"All right, Lofton. Give," I snapped, fixing the pickpocket with a stern gaze that made him squirm in his chair and glance over at Watson for prospective aid.
"I swear, Mr. Holmes, I don't know any more than I told you," he said uncomfortably. "I – just never would've taken the job if I'd known it was connected with a murder!"
He looked again at Watson as if begging him for help in extricating himself from this situation.
"I'm sure you had no idea about the death when you accepted the job, Lofton," my friend said calmly, glaring at me to tell me to back away from the issue.
Not a chance.
"Lofton, you had better be more helpful in tracking down the man who hired you, or I might be forced to turn your name in to Inspector Lestrade. Your reputation for never getting caught on a pinch will be completely ruined," I informed him coolly.
Lofton's dark eyes flashed mirthlessly. "You can't do that without revealing the details of your calling cards to the world, now can you, Mr. Holmes?"
I scowled, but deep down (though I would never admit it) some part of my brain registered that he was right, of course. We were indeed at a stalemate, and I doubted he would be of any further help to me in this investigation.
For a long minute we glared hostilely at each other across the table like two wildcats sizing each other up for a territorial battle. Then Watson unintentionally diffused the tense atmosphere by sneezing again, mumbling a muffled apology through his handkerchief. Lofton jumped and then relaxed slightly.
"I give you my word of honour, Holmes," - here I nearly laughed in his face, for his word of honour was worth no more than the tea leaves at the bottom of his cup - "I've no idea who the man was or where he came from," the young fellow said shortly. "But I could try to find out for you, I suppose. It'll cost you, though."
"Do it," I snapped, fishing in my pocket for the rest of his payment. "And don't try to double-cross me, Lofton. It's not a safe thing to do."
"I could say the same to you, Holmes," Lofton replied menacingly, indicating the unfamiliar faces around us. "I don't stand much for murder, but I've no problem setting a few of the boys to teach you not to threaten me."
Watson's face paled from under his flushed cheeks, and Lofton sent him a reassuring glance before rising from the table, pocketing his bills. "Nothing personal, gentlemen, but I protect myself, you see. Think about it, Holmes. I'll call for you when I've more news."
And with that, the man slapped his bowler back onto his head and melted into the din of the café behind him, disappearing from my sight. I stared moodily after him until Watson coughed.
"He wasn't much help, was he?"
I growled some response and slapped money for the meal on the table. Then I strode out of the café, thoroughly irritated with the infernal young scoundrel's either prevarication or in ability to help me. Though, if he were lying to me, he was doing an exceptionally good job of it.
I put my umbrella up with such force that it nearly flipped upside down, and I found myself frowning darkly at the rain pouring off the awning in the front of the café. The door shut behind me and I heard another cough before Watson's umbrella went up as well.
"Where to now?" he asked, shivering and turning up his collar.
I strode off down the street without waiting for him to catch up, which he did a few moments later. "Back to Baker Street, Watson. I need to smoke and send a few telegrams."
"Are you going to be long?"
"I've no idea in the least, why?"
"I was supposed to stop by and see my patient in Westminster this morning if at all possible," he replied, trying to shield his face from a slosh of water that poured down off another awning to drench us both.
"Go on, then," I said absently, "I think I'll stop by and see Johnson before heading home."
"Who?"
"Shinwell Johnson. He may know something, or know someone who does. There's an empty cab, my dear fellow, best grab it before someone beats you to it."
"Right. I'll be home later," he called, whistling shrilly and dashing to the curb. I kept walking, wanting to clear my head with the exercise and the chill.
Something just was not right about this…
"I've not heard anything about it, Mr. Holmes, and that's the honest truth," Johnson said thoughtfully, biting the end of his cigar in concentration. "Sure I'd tell you if I had."
"Not even a ripple of someone eager to get my attention?"
"Not even a murmur, Mr. Holmes."
I sighed in despair – what was this person's game? If Shinwell Johnson, who had the entrance of every hell-hole and sin-spot in all of London, knew of no one out for my blood or my attention, then I'd no idea whatsoever who could be behind the affair.
Johnson stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray upon the table, tapping the extinguished end thoughtfully.
"I can't think of anything that would help you, Mr. Holmes," he finally sighed, glancing round us to see that we were not being watched in this rat-hole of a pub.
"Eye and ears open for me, then?" I asked wearily, rising from the table and buttoning my coat.
"Sure thing. I'll drop by first I hear something. Give my regards to the Doctor?"
I nodded mechanically and found my way out into the late afternoon rain. I had spent more time with Johnson than I had intended, and before that had combed a few other places and sent messages to a few other of my regular informants. No one could give me any lead as to who was doing this or why. From what my contacts were telling me, I might as well have been on friendly terms with the entire underworld; no one seemed to have a personal grudge against me at all (no doubt why the crime rate had been so low the last month or so).
I was in a foul mood by the time I reached Baker Street, and that mood only deepened when I saw the occupants of the sitting room.
Watson was offering a glass of brandy to Inspector Lestrade, who had Constable Cummings and (will wonders never cease) Inspector Stanley Hopkins in tow. The latter did not surprise me, as the young Inspector somehow managed to worm his way along whenever possible to see me; for some reason he held some worshipping fascination either with me or my methods, perhaps both. Such adulation was, though flattering and gratifying, occasionally bordering on the excessive and juvenile.
Watson finished the courtesies and collapsed back into his chair, looking quizzically at me. I shook my head and began to warm my hands by the fire.
