THE CASE OF THE DISAPPEARING DESPATCH CASE

CHAPTER ONE

I had been recording the exploits of the Baker Street Irregulars, which is how Mr. Sherlock Holmes referred to the gang of street urchins he occasionally employed, for only a few months when one of their most hazardous adventures took place,

I have called it “The Case of the Disappearing Despatch Case,” though Sparrow suggested that a better title would be “Things ain’t always what they seems.” He should know, since he was present at the start of the adventure.

There is no doubt that Mr. Holmes would have taken over the case had he not been desperately ill; but he had just been seriously wounded by the evil Professor Moriarty, and the poison from Moriarty’s sword-stick still ran in his veins.

He was able to help in the affair when it seemed that the bizarre mystery would never be solved, however, though as Mr. Holmes said later, the entire credit must lie with the Baker Street Irregulars for its successful outcome.

It all began one vile midwinter evening at a time when most of the shops had put up their shutters and the only people to be seen in the thick, yellow fog were either hurrying home to a fireside—or trying to earn a few pence.

Even those few had had enough of the raw, dank, chilly fog.

“Let’s pack up, Rosie,” Shiner called. “Look at me hands. They’re dropping off. There ain’t no one wanting shoeshines, not at this time of night. Let’s pack up.”

“Here,” said Rosie, who was no bigger than Shiner. They were both small, undernourished children of about twelve years of age, wearing all the clothes they possessed. Rosie held a couple of hot chestnuts in her ragged mitt.

“What’s that?” shivered Shiner.

“Hot and good,” said Rosie. “Got them from the hot chestnut man up the street. One each.”

“It’s hot!” yelled Shiner, juggling the chestnut from hand to hand.

“What did I tell you?” said Rosie, grinning at him. “Ain’t it just come off the stove?”

Shiner stopped his complaints as he heard footsteps a few yards away. He slipped the hot chestnut into his pocket and seized the tools of his trade.

“Shoeshine, sir?” he called, as a distinguished-looking elderly gentleman came into view through the swirling fog. “Do you a good one, best in London for two-pence.”

The man hesitated as he saw Shiner and Rosie, and the two children saw he had a look of compassion on his face.

“Loverly flowers, sir?” said Rosie, trying to smile in spite of the freezing fog that chapped her lips and rasped in her throat. “Only tuppence a bunch, sir.”

Shiner held his breath. He had been out on the streets since before dawn, and all day he had taken only sevenpence. Rosie’s stock of flowers was still almost untouched, since she had not been able to afford the best and freshest blooms in Covent Garden that morning, and it was a sad-looking display of wilted flowers that she offered so hopefully to the customer.

But her smile was perfection.

“Here’s threepence,” said the elderly gentleman, taking the bunch she offered. “Keep the penny change for that smile of yours, my dear. I won’t wait for a shoeshine,” he added to Shiner, “but I’ll remember your face when I come this way again, boy.”

He went on his way smiling, leaving Rosie looking at the silver threepenny piece and Shiner packing up his brushes.

“I ain’t got a lovely smile, Rosie,” he said, “but never mind. Threepence is threepence, and that’s enough for one night—Here!” he yelled as someone charged into them, sending them flying.

“My threepenny—where’s it gone?” cried Rosie. “Who was that? Clumsy great bloke!”

A big figure vanished into the mist and the two children yelled until the sound of his heavy footsteps was lost in the fog. They scrabbled about searching for the silver coin which had been sent spinning from Rosie’s hand. Neither of them had seen where it had fallen.

They were still peering at the ground when two more of the Baker Street Boys joined them. They were Beaver, a biggish boy of about fourteen, and Sparrow, who at eleven or so had much in common with the quick-witted town-bird he had been named after.

“What have you lost?” called Sparrow. “Dropped your diamonds, have you, Rosie?” he asked her, though Rosie ignored him.

Beaver dumped the pile of newspapers he had been carrying. “What we looking for, Rosie?” he too asked.

“A thrupenny piece,” said Rosie. “A big bloke with a stick in his hand just knocked me and Shiner flying.”

“I saw him,” said Sparrow. “Six-foot and more, and a big red beard. He looked as though he was after something going along like the clappers, he was. He wasn’t the one what gave you the thrupenny, was he?”

“Don’t be daft,” said Shiner. “He’s the kind what’d give you a crack with his stick, that’s all. Found it!” he cried.

Beaver inspected the threepenny piece.

“Got it from an old fellow,” said Rosie. “He gave me the penny extra ’cos I smiled at him—he said I’d got a loverly smile. Then he walks off grinning to himself. A toff, he is.”

“I saw him too,” said Beaver. “Tall and thin, that him?”

“Yeh,” said Sparrow. “He was carrying a little case, wasn’t he? I saw him go off into a tobacconist’s at the end of Baker Street—old Merriman’s who buys a paper off of us.”

“How about the big bloke with the stick?” said Shiner. “Where did he get to?”

“Sparrow saw him, not me,” said Beaver.

“Why?” asked Sparrow, grinning at Shiner. “You going to give him a piece of your mind for knocking into you? I’d say he’s big enough to put you into his pocket, and your brushes too, Shiner!”

The dispute might have gone on a little longer if Rosie hadn’t stopped it by walking off into the fog saying that she had heard enough and she was hungry, and if some smartalecks wanted to stand around the street arguing, that was their lookout. But she, Rosie, was going home.

She hadn’t been walking for long when the others joined her, and no sooner had they caught up with her than the incident occurred which was to set off the whole series of events of the Disappearing Despatch Case. It began with a cry from the direction of Merriman’s shop.

“Oh, do help me someone!” quavered what sounded like an old woman’s voice. “Help!”

“Here!” called Beaver, who was ahead of the others. “Come on!” They all ran after him, with Shiner and Rosie struggling with their belongings towards the sounds of a fierce struggle and more terrified calls for help.

“Hold on!” yelled Sparrow. “We’re coming!”

Beaver and Sparrow arrived simultaneously at the source of the cries, and they were in time to see what happened. Outside Merriman’s shop, a struggle was taking place.

“It’s him with the red beard!” yelled Sparrow to Rosie and Shiner. The big man was struggling with an old woman who was trying to keep possession of a shopping-basket by flailing with her umbrella at him. As he grabbed at the basket, she countered with a blow at his face, but he gave a snarling cry and then he had her by one huge hand around the throat.

“Get him!” yelled Sparrow, pushing the larger boy forward.

Beaver rushed towards the man with his fists raised, but already help was on the way. From inside the well-lit tobacconist’s shop, a tall figure emerged, blinking against the sudden gloom of the drifting yellow fog but quickly grasping what was happening.

In a loud and commanding voice, the elderly gentleman who had given the threepenny piece to Rosie called out:

“Why, you villain—leave her alone! Merriman, sound your whistle for the police!”

And without any further reflection, he dropped his parcels and despatch case and raised his silver-mounted cane as he approached the burly ruffian and his struggling, gasping victim.

Beaver and Sparrow were already engaged, but not for long.

“Knock his legs from under him!” yelled Sparrow to Beaver as they dodged both the umbrella and the burly man’s wide, sweeping blows. “He’ll have that poor old lady dead, strangled, so he will—aaaah!”

And Sparrow found himself hurled into the cobbled street as the red-bearded man snarled and caught him with a hard blow to the head. Beaver too was unable to give much assistance, for the ruffian could easily handle a terrified old woman and a couple of ragamuffins at the same time; in a moment, he had knocked Beaver too out of the fight, so that when Rosie and Shiner appeared through the gloom the first thing they saw was the two members of the Baker Street Boys struggling to their feet and wailing that they were bleeding to blinking death.

“Now, you villain, try fighting a man!” they heard the distinguished-looking elderly man call, and they saw him cut at the attacker’s head with his cane.

Had the blow landed, it would have taken much of the fight out of the robber, but somehow it missed—perhaps by chance, perhaps by a fortunate glance from the poor old woman’s umbrella; certainly, it was a powerful and well-aimed blow in true cavalry style. It was, however, ineffective, and worse than that it served to enrage the burly robber even more.

“Yaaargh!” he snarled, turning to face his new adversary, and Rosie quailed as she saw the beetling brows and the wild-eyed stare of the robber, whilst it took all of Shiner’s resolution to begin his own attack, hacking at the man’s shins.

That too was ineffectual, for before Shiner could attempt to kick the red-bearded man, the latter had dashed the stick from the elderly gentleman’s hand and knocked him to the ground. Shiner saw the attacker scrabble for the cudgel at his belt to finish off the fallen old man, so he pressed home his own attack and kicked him hard on the ankle.

