The Adventure of the Great Train Robbery

It was rare, indeed, for my good friend Mr. Schlock Homes and myself to disagree as to the merits of his ability in resolving a case, yet such a situation arose in regard to an affair which I find reference to in my notebook as The Adventure of the Great Train Robbery. In my estimation, the case allowed Homes as great a use of his exceptional powers as any I can recall, but the fact was that Homes himself was far from satisfied with his performance in the matter. I can but leave it to the reader to judge for himself.

It was upon a Wednesday, February 31st, that we first heard of Sir Lionel Train. Homes had been exceptionally busy those early months of ’68, first with the problem of the championship kittens stolen just hours prior to an international show, a case I find referred to as The Adventure of the Purloined Litter, following which my friend went on to resolve the curious puzzle of a punch-drunk prize-fighter, a case I later chronicled as The Adventure of the Rapped Expression. It was not, therefore, until the final day of February that the matter of Sir Lionel came to our attention.

This particular Wednesday the weather had turned quite poor, with a night of fierce snow followed by dismal skies and a sharp drop in temperature. Homes, therefore, had given the day over to relaxation and was bent over his laboratory bench, with me in sharp attendance, studying some putty-like material called “Plastique” he had received without comment just that morning from his old friend M’sieu C. Septembre Duping in Paris. We had already noted its color and odor, as well as its rubber-like consistency, and Homes was about to strike it with a hammer to test the resilience of the strange material when there came a sudden disturbance on the stairway, and a moment later Homes’s brother Criscroft had burst in upon our scientific experiments.

It was extremely odd for Criscroft to appear at our quarters at 221B Bagel Street without prior notice, and even more unusual to see that normally most controlled of gentlemen gasping for breath. His clothing was awry, his gaiters unbuckled, and there was an air of urgency about him which communicated itself at once to Homes’s razor-sharp instincts. Homes immediately replaced the putty-like substance in its wrapping, returned the hammer to its proper place in the tool rack, washed and dried his hands carefully, and, wasting no time, faced his brother.

“Well, Criscroft,” said he, lighting a Vulgarian, “this is indeed a pleasure! But you appear disturbed—or have I misinterpreted the signs?”

Criscroft fell into a chair, still fighting for his composure.

“As usual you are correct, Schlock!” he exclaimed. “We may well be in deep trouble, indeed! I fear some grave misfortune may have befallen Sir Lionel Train.”

Homes nodded in instant understanding. “Who?” he inquired.

“Sir Lionel Train, head of Q6-JB45-VX-2DD-T3, the most secret of our secret services. Other than the Yard and Special Services, no one has ever heard of the man.”

“Ah! That Sir Lionel Train!” Homes said, and nodded. “Pray favor us with the details.”

“Very well,” Criscroft said. He sat a bit more erect, obviously relieved to have his brother’s aid with the dire problem. “Well, then, the facts are these! Sir Lionel has his country estate at Much-Binding-in-the-Groyne, a typical English village near Tydin, Notts, where he spends his mid-weeks with his famous diamond collection. In any event, early this morning a neighbor of his, out to check the weather, happened to notice Sir Lionel struggling in hand-to-hand combat with an assailant in his bedroom. Not wishing to be hasty, this neighbor returned to his house and took up a pair of binoculars, with which he verified the sight he had seen. Satisfied he had not been incorrect—for through the binoculars he could see this unrecognizable assailant’s hands around Sir Lionel’s neck—he immediately sent his butler off to Scotland Yard with the information.”

“He did not interfere directly?”

“Of course not. They had never been introduced.”

“I understand. But he continued to watch?”

“He had come out without his slippers. No, once his butler had been sent off, this neighbor repaired to his basement, where he is building a bottle-in-a-ship.”

“I see. And Scotland Yard—?”

“Aware of Sir Lionel’s true status, the Yard instantly communicated with the Home Office, who in turn sent a messenger to advise me. When my man could not locate a cab, I hastily dressed and ran all the way. Schlock, you must go to Much-Binding-in-the-Groyne immediately and do everything in your power to save Sir Lionel!”

Homes considered his brother steadily behind tented fingers.

“At what hour did this neighbor note Sir Lionel struggling?”

“A bit before seven this morning.”

“It is just after noontime. It is possible, of course, that I may arrive too late. However, we can but try. Tell me, where was Lady Train during all this?”

“Lady Train is visiting relatives.”

“Sir Lionel has no staff?”

“Just a new maid he employed only yesterday, right after Lady Train left. Sir Lionel has an aversion to butlers.”

“I see. But regarding your fears, surely Sir Lionel does not keep state secrets in his country home?”

