Free The Ectoplasmic Man by Daniel Stashower Page A

vault.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “Let me show you,” said Lord O’Neill, leading me into the narrow corridor through which we had entered. “See here,” he said, pulling asidethe oriental hangings to reveal, recessed into the wall itself, an enormous vault door and the rails upon which it ran.
    “Exactly like a bank vault,” I said admiringly.
    “Actually, my friend, it is considerably more secure,” said Lord O’Neill with pride. “There are three separate locking mechanisms contained in this door. One British, one American, and the third European, making this one of the most secure vaults in the Empire. So you see, as there are no other entrances to the room, and no windows through which a man might pass, any object left in this room is as good as in the bank.”
    “Or so you thought,” remarked Herr Osey.
    “Yes, or so we thought.”
    “Well, do not despair,” said Holmes. “We have but a few questions and then Dr Watson and I shall make every effort to bring the matter to a happy conclusion. First, may we assume that no one can leave or enter the grounds of the estate without being observed by the guard?”
    “Yes. There is a guard round the clock, and they keep an admitting list.”
    “May we have a copy of the list for the evening of the reception?”
    “I’ll have it drawn up immediately.”
    “Please be certain that it includes any help you were required to lay on for the affair — kitchen staff, footmen and so on.”
    “As you wish.”
    “Fine. Now then, do you have a portrait of the Countess Valenka?”
    “No, Mr Holmes. I do not.”
    Herr Osey cleared his throat. “This may be of some use,” he said uneasily. He drew out his pocket-watch and opened it towards us. There on the inner cover was an ivory miniature of one of the most striking profiles I have ever seen.
    “The countess gave this to me some time ago,” Herr Osey told us. “I realise that a photograph would be of more use to you, but—”
    “Not at all, Herr Osey,” said Holmes as he bent over the miniature. “True, a photograph would have been more practical for purposes of identification, but this is informative nonetheless.” He glanced upward as Herr Osey closed up his watch and replaced it in his waistcoat pocket. “Yes, well. Humph. Where may we call upon the countess?”
    “She is staying at the Cleland.”
    “Very good. We shall be on our way, then. Our first order of business is to exculpate Mr Houdini, then we shall call upon the Countess Valenka. Good day, gentlemen.”
    “Mr Holmes,” said Lord O’Neill, “we are considerably less interested in the innocence or guilt of Mr Houdini than in the recovery of the stolen letters.”
    “Yes,” agreed Herr Osey, “let that be your first consideration.”
    Sherlock Holmes picked up his hat and stick, and, striding blithely past the vault door, affected not to hear.
                         
    * The Holmes stories were originally illustrated for The Strand Magazine by Sidney Paget, who drew from a model considerably handsomer than Holmes.

Nine

    H OUDINI B OUND
    S herlock Holmes makes it a point never to discuss a case while it is in progress. I say that this reticence is but vain posturing on his part, satisfying that peculiar love of the dramatic which has made his investigations so notable. Holmes insists that he merely wishes to avoid idle speculation which might bias his conclusions. Whatever the reason, this refusal to deliberate is one of his least endearing fancies, and try as I might as we left Stoke Newington, I could not persuade him to answer any of my questions. Indeed, all the way to Baker Street it seemed that he would talk of nothing but haemoglobin.
    “Mark my words, Watson,” said he, “we shall soon see police investigators all over the world locked in their laboratories, bent over microscopes to look at haemoglobin. It is inevitable.”
    “Do you truly believe that bloodstains are more useful to criminologists