“Not very subtle, these fellows,” said Caruso. “The warning is always the same; someone bumps against me in a crowd, i guardare! I discover in a pocket a square of paper upon which someone has traced his own hand, filled it in with black ink, and written, ‘Pagar o morir.’”
“‘Pay or die.’ What they lack in finesse they make up for in brevity. No mention of acid?”
“That comes later, in the form of a telephone call to my home or hotel, the voice disguised as a whisper. I have changed my number six times, but they always seem to find it somehow. Is it any wonder I take the threat seriously?”
“Have you ever seen any of these men?”
“Sí, here. I had barely alighted from the ship in Southampton. The fellow who jostled me asked my pardon and vanished into the crowd, beside a companion. He spoke in a whisper. I thought nothing of it until I saw the note.”
“Would you know them again?”
“But of course. The man who spoke was a squat, swarthy fellow, roughly dressed. His friend was tall and wore a striped suit.”
“Have you paid on this occasion?”
“Not yet. I expect a call anytime with instructions. In the past, we have arranged for me to leave the money in a parcel at some public place. I am enjoined not to linger, and I have obeyed, as to see who retrieved it would surely mean my life, as that might lead to their apprehension and prosecution.” He shrugged. “One cannot, after all, press charges against someone for bumping into one in a crowd.”
“Signor Caruso,” said Holmes, “I would be grateful if, when you have received that call, you would wire me the particulars at this address.” He produced a card.
“I could not do that. I don’t fear for myself, capisce? My conscience would not bear the result if you were to meet with disaster.”
“We are old acquaintances, disaster and myself. And yet here I stand. Pray, fear not for me, as at any moment I might encounter an enemy from one of a hundred venues. I must insist,” he pressed, when our host began to protest. “By this action, you may spare another soul anguish.”
Caruso agreed, albeit reluctantly, and we took our leave, with thanks for his cooperation; but not before he gave us words of advice: “I entreat you, signores; if you ever receive a communication such as I have described, obey.”
Holmes invited me to the quarters we once shared in Baker Street, where I made myself comfortable in my old armchair, whisky-and-soda in hand. He stood by the bow-window, smoking his clay.
“Progress, of a sort,” said he. “We know our two-man entourage are with the Mafia, and that they’ve emigrated to England.”
“What if Caruso reneges upon his promise? He was anything but certain.”
He smiled at the window. “Finding them won’t take much detecting skill. I’m looking at one of them right now.”
I began to rise; but he made a slashing movement with one hand, blocking the gesture with his body. “Let us not give him a reason to repeat his vanishing act. Like a good pigeon, I’ve returned to my roost, where no doubt they came after losing our trail. Or at least one has; our friend the billiards player seems to be absent.”
“Shall we give chase?”
“That would compound our chances of discovery by one hundred percent. Make yourself at home until I return, and please be good enough to get up from time to time and walk past the window. I’m recruiting you to take the place of the ingenious wax bust that led to Colonel Sebastian Moran’s current circumstances. Mind you, Watson,” he said gravely, “at all times present a moving target. We know not whether these gentlemen be messengers or angels of death.”
He changed quickly from his boulevardier attire to a homely one of ear-flapped cap and inverness, his uniform of choice whenever he wished to blend into the cosmopolitan crowd of our sprawling metropolis, armed with his stout leaded Penang lawyer—and, doubtless, his trusty Eley revolver in its custom-reinforced pocket—and left without another word.
Holmes was gone three-quarters of an hour, and I should not look forward to another such interval. As advised, I left my seat from time to time, ostensibly to recharge my glass from the siphon, conquering the urge to look through the window. For a time, lighting a cigar, I attempted to involve myself in the day’s edition of the Times, but I could not have provided a phrase of what I read, and finished my vigil in contemplation of the events of the day. But I’d learnt from bitter experience not to try to ape my friend’s powers of deduction, as I could make neither head nor tail of precisely what they signified or where they would lead.
The Lestrade business had unsettled me. Journeyman detective that he was, unhindered by genius or imagination, he had never until now advised inaction in a criminal matter. What were our chances, mere dilettantes, when officialdom throws in its hand?
When I heard Holmes’s characteristic tread upon the stair—taking the steps two at a bound, as if the laws regarding time and geography were a personal affront—I rose in time to see him burst through the door. His eyes were as bright as a bird’s and his cheeks were in high colour.
“Whisky, Watson! It can hardly impair these faulty faculties. The devil must be part Cassandra, for no sooner had I sought shelter in a doorway from which I could observe his movements than he quit his post, and proceeded double-time towards the Baker Street Station, where he lost me in the crush. Several trains left in close succession, and I’ll be bound if I knew which one he took, or if he scorned them all and departed by way of a pedestrian exit. It serves me well for underestimating him based upon his oafish attire. They’re well trained, this lot; George Gordon might have drilled them before overstepping himself in Khartoum.”
“Worse luck!” said I.
“Luck is the refuge of the incompetent. I’m less concerned with how he eluded me than with what became of his companion. For all I know he was shadowing me, even as I was shadowing the pin-setter. Such is the state into which this business has plunged me, to question my own skills in detecting whether I am pursuer or quarry.” He flung himself into his basket-chair without pausing to doff his outerwear, and drank deeply from his glass.
“We still have Caruso. If indeed we have him.”
“We must perforce hope. Mrs. Hudson met me at the door with Lestrade’s reply to my telegram. I have at least his word that Miss Venucci will be under the protection of London’s Finest. Say what you like about the turtle-like workings of a constable’s mind, he’s a regiment of fusiliers when it comes to protecting the innocent. In any case, I believe her to be safe from assault, if only because the Mafia’s attentions have been redirected from her to us.”
“Justice has one thing in its favor,” I said, “apart from the diligence of the policeman on the pavement. It has Sherlock Holmes.”
He smiled without mirth.
“And John H. Watson, let us not forget. I should not have asked anyone else in the universe to spend the hour you have just now.” He fingered his glass. “What did you think of Pagliacci? I saw the maestro perform in Rome and Milan, and thought him a gift from Olympus; but I never saw a British audience so borne away by an artist as I saw tonight.”
“It was diverting, though I prefer my clowns to be surrounded by a circus, with trained elephants, lion tamers, and a high-wire act.”
“Patience, dear fellow. We may know all three before this account is closed.”