Criscroft shook his head decisively.

“Sir Lionel commits nothing to paper. Still, under the duress of torture, who knows what secrets he might divulge?” Criscroft came to his feet. “It is in your hands, Schlock,” he said. With an abrupt nod in our direction he stepped on a gaiter buckle and stumbled heavily down the stairs.

“Ah, well, Watney,” said Homes with a sigh, “a pity our afternoon is to be compromised. They are playing the Hayden Go Seek concerto at Albert Hall and I had hoped to attend. However, duty before pleasure. You might bring along your medical bag, as it seems it might be useful. And you might also bring along Duping’s gift. Studying it might help us while away an hour or so on the train.”

The Nottingham Express dropped us off in Tydin, and a rented trap was easily arranged with the stationmaster. He also furnished us with directions to Sir Lionel’s estate, and moments later we were driving smartly along the newly cleared road to Much-Binding-in-the-Groyne.

Here in Nottinghamshire the sun had wormed its way through the heavy overcast, a blanket of glistening snow stretched across the endless fields, and ice glittered on wires that hung between each house and a line of poles inexplicably planted in a row along the highway. Had our mission not been of such serious intent, we might well have enjoyed the brisk air and lovely scenery.

Sir Lionel’s home lay around a curve beyond the quaint village. We passed the village green, crossed a small burn lightly crusted with ice, and slowed down as we approached the house. I was about to direct our trap down the carriage-way when Homes suddenly placed a hand upon my arm. I pulled our panting horse to a stop and looked at my friend inquiringly.

“From here on it would be best if we proceeded by foot,” said he, his eyes sparkling with the excitement of the chase. “Note the unbroken expanse of snow. It would not do to disturb it without first seeing if it can answer any of our questions.”

“True,” I admitted, and looked about for a weight to throw down, but it seems our station-master had overlooked putting one into the carriage. Homes noted my search and shook his head.

“Block the wheels with Duping’s package,” said he impatiently. “Time may be of the essence.”

Shamed at not having thought of the simple solution myself, I dropped from the trap, propped the wheel against the horse’s wandering, and turned to Homes, medical bag in hand. But Homes’s attention was already directed towards the smooth snow that stretched on all sides of the manor house. A frown appeared on my friend’s lean face, to be replaced almost at once by a look of determination.

“Come!” said he, and started off on a large circuit of the grounds with me close upon his heels. The snow lay unblemished in all directions. We passed the stables at the rear of the coach-house to one side, and at last came about our huge circle to our starting point. Suddenly my companion froze in his tracks.

“Homes!” I cried in alarm, since the temperature was not that low. “What is it?”

“Later,” said he fiercely, and dropped to one knee to study intently two pairs of footprints beside our trap which I swear had not been there upon our arrival. I waited in silence as my companion checked them thoroughly, and then watched as he slowly rose to his feet with a frown, brushing the snow from his trousers.

“Two men,” said he slowly. “One tall and thin, and from the angle of his prints, of rather intense nature. The other is short and walks with a slight limp. I should say without a doubt that the shorter of the two is a medical man by profession, and a bit absentminded in the bargain.”

“Really, Homes!” I exclaimed reproachfully. “I can understand that you might arrive at the relative heights of the men by the lengths of their stride, but surely you are pulling my leg when you claim one of them to be a medical man—and an absent-minded one, at that!”

“At times I wonder at you, Watney,” said Homes impatiently. “You have forgotten that today is Wednesday, the traditional day for doctors to leave their practice to their nurse and take to the open air. You have also failed to properly examine the tracks this man left; had you done so you would have noted that the shorter of the two is wearing golfing shoes. Since the snow is too deep for playing the game, one can only assume he put them on automatically before leaving the house, an action which not only clearly indicates his absent-mindedness, but also serves as further proof of his profession, since on Wednesdays doctors don them from force of habit.”

“He might have been a dentist,” I hazarded a bit sullenly, although in truth I did not doubt the accuracy of Homes’s masterful analysis.

“No, Watney,” said he. “Dentists, from constant standing, develop much larger feet. But we are wasting time. The two men undoubtedly passed as we were in the rear near the stables. However, since their spoor does not approach the house, it is evident they have gone off about their business and have nothing to do with the case. Come!”

He turned and moved off towards the house, breaking trail through the snow, while I followed as quickly as my shorter legs would permit. A moment later and Homes was stamping the loose snow from his boots on the porch, while examining the lock on the main door with narrowed eyes.

“Homes!” I exclaimed as a sudden thought struck me. “I should have also brought my revolver! Surely if there are no footprints in the snow, the assailant must still be within the house, for there is no other exit.”

