Chapter 9

Never one to rest on his laurels, Holmes began making inquiries about the missing guards the next morning. However, his efforts proved fruitless. He learned the two bogus security men had joined the other six at the National Museum of Ireland in Dublin. They had presented proper identification as well as all the necessary paperwork. They told their fellow guards that at the last minute the home office had decided to assign two extra men as a precaution, and they had just missed joining the other guards on their ship across the Atlantic.

Lestrade sent us a note the next day. Holmes asked that I read it to him so he could concentrate. “Lestrade says little more has been learned. He says the missing men have been identified as Henry Dearborn and Edward Bates.”

Upon hearing the names, Holmes laughed out loud. “I must admit this Merchant fellow is a bit cheeky,” he observed.

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“Henry Dearborn served as Secretary of War to Thomas Jefferson while Edward Bates filled the position of Attorney General in President Lincoln’s Cabinet. A broader knowledge of American history on someone’s part might have prevented this theft,” he observed drily.

Although he turned to his many and varied sources throughout London over the next few weeks, there was nothing in the way of information about the two men.

Eventually, our lives returned to their daily routines. Although constantly busy with other cases, Holmes devoted what little free time he had to making inquiries about the man even he had come to call “the Merchant.”

One morning while he was perusing the papers, I heard him say, “Is it possible?”

“Is what possible, old chap?”

“I see that the Louvre has just received a considerable donation for its collection of Islamic art. I was wondering whether our Merchant might have been approached by someone wishing to acquire one or more of those attractive objects.”

“I would assume that there is a buyer of some sort for all types of art,” I observed.

“Well-said, Watson. De gustibus non est disputendam. Perhaps we can create a market for one of the pieces in the collection.”

“That might work, Holmes.”

My friend then set about researching Islamic art and after a few days during which he eschewed both sustenance and sleep in favor of reading and planning, he announced, “I think I have it, Watson. While there are several items which our quarry might find infinitely attractive, I believe the Baptistère de St. Louis might prove too enticing too resist.”

“I’m afraid I must plead ignorance with regard to that particular piece,” I admitted.

“The Baptistère de St. Louis is a metal basin crafted by an artisan named Mohammed ibn al-Zain sometime in the early-14th century. Although the basin is made primarily of hammered bronze, it has also been inlaid with gold, silver, and niello.

“In truth, the Baptistère de St. Louis is actually a bit of a misnomer,” he continued. “It wasn’t until the 18th century that the basin received its name. And while it was used as the baptismal font for several royal children, including Louis XIII, the vessel did not exist during the time of Louis IX, who died in 1270 and was canonized a few decades later.”

“It certainly sounds like something that might pique the Merchant’s interest,” I said, “and I’m equally certain it would fetch a pretty penny from a serious collector.”

Holmes had decided to write to the Louvre, but before he could compose his letter, Lestrade paid us a visit. “I am still amazed that you anticipated the theft of the brooch, Mr. Holmes, and I can assure you that the powers that be are equally grateful.”

“Thank you, Inspector, but I am certain you did not journey all this way just to convey some vague expressions of gratitude from your superiors.”

“True enough, Mr. Holmes. I understand that you have been searching high and low for the missing guards,” he began, “and I believe we may have located one.”

The change in Holmes was immediate. Suddenly, he was like a prize hound straining to be let off the leash. “And where is he now?” asked my friend.

“In a Paris morgue. It seems a body carrying identification in the name of Edward Bates was pulled from the Seine near the Pont Neuf on the Left Bank,” reported Lestrade. “He had nothing on his person but his wallet. There was no money nor anything else in his pockets.”

“And how did he end up in the Seine?” asked Holmes.

“He appears to have been stabbed to death. I have asked a friend of mine on the Surete to ship the body here. I thought you might want to examine it.”

“How did the Surete come to learn of your interest in Mr. Bates?” asked Holmes.

“I provided detailed descriptions of both missing guards to a number of international law enforcement agencies, including the Irish Royal Constabulary, the officials in several German states, and, of course, the Surete.”

“You outdo yourself, Lestrade. When is it expected to arrive?”

“Barring the unforeseen, you should be able to see it at the morgue either late tonight or early tomorrow.”

“Capital,” exclaimed Holmes. “Please wire me the minute I may examine the corpse.”