“Teufel!” howled the attacker, shocked by the blow. “Aaaarh!” he cursed, the cudgel now in his hand, his mad eyes promising revenge, and his whole face a mask of such rage that Shiner fled. A loud blast on a whistle stopped him.

It was the call which would summon any nearby police-officer, and the attacker clearly knew its meaning. He looked around him and saw both Beaver and Sparrow on their feet, both with a look of fierce determination on their faces. He looked further and saw that his victim was by no means completely cowed, for she still retained her umbrella in her hand.

And when he glanced towards the tobacconist’s shop, he could see that Merriman had taken the opportunity of arming himself with a sturdy truncheon. The odds were too much for him, and without another moment’s delay, he turned and ran into the fog, with Merriman’s cries ringing after him:

“Stop that man—stop, thief!”

CHAPTER TWO

Beaver and Sparrow needed no prompting, nor did Shiner now that he was in the company of two of the bigger Baker Street Boys. Hearts pounding and lungs aching with the cold, they rushed along the alleyways after the red-bearded villain.

Rosie decided that her place was with Mr. Merriman and the victims of the robber’s attack. The old woman was moaning and clutching her neck where she had been grabbed; whilst the distinguished elderly gentleman lay in a pool of blood, glistening in the flickering gaslight.

Mr. Merriman was so agitated that he was unable to decide what should be done.

“You can stop blowing that whistle,” Rosie told him. “There won’t be any coppers around now—they’ll all be in the pub up Baker Street. Here, listen to this toff’s heart—is he a goner?”

“A goner?” cried Mr. Merriman, hurrying to where Rosie bent to listen at the elderly. gentleman’s chest. “I hope not, indeed I hope not! That’s Sir Alfred Connyngham, one of my regulars. Is that blood?”

“’Course it’s blinking blood,” said Rosie, accustomed to the violence of London’s streets. “And if you don’t get a doctor to him soon, he’ll be a goner for sure, dead as mutton, that’s what.”

“A doctor?” whispered Mr. Merriman. “Where am I going to find a doctor for him? And look at this poor lady too! She’s fainting clean away, what with that brute’s hands on her neck. Look at her! I don’t know what to do!”

“You take her inside your shop, Mr. Merriman, while I see to this toff here—what did you say his name was?”

Sir Alfred Connyngham groaned just then.

“Whoever he is, he’s still wiv us,” Rosie went on, as Mr. Merriman dithered and moaned. “Go on—get the old girl inside. And just you keep still, your lordship or whatever you are—can you hear me?”

Again Sir Alfred groaned, and Mr. Merriman saw the sense in getting one of the victims off the street.

“You’re all right,” Rosie assured the elderly gentleman. “You’ve been bashed by a bully, but you’ll live, and the old girl’s all right too that you tried to help—there, old Merriman’s took ’er inside, so stop worrying, will yer?”

Slowly and painfully, the old woman was half-supported into the shop, clutching her shopping-basket, her umbrella, and Merriman’s arm; however, her dress was askew, and as she passed beside the half-conscious nobleman and Rosie, a handkerchief slipped from her pocket.

“Here,” began Rosie, but the woman didn’t hear her, so Rosie dabbed at the wound on Sir Alfred’s forehead with it. “Don’t want to hurt you,” she told him, “but it’s a nasty sight—no, don’t try to sit up. You’ve been hit hard—and you don’t deserve it, a kind old gent like you.”

“Rosie?” called a familiar voice through the yellow gloom. “You there, Rosie?”

“Yeh—and you can get busy, Sparrer,” called Rosie back, as first Sparrow, then Beaver, and finally Shiner puffed and panted into view.

“Lost him!” cried Shiner. “We was right up to him and he just vanished!”

“Like magic, it was,” agreed Sparrow. “Beaver nearly had his coat-tails when—”

“When you lost him, and that’ll do for now about him,” said Rosie. “We’ll see to this gentleman now he’s coming round a bit—Sparrer, you hop it and fetch Dr. Watson smart now—go on!” she cried, and Sparrow ran off without argument, which was unusual for him, while Beaver and Shiner helped prop up Sir Alfred.

“Can we get him inside?” said Beaver. “It’s miserable cold out here. You ready to move, sir?” he asked the semiconscious nobleman.

“Where’s Mr. Merriman, Rosie?”

“He’s in too much of a dither to help,” she told Beaver. “Let’s get you up, sir,” she said to Sir Alfred. “Beaver’s right—you’ll freeze out here. What’s that?” she went on, hearing a faint inquiry from the injured man. “The old girl, you say?”

“Poor lady—what happened to her?” whispered Sir Alfred, who was slowly recovering his senses.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Sir Alfred!” called Merriman, who reappeared from inside his shop. “I’ve settled her into the snug before a fire, and she’s taken care of. But we must see to you, Your Lordship—here, give a hand, will you?” he said to Beaver and Shiner. “This is Sir Alfred Connyngham, you know, a member of the Government!”

“Is he now?” said Shiner, who was deeply impressed by the news.

“Easy, Your Lordship!” cried Merriman, who had managed to control his initial panicky reaction. “The police will be here before long—and a doctor! Did you send for a doctor, girl?” he asked Rosie.

“’Course I did,” said Rosie. “Dr. Watson from Baker Street!”

“Ah, of course!” said Merriman. “Why didn’t I think of him?” There was a groan from the injured nobleman then.

“Give a hand here!” ordered Merriman.

“Lean on me, sir,” said Beaver, offering a solid shoulder to the tottering man, and slowly they walked through the dense fog towards the shop.

They were able to see the brightly-lit shop-window as a hazy beacon in the gloom, and just as the two boys and Merriman—and Rosie, adding her wiry strength—supported Sir Alfred towards the open door, a member of the London police answered Merriman’s urgent summons.

“Who blew that whistle?” demanded PC Boot, clattering towards them. “Here, what’s happening—Mr. Merriman, who’s these here ragamuffins?”

“Good Samaritans, all of them!” answered Merriman sharply. “You took your time, my man, for I blew I don’t know how many times on my whistle—where were you, Boot? This is your beat, isn’t it?”

Boot began to apologise for the delay when Merriman found another subject for his nervous anger.

This time it was a short, slim-built, middle-aged man with bushy side-whiskers and a plaid cape and hat, who was clutching a large holdall of the kind termed a carpet-bag, and, to Merriman at least, he seemed to be an intrusion on the scene, for the tobacconist said:

“I’m sorry, sir, I have not a moment to spare for you—not a single moment, sir! I can’t serve you, no matter who you may be, for Sir Alfred needs my attention!”

The man turned and left and the mystery took another turn, for Sir Alfred was then reminded of his own possessions.

“Merriman!” he cried, suddenly recovering. And then he recognised the presence of a policeman too. “Constable?” he said, puzzled momentarily. “I was attacked—yes! I had my despatch case—Do you have it, Officer?”

“Me, sir? I only just arrived this instant, sir, and I’m afraid I know nothing of—”

Once more, Boot was cut short, for with a loud cry Sir Alfred Connyngham realised the extent of his loss.

“Let me go!” he cried to the two boys and to Merriman. “Who’s this? Why, it’s the flower-girl. Yes, you helped me, I recall it now. My things—where are they?”

“Here’s your stick, sir,” said Shiner. “And your tobacco parcel from the smell of it—and here’s the flowers, not much to say for them, I’m afraid—”

”But my despatch case!” cried Sir Alfred. “It’s black, and it has the insignia of the Crown. It must be here,” he said, staggering and almost falling to the ground once more.

PC Boot might have been slow in arriving, and he certainly had been slowwitted in allowing himself to be criticised by the tobacconist, but at the mention of official matters he immediately understood his duty.

“I believe I am addressing Sir Alfred Connyngham, am I right, Your Lordship?” he said, and he put one burly arm below the nobleman’s elbow and helped him towards the shop.

“Yes,” mumbled Sir Alfred. “Indeed you are, Officer,” he went on as he struggled to remain conscious. “You must find my despatch case immediately! It contains important Government papers—”

He did not finish his remarks as he blacked out once more, and Boot had to take the whole of his weight.

Boot settled the nobleman into the shop, and addressed Merriman briskly, for at the mention of Sir Alfred’s loss he immediately understood his duty.

“You look after His Lordship,” he said to the tobacconist. “You,” he told Beaver, “get yourself up the road to the police-station as if seven devils was after you—bring the Duty Officer and some men, and say Sir Alfred Connyngham’s hurt—hop it! And you two,” he told Rosie and Shiner, “you two help me look for this case.”

