Chapter Six

Once an order goes forth it can never be recalled. That is one of the most necessary of our rules.

- Jack London, The Assassination Bureau, Ltd.

Upon Tuesday, 15 October 1912, the New York Times trumpeted the previous day’s horror: “Maniac in Milwaukee Shoots Col. Roosevelt!” Here is a compilation of some other newspaper headings from across the United States: “Roosevelt Shot by Political Crank.” “Col. Roosevelt Shot by Assassin.” “Would-Be Assassin Shoots Col. Roosevelt.” “Socialist in Milwaukee Shoots Roosevelt.” “Roosevelt Shot.”

On the surface, the unsuccessful assassin, described as a moon-faced German immigrant called John Schrank, appeared to be yet another lunatic acting on his own. As reported, his motives certainly sounded insane. Roosevelt must die, he had said, because by seeking a third Presidential term, the former President had broken a long-held tradition established by George Washington.

Even more disturbing was Schrank’s hallucinatory tale of being paid a visit by the ghost of the assassinated President William McKinley. McKinley’s murder in 1900 had elevated Vice-President Roosevelt to the Presidency; and according to Schrank, the apparition - not unlike the ghost of Hamlet’s father - had come to Schrank in the middle of the night many years before demanding vengeance. It was Roosevelt, the spectre said, not Czolgosz, who had assassinated McKinley; and for the past eleven years Schrank had been feeding on the spirit’s desire for revenge.

The madman had dogged Roosevelt through much of the country and finally caught up to him in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. During the evening of 14 October, Roosevelt had dined at the Hotel Gilpatrick. Prior to the short drive to the Milwaukee Auditorium where he was to deliver a campaign speech, Roosevelt had stood up in the back of his open car to wave at a crowd of supporters. Having stationed himself some twelve feet from the machine, Schrank raised a .38 Colt revolver and fired once at the Colonel’s chest. Immediately - before the would-be assassin could pull the trigger again - a man in Roosevelt’s entourage leapt at the shooter and wrestled him to the ground.

As it turned out, the single bullet had indeed struck the former President, but the missile had first passed through the folded sheets of the Colonel’s fifty-page speech, which had been wrapped round the former-President’s glasses-case, all of which had been nesting in a breast pocket of his coat. By deflecting the bullet, the impediments saved Theodore Roosevelt’s life. Weakened and bloodied by the assault, he none the less went on to speak for eighty-minutes to a spellbound audience of ten thousand.

I read the newspapers closely. Of particular interest to me was the initial reaction of alienists to the shooter. It took little time to establish that Schrank was someone who kept very much to himself. Apparently, he used to drink beer alone in the back-room bar of his New York hotel (ironically called “The White House”). I could well imagine him sitting by himself in an out-of-the-way corner and, spurred on by his faith in ghosts, muttering threats against the former President. Perhaps someone had overheard his ravings. Perhaps some interested party had recognised in Schrank a malleable personality, a tractable sort who, without too much persuading, might be transformed into yet another “lone” gunman.

A few alienists, those obviously undaunted by raising questions of conspiracy, had gone so far as to posit some kind of subliminal hypnosis. In a susceptible state-of-mind, they asked, could not John Schrank have been beguiled into performing his dastardly act by a villain appearing to him in the guise of the murdered McKinley?

Such a line of questioning might yield precious results with a suspect able to identify his mesmeriser. But as long as Schrank knew nothing about the Assassination Bureau, he - like Czolgosz, who had shot McKinley; Guiteau, who had shot Garfield; and Goldsborough, who had shot Phillips - could not direct the attention of the authorities back to the organisation.

Roosevelt himself may have detected the makings of a clandestine plot. Originally, the former President had planned to avoid the Gilpatrick by eating dinner in the Mayflower, his private railway car; but someone had decided that the hotel, where Schrank had just happened to position himself, offered a more welcoming venue. To his great misfortune, Roosevelt ultimately agreed to the change in plans, but not before questioning the decision.

It is also possible that Roosevelt saw in Schrank a puppet whose strings were controlled by unseen hands. Such a suspicion would explain the Colonel’s extraordinary concern for the man who had just shot him. With angry citizens shouting death threats at the would-be assassin, Roosevelt was reported to have said to the police, “Don’t hurt him . . . . See that no harm is done to him.”

