[FF][R2096/Holmes] A Three-Pipe Problem: Pipe The First, Chapter 1

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       Written by Christopher 'Ratiko' Willmore.   /  \ \  /
                  4cw6@qlink.queensu.ca           /   /  \/
       Based on a story by Rumiko Takahashi and      /
       Developed by C. Michael Schumacher           /   /
       [Kensu: cschumac@waun.tdsnet.com],           \  /
       with the aid of Animax Enterprises            \/(Logo:Armakuni)
       [formerly TAAC].        
                                                                 
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                 A Three-Pipe Problem: Pipe the First
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			             THE STRAND MAGAZINE

    Vol. xxviii.             January, 1905                 No. 169

                  The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
                        By John H. Watson, M.D.

             XXV.-   The Adventure of the Rat of Sumatra
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	Since the death of my dear friend, Sherlock Holmes, the responsibility 
has fallen upon me several times to clear his name in certain matters 
which were in his lifetime left undiscussed for the sake of national 
security, or of giving him credit in those cases which were thought best
kept out of the public eye at the time.  However, time heals all wounds,
and the perpetrators and victims of the crimes portrayed are long since 
dead or murdered, and so I once more try my hand at the chronicler's task, 
and reach into that famous safe-box at our bank near Covent Garden, 
pulling out the notes of one such case. The time has come, dear readers, 
when I may safely reveal the strange and wonderful circumstances 
surrounding the Adventure of the Rat of Sumatra.