Beaver ran off as he was told. The evening had begun with a fight, which in itself was exciting enough, followed by a chase that had resulted in a mystery. And now he was acting on behalf of a Government Minister—it was almost as good as being employed by Mr. Holmes himself!

Rosie and Shiner were less happy.

“It’s gone,” said Rosie, after she and Shiner and PC Boot had searched every inch of the area.

“It can’t have,” said Boot. “Are you two sure he had it with him? I mean, the poor gentleman isn’t feeling quite himself just now, what with the crack he had.”

But Rosie was sure that Sir Alfred had had the despatch case when he bought the flowers from her; she recalled seeing him hitch it under his arm when he reached for his pocket to pay her.

Boot looked unhappy too as they returned to Merriman’s shop. “This,” he said, “will be a bad business. It has all the hallmarks—here, that’s Dr. Watson in with Sir Alfred, ain’t it?”

“Yeh,” said Shiner. “Now if he’d got Mr. Sherlock Holmes wiv him we wouldn’t be in such a tizzy. But he’s not here, or he’d have it all puzzled out in half a tick.”

“Maybe he would, and maybe he wouldn’t,” said Boot, entering the shop. “But this is a job for a professional. Now, keep back and hush. ’Evening, sir,” he said to Dr. Watson.

Dr. Watson looked up and grunted as he finished inserting a stitch into a long wound on the unconscious nobleman’s forehead.

“PC Boot at your service,” went on the constable. “It’s a nasty business. Matter of an attack on an old woman and Sir Alfred Connyngham intervening on her behalf and losing his important State documents, sir.”

Dr. Watson looked up and nodded to the Baker Street Boys, who kept discreetly in the background, their eyes shining with excited interest.

“I heard from Sparrow what had happened, or part of it anyway,” he said. “It was smart of him to think of me—Sir Alfred needed instant attention. Merriman told me a little too, but so far no one’s mentioned an old lady. I know about a red-bearded brute who can walk through brick walls, and I know from Sir Alfred’s ramblings that some extremely important documents were contained in his despatch case, but what’s this about an old lady being injured? I should look at her too—good grief, Merriman, what’s the matter with you?” he demanded, for the tobacconist was acting in a strange manner.

“Where is she?” the tobacconist was bleating, as he pointed to the inner room he used as a snug.

It was a small room, with one tiny window and no outside door. And it was obvious to all those who could see inside that it was quite empty.

“Where is who?” snapped Dr. Watson.

“The old girl,” said Shiner.

“What was being strangled,” added Rosie.

“What Merriman brought in here, sir,” finished PC Boot.

“The old lady who was the subject of the red-bearded brute’s attack?” said Dr. Watson.

“Yes, Doctor,” said Merriman, who had recovered his wits by now. “Didn’t you see her come out, sir?” Boot asked Dr. Watson.

“No, my man, I didn’t. Merriman too will tell you that no one passed through his shop from the time I arrived to attend to Sir Alfred,” Dr. Watson told him.

“And I’d have seen her from down the street if she’d gone while we were searching for the despatch case.” said Boot.

“And us,” said Shiner.

“That’s another one what’s disappeared,” said Sparrow. “Just like magic.”

“Only nastier,” said Rosie.

Just then, Boot heard the clatter of a hansom arriving, followed by loud calls from a commanding voice.

PC Boot turned pale, but he tried to sound reassuring.

“I hear Inspector Lestrade calling,” he said. “Excuse me, sir, I’m sure we’ll have the villain arrested shortly, and the rest of this business cleared up.”

With that, he left to greet Inspector Lestrade.

“Lestrade?” grunted Dr. Watson. “I fear it will take more than Inspector Lestrade’s brains to puzzle out tonight’s mystery.”

CHAPTER THREE

“Then what happened?” said Wiggins.

Rosie and Shiner, together with Beaver and Sparrow, were wolfing down the Irish stew that Queenie had made from four-pennyworth of scrag-end of mutton and some vegetables she had picked up from the litter around the stalls at Covent Garden that morning.

Wiggins felt slightly peeved that this was his first news of the night’s adventure since, at fifteen, he was the oldest of the street urchins who lived in the cellar of the derelict house near Baker Street.

He looked up at the framed picture of Sherlock Holmes and told himself that patience was one of the Master’s qualities; but the effect of his warning to himself didn’t last long.

“Can’t you stop eating for a minute and talk?” he demanded.

“I likes my stew hot,” announced Sparrow.

“Queenie’s stew’s too good not to eat hot!” agreed Shiner.

“I’ll tell you,” said Beaver, mopping his plate with a crust. “Inspector Lestrade told us to hop it and let him get on wiv the case.”

“That’s right,” agreed Rosie. “‘Hopkins,’ he says to Hopkins. ‘Get a statement from those ragamuffins and clear them out of my way. There’s important State documents gone missing, and I can’t be interrupted by a crew of would-be child-detectives.’ That’s what he says to Sergeant Hopkins.”

Rosie had reported Lestrade’s words with great faithfulness, and you may as well know how I knew. It is here that I, Sergeant Hopkins, must reveal myself, just as Dr. Watson recorded the exploits of Mr. Holmes, so I have attempted to leave a record of those adventures and incidents in which the great man was involved only to a limited extent; I mean, of course, the activities of the Baker Street Irregulars, who, at the time I speak of were being questioned by their leader, Arnold Wiggins.

“He called us what!” demanded Wiggins of Rosie. “‘Would-be detectives?’”

“That’s what he said,” agreed Sparrow.

“Cheek!” growled Wiggins. “Why, Mr. Holmes said to us only a few weeks back that we’re more use than a dozen of the bobbies, each one of us! As for Lestrade, he wouldn’t know a clue if it bit his ankle for him.”

“And he said to Merriman he was glad Mr. Holmes wasn’t around too,” announced Beaver.

“Did he tell you that in the cab?” said Wiggins, who was practically fuming by this time.

“In the cab!” laughed Beaver. “He didn’t take me along in the hansom—I ran alongside. No, I heard him say to Hopkins and Merriman that it wasn’t a case for amateurs like Mr. Holmes and us.”

Wiggins and Queenie gasped with rage.

“And what did Dr. Watson say about that?” asked Queenie.

But Lestrade had been more circumspect than to allow his remarks to be overheard by Dr. Watson, as I can confirm. Inspector Lestrade had his faults, but he would never wittingly offend a man of influence—he kept his criticisms of Mr. Holmes and the Irregulars to his subordinates, myself, and the unfortunate PC Boot, and to Merriman. Poor Boot came in for an ear-shaking tirade immediately afterwards, but that was Lestrade’s way—he would bully his inferiors whilst sucking up to his superiors.

“Amateurs!” fumed Wiggins. “We’re not amateurs—if Mr. Holmes was here we could have this case solved in a jiffy!”

“But he ain’t,” pointed out Shiner. “Poor Mr. Holmes is near death’s door, after he got stabbed by Moriarty.”

“So he is,” said Wiggins, and he stared at the picture of the world’s foremost detective for so long that the others began to feel restless.

“What are you staring like that for?” said Rosie. “You’re making me feel all unnecessary, Wiggins.”

“I was thinking,” said Wiggins, “that Mr. Holmes is in that clinic in Switzerland, ain’t he?”

“Yeh?” said Shiner.

“Yeh,” said Wiggins. “And we’re here.”

Queenie sighed. “And we know what Wiggins means, don’t we?” she said to the others.

“Elementary, my dear Queenie,” said Wiggins. “We’re going to show Inspector Lestrade he’s wrong. We’re going to solve the case of the missing documents—here, what’s that?” he said, as Rosie slowly drew out the handkerchief which had been dropped by the old lady at the scene of the attack.

Sparrow took it from her. “Urgghh! Blood!” he said.

“Sir Alfred’s blood, that’s what,” agreed Rosie. “I mopped him up wiv it—I couldn’t give it back to the old girl, not when she’d done a bunk, could I?”

Wiggins pointed to a monogram which had been partially concealed by the congealed blood.

“That’s an ‘O’,” he said. “Anyway, it’s not a ladies’ handkerchief, it’s too big. What’s ‘O’ for?”

“’Orace,” said Shiner. “’Orrible ’Orace,” Rosie said.

“’Orrible ’Orace from ’Ounslow,” Sparrow went on. “It’s a clue, Wiggins!”

“It might be,” said Wiggins, who was getting ready to go out into the cold night. “But just now I’m going off to do what he’d do,” he said, indicating the picture of Sherlock Holmes.

Queenie, Shiner, and Beaver also decided to go with Wiggins, but Rosie said she was too tired to face the icy fog, and Sparrow had his own plans.