Certainly, Theodore Roosevelt, himself a former police commissioner of New York City, would understand that the death of the shooter while in custody would raise all sorts of suspicious questions about secret plots. That Schrank was not actually killed, however, did nothing in my mind to stifle the question of conspiracy. I am pleased to report that it also did not stifle the question in the mind of Sherlock Holmes.

The day after the attempt on Roosevelt’s life, I received a wire from Holmes in Sussex. I confess to opening the yellow envelope with great anticipation. I was not disappointed.

“Convinced by shooting in Milwaukee,” the telegram read. “Hope you have room for me. Arrive tomorrow.”

* * *

Not long after tea the next day, I discovered my wife with knit brows standing at the window of our sitting room. She had pulled the diaphanous curtain to the side and was peering through the glass into the gloom. I came up behind her to have a look and immediately understood her concern. A dismal portrait presented itself.

Beneath a darkened sky, a scruffy dustman was shuffling up the flags to our front door. His shaggy brown hair drooped from beneath a large dark hat, its brim covering most of his face. A long, brindled beard extended halfway down his soiled, baggy shirt; and his roomy, brown corduroy trousers, which were tied off at the knee, exposed a pair of well-worn boots.

Mrs Watson was duly put off. “John,” said she in no uncertain terms, “tell that man to go round back where the dustbins are.”

“Surely, Mrs Meeks should-”

“He’ll be more inclined to remember such instructions if he hears them from the master of the house rather than from the housekeeper.”

Dutifully, I opened the front door and pointed to the path leading behind the house.

“You there!” I called out. “The dustbins are at the back. Go round the side.” And I pointed to the walkway leading to the rear of our residence.

The dustman stopped in his tracks, and it was only then that I noted the burgundy-coloured Gladstone he was carrying. He had placed it under his arm rather than holding it by the handles.

Slowly looking up at me, he pulled a saddened face. “Has it come to this, old fellow?” said a familiar voice. “Am I no longer welcome at your door?”

Surely, I can be forgiven. With little sun, the lighting was poor. Besides, what homeowner takes the time to scrutinise his workers’ facial features? But, of course, once the presumed dustman removed his large hat and I could more carefully examine the face beneath the brown locks, I discerned what looked very much to me like the piercing grey eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

“Holmes?” I queried, “is that you?”

“Ever the detective, Watson. I couldn’t resist the urge to confront you in my work clothes.”

“It was Mrs Watson you fooled,” said I, attempting to cover my obtuseness. “It was she who issued the order to turn you away.”

Holmes offered a brief chuckle, and I waved him in. As he passed me by and I wondered what prompted such a deception, I also couldn’t help noticing the malodourous authenticity of his disguise. In truth, the stench reminded me of my meeting with Jack London back in Baker Street.

Much to the relief of Mrs Watson and myself, Holmes retired immediately to the room and washbasin we had prepared for him. Within a quarter hour, he reappeared sans aroma, brown wig and false beard; and my wife and I were staring at the familiar hawk-like nose and strong square chin of my old friend. To be sure, his natural hair contained more grey than I remembered, but then he might be thinking the same of mine.

“Gentlemen,” said Mrs Watson placing two empty glasses before us, “I leave you to your pursuits.’

I reached for the brandy decanter in the tantalus on the sideboard and mixed drinks for us with the sparkling water from the gasogene.

Holmes eyed the tiny bubbles rising to the top of the pale-brown liquid. “To Shinwell Johnson,” said he, lifting his glass.

The toast surprised me enough to turn my face red. I had never mentioned to Holmes that I had gone to interview Johnson myself after the Morton-Watt shooting. Still, I managed to join him in clinking glasses and sampling the spirits.

“Why do you mention Shinwell?” I asked after an embarrassing silence.

“On my way here,” said he sipping more of the brandy, “I took the occasion to look in at the Northumberland Arms. I fancied I might find him in residence there as I hoped to ask him questions about the Morton-Watt affair.”

At this explanation my face flushed up a second time.

