Chapter 28
The bow windows of the Diogenes Club gave a wide screen view of Pall Mall; for Mycroft Holmes it was like staring into a giant aquarium of people. His seat was comfortable, allowing him to immerse himself in his observations. People going this way and that; he could deduce instantly their occupation, marital staus and purpose for being in the Mall. Some were shopping, others meeting aquaintances and partaking in cafe delights, a few were just passing through. Like the Club steward who was going home after his shift had just finished.
Mycroft's highly deductive mind was fixed on an exchange between a woman trying to sell war bonds to a gentleman. The woman was Sylvia Scarlett, a notorious con artist; the bonds were obviously fake. M took out his fob watch and timed an expected happening to occur when the second hand hits the ten: right now it was on the eight. Ticking drove the hand round as it passed the nine, the two people smiled and grasped each others hands for an apparent two handed handshake. The handcuffs snapped on Sylvia's wrists just as the second hand reached ten. She tried to jerk her arms back but the man held them in place and clamped the binding implement tight.
"I still got it." Said Mycroft to himself. "My timing is perfect."
A signal from the man, who was clearly a detective, had several uniformed police constables come out of their hiding spots and take the protesting Sylvia Scarlett into custody. M saw the trap easily for he recognised the detective; it was Sexton Blake, a sleuth whose skill came close to rivalling that of Mycroft's brother.
Con artist Sylvia Scarlett tried to sell fake bonds to Sexton Blake. The outcome was so predictable, but M's brilliant mind managed to time the arrest perfectly.
As he pocketed his fob watch M cast a glance at two youths on their way to war; he had met them before entering the club: they were Albert Narracott and Tom Grattan; he wished them well.
Mycroft had previously predicted that the Great War would end before the year's end and those boys would see only a minor amount of frontline risk and action. However, these new innovations Germany was introducing could not omly prolong the conflict but make it infinately more horrible. These youths could be heading into a human mincer of hellish proportions if this Unit 11 goes unchecked.
He had formed the emergency League of Extraordinary Gentlemen and seen it on its way. It had to succeed; the alternative was too horrid to even contemplate.
M got up off his chair and felt a mild vertigo unbalance him; he recovered but realised while his mind was in top form, his body was failing him. He was getting old and far more obese than when in his prime. As he made his way down the stairs he kept his hand on the wall for support. Retirement was often suggested to him, but he must see his country through this fiery trial of war. Joining his brother in the South Downs keeping bees and making honey did not appeal to him at all. Relaxation was to be found here in the Diogenes Club.
Upon reaching the newspaper room, inertia from his trip down the stairs sent him stumbling into one of the peaceful readers. A lavender smell together with the sight of the bald head and fine moustache told M he had just fell into Hercule Poroit, who, true to club rules, did not say a word, just lifted up his peridical and resumed his read.
Mycroft resumed his balance and headed for his chair. Who let that tubby Belgian exile into the Club? He pondetred quietly. Poroit did somewhat remind him though of his detective brother.
Another light stumble knocked a wide open newspaper held by J. G. Reader. The bitter detective lowered the peridical to show his displeasure at the interferance; but did not yell out a complaint, just blew an angry exhale through his plush muttonchop whiskers. Another detective, M seems to run into them as a constant reminder of his absent brother.
A steward noticed Mycroft's awkward strides and helped him to his seat, handed him his choice newspaper then took a written order for warm brandy and a cigar. Before he unfolded the periodical Mycroft observed the other patrons; they had scrutinised his awkward mobility and suggested merely through eye contact that he not only be put out to pasture but be placed in an old peoples' home.
His brandy had arrived, it was warmed to correct temperature. Mycroft was going to relax and read while sipping spirit and puffing on Cuban tobacco. The cigar was handed to him by another steward. M placed it in his mouth and let the server clip the cigar tip with the Diogenes scissors. The first steward was going to light the tip. M's attention was on the other steward: he was wearing the suit of the employee Mycroft saw leave through the Mall; the cigar scissors were raised to stabbing position; he was an imposter and he was Ivan Dragomiloff.