“Not coming, Sparrer?” Beaver asked him.

“Nah,” said Sparrow, but he didn’t elaborate, so the four others left him behind with Rosie.

“How about you?” yawned Rosie as she saw that Sparrow was putting on his coat and ragged cloth-cap.

Sparrow lifted the silken handkerchief from the table.

“See this, Rosie girl,” he said, slipping his hand into the silk, which parted to reveal a pocket.

“Funny kind of handkerchief,” agreed Rosie.

“I’ve seen one like it once,” Sparrow told her. “Down at the Alhambra.”

“What? Down at the music-hall? Did some toff have it?”

“Nah,” said Sparrow. “Some magician. And I’m going to ask about him.”

“’Orrible ’Orace from ’Ounslow?” said Rosie, but Sparrow had slid out of the door into the yellow fog. “Magic again,” she said, settling beside the fire. “Nasty magic too—I hope Sparrer don’t run into that big bloke with the red beard.”

* * * *

In the thick fog, Wiggins led the little band to Merriman’s.

“Why didn’t Sparrer come along?” Shiner asked Beaver, as they walked shivering along the dimly-lit alleys.

“Dunno,” said Beaver. “Sparrer’s an odd kind of cove at times—he has his secrets, does Sparrer.”

Queenie agreed. “He looked crafty, did little Sparrer,” she said. “He’s got something up his sleeve.”

Shiner thought about it for a while. “Sparrer was staring at that handkerchief the old girl dropped,” he said. “What do you think, Wiggins?”

“I dunno about Sparrer,” said Wiggins as they reached Merriman’s shop and peered through the window, “but I know there’s been some dirty work going on here—see!”

And he pushed on the door, which had obviously been jemmied, for splinters and the wreckage of a lock littered the doorway. Great force had been used, and for a moment Wiggins held back.

Then he pushed forward.

“Mr. Merriman?” he called. “You all right, are you?”

He went ahead cautiously, trying to see into the gloom.

The others crowded behind him pushing him forward but unwilling to slip past him. Then there was a creaking, groaning sound from inside the shop, and Wiggins could make out a weird, swaying figure.

“What’s that?” shrieked Queenie

Wiggins flinched, but a hollow voice came from the darkness. “—came back!” the voice cried, and it was Merriman. “I saw the same—but not the same!”

And with those barely-audible and totally mystifying words, the tobacconist crashed to the ground and was silent.

“It’s Merriman!” yelled Wiggins, striking a match. “Here—see, the place has been done over!”

“How’s Mr. Merriman?” asked Beaver.

Queenie screamed as she saw the pale face and the blank stare.

“He’s a goner,” said Wiggins. “Poor old Merriman—see, he didn’t get a chance to blow his whistle,” he went on, disentangling the silver whistle from the tobacconist’s fingers. “Go on,” he told Beaver. “The Law has to be brought into this.”

He lit an undamaged oil-lamp and looked around the shop, whilst Queenie and Beaver summoned help. Drawers had been pulled from cupboards and hurled about in a frenzy, tables were overturned, and bowls and jugs smashed open; Wiggins, however, had been at the scene of a number of burglaries, and be saw something wrong about this one.

“They wasn’t after his takings,” he said.

He pointed to the shine of gold and. silver in the cashdrawer.

“Then what was they after?” demanded Beaver, who had returned after energetically blowing Merriman’s police whistle.

“P’raps he knew!” whispered Queenie, indicating the corpse. “What was that he said just before he pegged out—something about it was the same and not the same, wasn’t it?”

“And about someone coming back,” agreed Wiggins.

“Mr. Holmes would puzzle it out if he was here,” said Beaver. “He’d smoke his pipe, then he’d have a think, and he’d have it all worked out.”

“So he would,” admitted Wiggins. “An’ that’s what I ain’t been doing!” he exclaimed, startling the others. “What—smoking?” said Queenie.

“I ain’t been thinking!” said Wiggins. “I ain’t been thinking about what they was after, that’s what! Queenie, you and Shiner stay here to see the Law. Beaver, you’re coming with me.”

“Why?” yelled Queenie. “I don’t want to stay with a body!”

“You do as you’re told, girl,” said Wiggins firmly. “Beaver and me are going after Sparrer, and if I’m right there’s going to be more rough work tonight. No, Queenie, you talk to the Law when they get here.”

“What if it’s Inspector Lestrade?” said Queenie. “How can I tell an Inspector of Constables as you’ve gone out when there’s a murder been done here, Arnold Wiggins?”

Wiggins could hear the clash of heavy boots on the pavement, and he knew he hadn’t much time.

“Tell him Wiggins has a clue, that’s what! Come on, Beaver!”

“But where are we going?” puffed Beaver, as they ran into the darkness.

“After Sparrer,” said Wiggins.

“But where’s Sparrer gone?” Beaver gasped.

“Into more trouble than he can handle!” said Wiggins, increasing his pace.

CHAPTER FOUR

“Wiggins ain’t the only one who knows Mr. Holmes’s methods,” Sparrow assured himself as he reached the side door of the Alhambra music-hall. “I was the one what found the clue, so I’m the one what’s going to follow it up,” he went on, forgetting Rosie’s part in obtaining the white silk handkerchief with the odd pocket.

“What do you want?” demanded the doorman as Sparrow entered the side-door. “This door’s for artistes and such—hop it, you.”

“I’m Sparrer,” said Sparrow. “Don’t you remember me, Bert?”

Bert the doorman looked closer, and saw that beneath the swathings of ragged scarf and the over-large cap was an old friend.

“Yeh,” he said. “What do you want, then?”’

“You know about magic things, don’t you, Bert? See ’ere—what’s this, then?” said Sparrow, passing Bert the bloodstained handkerchief.

“Had a nosebleed, Sparrer?” asked Bert, examining the square of silk.

“Nah—accident. How about it, Bert? That pocket thing in it—recognise it?”

“Easy,” said Bert. He demonstrated for Sparrow. “I’ve seen it done a hundred times on stage. The illusionist holds the egg or whatever in his hand, over goes the trick handkerchief, a wave of the other hand to distract them, and away goes the egg. He calls it magic, but it’s the oldest trick in the book.”

“Who does?” said Sparrow.

“Who does what?” said Bert.

“Who calls it magic?” Sparrow persisted.

Bert sighed. “Didn’t you see who’s on at the hall this week? Orlov! The Great Orlov he calls himself. And he’s not bad either, isn’t Orlov, even if he does use the oldest trick in the book with this here handkerchief. See—it’s got his initial on—‘O’ for Orlov.”

Sparrow was staggered. He had followed up a clue, but here was more than he had expected, far more. He had expected the doorman to give him some ideas about who might have used the handkerchief, and here was Bert telling him that its owner was now appearing at this very music hall!

“Wiggins’ll be sick!” he couldn’t help saying.

“How’s that?” said Bert.

“Nothing, Bert!” Sparrow told him. “Is this bloke—the Great Orlov—still here?”

Bert shook his head. “Finished and gone. Tonight was his last appearance. D’you want me to hang on to his hankie in case he comes back?”

“Nah,” said Sparrow, his heart beating faster. “Tell me where he lives and I’ll take it to him—maybe it’s worth a tanner to him, it being part of his act.”

Bert laughed and gave Sparrow an address a few streets away.

“There’s no flies on you, me old cock-sparrer!” he called as Sparrow ran out into the thick swirling fog. “I hope he does get his tanner, but I don’t fancy his chances. Orlov ain’t full of the milk of human kindness, but then he’s a foreigner, ain’t he?”

Sparrow pelted through alleyways and down narrow, cobbled streets, and dodged the occasional cab that splattered mud over him. And all the time he found himself getting nearer to a particular alleyway which he knew.

“I’ve been here before!” said Sparrow, peering into the ill-lit alleyway at the rear of the street where Orlov lived.

Sparrow’s heart pounded as he approached the end house.

“That’s the one Bert said he lives at,” thought Sparrow. “And round the back is where that red-bearded bloke vanished—it’s like Rosie said, it’s all magic, only nastier. I wonder if Orlov’s in?”

He peered through the windows at the front of the small, terraced house, but though there was a candle guttering in the parlour, he could see no sign of the illusionist.

“I’ll go round the back,” Sparrow decided.

Quietly and stealthily Sparrow slid down the alleyway until he located the yard door of the end house. It was open. Sparrow hesitated. Should he investigate, or should he report to Wiggins and the others?

Sparrow peered inside. There was a patch of light from the back door of the house—the back door was open too. He shivered with more than the cold of the swirling fog. “Nah,” he thought. “I’ll go back for—what’s that?”