After he had left, Holmes looked at me said, “You know what this development means?”

“I don’t want to appear naïve, so please enlighten me.”

“Think, Watson. Two guards are missing and one ends up dead in the Seine. And as we were discussing earlier, the Louvre has just received a consignment of priceless Islamic art.”

“The other one killed him!” I exclaimed, and Holmes nodded. “So that other guard was actually the Merchant?”

“Bravo, like Lestrade, you outdo yourself.”

“So we have seen the Merchant. Now we know what he looks like.”

“Let us not jump to that conclusion just yet. I will concede that we were, in all likelihood, in the presence of the Merchant, but I am equally certain that he took proper pains to disguise his true appearance.

“Both men, if you remember, were bearded, and while I noticed it at the time, I thought little of it. If you recall, however, the one we now believe to be the Merchant took considerable pains to remain in the rear at all times. Something I noted but failed to ascertain the true meaning of at the time.”

“But he was on the scene,” I continued.

“Yes, he and his partner were obviously the ones who made off with the fake brooch and left the note in its place.”

“So why did he kill his partner?”

“I can only speculate on that,” said Holmes. “They may have had a falling out or perhaps the Merchant decided that his cohort was now dispensable. We can only assume the dead man came to be looked upon as a loose end, a liability. He may have learned of the Merchant’s past endeavors, which raises the possibility of blackmail. We can speculate all day, but until we have facts and data, our musings are meaningless.”

“I understand that our quarry had decided to eliminate the possibility, but why wait? And why kill him in France?”

“Unless I am very much mistaken,” Holmes said, “He needed his confederate to help him execute his planned theft at the Louvre. Once everything was in place, he then became expendable.”

“So you think, the Merchant may have already stolen the Baptistère?”

“If not that, then something else equally rare and valuable.”

“Still, if the dead man knew him, then others must know him as well.”

“Indeed, the problem is we have but a vague description and an alias. Moreover, I am certain that he has taken pains to alter his appearance once again and to assume a new identity by now.”

“So what’s to be done?”

“We examine the corpse and hope and for the best, but at the same time, we prepare for the worst.”

The wire from Lestrade arrived shortly after nine that evening, and a few moments later, Holmes and I were in a cab headed for the Kew Mortuary. Located just east of Kew Bridge on Greyhound Lane, the small building was often used as a temporary resting place for bodies pulled from the Thames.

When we arrived, Lestrade was waiting for us outside. “I had the corpse brought here for obvious reasons,” he said, nodding toward the nearby river.

“Well done, Lestrade. Let us see if the body can tell us anything.”

We entered the small building, where an officer was standing guard. “There’s really not much to see,” said Lestrade.”

“Oh, you might be surprised at the tales dead men do tell,” remarked my friend.

Pulling back the sheet to the man’s waist, Holmes began to carefully examine the face, looking first at the eyes and then the teeth. He then turned his attention to a tattoo on the man’s right bicep. “Are there any other tattoos?” he asked.

“Just the one,” said Lestrade.

“What do you make of it?” he asked the two of us.

“It looks rather like a ‘Y’ in a circle,” I observed.

“And so it does,” agreed Lestrade.

Looking at Lestrade, Holmes remarked, “I must admit to having an advantage over you, for, as Watson will attest, I am currently at work on a monograph about tattoos.

“That ‘Y’ that you see is supposed to represent the Chicago River. At Wolf’s Point in that city, the river divides into two branches, the North and the South. If you look closely, you can see that the border in the circle around the ‘Y’ is actually intended to represent a series of small waves. I think we can safely conclude that our Mr. Bates, though I rather doubt that was his real name, hailed from Chicago.”

“My word, Holmes.”

“Lestrade, where are his effects?”

The Inspector signaled to the officer who placed a wire basket filled with clothing on the table next to the body.

Holmes turned his lens on the various articles of clothing, beginning with the jacket, then the shirt and trousers and finally the belt and the shoes. “I should say these garments certainly proves he was an American. Although the labels have been removed, the workmanship is most definitely American, and the boots could have only been made in that country.”

“So what do we have, Mr. Holmes?” asked Lestrade.