“And what do you know, Watson?“ said Holmes with a dry chortle. “He told me he had had a meeting with you on the very subject not so long ago.”

“Let me explain, Holmes. You see - “

“No explanation necessary, old fellow. You were correct on this matter; I was not. In fact, thanks to you, Johnson enabled me to discover a most intriguing piece of information.”

“Thanks to me?”

“Quite so. Apparently, your questions prompted him to keep a keener ear to the ground. He correctly surmised that, whilst Wainwright had confessed to shooting Morton-Watt, there was more that needed to be examined. As a result, Johnson had his confederates keep their ears open for additional news. Apparently, it didn’t take long for them to confirm to Johnson that there had, in fact, been a woman who’d fired the additional round into Morton-Watt. What’s more, they located her whereabouts.”

Though this was very good news indeed, I none the less felt miffed. Such information should have been directed to me. After all, had I not been the first to speak to Johnson on this matter?

“Look here, Holmes. I gave the man my card. He was supposed to inform me if he learned anything new regarding the crime.”

Holmes showed his teeth in a broad smile. “Ah, yes. It’s funny what a bit of money can extract. As it turned out, it was a costly piece of information.”

The thought of paying Shinwell Johnson had never crossed my mind. Justice alone should have been his reward. Hoping to conceal my latest round of naiveté, I returned to the main topic. “Where’s the woman staying?”

“Oh, didn’t I say? In a women’s boarding house near Westminster Bridge on the other side of the river - much nicer accommodations, I might add, than a barmaid can afford.”

“And let me guess. You somehow acquired the dustman’s disguise-”

“Johnson had it among his costumes.”

“And you rummaged in the dustbins of the establishment.”

“Exactly! And after much laborious - and, I might add, distasteful - digging, I discovered this.”

He passed me a slip of soiled white paper. It was folded neatly now, but bore the crimps and crinkles that clearly indicated its prior status as trash.

I eagerly opened it and observed the following brief text written in dark pencil: MH, Friday. The cryptic note could have meant anything, but given the sinister information passed along to us by Jack London - that Mycroft Holmes was to be a target of the Assassination Bureau and that the presumed assassin was currently abiding in London - we chose to err on the side of caution. As a result, one didn’t have to be the world’s first consulting detective to conclude that “MH” referred to Mycroft Holmes and that the action about to be undertaken - no less than an attempt on his life - was set to occur on Friday.

“Holmes!” I cried, waving the paper before him. “Friday’s the day after tomorrow! But what time? Where? How?”

“Ah, Watson, you know how to ask the proper questions. Unfortunately, you sometimes also provide the answers. Thanks to those revelations in your report of the stolen submarine plans, most all the world knows where to find my brother.”

Once again, my face had cause to turn red. In “The Bruce-Partington Plans,” the sketch to which Holmes alluded and that I mentioned at the start of this narrative, I had reported the trinity of Mycroft’s destinations - his lodgings in Pall Mall; his club, the Diogenes, across the road; and his office in Whitehall round the corner.

“What’s more,” Holmes added, “they also know when they can find him.

Holmes was right again. In my account describing the Greek interpreter to which I also referred at the start, I had recorded the precise time of Mycroft’s stay at the Diogenes: from exactly 4.45 until exactly 7.40 every evening. So punctual was Mycroft that he had always put me in mind of the German philosopher Immanuel Kant, whose timing was said to be predictable enough for his neighbours to set their watches by the regularity of his daily walks through the streets of Königsberg. Holmes himself was fond of saying, “Not only does Mycroft follow his own rails, but he also maintains a timetable as reliable as Bradshaw’s.”

“I had no intention of placing your brother in any sort of peril,” said I weakly.

Holmes waved away my guilt. “One cannot live in fear that one’s every utterance will be appropriated by villains. We must focus on the present, old fellow. Mycroft’s schedule may be known, but the specifics of where and how he might be assaulted while pursuing it requires further investigation.”

“We don’t have much time if an attack is scheduled for this Friday.”

“Quite so, Watson.”

“Might I suggest we begin by warning your brother of the danger he’s in?”