Heavy footsteps rang on the cobbles of the alley.

Someone was coming!

Sparrow almost passed out with terror. He felt his heart fluttering madly and he was sure that the big figure that loomed nearer and nearer could hear it. Without another thought, Sparrow darted through the yard and into the house—there was no time to look for a hiding place: he was into the house as the metal-tipped boots rang in the backyard.

“Where!” groaned Sparrow as he surveyed the bleak little room.

On a battered table were gleaming tools and bundles of brownish-looking candles, together with a number of iron canisters; three chairs and a chest made up the rest of the furniture. And, from another part of the house—from somewhere at the front—Sparrow heard a thick foreign voice calling.

“Bukovsky?” it called, then there was a gabble of some weird language that sounded as if the speaker had his mouth full of cabbage.

“In there.” Sparrow told himself, moving swiftly.

It was a built-in cupboard, large enough for Sparrow and not much more. Sparrow had it open in a second, and then he was wriggling into an assortment of illusionist’s equipment and old clothes, certain that he must be found and murdered within seconds.

In his last glimpses of the back room, however, he had noticed a number of things. One was a large revolver on one of the chairs, together with a box of ammunition. Another was that the cupboard which sheltered him contained some familiar items, including a red beard and a ladies’ winter outfit; and there was one more thing that in itself convinced Sparrow of the danger he was in.

It was a shiny black leather despatch-case, and on it was the golden insignia of a Crown.

“It was him!” Sparrow whispered. “The old girl—it was him!” Everything began to fall into place, although it was several minutes before Sparrow was calm enough to work it out.

Even then, he found himself listening to a long, monotonous conversation in a language he didn’t understand; all the time, sweating with terror and with the red beard finding its way under his collar as he burrowed into the Great Orlov’s equipment!

Sparrow wished ten thousand times that he had not been so adventurous. He told himself that he had been stupid to be jealous of Wiggins and go off on his own. He promised himself faithfully that if he didn’t sneeze and alert the big man, he would never, never try to be a detective again.

But after a while, even terror became boring, and Sparrow listened more carefully to what the two men were saying. Their conversation seemed to last for hours—days.

Every so often, Sparrow heard a name or a phrase repeated, so he was able to work out the men’s names. Orlov wasn’t Orlov, he was Orlovitch. And the big bloke was Bukovsky.

Then Sparrow grew more alert.

“What?” he thought, as a familiar-sounding name, which a foreign accent couldn’t entirely conceal was repeated. “He said Sir Alfred Connyngham!”

And then, amazingly, the two men began to converse in English!

“In one week,” said Orlovitch. “And when he dies, we will make the Revolution!”

“When who dies?” wondered Sparrow, concentrating harder now. “Are they going to do Sir Alfred again?”

Sparrow stored every word as gradually the men went over the details of their plan. The trouble was, however, that he was becoming sleepy.

Whether it was—the lack of air in the cupboard combined with the build up of body-heat, or whether Sparrow was just plain tired after being out in the bitter cold since dawn that day—the fact was that he fell asleep.

He heard a great. deal, but he was fortunate enough to miss the worst threat to his continued existence.

“And the props from your act?” said Bukovsky, who was packing away the tools and apparatus on the table. “The despatch case and the clothes—what of them?”

Orlov shook his head.

“Leave them. From tonight, Orlov is finished. Dropping the handkerchief marked me as Orlov, and the trail must lead to here. A few more clues of the same kind won’t harm us—we leave here now for good. Come!”

Bukovsky blew out the candles,

Then his sharp hearing almost led to the finding of the sleeping boy. “You hear something?” he said to Orlovitch.

Orlovitch listened. “Nothing.”

“Something like—like a cat purring?” persisted Bukovsky. Orlovitch shook his head impatiently.

“We’ve waited long enough—delay is dangerous. Come!”

All of this passed Sparrow by as he dozed for another hour or so—the time it took Wiggins and Beaver to find him. Sparrow snored gently, and the streets around him grew quieter until there was absolute silence in the dark old house.

Sparrow heard Beaver’s voice first.

“Ouch!” he cried as he crashed into a fallen chair, for the house was in darkness.

“Shut up!” whispered Wiggins.

“Why? There ain’t no one here,” said Beaver.

“You hope!” said Wiggins, striking a match. “No, they’ve scarpered.”

“And how about poor old Sparrer?” whispered Beaver, as he thought of what might have happened to his friend.

“Yeh,” agreed Wiggins, lighting a pair of candies. “What’s that?” he gasped, as he heard a faint, regular sound.

“What?” yelled Beaver, jumping away from him.

“I can hear something—low and horrible!”

“Orlov!” whispered Beaver. “’Orrible Orlov!”

“It’s coming from in there,” whispered Wiggins.

“Let’s get out of here!” yelled Beaver.

“Let me out first!” yelled back Sparrow.

“Yowwww!” roared Wiggins and Beaver, heading for the back-door.

“It’s me!” yelled Sparrow. “Me—Sparrer!”

“Where?” cried Beaver.

“Where do you think!” yelled back Sparrow. “In the blinking cupboard!”

It took only a moment or two to disentangle Sparrow from Orlov’s stage props and Bukovsky’s beard, and not many minutes for Sparrow to tell his tale, and an alarming story it was.

It raised as many questions as it answered, but at least one part of the mystery was explained.

Wiggins examined the female clothes, then the shopping-bag, and the red beard, and, finally, Sir.Alfred Connyngham’s despatch-case.

“It was all a trick,” he said. “Illusions, as you would say.”

“’Course it was!” said Sparrow. “That’s what the Great Orlov does for a living, ain’t it? He dressed up as an old girl, then his pal Bukovsky comes along with his red beard and his cosh to make it look as if he’s knocking her about.”

“But he ain’t,” said Beaver.

Wiggins agreed. “Then when Bukovsky runs off, the old girl gets taken into Merriman’s—but she’s Orlovitch, so when he’s alone, he gets his own clothes out of the shopping-bag, does a quick change, then he hops it outside.”

“Wiv the despatch case in the carpet-bag he had all the time folded up,” finished Sparrow.

“And now it’s empty,” said Beaver.

“’Course it is,” said Sparrow. “They was after the papers inside it, wasn’t they? And now they’ve got them, and there’s going to be all kinds of trouble!”

Wiggins and Beaver listened to what Sparrow could remember of all he had heard. It was a story of violence and outrage, bloodshed and revolution, anarchy and war.

“And it starts,” said Sparrow, “when they blows up this Archduke. That’s what Orlovitch said when he wasn’t speaking in that heathen language. ‘Bukovsky,’ he tells this big bloke, ‘we will dynamite the Archduke in just one week’!”

“Dynamite him!” breathed Beaver.

“Yes,” said Sparrow. “Somewhere near a chimney or something, but I didn’t gather much about that, it was all in heathen.”

“And what else did you hear?” demanded Wiggins. “Before you fell asleep, Sparrer.”

“You’d have been stifled in there too, Wiggins!” exclaimed Sparrow.

“Didn’t I listen till I was nearly choked—and wiv a red beard tickling me neck all the time? What if I’d have sneezed? That big ugly bloke would’ve murdered me, he would!”

Wiggins soothed the angry little Cockney and got the rest of his incredible story. Sparrow had been drowsy for much of the time, and Orlovitch and Bukovsky had only occasionally spoken in English. But Sparrow had heard over and over again the same phrases.

“‘Three tons’, so Orlovitch said,” Sparrow recalled. “Him and Bukovsky said it maybe half-a-dozen times. And they’re going to do him today week.”

“Next Monday,” said Beaver. “Cor!”

“Near a chimney?” said Wiggins.

“Yeh,” said Sparrow. “Wiv three tons of dynamite. Then he said, clear as you like in English, ‘They’ll not be looking for us, disguised as we will be, Bukovsky—Long Live the Revolution!’”

In turn, Wiggins described how he had used Mr. Holmes’s methods to find Sparrow, and they were all about to congratulate themselves on solving the case of the Missing Despatch Case when they heard loud sounds from the front and back of the house.

“It’s that big bloke what done Merriman in!” gasped Beaver.

“What coshed Sir Alfred!” groaned Sparrow.

“What Orlovitch pals up with!” cried Wiggins.

Then Wiggins recognised a loud, authoritative voice ordering men to have their revolvers ready.

“Lestrade!” said Wiggins. “The Law’s here!”

“Just when we found who really stole the despatch case,” said Sparrow.

“And why,” added Beaver.

“You in there!” bellowed a stern voice. “Hands on your heads and come out quiet-like, if you understand English, and if you don’t, look at this, what’ll blow you to Kingdom Come if you resists arrest!”

