Sherlock Holmes and the lost tiger (4)

The tiger continued to terrify London. There were daily reports of sightings, killings, unexpected holes in the ground, none of them verified, but enough to add to the general feeling of angst. Those who could left London, those who stayed remained indoors, unless work or enterprise forced them outside.

 

The King, to his credit, remained in London, urging all to stay calm, although cynics noted that large fences were erected around the whole of Buckingham Palace. Parliament too remained in the capital, resisting calls to relocate to Manchester, Bristol and even Edinburgh, though large fences were also erected round parliament to keep the tiger out.

 

I continued to visit Holmes, though to my amazement he seemed to have abandoned the case entirely. Every time I called round Lady Chivers was there and the two of them were routinely high on Tiger’s Paw, St Paul’s Hole or some other brand of ganja. Their supplier, whoever he was, had a low sense of humour.

“Have you found the man yet Holmes?” I asked, trying to coax his interest in the case.

 

“The man?” said Holmes through a fog of hash smoke.  “It’s a tiger that’s missing, not a man.”

 

Lady Chivers giggled, though whether this was mirth resulting from Holmes’ comment or merely cackle of intoxication it was impossible to tell.

 

“The man with the square toes,” I persisted, “The Prussian-cigar-smoker who took the tiger.”

 

“Oh that,” Holmes waved his hand dismissively. “There must be thousands of left-footed, square-toed, Prussian-cigar-smoking burglars in London, I don’t have time to track them all down. Prioritisation, that’s the key to investigation Watson, work out what’s important and focus your attention. The police are well served in chasing around after men and tigers.”

 

I didn’t trouble Holmes with the fact that his priority at the moment seemed to be smoking himself silly on hashish and giggling inanely with his equally intoxicated  friends. Nor that the police, far from hunting tigers and tiger-releasing-burglars, were now focussed on arresting and removing vagrants and beggars from the city streets, forcibly relocating them to out-of-town workhouses.

 

Never in my entire career as Holmes’ friend and partner in criminal investigation have I had cause to doubt his commitment. Sometimes, it is true, his methods struck me as irregular, occasionally, as in the case of the golden chicken, his investigative techniques bordered on the downright eccentric, but never before has he simply lost interest in a case. Especially a case as interesting and important as this, a missing tiger seemingly responsible for a range of bizarre atrocities across London.

 

I found myself with no option but to speak directly with Lestrade, a man whose detective skills Holmes had always rated as minimal, but still far greater than most of those in the official police force, and, crucially, a man willing to accommodate the eccentricities of Holmes’ detective methods.

 

I met Lestrade in his offices in New Scotland Yard. The station was going through another period of expansion, and consequently the place was in turmoil, all the corridors crammed with boxes, desks, chairs and people waiting to be moved. Lestrade’s office was empty of furniture and he was using an upturned crate as a makeshift chair. His papers were scattered across the floor in as orderly a manner as possible in a tableless environment.

 

“I apologise for the state of the place,” he said as I entered. “I’ve been moved to a new office and my furniture has yet to join me. Slightly smaller, but at least I’m not being asked to double up. Gregson’s sharing his new office with two others.” A smile flickered briefly across his face, but only fleetingly, as if to be noticed by me but not noted and written down for posterity. “Still, the changes are in order to accommodate another 1,000 officers, and we clearly need them, what with all the vagrancy clearances. This tiger thing is taking all my men and more hours than there are in a day. But how can I help you Watson, no Holmes today.”

 

“No. He seems to have other things on his mind.” I briefly outlined his new friendship and his obsession with his latest drug of choice. I finished by repeating the story of Holmes’ total lack of interest in following up the clue of the square-toed, Prussian cigar smoking burglar.

 

“So Holmes did take the case, despite what he said. I knew he would.”

 

“He may have taken it up, but he’s lost interest in it. He’s lost interest in everything except smoking his hideous weed.”

 

“Still, all the more reason to rub his face in it. I know exactly the person you describe.”

 

“You do?”

 

“It’s not just Holmes who has a memory for rogues, I’ve come across more than my fair share. Probably more than Holmes if I’m honest. Wolf Moritz is our man.”

 

“Wolf Moritz.  A German?”

 

Lestrade allowed himself another brief smile.

 

“He has a German father, or at least so he claims, but Wolf’s lived in London all his life, speaks like a true cockney, the only German things about him are his name and the disgusting tobacco he smokes. I’m amazed Holmes didn’t recognise him from the cigar. He’s one of the most infamous burglars in the business.”

 

“He’s got a criminal record, this Wolf?”

 

“Not as long a record as he should have, he has been inside but he’s escaped justice on more times that I care to mention. He always gets a good lawyer and a sympathetic judge, I don’t know how he manages it, it’s as if the devil’s making a special effort on his part.”

 

“Do you know where to find him?”

 

“Oh I know his address, I’ve been to visit him more than enough times. He’s never even tried to hide from the police, cocky as anything. And to date he’s gotten away with it, but if he’s behind this tiger business then I don’t think any judge or jury will be forgiving this time.”

 

We went outside into the mania in front of New Scotland Yards, where there were literally a hundred policemen sitting on the steps waiting to be allocated an office. Lestrade found half a dozen good men to assist with the arrest, and we made our way to Coldharbour Lane, stopping outside an anonymous-looking, small, tall house.

 

“He lives on the third floor,” Lestrade said when we arrived. “Jenkins you stay by the front door, stop anyone leaving until I give the word, Russett, you take the rear, the rest of you follow me.

With Lestrade leading, we made our way up the staircase. Lestrade shushed us outside Wolf’s rooms. He pressed his ear against the door and listened, but clearly hear nothing of significance, so he gestured  to PC Morris, who stood all of Six foot six inches tall, to charge the door down, which he did with ease, as, it turned out, the lock was already broken and poor Morris charged into the room and tripped over the prostrate body on the floor.

 

I quickly checked the body for a pulse, but it was cold.

 

“Wolf?” I asked Lestrade.

 

“That’s Wolf Moritz,” he said. “Or rather it was Wolf Moritz, I take it he’s dead.”

 

“About a week I’d said.” 

 

“Any idea of the cause?”

 

I pointed to the bruising around Wolf’s neck, “Strangulation.”

 

“Not the tiger getting it’s revenge then. Well, it looks as if we’re back to square one. Our main suspect dead, the tiger nowhere to be seen and Holmes stoned out of his mind on hashish.”