Part 12 (1/2)

With the Inspector and McGraw sunk in gloom, and myself at sea, only Holmes seemed perfectly at ease, looking about the lift as if memorizing the details of its operation.

”What sort of lift is this?” said he.

”Drum and cable,” replied McGraw. ”Works from above.”

”And how far do we descend?”

”One hundred and fifty feet.”

”At what rate of speed?”

”Two hundred feet a minute.”

Not for the first time, I felt a sense of impatience with Sherlock Holmes' pa.s.sion for facts. It was all very well for him to be able to know the number of steps in any staircase he used, and similar parlor-tricks, but to continue this jackdaw acc.u.mulation of statistics whilst his mind should have been puzzling out the means of the theft of milliards (if that is what billions are) of dollars' worth of gold-that smacked of frivolity.

A jolt signaled the end of our descent.

”Ah, we appear to have arrived,” said Holmes.

McGraw slid back the iron-mesh inner doors of the lift, revealing yet another door of solid steel. This, too, was equipped with a combination lock, which he proceeded to manipulate while Holmes watched.

”I take it that this combination also differs from its fellows, and is altered every ninety days as well?”

”Correct, sir.” McGraw pushed open the heavy door, and gave a mournful sigh. ”And now, Mr. Holmes, I ask you to see for yourself what I can only describe as the most dismal sight the world has ever seen.”

It was certainly a strange spectacle. On either side of a central corridor hewn from the living rock stood rows of cells, uncannily like those in a jail, with their barred doors all standing open, as though there had been a ma.s.s release, or escape, of prisoners. A row of electric bulbs set into the ceiling of the corridor formed a line that led to the far end and revealed a jagged patch of blackness in the back wall: the hole that had been blasted in it. Holmes made his way to this, and fell to examining it with his magnifying gla.s.s.

After a moment, he looked at McGraw, and remarked, ”Extraordinary. More than a foot of rock and concrete had to be cut through. The noise must have been deafening.”

”Since they've been working on the subway, you could set off dynamite and no one would hear it,” said McGraw.

”A condition that doubtless was taken advantage of.”

Holmes stepped through the hole into the tunnel leading to the subway excavation, and moved slowly along it. Lafferty, McGraw, and I stared after him, able to make him out only vaguely in the darkness as he descended at a distinct angle.

He called back to us over his shoulder, ”Two pieces of bullion were left behind, you say? Where?”

Inspector Lafferty pointed past Holmes and shouted, ”One in the tunnel just ahead of you, the other about fifty feet south of the main excavation.”

Sherlock Holmes turned and started back toward where we stood. As he approached, I ventured a comment. ”Well, that makes it clear enough, doesn't it, Holmes? They made off in that direction with their boodle.”

”One would immediately accept that conclusion, Watson, I quite agree,” said he, stepping through the breached wall once again. ”I should like a closer look at these vaults now.”

We stood aside and he prowled along the opened cells like a terrier questing among rat-holes in a barn to see if any of them holds a quarry. He ventured into one of the cells in the middle of the line, and his voice, given a hollow, echoing quality by the confined s.p.a.ce, came out to us: ”How many actual bars of gold were stored here, do you know?”

Mr. McGraw answered, ”Just prior to the theft these vaults held eighteen million pounds of gold, consisting of three hundred and sixty thousand fifty pound blocks, each valued at twenty-eight thousand dollars.”

Holmes' head popped out of the cell he was inspecting. He stared hard at the president of the Exchange. ”Three hundred sixty thousand blocks? And they were s.h.i.+fted out of here without anyone noticing it? I believe I would not be putting it too strongly to say that is a remarkable circ.u.mstance, gentlemen!”

I looked at him closely. When that mild, almost playful tone came into his voice, it was a clear sign that Sherlock Holmes believed he had a card or so up his sleeve.

Inspector Lafferty's reaction was to snort, while Mortimer McGraw said impatiently, ”Remarkable! If we weren't standing here looking at these empty vaults, I'd say it was impossible!”

”Yes” said Holmes. ”I should say so, too.” He gave a final look around at the vaults. ”I should like to return to the lift now.”

Once there, he pointed to a small trapdoor in the ceiling of the lift.

”That hatchway there. Does it provide access to the overhead drum and cable?”

”Yes,” answered McGraw.

”Watson, might I trouble you for a leg up?”

”Of course. Here you are,” said I, and formed a stirrup with my hands.

Holmes stepped on to it, and with the increased distance from the floor, was able to open the trapdoor, then hoist himself partway through the hatchway by grasping its sides. His voice, m.u.f.fled by the ceiling, came back to us. ”Very sensible of you, Mr. McGraw, to have the drum housing illuminated by electricity. Very convenient for repairs, I'm sure; and it always helps to shed light on things.”

McGraw was beginning to have a sour look, as though he had come to question the value of Sherlock Holmes' help in the case. Meanwhile, the detective dropped back to the lift floor.

”Thank you. I think I've seen everything I need to see, gentlemen. I have one final inquiry to make elsewhere, following which I believe I shall be able to fit all the pieces together and provide you with a satisfactory solution.”

McGraw seemed taken aback at this display of confidence. ”And the gold?” he inquired.

”The gold, of course, will be forthcoming with the solution of the problem.”

Inspector Lafferty appeared to be evenly divided between disbelief and hope.

”In time for the transfer of the bullion tomorrow morning?” he asked.

Holmes gave him a cheerful smile, and said, ”It is my fondest wish.”

He amiably fended off any further questions, and, once back at the street level of the bank, we took our leave of two sorely confused men.

Holmes set off at a brisk pace through lower Manhattan, a section which, except for the height of the buildings, might almost have been London. It had many winding streets, some of them even bearing familiar names, such as Maiden Lane, and I was given quite a turn when I saw a church that might have been twin to St. Martin's-in-the-Fields.

My friend appeared to have a definite destination in mind, and I asked, ”Where are we off to now?”

”To pay a call on Thomas Vallence and Company, the firm that designed the underground. I want to ascertain the depth of the excavation at the point at which it pa.s.sed the Bouwerie National Bank. I shall be most astonished if we are not told that the figure is precisely one hundred fifty feet.”

The engineers at the Vallence office proved most cooperative; and so did their blueprints and field notes, which bore out Holmes' estimate of the excavation's depth precisely.

I knew well enough by now that my friend's interest in this measurement was not another example of his mania for general information-and must bear importantly on the case. Yet I could not see how. I puzzled over this for a s.p.a.ce, as we jogged northward in a cab-Holmes had flatly rejected my suggestion that we return uptown via the elevated railway-and finally gave it up.

”Just what is it we have found out?” I asked.

”Everything.”