The snout of a large pistol was thrust through the door.

“Why, it’s a gang of street urchins!” bellowed a constable. “Sir, I think it’s those ragamuffins again!”

Inspector Lestrade poked his nose into the room above another large pistol. He sighed.

“I thought they’d be here,” he said. “Why am I plagued by amateurs when I’m in the middle of the most important case of my whole career? See to them, Sergeant,” he told me (for I was still on duty that evening). “And then get rid of them!”

CHAPTER FIVE

I pointed out to Inspector Lestrade that he was being unfair to Sparrow, but the Inspector became quite irate when I attempted to argue with him.

The way he saw it was that Rosie was in the wrong for tampering with evidence in the first place. Inspector Lestrade held that she shouldn’t have kept the handkerchief once Orlovitch—in his disguise as an old woman—had dropped it. It was my view though that, but for Sparrow’s quick-wittedness, the trail leading to Orlovitch and Bukovsky would have been impossible to follow.

“Nonsense!” Inspector Lestrade declared to me, when the Baker Street Irregulars had been sent off with a flea in their (not very clean) ears. “Routine police methods would have brought about the same results, but quicker! Now, don’t let me hear anymore about those wretched ragamuffins and their escapades! I have informed my superiors that I expect to arrest these revolutionaries before long, and I have Sir Alfred’s complete confidence. As for this nonsense about three tons of dynamite—whoever heard of such rubbish? Why, three tons of dynamite would be enough to blow up half of Central London, and to my certain knowledge these anarchists use only small bombs for their villainies!”

And so, as far as Inspector Lestrade was concerned, that was that.

He dismissed all that Sparrow had heard as so much nonsense—the product of his dreams while he slept in Orlovitch’s cupboard. The important thing, so far as the Inspector saw it, was to guard the Archduke who was the central figure in the plot.

There was no secrecy about the coming visit to this country of Archduke Alexander of Rosnia. All the newspapers had reported that he was paying a ceremonial visit to Her Majesty; of course, the real purpose of his visit had not been disclosed. Orlovitch and Bukovsky were now in possession of the secret reasons behind the Archduke’s stay at Windsor with Her Majesty, and they were determined to prevent him from fulfilling them.

“The Archduke’s the target of these anarchists,” Inspector Lestrade told me. “Where he goes, I go—that’s the way to do police work, Hopkins. Safety first!”

“And Orlovitch and Bukovsky, sir?” I said to Inspector Lestrade.

“Every officer in the force is on the lookout for them!” said the Inspector. “Photographs of the anarchists will be displayed at every station in London by this time tomorrow. I’ll have them in twenty-four hours!”

Wiggins thought otherwise. When he saw the late newspapers the following day, he said:

“Don’t they know they’re lookin’ for a couple of expert illusionists? Does Lestrade think they’re going to walk past his bobbies with a revolver in one hand and a smoking bomb in the other with a label on their hats sayin’ ‘Anarchists’?”

Beaver, who had provided the late edition of the morning’s news, gazed at the breathless account of the night’s adventures: ‘VICIOUS ASSAULT ON PEER OF THE REALM! TOBACCONIST SLAIN IN ANARCHIST PLOT! INSPECTOR LESTRADE SPEAKS OF IMMINENT ARREST!’

Together the rest of the Baker Street Boys read how the police had been summoned to the scene of the attack on Sir Alfred Connyngham, and then how Inspector Lestrade and his detectives had linked that outrage with the murderous attack on Merriman.

“’S’trewth!” whistled Wiggins when he had finished. “Not a word about the Archduke. Lestrade’s pursuing his enquiries amongst the theatrical fraternity, so it says here, but it don’t say it was Sparrer that found the Great Orlov. And not a word about any missing documents either.”

Nor was there any mention of a plot against the life of Archduke Alexander in the newspapers during the next few days. Wiggins and the others impatiently read every account of Lestrade’s progress—though that wasn’t much—and every day their annoyance grew.

“He still says an arrest is imminent,” said Wiggins. “What’s imminent? When he can’t think of anything else to say to the reporters.”

His gaze came to rest as it often did on the stern features of Sherlock Holmes.

“I wonder what he’d do?” he muttered.

Queenie was quite sure about it. “Well, for a start he wouldn’t let Lestrade warn him off, not when he’d got a bunch of clues like what we’ve got.”

“We ain’t got no clues,” said Shiner. “Only what Sparrer heard.

“And what’s those but clues!” blazed Sparrow. “We know when they’re going to blow up the Archduke—next Monday. And I did hear them gabble on about three tons of something and about chimneys!”

Wiggins was thoughtful.

“See how Lestrade looks at it,” he told them. “He thinks Sparrer’s barmy—didn’t he ask if we thought the Archduke was going to stand on a chimney while Bukovsky and Orlovitch stood around at the bottom ready to blow him sky-high with three tons of dynamite?”

“So he did,” agreed Beaver. “And it is barmy!”

Reluctantly, they agreed that they had nothing to go on. It seemed that for them anyway the case of the Missing Despatch Case was over, but the next day brought a summons that was to change matters completely. It came in the form of a note from Dr. Watson.

“I have important news for you,” the note read. “Bring the rest of the Irregulars and make sure they wipe their feet on the mat, or Mrs Hudson will be displeased. J. H. Watson, M.D.”

“Dr. Watson wants us?” said Queenie. “All of us?”

“With clean boots,” said Wiggins. “Or his housekeeper will be mad.”

“What does he want?” demanded Rosie.

Wiggins spent another moment or two gazing at the picture of Sherlock Holmes.

“I got just about half an idea,” he said, but he would say no more.

Mrs Hudson supervised the entry of the Irregulars with a careful and hostile eye, but they gave her no cause for offence.

“Ah—come into the study!” declared Dr. Watson. “It will be quite suitable in the circumstances,” and the children gazed about them in awe as they looked around the most famous collection of criminal relics in the world.

They saw Mr. Sherlock Holmes’s pipes, his microscope with a slide ready to be examined in it, his fencing-foils, his pistols on the mantelpiece, and even his slippers.

“Phew!” muttered Wiggins, who was almost overcome with awe, but not quite.

“I’ll be brief,” said Dr. Watson. “I have here a telegram from Mr. Sherlock Holmes—”

“From Mr. Holmes!” cried Wiggins. “But he’s on his death-bed, sir!”

“Poor Mr. Holmes!” wept Rosie. “He’s a goner, ain’t he?”

“Now, now!” cried Dr. Watson. “No tears, if you please. They’re quite unnecessary. I’m delighted to say that Mr. Holmes is making a steady recovery—”

“Smashing!” yelled Wiggins.

“Hurray!” yelled Shiner, with the others joining in delightedly.

Dr. Watson smiled at their enthusiasm, but his face became stern once more.

“Really, that’s quite enough interruptions,” he told the Baker Street Boys. “Mr. Holmes is still a very sick man, but when I heard lately that there was some improvement in his condition, I took it upon myself to inform him of the difficulties In the case you became involved in. And this is his reply. Listen.”

And Dr. Watson read out the message from Mr. Sherlock Holmes to the children:

“‘In the matter of the disappearance of Sir Alfred Connyngham’s Despatch Case, kindly inform the Baker Street Irregulars that their instincts are right. Lestrade has not the imagination to follow up their valuable clues, so they must busy themselves in the matter. Be sure to remind them above all that in this case things are not always what they seem’.” Dr. Watson folded the telegram and put it in his pocket.

“I said it, didn’t I?” said Sparrow. “It’s all magic and faking, that’s what.”

“As Mr. Holmes points out,” agreed Dr. Watson.

“So we’re back on the case,” announced Wiggins, once more gazing around the room at the Master’s possessions.

“And so you should be,” said Dr. Watson. “Lestrade and young Sergeant Hopkins have been to see me more than once in the past few days, and it became clear to me that they were at a dead end. I took the liberty of informing Mr. Holmes of this case, and you have heard his reply. I can tell you that Inspector Lestrade is very worried at his lack of progress, and that meanwhile he travels everywhere with the Archduke to ensure his safety.”

“He’s got a hope, with Orlovitch and Bukovsky around,” said Wiggins.

“Those two are too crafty for Inspector Lestrade.”

“No doubt,” said Dr. Watson. “But where will you start, Wiggins?”

“Number 41 Park Lane, sir.”

“Where did you say? Ah, of course! At Sir Alfred Connyngham’s residence.”

“That’s right, sir,” said Wiggins. “We read as how Sir Alfred’s recovering at his London residence, and maybe he’s well enough to listen to a bit of sense now. Tomorrow’s Monday, and that’s when this Archduke bloke’s due to be murdered. We ain’t got no time to waste.”