“You forget the overhead wires leading to those poles in the road,” he said, reaching into his pocket for his set of picklocks. “They have obviously been placed on each house to afford an auxiliary means of exit from the upper stories in case of emergencies; otherwise what purpose would be served by the spikes in the poles, forming a ladder? No, Watney, our assailant would have no problem leaving the house without leaving footprints, especially if he were small.”

I nodded in admiration for Homes’s analysis, and then followed my friend into the silent house as the door quickly succumbed to the magic of his touch. We made our way through the main hall and up the steps of the grand stairway. At its head an open door leading to the library revealed a large safe standing ajar. Homes shook his head pityingly.

“Had the miscreant known, as we do, that Sir Lionel commits nothing to paper, he might have saved himself the trouble of struggling with that heavy safe,” said he. “But let us continue our search.”

We moved from the library, making our way along the balcony that fronted the floor below across an ornate railing. As we reached the corner, a sudden guttural sound brought us up short, and a moment later Homes was dashing down a hallway in the direction of the strangled noises. I followed in all haste, my medical bag banging against my thigh. Homes threw open a door and paused abruptly.

“It is Sir Lionel himself!” he said, turning to me. “Pray God we are not too late. It is in your hands now, Watney.”

I hastened to the side of the bed and bent over the man. He lay on his back, one arm dangling helplessly over the side of the large mussed bed. Sir Lionel was wearing his pajama bottoms, but his chest was bare, and even as I watched, it rose and fell, accompanied by his stentorian breathing.

“Homes,” I said in a low voice, “the poor man has been badly treated, indeed. Note the scratches on his shoulders; note the puckered red blotches on his cheeks and lips; smell the sweet odor, similar to Chanel Number Five, doubtless one of the new perfumed anaesthetics.”

“But he put up a brave struggle from the appearance of the bedclothes,” Homes commented.

“Which probably saved his life,” said I, and reached down and shook the man gently. “Sir Lionel!”

“Not right now, darling,” he muttered, and opened his eyes sleepily. They widened incredulously at sight of my face. “Eh, what? Who? What, what? What? Who, what, what?” He turned and saw my companion. “Schlock Homes! How much did my wife pay—”

“The poor chap is completely incoherent, Homes,” said I, and plunged the needle of my hypodermic into his bare arm. “The shock of sudden rescue often does this to people.”

Sir Lionel’s head fell back onto the pillow. I pulled his arm up to fold it across his chest and then paused.

“Homes!” I ejaculated.

“Yes?” said he.

“Look here,” I said, and pointed to a tattoo that ran across the biceps and which had been revealed as I drew up his arm. “What do you make of this?”

Homes moved swiftly to my side and read the tattoo over my shoulder.

“‘Left 36, Right 21, Left twice to 15, Right 9.’” My friend straightened up, staring at the mysterious symbols with a bitter look in his eyes. “Criscroft stated that Sir Lionel never committed secrets to paper, but he said nothing of a tattoo!”

“But surely those numbers can have but little significance, Homes,” I said, hoping to soothe him. “They are probably merely the result of a boyish prank from his University days.”

“I doubt it is that simple,” Homes replied heavily. “They are obviously references to the political left and right. Undoubtedly the numbers delineate the code name of our secret agents in certain countries of both persuasions.” He shook his head. “Come, Watney. If Sir Lionel is settled for the moment, let us continue our search of the house for more clews.”

I hastily tucked a cover to Sir Lionel’s chin and followed Homes as he moved from the room. Our search was more thorough this time, starting in the cellars, including the kitchens, and returning to the upper stories. At the far end of the final corridor we came upon a narrow set of steps leading to the attic rooms, and Homes took them evenly, with me upon his heels.

At the top a small landing beneath the eaves revealed a door set between dormers and partially open. Homes peered cautiously around the jamb and then stepped swiftly back, drawing me into the shadows. From my new vantage point I could see into the room; a young lady was bending over a small attaché-case, tucking a chamois bag into its depths. Homes gripped my arm painfully.

“Do you see that young lady?” he demanded in a taut whisper. “That, Watney, is none other than Miss Irene Addled, international jewel thief, and the only woman who ever bested me! And yet, see to what sad end she has come. Despite the proceeds of years of crime, see where she has ended—a maid of all work in a small country manor house! There is a lesson here for all of us, I am sure, but unfortunately, there is no time to explore it. Come!”

He pushed his way into the small room. The young lady looked up from closing her small case and then shrank back against the wall, aghast at sight of my companion.