“Much good it will do,” Holmes snorted. “But I certainly agree that we must try. From now on, let the weight of the matter rest upon me.”

* * *

A taxi motored us to the Diogenes Club late Wednesday afternoon. As we exited the cab in the west end of Pall Mall, we were close enough to the clock tower at Westminster to hear the six o’clock chimes of Big Ben commence their toll.

“The exact time occurs with the first strike,” Holmes pointed out as we approached the entrance. “When the city is quiet, the bells can be heard nine miles away.”

Whilst I stood marvelling at Holmes’ arcane knowledge, my friend submitted his card for Mycroft to Maypoole, the elderly doorman. The poor creature had to hold it close to his eyes to read the names.

We had been at the Diogenes before on not a few occasions, and yet the old man still said to my friend as if for verification: “You are the younger brother.” Only after receiving a nod, did he allow us to tiptoe our way across the black-and-white chequerboard-tiled floor and up the stairs to the chamber called the Stranger’s Room, the single location in the club where talking was permitted. Its being between 4.45 and 7.40, there was no doubt that Mycroft would be in attendance. In fact, there was no other establishment so appealing to him.

As most of my readers will recall, the Diogenes Club was founded by a number of gentlemen - Mycroft included - who sought a gathering place in which to exhibit asocial behaviour, foremost of which was silence. No talking was allowed virtually anywhere on the premises, a proposition that greatly appealed to the older brother of Sherlock Holmes.

After a number of quiet minutes, the man himself appeared. I hadn’t seen Mycroft Holmes in years. Though like his younger brother’s, Mycroft’s hair had turned a great deal more grey, his movements looked as ponderous and unhurried as they had years before. Thanks to his ample figure, he still moved at the same slow pace.

Following a formal exchange of greetings, Mycroft allowed himself to sink into a soft brown-leather chair by the bow window that overlooked the sidewalks of Pall Mall. Night was beginning to cloak the city; and from his stationary vantage, Mycroft could observe the frantic Londoners scurrying home to their dinners or other points of rendezvous.

The older brother, of course, was much more than mere observer. Sherlock Holmes had always maintained that Mycroft’s mind was every bit as sharp as his own. If pressed, he might have admitted, “Even sharper.” Thus, Holmes had no need for small talk prior to laying out to his brother the case for conspiracy.

My friend began by explaining how we had originally learned of and immediately discounted Jack London’s account of the Assassination Bureau; how, despite an ever-growing list of victims like David Graham Phillips and King Edward himself, not even the subsequent murder of Charles Morton-Watt could convince Sherlock Holmes of the Bureau’s malicious existence; how it was not until the attempted assassination of Theodore Roosevelt a few days earlier that Holmes had admitted he had finally come to accept the horrifying truth.

“For years, Mycroft,” said he, “for decades, in fact, a malignant organisation has perfunctorily been carrying out the assassinations of influential figures that it deems antagonistic to the common good. Worse, for whatever the reason, they now have you in their crosshairs.”

Mycroft exploded with a burst of laughter. “Et tu, frater?” said he, slowly shaking his head. “Do you really think we haven’t fully investigated the death of the King, Sherlock? Not to mention the Roosevelt shooting in Milwaukee. The man Schrank was a complete nutter. For God’s sake, gentlemen, he claimed the ghost of William McKinley had implored him to shoot the chap! We’ve had the testimony cabled to us. The man actually stated that McKinley’s ghost had pointed an accusatory finger at a phantom Roosevelt! This Schrank went about stalking his target across the American landscape, and he fired a bullet at Roosevelt when he finally had him in his sights - all because of spirits and ghosts. Fairy tales, Sherlock.”

My friend emitted an exasperated sigh.

“Oh,” continued Mycroft, “I’ve seen the Coroner’s report about a second shooter in the Morton-Watt affair. But in Schrank’s case, there’s no one to pick up the slack. The American authorities discovered no connections to any outside groups and are quite convinced that the man acted on his own. From what Whitehall have learned, there’s no reason to doubt that interpretation. Yet now I find my own brother swallowing the fantasy of some über-organisation that seems bent on eliminating public figures willy-nilly. My word, Sherlock; I expected more from you.”