“My sentiments exactly!” cried Dr. Watson. “It could be Mr. Holmes himself speaking!”

The Baker Street Boys were in a cheerful mood as they reached the railings in front of Sir Alfred’s Park Lane home, but their optimism was soon dampened. It was a murky evening once more, with a heavy fall of rain and sleet, and what they heard on their arrival made matters worse. “Here!” called a loud, authoritative voice. “You lot—get away from those gates—scarper, fast!”

A large police constable in a glistening cape loomed out of the darkness to confront Wiggins and the others. Another equally large policeman patrolled the grounds inside the railings.

“Who’s there?” called the second policeman. “Pack of kids!”

“What they after?”

“We’ve got to see Sir Alfred Connyngham!” called Wiggins.

“Who!” cried the first policeman.

“It’s true!” Queenie yelled. “It’s a matter of life and death!”

“They’re going to blow up the Archduke,” said Rosie. “And we know Sir Alfred—he bought some flowers from me the night he was attacked!” The second policeman now examined the urchins.

“What an ’orrible lot!” he said. “Get off—scarper!”

“But we helped wiv the investigation!” cried Wiggins, stung by this unpleasant remark. “We helped Inspector Lestrade after Sir Alfred got done by those two anarchists!”

“So you’re those meddling busybody kids!” said the first policeman. “I heard about you concealing evidence and getting in the way of the Law. And I’ll tell you this: if you don’t clear off in ten seconds, you’ll find yourselves in a cell for the night!” Wiggins led the others away.

Only Sparrow could find an answer for the two burly police-constables. “I hope that big foreign bloke comes round here!” he yelled. “Then you’ll know who’s telling the truth!”

A bellow of anger greeted this, and the Baker Street Boys took to their heels. Down one well-lit street they raced, and then Wiggins darted into a dark alleyway.

“Now what?” said Sparrow. “We’re finished, ain’t we?”

“Who says?” demanded Wiggins. “Here, Beaver and Queenie, you two come wiv me—wait here, you others.”

“Why?” they demanded.

“’Cos you’re too little to go where we’re going.”

“Where’s that?” said Queenie.

“Where the servants goes for a drink,” said Wiggins. “I saw a public house—just round the back here—it’s the nearest to Sir Alfred’s, so that’s where his staff’ll be drinking when they drinks.”

“And then what?” demanded Beaver, as they came to a brightly-lit and noisy public house called the Wheatsheaf.

“Dunno,” said Wiggins. “But it’s better’n being chased off by bobbies. Maybe we can get a message through to him, who knows?”

“And maybe we’ll get a thick ear for being nosey,” said Queenie. Wiggins grinned.

“Do you think Mr. Holmes would let himself be scared off?”

Sparrow, Shiner, and Rosie were not left long in doubt, for Wiggins and the others were back within minutes.

“Wiggins done it!” cried Beaver. “He’s gone and worked out the clue!”

“What, where Orlovitch and Bukovsky are hiding?” said Shiner.

“Nah!” said Queenie. “Where Sir Alfred’s gone!”

“But he’s round the corner in Park Lane,” said Sparrow. “Ain’t he?”

“No he ain’t,” announced Wiggins. “I saw one of the chambermaids; she’d had a few gins, and she let it slip before the underbutler could shut her up that Sir Alfred’s gone to his country residence.”

“So what’s the bobbies for if he ain’t in Park Lane?” demanded Shiner.

“All bluff!” Wiggins said. “The bobbies outside think he’s inside, but he ain’t—he’s at The Chimneys.”

“At the what?” said Sparrow. “Yeah!” he yelled suddenly. “It’s the name of a place—they calls big houses fancy names. Of course—it weren’t one chimney.”

“It was The Chimneys, near Newgate Village in Hertfordshire, more’n twenty miles on the train from here,” agreed Wiggins. “And that’s where we’re going!”

They had reckoned, however, without the train timetables.

* * * *

“First train out to Newgate?” they heard at Euston Station. “You’ll have a long wait. That’s the milk-train leaving here at five-thirty A.M.”

Sparrow groaned in dismay, and Shiner tried to argue with the ticket-clerk, but all he got was a threat of a call to the railway police; and so it was Wiggins who had to take the lead once more.

“Home, all of you, excepting Sparrer,” he said. “We’ll wait for the first train and get out to see Sir Alfred.”

There was a howl of protest from the others until Wiggins pointed out that their total wealth came to one shilling and tenpence, which was exactly the cost of two single fares to Newgate Village Station. Wiggins went on:

“I’m going ’cos I say so, and Sparrer’s coming with me ’cos—he knows the clues, that’s why,” and this had to satisfy the rest of the Boys.

It was an uncomfortable night for the two of them, but they were hardy and thought nothing of it. An hour before dawn the steam-train clanked into Newgate Village Station, they got out, and a sleepy porter gave them directions to The Chimneys.

“How long we been walking now?” said Sparrow, an hour later.

Dawn was breaking through low, hazy clouds, but fortunately there was no rain or snow. Wiggins consulted his watch.

“Dunno,” he said. “It’s stopped again. We’ve gotta be near, though, we been walking for hours along these lanes.”

They tramped on and rounded a narrow bend at the top of a steep climb. An imposing wall began beside the road, and a little way down the hill was a set of iron gates decorated with a coat of arms.

Through the trees, Wiggins and Sparrow saw their destination.

The Chimneys was an old, rambling mansion with Elizabethan timbers and red brick, but its most prominent feature was a remarkable number of high chimneys in its roofs. Getting over the gates presented no problems. “I hope their dogs isn’t savage,” said Wiggins, as be helped Sparrow down.

“And their servants isn’t too handy with guns,” agreed Sparrow.

But they reached the huge porch without attracting any attention whatsoever. Before them was a pair of high wooden doors, again engraved with a coat of arms; and a bell-pull on a black iron chain.

“Here goes,” said Wiggins, pulling on the chain. There was a deep, sombre clanging from the house. Dogs woke up on the instant. A deep baying sound left the two boys wishing they were back in London; and they felt their knees turn to jelly when a pair of servants opened the doors and confronted them with wide-mouthed shotguns and the snarling teeth of half-a-dozen hounds.

“Who’re you two young villains!” demanded a burly, older man.

“We ain’t villains or any such things!” cried Wiggins. “We got a warning for Sir Alfred Connyngham—”

“Don’t you come with threats for Sir Alfred!” cried the second man. “We got dogs for your kind!”

“But we got clues about the Archduke!” Sparrow called, seeing that they were being totally misunderstood. “We came to help—we’re the ones what looked after Sir Alfred when he got done on Monday last!”

“Was you?” said the second man, but the other one didn’t want to hear anymore. “Some ragamuffins did help his Lordship, that I know.”

“You two knows too much,” he decided. “Lock ’em up, Yates, and send for the bobbies like Inspector Lestrade said we should if there was trouble—come on, you two, I’ve got a storeroom with iron bars till the Law arrives! Sir Alfred ain’t here, so we’ll do what seems best.”

“But it”s a matter of life and death!” Wiggins tried to say. “We know these anarchists is goin’ to try to kill the Archduke!”

A growl from the older man was his only answer, but another voice came through the sullen snapping of the dogs, and it was obviously someone who expected to be obeyed:

“What’s this about the Archduke?” called a young man. “Wait, Roberts—who are these boys?”

Roberts wasn’t given a chance to explain. In a few short sentences, Wiggins was able to convince the young man—who wasn’t much older than he himself—that he was acting in good faith.

“Best put them somewhere secure, sir!” cried Roberts.

“In my father’s absence, I’ll decide what’s to be done!” cried the young man. “And you, Roberts, can make a start by bringing some breakfast. These boys look famished, and if I’m any judge they’ve walked from the station this morning. Yates, clear those confounded hounds away!” lie went on. “Now, you two—I’m Freddie Connyngham. Sir Alfred’s not here, as you’ve gathered, and I want an explanation from you both. But first let me tell you I know about last Monday’s attack. I’m grateful for what you did to help my father, but I realise that your business must be of the utmost urgency—so fire away, you have my entire attention!”

Wiggins and Sparrow took turns in describing what they knew. And then, over breakfast, Wiggins came to his conclusions.

“We know Orlovitch and Bukovsky are going to try to murder the Archduke,” he said. “And we know that Sir Alfred’s involved. But we can’t square up the other things—not three tons of dynamite, unless it’s to blow up this place.”

Freddie Connyngham whistled loudly.