Chapter I.- The stolen doubloons

	One cool Saturday morning, in the Fall of '92, I found myself free
of patients, and of a wife, Mrs. Watson having removed herself to a 
ladies' gathering.  And so, being in an active mood, I resolved to pay a 
visit to my friend and erstwhile room-mate, Sherlock Holmes.  I supposed
that the offices of the world's only consulting detective would at any 
rate prove more interesting than my parlour and anatomy texts, an 
assumption which was justified upon my approach to Baker Street.  Scarce 
had I turned the corner from Marylebone Road than I saw the thin figure 
of Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard descending the steps of Mrs. 
Hudson's rooming house.
	Rubbing my hands with delight at the thought of spending yet 
another weekend on a matter of intrigue, I made my way to the front door
of 221-B, knocked, and waited.  I was recognised at once by the 
housekeeper, who wordlessly led me up the flight of stairs to the second 
floor. 
	"Come in, Watson," called a familiar voice from behind the sitting
room's closed door.
	"You do that every time, Holmes," said I, as I let myself in.  "How
the devil did you know it was me?"
	My companion set down a small object he was examining, and 
turned to face me, his mouth a grin and a glint in his eye.
	"I simply observed, my good fellow, as I always do."
	"Yes, but observed WHAT? Mrs. Hudson didn't say a word,
nor did I, and the door was locked... Was it the sound of my knocking?
Or of our steps, perhaps?"
	These two clues were brought to mind from other instances in
which he'd deduced a man's height from the amount of time in between
his footfalls, and his constitution from the strength with which he 
rapped.
	"No...  Those carriages and the infernal, poorly-shod horses
that tow them make such a clamour at this hour of the morning that
I'd be hard-pressed to hear a Scotsman's bagpipes from a block
away, and, to be frank, I was too immersed in contemplation of a little
package Lestrade just dropped off to notice a few footsteps on thick 
carpet."
	"You guessed, then, that I was to have a free Saturday, and
presumed that I would make my way here?"
	Something akin to anger flashed across his face for a second,
before he hastily replied,
	"I presume nothing. You should know that, after the many times
which I have told it you."
	"In that case," said I, throwing my arms in the air, "I confess to
being absolutely baffled."
	"Shall I enlighten you?"
	"Please. How did you do it?"
	Holmes pointed behind himself, with a smile.
	"In this case, I simply looked out the window and saw you coming
up the steps.  After that, to deduce your imminent arrival was mere 
child's play."
	I prepared to strike him with the head of my cane, but the detective
stopped me with a wave of his arm, and pointed to a small lady's powder-
box lying on the table.
	"Now, Watson," said he, as I put down my 'weapon'.  "I should like
your opinion on a most curious matter which has recently  been brought
to my attention.  What," he asked, pointing to the clam-shaped object,
"do you suppose is in that container?"
	"What? In the powder-case?"
	I must admit that I had been puzzled to see it upon entry, since
Holmes was not in the habit of entertaining women, and Mrs. Hudson
was beyond the help of any cosmetic.
	"The same."
	"Well... Powder, I suppose..." 
	Already I feared I'd made a fool of myself, and the feeling came
over me that I was looking at a vital clue in a matter of some importance.
	"Incorrect." The blow to my intellect was softened by the accuracy
of my premonition.  "Would it help if I said that Lestrade's errand to 
Baker Street was to place this in my care until he returned to it?"
	The statement caused me to blink several times in rapid
succession, as my mental gears turned over its implications.
	"My God, Holmes!" I cried, grabbing him by the shoulders. "You
don't mean that -"
	"That WHAT, my good man?  Statements are mere vanities unless
they convey facts. Come, come.  Finish what you were about to say..."
	"You don't mean that... Inspector Lestrade is a cross-dresser?!?"
	This was the first and only time I ever saw Sherlock Holmes collapse
into a fit of laughter.  His guffaws rang loud for a full three minutes 
before he gathered enough strength to reply:
	"Not at all! Nothing could be farther from the truth!"
	"What else could it mean if he brings you a pink clam-shell lady's
powder-box for safekeeping? He is unmarried, and has no female companions
I know of..."
	"Now, doctor, you see plainly the consequences of theorising in 
advance of possessing all the facts.  Greater men than yourself have been
led to make similarly ridiculous pronouncements, for the same reason.
In truth, it was an unfair question.  There was no way for you to hit 
upon the right answer without assistance. I, myself, had to open the box 
to do so.  "Here," said he, handing me the object. "See for yourself."
	The case proved to be remarkably heavy for its size, far more
than its metal fittings and (presumably) beautifying contents could 
account for.
	I looked up at Holmes with  surprise upon my face, but he only 
smiled and gestured impatiently for me to open it.
	So, I did.
	Inside were two gold coins, obviously old, impressed with a seal and
an inscription which, though written in Roman characters, my medical 
Latin proved unable to decipher.
	"Scotland Yard is in quite a flurry over those two pieces of eight."
	"Pieces of eight?" I looked up from my inspection of the coins.
	"Yes; couldn't you tell? The inscription is Spanish, something
to do with the ruler of the kingdom - the equivalent of our 'Victoria 
Regina'.  Standard for most mintings, but rare for doubloons."
	"Oh? How so?"
	"Doubloons were made because the Spanish government faced
a large demand for currency at the same time that it received a more than
adequate supply of specie from its colonial ventures.  Mexican gold, 
Peruvian silver and so forth."  I nodded.  "All that was required, then, 
was a faster method of production.  Someone came across the brilliant 
idea of pouring the hot gold into thin bars," (this he illustrated by 
pouring hot tea all over the tablecloth), "hammering it to an even 
thickness," (a pounding of his cane-head on the wooden table), "then 
cutting it into oversized rectangular pieces, and trimming these to the 
proper weight by snipping off corners."
	"Holmes," said I, stopping him, "I don't think Mrs. Hudson's newly-
stained tea towel will take the strain caused by the application of your
garden shears."
	My companion looked thoughtful for a minute, then nodded.
	"Quite so, quite so." It was with some relief that I saw him put the