I had never heard Holmes dressed down so. Happily, however, his brother’s harsh words could not side-track my friend.

“Whatever you may think of my reasoning,” said Holmes, “promise me that through Friday at the very least you will vary your ever-so-predictable routine. Take new rooms for a short time. Avoid your club. Change your work hours. I know that you’re a creature of habit, brother-mine, but such variations in your daily programme might just t save your life.”

“Absolutely not, Sherlock!” countered Mycroft, shaking his head in dismay. “If I am, as you say, ‘a creature of habit’, it is because not having to think about the trivial - my travels, my schedule, my rooms - allows me to concentrate my full faculties on matters of primary importance to the state. I refuse to jeopardise the welfare of the nation by diluting my intellectual capacity. Furthermore, my decision is final!” With a quick nod of his head, he added, “Good day, gentlemen”; and after rising with some difficulty, he proceeded to march out of the room, his chin held high in defiance.

“I suppose, Watson,” said Holmes, “that we shall have to save his life in spite of his obstinacy.”

Sherlock Holmes also rose, and I followed him down the stairs and back across the chequerboard to the exit of the Diogenes Club. Stepping out of the silence and into the hubbub of London traffic, we re-entered the world of reality.

* * *

To his credit, Mycroft finally did capitulate to a pair of his brother’s requests: he agreed to our searching his rooms and club for explosives, and he agreed to let a rotating series of constables shadow him. With the aide of Inspector MacKinnon, Holmes would be allowed to place a policeman at a respectful distance from the doors of Mycroft’s rooms throughout the night and have the constable accompany Mycroft at an equally respectful distance for his morning walk to Whitehall. Another constable would assume the role during Mycroft’s afternoon return and his subsequent journey across the road to his club.

As long as Mycroft’s schedule went undisturbed, he agreed not to complain. Oh, he grumbled at first about the foolish waste of police resources; but concluding that it would be easier to accept the policeman than to continue arguing with his brother, he acquiesced. Perhaps, he might even have taken some comfort in the belief that, if rumours about the Assassination Bureau turned out to be true, a uniformed constable might be just the thing to frighten off any would-be assassins.

* * *

The clock was ticking, as it were; and the next day we journeyed back to Northumberland Street to revisit Shinwell Johnson. We had purposely waited for lunchtime in order to find the man at his favourite table in the Northumberland Arms. At the rear of the establishment, we espied him easily enough; and with a wave of his half-eaten ham sandwich, he motioned us to join him. We all shook hands like old friends, and Holmes and I sat down at his table. Our banter carried on for a few minutes, and I began to wonder if Shinwell had forgot his concerns about being observed socializing with defenders of the law.

“You’re not worried,” I asked him, “that someone might see you mixing with the likes of us?”

Johnson hoisted his tankard of Guinness. “It’s just gone noon,” said he, taking a long pull. “Not so suspicious a crowd.”

Even so, it was obvious how, informant that he was, he still feared being overheard. He pushed the tankard aside as he leaned forward and spoke to Holmes in a near whisper.

“She calls herself Maisie Trilling though she’s Russian by birth and linked to Socialists and anarchists. Her Russian name’s Grunya - so they say - and she’s young, probably in her early twenties. One of m’ mates saw her serving beer at the Northumberland and recognised her from a previous job.”

“The Modern Woman,” I mumbled scornfully.

“Right about that, Doctor,” said Johnson, failing once more to appreciate the sweet contrast.

“How’s she going to do it?” Holmes asked. “Gun or bomb?”

“Don’t know for certain, Mr Holmes, but Mercer saw her enter the bicycle shop.”

“‘Mercer’, you say?” repeated my friend, nodding slowly. “That’s good.”

Since the turn of the century, Mercer, like Johnson, had served as a member of Holmes’ so-called agency. I did not know the man since he had been hired since my departure from Baker Street. But he had provided Holmes with many a sound lead like his description of Dorak in the Commercial Road, which helped Holmes solve the singular mystery of the so-called “creeping man”.

“Nothing else to report, gentlemen,” said Johnson softly. He took a quick bite of what was left of his sandwich before adding in the same quiet voice, “Hope I’ve been of some help to you.”