“By Jove, I hope not! Now, let’s get a few things straight,” he went on. “The Archduke isn’t here, nor, of course, is my father. They’re due here, though, at about ten this morning, by special train, along with the Foreign Ministers of four more countries, and I can quite see that these anarchists would wish all of them blown sky-high. But I can assure you this place is too well-guarded for any desperadoes to enter—they wouldn’t get past the dogs. As for three tons—”

He was interrupted by Roberts, bearing further supplies of food. “The Three Tuns, did you say, sir?” said Roberts.

Freddie Connyngham dismissed the interruption.

“I wasn’t talking to you, Roberts,”’ he said irritably, but Sparrow had suddenly sprung to his feet and hared off after the servant.

“Here!” the others heard him call to Roberts. “You said ‘The Three Tuns’—why’d you say that?”

“So he did,” said Freddie Connyngham slowly. “And I can answer that myself!”

“It’s a public house!” called Sparrow triumphantly. “And it’s near a bridge—”

“Over which the special train must pass to get onto our private siding!” Freddie Connyngham said, his face growing pale. “Of course—you didn’t hear the anarchists talking about a weight of explosives, you heard them naming a rendezvous!”

Wiggins shook his watch. Sparrow heard a clock chime.

“’S’trewth!” he cried. “We’ve got an hour, no more! And it took us a lot more’n that to get here!”

“The last clue,” said Wiggins. “It all falls into place, like a pattern, as Mr. Holmes would say.”

“Arm yourselves, Roberts—Yates! Send the trap for help! Bring some of the men from the home farm—and fetch me a revolver at once!”

“Phew!” muttered Sparrow in admiration. “Revolvers!”

“We’re dealing with murderers!” said Wiggins. “And they’d blow us up too if they could! Ain’t we going in the trap?” he asked Freddie.

But the shortest way by far was not by road.

“We’re going along our private railway line,” declared Freddie Connyngham. “It won’t take us more than half-an-hour with luck to get to The Three Tuns, but heaven help us if we’re late, for the bridge there crosses a gorge a hundred feet deep, and no doubt the anarchists have mined it!”

Out of the house and into the woods went the boys and Freddie Connyngham, followed by Yates and Roberts and an assortment of delighted hounds. They ran along the track of the private line that linked The Chimneys with the public railway system. Before long, they had left the servants far behind.

“Keep going!” Wiggins called to Sparrow. “Got a stitch!” he moaned.

“And me, old man,” groaned Freddie.

“Run it off!” growled Wiggins, lengthening his stride. “How far now?” he asked Freddie.

“A mile—maybe a bit more!” panted Freddie Connyngham.

“We’re cutting it fine,” said Wiggins. “Come on!”

But Freddie Connyngham was no athlete, and Sparrow was near exhaustion after his sleepless night.

“I’ll take the revolver,”’ decided Wiggins, grabbing the weapon from Freddie’s nerveless hand. “You two follow!”

“No need!” called Freddie, as Wiggins began to draw ahead. “Look!” A small gang of railway workmen were eating their morning bread-and-cheese beside the track.

“‘Morning, sir!” they called, looking in puzzlement at Freddie Connyngham in the company of a pair of boys, one of whom was holding a large revolver, “Need any help, sir?” said their ganger cautiously.

“That bogey!” cried Freddie. “Can you get it on to the lines?”

“We could,” agreed the ganger. “If that’s your wish, sir!”

In a few moments, the three of them were bowling along the line at a high speed, and within five minutes or so Freddie hauled on the brake.

“We’re coming to the regular passenger line,” he said. “The Three Tuns is only a few hundred yards away—and there’s the bridge! Here, let’s push the bogey off the track and take a look.”

It was a wooden bridge, sturdy enough for occasional traffic, but without the massive strength of the iron railway bridges Wiggins and Sparrow knew in London.

Far below they could see a rushing stream strewn with jagged boulders. Wiggins gulped.

“Cor!” murmured Sparrow. “If the train was to—”

“Exactly!” said Freddie, who had recovered his poise. “But we’re here and we can warn the driver to stop—come on!”

As the boys approached the bridge, however, Freddie paused. “That’s odd,” he said.

“What’s odd?” said Sparrow.

“Those railwaymen—track inspectors by the look of them,” said Wiggins. “Now why should there be two gangs out on the same length of track—look, on the far side of the bridge. Only two of ’em,” he continued slowly. “One a big bloke, an’ one small and nasty. And both of them dressed like railway workers.”

“Yeh,” agreed Sparrow. “It’s them!”

“Who?” demanded Freddie Connyngham, as the two men on the far side of the bridge noticed that they had been spotted.

“The Great Orlov!” said Wiggins. “And the bloke with the red beard! Watch out! They’re shooting!”

Shots rang out, and the boys dived for cover.

“Then they have mined the bridge!” cried Freddie. “And they’ll pin us down till the train comes, and it’s all up with father and the Archduke!”

“And a few foreign ministers and suchlike,” agreed Sparrow. “And Inspector Lestrade,” he added thoughtfully.

Of course, it would have been the end of me too had the boys not acted, for I was on the special train with Inspector Lestrade. We were keeping a sharp lookout for anything suspicious, and the Inspector had even placed a couple of his men in the cab of the engine to watch the track. But all our precautions would have been in vain had not young Wiggins employed that combination of caution and daring which was so reminiscent of the Master.

“Here!” yelled Wiggins, as bullets whistled around his ears. “Get the bogey back on the track—they can’t hit us back there!”

It was true. The bogey was out of range of the revolvers, and it took only a little time for the boys to wrestle the heavy bogey back on to the track. Desperation lent them additional strength, but when it was in place both Sparrow and Freddie were baffled.

“Now what?” said Sparrow. “I’m not going over that bridge on this thing, ’cos I’ll get me head blown off.”

“It’s a diabolical risk,” agreed Freddie, “but I’m game!” Wiggins was already providing the answer to their dilemma.

“Here!” he said, indicating a pile of railway sleepers, massive timbers stored as replacements for those that rotted. “Get a dozen of these in front, then we’ll be safe!”

And so it proved.

With only a minute or so to spare before the special train reached the mined bridge, the three boys had erected a barricade of heavy logs before them.

“Faster!” yelled Wiggins, as Sparrow and Freddie and he pumped with the last of their strength on the handles of the bogey. “Come on!”

Bullets thudded into the heavy timbers.

“We’re on the bridge!” panted Freddie. “Not far now!”

“Then those anarchists can shoot us as we go by!” yelled Sparrow.

“Nah!” groaned Wiggins, whose own energies were practically used up.

“We’ll jump just after the bridge and dodge into the woods—that’s the best we can do!”

“But what about the train—it’ll hit the bogey!” panted Sparrow.

“Better that than being blown sky-high!” said Freddie grimly. “Well, Wiggins—well, Sparrow—good luck!”

Then they were all leaping from the bogey only yards short of where the gunmen lay.

As they jumped, Wiggins caught sight of an electrical battery and a pair of wires leading to the bridge. He also heard a roar of rage from Bukovsky. “Well,” he said as he landed on a gravel incline. “We did what we could—and I hope it’s enough.”

It was. The three boys were too much concerned with their own immediate problems to take in what was happening, but I was very much aware of the events of the next half-minute.

A heavy shock ran along the train, hurling foreign ministers and senior policemen, to say nothing of important politicians, across their carriages.

The only casualty was the Archduke, who suffered a slight cut on his nose; he gained it whilst trimming his moustache in the bathroom of the special train.

He recovered sufficiently to join in the thanks and congratulations of Sir Alfred Connyngham, when he and the other dignitaries were told of their escape from death, and the part the boys had played in saving them. “You have saved my life twice over,” said Sir Alfred beside the railway track, watched by a humbled Inspector Lestrade. “I know everyone here joins me in this heartfelt expression of gratitude—we all owe our lives, and the peace of Europe itself to you. I can tell you now that the Archduke Alexander is in this country to sign a treaty with the Foreign Ministers of four other nations, and because of your gallantry the signing will take place at The Chimneys. What do you say, Lestrade?” he said, turning to the Inspector.

And there, in front of the distinguished assembly, Wiggins and Sparrow listened to Inspector Lestrade’s congratulations too. I later heard him say that regular police enquiries would have done just as well; but the truth is different.

There was some consolation for the Inspector, however.

Bukovsky and Orlovitch were later arrested in yet another of their disguises at Dover as they tried to board a steamer for the Continent. Wiggins had the last word:

“They didn’t get away with it this time,” he said. “Mind you, even Inspector Lestrade finally worked out that in the case of the Disappearing Despatch Case, things wasn’t always what they seemed.”