"Johnson had nothing to offer. I no doubt will regret asking this, Lestrade, but why are you here?"
Watson winced and glanced over at the very uncomfortable-looking trio of Yarders. Lestrade gulped down part of the brandy and stood to look up at me.
"There's been two more, Mr. Holmes," he said warily, no doubt expecting an explosive reaction to his statement. Under normal circumstances I might have been happy to oblige, but at the moment I was ready for any lead I could get in the business.
To think that only this morning I had been lying on that couch, counting carpet fibres in a fit of deep depressive boredom!
"What have my calling cards done now, Lestrade…blackmailed someone?" I asked dryly, sitting in my armchair and drawing my legs up under me.
The little inspector winced and glanced at Hopkins, who was wriggling nervously in his seat on the couch beside Constable Cummings.
"Well, Mr. Holmes," Hopkins began slowly, "I was on duty when this came in, and I thought I had better consult with Inspector Lestrade here before filing the official report. He took one look and brought me immediately round here to you."
"Well, out with it," I said impatiently, beckoning imperiously with my hand as if that would evoke the words faster.
"Well, sir, apparently someone stole a cab from outside a pub whilst the driver went in after his fare, who had had a pint too much for this early in the day," Hopkins said, blushing even as he told of the ridiculous event. "And…when he came out the cab was gone. This does happen fairly regularly, so I of course thought no more about it until we received word that the thing had been found, the horse wandering aimlessly down a path in St. James's Park."
"And a card-case containing six of my calling cards was lying on the driver's seat, is that it?" I asked wearily.
Hopkins nodded solemnly.
"That's not all, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade interjected gravely.
"What now?"
"We've had another body, sir," Hopkins said in a subdued voice.
I stared blankly at the younger man for a moment before turning back to Lestrade, hoping that the Inspector would confirm all my suspicions that Hopkins had indeed gone off the deep end into welcome insanity at long last.
No such luck. Lestrade nodded soberly in agreement with the other.
Blast.
"Empty pockets except for your card case, Mr. Holmes," P.C. Cummings interjected helpfully.
"Cummings!"
"Sorry, Inspector…"
I got up to fumble for my pipe uneasily, suddenly wanting the comfort of familiarity between my hands as something tangible to hold onto in this morass of mental intangibility. After I had lit the bowl and drawn a long draught of the smoke, I then turned back to Lestrade, who was biting the end of his pencil in his nervousness and staring morosely at his official notebook.
"Body in the Thames again?" I asked quietly.
"No, sir. This time, a witness says in the wee hours of this morning he heard a scream from an alley in Rotherhithe, ran down the alley, and saw a man lying in a pool of blood, knifed through the heart," the Inspector read dully from the page.
Watson shivered and got up to toss some more coal on the fire.
"You mean to say that someone stabbed this fellow, then took the time to empty his pockets and insert a card-case with my name, while he knew the scream had been heard?" I asked incredulously.
"An awfully cool hand, this chap must be," Cummings ventured.
"Thank you, Constable, for a brilliant observation," Lestrade snapped in annoyance. The poor young officer melted back into his chair, only emerging when Watson sympathetically offered him a cigarette.
"Who was the victim?" I asked, tapping the stem of my pipe absently against my lips.
"One Jacob Chandler," Lestrade read. "Dock worker, the normal rough labourer of that class. Had quite a few enemies and drinking companions, those type always do – every night at least a half-dozen of them kill each other in that district alone."
"I had a beat there when I was a young constable," Hopkins muttered with a shudder. "Thank the saints I was taken off before I'd had to deal with many nights of that kind of brawling."
"Maybe we should put you back on it for a while, bring you back to earth instead of chasing after those fanciful theories of Mr. Holmes's here," Lestrade growled snidely.
I nearly laughed at that, and Cummings gulped back a snicker as the younger inspector's face flushed a deep shade of crimson. I glanced in amusement over at Watson, but he was leant back in his chair with his eyes closed…was he actually dozing?
"Any idea who actually killed him?"
"None. Witness never got a glimpse of him, and he was half-drunk at the time anyway, though he sobered up once he'd slipped in a puddle of blood and fallen on the corpse," Lestrade said absently.
The little official slapped the notebook shut and threw back the last of his brandy, completely oblivious to the other two officers' winces at his callous words.
Even I cringed, and Watson's eyes opened in slight disgust. "Really, Inspector…" he remonstrated mildly.
"Mmph? Oh, right. Well, Mr. Holmes, have you anything to report that will help clear this up? I cannot keep more than one murder out of the papers for very long, you know!" the little man's ferret features were drawn with suppressed nervousness.
I sighed in utter helpless frustration. "Nothing yet, Inspector. I have contacts working to see if they can discover anyone wanting my attention or holding a grudge against me for some reason, but I've nothing helpful come to light yet."
Lestrade cursed roundly, shoving his notebook into his pocket. "From two murders to a purse-snatching and a stolen cab…what the devil is the connection?" he moaned dismally, looking sadly at the two of us in a manner resembling a mournful hound.
"The card-case?" Cummings suggested brightly.
Lestrade sent his underling a look that I daresay curdled the milk in the pitcher upon the table, and the unfortunate constable hastily opened the door for the departing Inspectors.
"I'm going to have to ask you to make some headway in this case, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said before leaving. "I cannot keep this from getting out for too long. I need answers within twenty-four hours."
"You shall have them, Inspector," I snapped irritably – though I'd no idea in the world how I was going to get said answers.
To be continued...