Holmes passed the informant a coin that flashed golden as it caught the light. “That should also cover the cost of the dustman’s clothes,” Homes added, “which I took the liberty to burn.”

Then Holmes and I both pushed our chairs back and rose to leave.

“Ta,” said Shinwell Johnson. With a fraternal wink, he saluted my friend with his tankard.

“A bicycle shop?” I asked as soon as we were outside. “Any such shop in particular?”

“Come, I’ll show you. It’s not far, but in the interest of time, we’ll hire a cab.”

* * *

Holmes hailed a taxi; and traveling north via Kingsway and Southampton Row, we turned left into Great Russell Street and found ourselves among the numerous other cabs on their approach to the British Museum.

Before we reached that grand edifice, however, Holmes said, “Here,” to our driver, and we stopped before reaching Montague Street. Only after Holmes paid the fare, and we exited the cab, did he point to a small establishment just beyond the turning. A sign with white lettering on black background read “Cooper Bros. Bicycles - Hospital and Sales - Ten Years at this Location.”

I confess to being ignorant on the specifics of such transports, but I must say that so far as I could see the shop offered no great mystery. A few new cycles stood outside the building along with placards advertising various brands like B.S.A., Rudge-Whitworth, and Raleigh. Additional signs promoted various tricycles; Michelin, Dunlop and Palmer pneumatic tyres; and all manner of “expert repairs”.

The interior looked normal as well. In addition to a few ancient penny-farthings, lots of shiny, new machines waiting to be sold stood next to one another like a line of dominoes - push one, and they all fall down. A number of unattached wheels and solitary frames hung from large metal hooks on the wall.

A salesman in a dark waistcoat and protruding white sleeves approached us. “May I interest you gentlemen in a new cycle?” he asked from behind an unctuous smile.

“Actually, we’d like to see Mr Malchikov,” Holmes replied.

The man’s smile faded. “Oh, is he working on a bicycle for you?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

The salesman pointed in the direction of a door next to a stack of tyres. It bore a sign announcing “Official Repairs”.

“Who is this Malchikov?” I asked Holmes once the salesman was out of earshot. “For that matter, what are we doing in a bicycle shop?”

“Sorry, Watson, didn’t I say? Kazimir Malchikov is an anarchist bomb-maker.”

A bomb-maker? I just had time to take in that bit of information before we entered the backroom, a workspace for bicycle repairs. Like the showroom we had just exited, here too were bicycles, only far fewer in number and in various stages of disarray. Some lacked wheels, other saddles, and a few were turned upside down to allow easy access to their nether parts. These machines weren’t as shiny as those for sale; and as one would expect, spots of black oil and grease covered the nearby workbenches and the assorted rags that were lying about. At least, there were no bombs on display!

For some reason, I had expected to encounter a grey-haired, veteran mechanic at work, but what I saw was a young man who could not have been much older than twenty. Holding an oilcan, he was stooped over an inverted bicycle and applying a black, viscous liquid to the pedals. He wore a stain-covered leather apron and a dark, corduroy flat-cap. Coils of greasy hair hung down to his shoulders, and he looked up at us with dark, penetrating eyes. He remained silent, however.

“Mr Malchikov,” said Holmes at last.

“You come for bicycle?” asked the mechanic in Russian-accented English

“No, we’ve come to see you concerning your other occupation.”

Malchikov put down the oilcan and continued to stare. A minatory atmosphere began to darken the workroom.

“I have no interest at present in reporting you to the police,” said Holmes strategically. “They already know of your existence and are merely waiting to catch you in the act.”

“Please, go,” said Malchikov. “You are bad for work.”

“Is that what you told Maisie Trilling when she came here to see you?”

Malchikov didn’t answer immediately. Finally, he said, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“The Russian woman,” said Holmes, “we know she was here. We know what she intends to do. We simply need your confirmation.”

“I tell you nothing.” He picked up a dirty towel and wiped his hands with it. One of his blackened fingers popped through a hole. “Now you go, or I call for help.”

Holmes stared at the towel. I suspected he feared it concealed a spanner or screwdriver that Malchikov intended to throw at us.