“Mr. Schlock Homes!” she cried in terror. “What are you doing here?”

“It is all right, Miss Addled,” Homes said gallantly. “I am not here in respect to you, nor am I one to bear a grudge, especially against one upon whom evil days have so obviously fallen. Still, I fear I have some bad news for you. Your master has been viciously attacked. However, thanks to Dr. Watney, he is resting comfortably. I suggest you go down and sit by his bedside. It will comfort him to see a friendly face upon awakening.”

“And then may I leave?”

“As soon as the ambulance arrives. Dr. Watney and I shall go for one at once. I realize this means the end of your new-found employment, but if you stop by our quarters I shall do my best to see if I can arrange suitable employment in some other ménage.”

“Some day, somehow, I shall find some means of thanking you!” she cried, and flung her arms about his neck, still holding her attaché-case. Homes reeled back, blushing, while Miss Addled hurried down the steps. Homes and I followed and watched as the thankful young lady moved towards the master bedroom with a remarkable sense of direction considering her few hours in the house. With the matter settled, Homes and I descended the main staircase and walked out onto the porch. Suddenly Homes stopped so abruptly that I ran into him from behind.

“Homes!” I said in a muffled voice. “What is it?”

“I am a fool!” he cried.

“But why?” I insisted.

His thin finger pointed dramatically. “We have been followed!”

I came from behind him and stared. It was true! The same two sets of footprints that had so mysteriously appeared beside our trap were now facing us again, leading directly to the house. There was no mistaking the long stride of the taller man, nor the spike-marks of the shorter.

“I am an idiot!” Homes cried. “I should have realized the only reason Sir Lionel was left alive was precisely because he had not revealed the secret of that tattoo, despite the terrible torture. Obviously, the smaller man left the house by means of the overhead wires for the purpose of bringing an accomplice, a larger person to exert greater pressure on Sir Lionel. And, locating the accomplice, the two returned to the house.”

“But where are they now, Homes?” I cried.

“Obviously, they heard our sounds of search and have gone away. But these footprints are still quite fresh, Watney! They cannot have gotten very far. Come! After them!”

With a bound from the porch we dashed through the snow to our trap and scrambled inside, not even wasting time to unblock the wheels. I cracked the whip close beside our horse’s ear, and with a convulsive leap he sprang forward. My last conscious memory as we rose in the air under the force of an explosion was of Homes’s voice tinged with a bitterness I had seldom heard before.

“I am a double fool!” he cried. “Allowing them to booby-trap us!”

It was several weeks before we were released from St. Barts and allowed to return to the ministrations of Mrs. Essex. Sir Lionel Train, obviously unnerved by the events, had gone off to the continent on a protracted holiday with a young nurse, and we had had no word from poor Miss Addled. But despite what I consider one of Homes’s most brilliant successes, he continued to consider it a failure and to brood heavily upon it.

“Look, Homes,” I said at breakfast the first day we were able to be up and about, “after all, Sir Lionel suffered no permanent harm, and that was your major assignment. Nor was the secret of the code numbers ever revealed, since the explosion apparently frightened the villains away. And as for poor Miss Addled, I am sure your paths will cross again one day. So how can you possibly consider this case a failure?”

“You do not understand, Watney,” said he bitterly, reaching for a curried curry. “It is the fact that we had those nefarious criminals within our grasp and allowed them to escape! And not only to escape, but to hamper our pursuit by planting an explosive practically under our noses. How does one live down an insult of such dimensions? How, in addition, does one advise an old friend like M’sieu C. Septembre Duping that, due to my idiocy, his gift to me was destroyed? No, Watney, I shall not rest until I lay those two rascals by the heels!”

There being no arguing with Homes when he was in this mood, I turned to the morning Times, hoping to discover some interesting case which might take my friend’s mind from his obsession. Suddenly, a new feature, imported from the American colonies, struck my eye.

“Homes!” I cried. “I do believe you will find this of interest.”

He reached over and removed the journal from my hand. I watched his eyes narrow as he noted the design I had been studying. Suddenly he struck his fist upon the table, causing the chived chives to jump.

“There can be no doubt, Watney. It is they!” said he with deep satisfaction. “Note the silk topper worn by the shorter of the two—surely the sign of Harley Street affluence. And note the rather stupid expression on the face of his taller accomplice, for had he not been stupid he would never have crossed swords with Schlock Homes. A pity we should find them by pure chance, but better this way than not at all.” He reached for his magnifying-glass. “What are their names again?”

I came to read over his shoulder. “Mutt and Jeff,” I replied.

“Precisely! A letter to the editor of the Times at once, Watney, if you will!”