give permission to the family to ask those certain questions. Tatiana had told him of the relationship that had blossomed between Marie and Yardley before he left with Holmes and that it might be best if he spoke to her privately before dinner that night; which he did.

He told Marie that as far as he knew, William Yardley had perished with Holmes. He felt it more beneficial for her to believe him dead than to recount what Holmes had told him in New York, that Yardley might have tried to murder Holmes.

At dinner that night, Reilly suddenly put down his knife and fork loudly, which interrupted a lively conversation between Anastasia and Alexei, turned his head slowly around the table and said, “Well, what are you waiting for?”

Alexei immediately knew what he meant, gave out with a yelp and then the Grand Duchesses and the Tsar understood, too. It was Alexei who spoke first, or, rather, let loose such a torrent of interrogation which would make magistrates of Her Majesty’s High Court of Justice blush in admiration.

“So what happened when you left us? Did you kill any Bolshies? How did you kill them? How did you get here? Did King George send you on a big battleship?”

Reilly, laughing, and everyone else by now, as well, held up both his hands in abject surrender.

“I give up. Please, Alexei, no more. You overpower me with your questions.”

“But you said I could ask.”

“That’s not precisely accurate. I simply indicated that I was ready to recount my grisly adventures.” He stressed the word “grisly” with a menacing glee that had everyone laughing.

“You see. I was right. So tell us. How grisly?” Alexei asked.

“Oh, monstrously grisly. Tremendously grisly.” Reilly was rising up from his chair and making threatening motions with his arms, waving them around wildly. Then he summarily slumped back into his chair and whispered to all, “Hideously grisly.”

The Romanovs were all laughing but Reilly knew he would now have to invent a story to make them all happy. Grisly and not so grisly. So he began his fanciful fiction.

But one serious note before he began, he cautioned them all to never repeat one word of what he was about to divulge. This would make it seem that the fairy tale he was about to spin would be taken as gospel fact.

Outside, concealed in the lush vegetation and by the night, a man watched the standing Reilly gesticulating madly and saw a group of people he recognised, but could not believe he was actually seeing.