clippers away.  "In any case," he continued, "you see that being made so
hastily, and being worth their face value by virtue of their metal 
content, there was no need to put fancy seals on them.  Hence," he waved 
at the powder-box, "The uniqueness of these two."
	"That STILL doesn't explain how they ended up in a lady's cosmetic
bag."
	My friend's face suddenly grew grim. 
	"No, it doesn't," he mumbled, putting a finger to his chin and 
looking up at the ceiling, lost in thought.
	"You say Lestrade brought them?"
	"Yes...  These are the facts, as they now stand."  Holmes put up
a chair and straddled it, then motioned for me to take the sofa. Once I
was comfortably seated, he began.  "It seems that a pair of bobbies found
the powder-box in the early hours of this morning, during their night off 
at a Pimlico pub.  Eager for promotion, they immediately handed it to 
their superior officer - Gregson, in this case."
	"But Lestrade...."
	"Hush! All in good time, my dear fellow.  Gregson started it off,
but you know how much those two compete... Lestrade just HAD to take
the case over...  No matter.  The important thing is, the good inspector
(Gregson, I mean) rushed over to the British Museum at eight, and 
confirmed his suspicions.  The doubloons were found to match two which 
were currently catalogued as being 'in storage', awaiting the mounting of 
an exhibition on Spanish treasures.  In reality, they were on a two-day 
loan.  The odd thing was, they hadn't been reported as missing by the 
display artist to whom they'd been lent."
	"Display artist?"
	"Mr. Tobias Dobson - a certain acquaintance of the Museum's
Director, who is occasionally engaged in the preparation of special 
exhibits.  He is a professional artist by trade, and designs the displays, 
hence the term.  He  was to use the coins as models for a cardboard 
montage."
	"Ah," I nodded. "Go on."
	"Mr. Dobson was found at his Thames-side home and interrogated 
on the matter; he swore that the whole thing was impossible, even when
confronted with the evidence, since he had placed the coins in question
in his strong-box that very morning."
	"Had he?"
	"THERE'S another interesting feature.  When the box was opened,
it seemed that the coins were indeed there... A scratch with a knife
soon proved otherwise.  Beneath a thin coat of gilding was a lead base."
	"How remarkable! You mean to say someone made copies of the
coins?"
	"Precisely."
	"And... Mr. Dobson himself?"
	"Out of the question.  His future employment depends on the
safety of these items, and he is a reasonable enough man not to risk 
years of potential income for old coins worth at most six months' salary. This I
have on both the Director's and Gregson's word, both of whom with which
he is acquainted.  In fact, I believe he sometimes moonlights as a police
artist..."
	"What happened, then?"
	"That, my dear fellow, is what brings this matter out of the realm of 
the ordinary and into MY jurisdiction," pronounced Holmes, with his usual
humility.  "Scotland Yard could find nothing amiss.  He had worked on the
exhibition the previous evening, and left the coins on the desk in his 
ground-floor study when his maidservant summoned him into the dining hall for
dinner.  When he came back, he saw the coins were still there, worked 
through the night, then placed them in a locked lead box the next morning.  
The key was on a string around his neck, and he slept for only an hour 
before Gregson knocked at his door."
	"I don't see when the copies could have been made, except the
previous afternoon."
	"Highly unlikely.  He had only just left the Museum at three, by
the toll of the Holborn church. It would have been four by the time he
reached Pimlico, and he worked busily on them until his dinner at around
half-six."
	"At the Museum, then?"
	"No - You know as well as I that the British Museum's security
is the best in London.  Those coins were legitimate when they left. 
Besides which, anyone with enough skill to pass the Museum's barriers for 
enough time to forge the pair would doubtless have been able to take 
something a little more... Valuable, like the seal of Charlemagne that 
was being kept in the same box, and would have been just as easy to copy. 
No - I'm afraid that's not an option... It's at the house, or nothing.  
Even THERE, however, we face problems." He rubbed his hands energetically. 
Clearly, this was where matters began to be interesting for the 
analytical engine that was his mind.  "You see, Watson, the study's 
window faces the Thames, and offers only a small, slippery bit of mud to 
walk on at lowest tide, and nothing at any other time. It was securely 
latched, and in fact had been so for some time, since one of the hinges 
had jammed some weeks before... Not only that, but the door was locked 
when he left, and again the key hung around his neck.  Another 'closed-
room' mystery..."
	"Like those other cases..."
	"Yes..." he agreed, with a slight tone of disapproval. "The ones you
have so sensationally published as 'The Speckled Band' and 'The Sign of
Four'...  It should prove just as interesting a hunt."
	I nodded, and went back to fingering the Spanish treasures.
	"In case you were concerned about touching them, don't be. I dusted
them for finger-prints when I first received them, and found none."
	I blushed to think how  I might have spoiled a prime piece of 
evidence, had it not been for my companion's foresight, and admitted I 
had not thought on the matter.
	Another question did come to mind, however.
	"These are the originals, I take it?" I asked, holding one of the 
golden disks to the light for closer scrutiny. 
	"Spanish, early eighteenth century. Any museum will verify it
for you.  In fact..."
	We were interrupted by a knock on the door.
	"Yes?" asked the detective.
	"It's Missus Hudson, dear."
	"Come in."
	The housekeeper opened the door gently, and entered bearing a
card on a silver platter.
	Holmes picked it up.
	"There's a young lady here to see you," said Mrs. Hudson.
	"So I see... A... Miss Kraussinger, of Berlin.  A lady of some
wealth, but not much experience in its use."  I blinked.  "The perfume,
Watson. Expensive, strong, and undeniably awful."  I nodded.  "Send
her up," he said.
	"Oh, she's already up, Sir! I tried to stop 'er downstairs, but she 
said she couldn't wait; not even a minute..."
	I looked at my companion's face, and he at mine, raising an
eyebrow.
	"Send her...  In, then."
	Mrs. Hudson bowed and left politely, stopping only to usher
our client into the sitting-room.


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                           TO BE CONTINUED...
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