“Good day then,” said Holmes. “I thank you for your time. Actually, this visit has been most helpful indeed.”

The Russian looked at my friend with knotted brow and quizzical eyes.

Offering a slight smile, Holmes turned and exited the workroom; I followed him all the way out of the shop.

“I thought you gave up rather quickly,” said I when we had reached the pavement. “What did you mean when you said the man had been ‘helpful’?

“I found out what I needed to know, Watson. Did you not notice the rag?”

“The rag? Do you mean the filthy towel he was holding?”

“I grant you that the ‘rag’, as you called it, was spotted with oil stains; but amidst them all, one could discern a tiny, embroidered shield containing the red and yellow vertical bars of the Northumberland Arms. In its previous life, Watson, that ‘rag’ served as a towel where Maisie Trilling had worked - and if the aperture is any sort of witness, possibly the very towel in which she’d hidden the pistol and through which she’d fired the shot that struck Charles Morton-Watt in the back. I imagine she expected Malchikov to dispose of the thing. Instead, he casually put it to use in his repair shop.”

“And still you believe she purchased a bomb from this bicycle mechanic?”

“I do indeed. It is as I expected. Malchikov’s no maker of guns or a chemist who conjures poisons; and to the best of our knowledge, she is no cyclist. Why else bother to meet with a bomb-maker than to secure some sort of infernal device? There is no doubt that the Assassination Bureau has the financial means to meet his price. Besides, we don’t have much time. It is the only - and, therefore, the best - theory we have to work with.”

“Then should we not alert Scotland Yard to this fellow?”

“What I told Malchikov earlier is true. They know of his existence though they have yet to catch him in the act.”

“But what about your brother? Doesn’t this information confirm he’s in imminent danger?”

“Mycroft has a guard. We know that the attack is supposed to occur tomorrow. Thanks to our visit to the bicycle shop, we can assume the type of weapon - a bomb. In point of fact, we can assume a timed device. One doesn’t depend on a craftsman like Malchikov for a simple stick of dynamite.”

“Then let us find Mycroft,” said I, “and insist that he alter his daily schedule.”

“Ah, Watson,” said Sherlock Holmes shaking his head, “if only it were that simple.”

Holmes stood in the background whilst I hailed a taxi, and the two of us began the drive back to my house in Queen Anne Street. Holmes sat with his long fingers steepled. It was a pose I associated with the focusing of his concentration.

Suddenly, he leaned forward, “A detour south!” he commanded the driver. “To the London Library in St. James’s Square!”

Now I had no idea of the purpose for such a trip. The library in question, a book-lending institution for paying members, was a half-hour’s walk from our old rooms; and Holmes and I would frequently amble down Bond Street to St. James’s Square to take advantage of the library’s various collections.

“I need to ask a favour of your old friend Lomax, the sub-librarian,” said Holmes in response to my quizzical expression.

Over the years I had seen Lomax only occasionally. Our meetings increased in frequency, however, when some recent investigations involved a number of celebrated authors. I turned to Lomax when I sought the novels of writers like Mark Twain, Stephen Crane, and Joseph Conrad.

Attentive readers may also remember that it was Lomax who had offered help in the previously-noted case called “The “Illustrious Client”. Lomax was the librarian who had furnished me the volume regarding Chinese pottery that I devoted hour after hour to reading. With Holmes’ encouragement, I had foolishly believed that cramming up would allow me to dupe Baron Gruner, a connoisseur of such art. Today, however, I had no idea what my friend might be seeking from Lomax.

Holmes asked me to wait in the motor as we approached the grey stone library in St. James’s Square. No sooner did we stop than he sprang to the pavement and rushed through the arched entrance. He must have easily located the aforementioned sub-librarian, for he returned to the taxi just a few minutes later. He was carrying a thick volume with burgundy-coloured covers; I immediately recognised it as a 1908 edition of Chambers’ English Dictionary.

“You didn’t need to stop here for a copy of Chambers,” said I. “There’s one on the desk in my study.”

Sherlock Holmes responded with a smile. “I know,” he replied cryptically.

We arrived at my house shortly thereafter.