“Not a great deal, I’m afraid. The tattoo is most telling, but the clothing has yielded nothing significant. I shall make inquiries, Inspector, and you do the same. Although I am not optimistic, we can compare notes in a few weeks.”

“Will do, Mr. Holmes.”

“And Lestrade, thank you for allowing me to examine the body.”

“Think nothing of it, Mr. Holmes. As you might suspect, I had an ulterior motive.”

Holmes was busy the next morning, composing several cables, and then waiting—never one of my friend’s strong suits—for replies.

As each of the return cables arrived, Holmes would peruse it three and four times and then throw it on the table in disgust.

“It is as I feared, Watson. The only promising lead, the tattoo, has led us nowhere. That particular symbol has only gained a degree of prominence in the last decade after it was selected as the winning design in a contest sponsored by a newspaper in that city. Both the original, which you saw on the body, and an inverted version were quickly embraced by members of that city’s underworld as a sort of badge of belonging.”

“So we are no further along than we were before?”

“We have made a few minimal gains. I think we can say with a degree of certainty our quarry is American, either that or he is an actor of no small repute.”

“Much like yourself,” I ventured, hoping to lighten the mood.

“Indeed,” said Holmes, taking my words as a compliment.

“But why do you say that?”

“Consider, neither Mrs. Sweeney nor the man who purchased ‘The Book of Urizen’ mentioned anything about an American accent. And I should think that would have been something rather obvious about the man.”

“True enough,” I said. “But why couldn’t he be an Englishman posing as an American.”

“That is certainly a possibility, and one I had considered, but he needed a trusted accomplice to help him steal the brooch. I am certain that when he learned the museum had retained an American firm to guard the exhibit during the journey from Ireland to London, he saw that as the hand of Providence beckoning to him.

“So he recruited someone he knew, someone he trusted and that someone was an American. No, Watson, you are correct. He could be any English-speaking nationality, but as a working hypothesis, let us posit for the moment that he is an American.”

I suggested, “Perhaps the question you need to consider is: Why did the museum hire an American firm in the first place?”

“I have looked into that. The Pinkerton Agency, which is most reputable, has been trying to make inroads in Europe, and its board had offered their services to several museums gratis a few years ago in return for testimonials and endorsements. No one had ever taken them up on their offer—until recently.

“You may remember that Mr. Douglas of Birlstone Manor had served with the Pinkertons with distinction. No, Watson. The agency is above reproach, but like any such group, it can be infiltrated, and I am certain the Pinkertons have their share of bad apples. That is a line of inquiry I am continuing to pursue although I must admit I have scant hope of it coming to fruition.”

“So then what is our course of action?”

“Unless one of my many inquiries takes root, we must once again wait and remain vigilant. There are too many precious objects to even begin considering what his next target might be. I believe Langland in Piers Plowman says that ‘Patience is a virtue.’”

He was of course merely rehashing the old Latin proverb, maxima enim, patientia virtus, which tells us that patience is the greatest virtue.

“No, old friend. The first act of this drama has concluded. We can only wait in the wings and hope to be called back onto the stage in the second act.”

“Holmes, I have seldom heard this kind of pessimism from you.”

“It is not pessimism at all, my friend. It is realism. At the moment, our adversary has the lead role. He is the protagonist, and we can only react, should he choose to act again—and I have no doubt that he will. That is why I say, we must remain vigilant. In the meantime, we have other business to which we must attend. Inspector Hopkins sent me a wire yesterday asking for my help with a particularly nasty bit of business at the Blackwell Buildings in the East End. That is a case where I can be of service, so to that I will turn my attention.”

However, after sitting in his chair for a few moments, Holmes suddenly sat bolt upright and asked: “But why leave the identification on the body?”

“I’m not certain that I follow you . . .”

“Your Merchant could have dispatched his accomplice anywhere and hidden the body. However, the corpse turns up in the Seine, and from what we can gather there was no attempt made to weigh down the body and thus conceal it. Rather, he left the bogus identification papers in the pockets for us to find and nothing else. So, I repeat: Why?”

“Obviously, as you have said, there is something there that interests him. Perhaps he is planning to steal something else.”

“Or perhaps, as I am now more inclined to think, he has stolen it already. And this is his way of summoning us to witness his handiwork. Watson, I think a short excursion to Paris is most definitely in order.”