Martin Greenberg - Sherlock Holmes In America

“If somebody went to such lengths to steal her violin, that must be because he believed it to be the authentic one,” I ventured.

“A false conclusion, Watson. Might it not have been any sneak thief?”

“You surely don’t believe that?”

“No, a thief bold enough to commit a violent robbery in a public place would choose some more disposable booty.”

“So is Mrs. Legrange’s the real Crockett violin? It surprises me, I must confess. I found Barratt’s story far more convincing.”

Instead of responding, he clapped his left hand to the pocket of his jacket.

“A one pipe problem. Now, which pocket did I put my pipe in?”

“Your right, surely.”

At home, it always weighed down the right pocket of his dressing gown. He patted his other pocket, frowning.

“Not there.”

“Surely it’s not in your waistcoat pocket. Or did you somehow manage to slip it in my pocket by mistake?

I started slapping my own pockets. He laughed.

“My dear Watson, I may not have the polished manners of our Texans, but you surely don’t think me barbarian enough to take my pipe to a dinner party with a lady present. It’s where it should be, on the table back at the hotel.”

“But… ”

I stared at him.

“Think about it, Watson. By the by, you mentioned that young Lee had suffered two blows to the head. As far as you could tell, was one more violent than the other?”

“Yes, but that’s not unusual. We may suppose that the thief’s first blow was not hard enough to fell the young man, so he struck again.”

“We may suppose anything we like, Watson. It’s still only supposing.”

I could get no more out of him that night.

The next day, Barratt had arranged to take us to lunch at his club, which occupied the same building as the opera house, opposite our hotel. The news of his son was encouraging: the young man had woken with a sore head but was rational and showing no signs of permanent damage. Holmes asked if he had any memory of his attacker.

“None whatsoever,” Barratt said. “But at least we have the rascal in custody.”

Holmes raised his eyebrows.

“Indeed. Has he confessed?”

“No, but he was actually seen half a mile away from Mrs. Legrange’s home soon after the attack, carrying a violin.”

“And he was arrested there and then?”

“No. The gentleman who saw him did not hear about the theft until this morning. Naturally, he remembered what he’d seen and as it happened, he knew the fellow by sight, a Mexican tradesman. Our sheriff’s officer went straight to the thief’s home this morning and arrested him.”

“And the violin?”

“Found in his house.”

“What’s the name of this Mexican?”

Barratt looked surprised, clearly thinking that such details could mean nothing to Holmes.

“His name’s Juan Alvarez. He lives on South Flores Street, down by the stockyards.”

By this time, we’d arrived at the club. While our host was turned away, Holmes slid a piece of paper from his pocket and quickly showed it to me, his finger to his lips. I had to suppress a gasp of surprise. It was the slip of paper the Mexican had given him the night before last and the name and address were those of the man under arrest. Over the soup Holmes asked if he might have a word with the prisoner. Barratt was surprised.

“I hardly think it’s a case worthy of your attention, but if it amuses you, by all means.”

An hour later, the three of us were sitting in a small room in the county jail, with Señor Alvarez handcuffed to a chair in front of us. In spite of his predicament, there was nothing hangdog about the man. He met Holmes’s eye and nodded recognition as if meeting an old acquaintance. Barratt started saying something about a cowardly attack, but Holmes held up a hand to silence him and spoke directly to the prisoner.

“I’m sorry I was not in when you called at our hotel last night,” he said. “It might have saved you some unpleasantness.”

Alvarez replied in the same civil tone.

“You had not called on me, as I hoped, so I came to call on you.”

“Bringing the violin?”

“Yes, señor, bringing the violin.”

Barratt almost exploded.

“You rogue, I suppose you were trying to get a reward from Mr. Holmes for bringing back Mrs. Legrange’s violin. The nerve of the man.”

“Except it wasn’t Mrs. Legrange’s violin, was it?” Holmes said.

“Well, whose else would it be?”

“I suggest we take a look at it. I assume it was brought in as evidence.”

Barely restraining his annoyance, Barratt went to the door and called for a sheriff’s officer. The violin was brought, wrapped loosely in a tablecloth, and handed to Holmes. He unwrapped it and held it up for us to see.

“You see, nothing like Mrs. Legrange’s.”

It was true. This was an entirely different fiddle, made of some pale wood and varnished the colour of light amber.

“Then what the thunder has happened to Mrs. Legrange’s violin?” Barratt said. “And who attacked my son?”

Holmes stood up.

“If we may call on you this evening, I shall have an answer to both questions. Meanwhile, if you’ll excuse us, Watson and I have work to do. I suggest that you tell them to release Señor Alvarez. Unless it’s against the law to walk through the streets of San Antonio with a violin.”

The hotel hired horses for us, and the cumbersome-looking saddles proved surprisingly comfortable. We rode past San Pedro Springs where we had attended our picnic, northward on a dirt track between broad and dry pastures grazed by cattle with horns wider than the handlebars of a bicycle. Holmes kept glancing from left to right and seemed to be sniffing the air like a hunting dog. Two miles or so along the track, he reined in his horse.

“Over there, in the trees.”

We followed a narrower track to the left, towards a clump of live oaks. It was a lonely spot, not a barn or homestead to be seen. When we came nearer, we saw that the leaves of one of the oaks were scorched brown, with a small pile of ash on the ground beneath them. Holmes dismounted and kneeled down by the ashes.

“Cold, but still light and dry. This fire was lit yesterday afternoon or evening.”

He picked up a stick and poked the ashes, then gave a sigh of satisfaction.

“Just as I thought. Do you recognize this?”

He was holding a piece of white Moroccan leather, singed at the edges.

“The case where Mrs. Legrange kept the violin,” I said. “So where’s the violin itself?”

He gave the ashes another stir.

“Here, Watson.”

When we arrived at the Barratt house that evening, Holmes suggested to our host that we should first pay a visit to his son. Barratt took it as proper consideration for the invalid, but when we were shown into the parlor that was doing duty as a sick room, the look of alarm on the lad’s face showed that he knew better.

“I’d be grateful if you’d leave us alone with Lee for a few minutes,” Holmes said.

Then the older man looked alarmed too, but he withdrew. Lee sat up against a bank of pillows, staring at us. His face was pale, with dark circles round the eyes. Holmes took a chair by the couch.

“Was it your idea or Mrs. Legrange’s?” Holmes said.

The lad said nothing.

“No matter,” Holmes said. “I fancy the idea came from the lady. She stayed in the carriage and watched while you burned the violin. Then you returned home with her, as if you’d simply been on a visit, and carried out the next part of the plan. The harder part, I daresay. It must have taken some resolution on your part to kneel there and wait for the second blow.”

Lee couldn’t help wincing from the memory of it. Holmes smiled.