The urgency in Holmes' manner was communicative, and both men rapidly vacated the premises.
Holmes was fiddling in his desk and suddenly turned to me. "Now it is you and I, old friend, as it has been so many times before. Another journey is called for."
"Shall I throw some things in a valise?"
"Your Smith-Webley in a handy pocket will be enough."
There was the sound of rapid footfalls on the stairs, and Slim Gilligan appeared in the half-open door to our chambers. Now I understood Holmes' actions at the desk. He had some sort of alarm signal rigged up with the house next door.
"Slim," said my friend, "I've need of Burlington Bertie and Tiny."
"They were on the night shift, guv," responded the cracksman, taking the unlit cigarette from behind his ear. It occurred to me that I had never seen him light it.
"Contact them, good fellow, and have them take the first train available to Brent in Essex. I'll have them met at the station."
Gilligan had been with Holmes too long not to sense a crisis. "Anythin' fer me, guv?"
"Let's make sure this building isn't blown up, Slim. That Lightfoot rascal is still at large."
"Right, Mr. 'Olmes." Gilligan was gone.
So, I thought, it's back to the scene of the crime.
Holmes was spinning the dial on the safe and took a short-barreled revolver from its interior, placing it in the pocket of his tweed coat. His action prompted me to hasten upstairs to my sleeping quarters to remove my army-issue handgun from the drawer in my bed stand. It was not often that Holmes went armed, but there was much about this strange case that departed from the norm.
Chapter 15
The Lightning Colt
DURING OUR train trip to Essex, Holmes had been uncommunicative. I could not decide whether he was lost in thought regarding the robbery and subsequent events or whether, in keeping with his frequent practice, he had thrown his brain out of gear and switched his thoughts from the case on the theory that further cogitation would not be advantageous. When I had rejoined him in our sitting room prior to our departure, he was in the process of instructing Billy about a cablegram, and I deduced that it was to Dandy Jack, our only acquaintance in Brent. Such proved the case, since the aged four-wheeler and bay horse were at the station when we alighted, along with the familiar driver.
"Where to, gents?" he queried when we were seated in the conveyance.
"The end of the spur line."
"I figgers you mean by the tin mine," said the driver, gigging the bay into motion.
"When you've dropped us there, return to the station," said Holmes. "There will be two more men coming, and you are to bring them to the same place."
"Few folk come to Brent, but in case, how'll I know . . ."
"Oh, you'll spot them," I said, with an inward smile. "Just look for the widest man you've ever seen."
Dandy Jack merely nodded.
"Have there been strangers in the area of late?" inquired Holmes.
"None that I've seen." Holmes did not press the matter, and finally, our driver felt impelled to make a conversational contribution. "I've nosed 'round, sir, and give the matter more thought. At tavern every night, there's palaver fer fair."
"About how the gold was removed from the boxcar." It seemed to me that Holmes made this statement with a certain satisfaction.
"Aye, sir. If I'm any judge, every man jack in these parts is as puzzled as I am."
Holmes nodded as though he had anticipated this. Silence fell, broken by the clip-clop of the sturdy bay and the intermittent calls of songbirds.
When Dandy Jack deposited us at the clearing that marked the end of the spur line, he tipped his battered hat and went about his return trip in accordance with my friend's instructions. The clearing and its deserted buildings seemed as they had been on our last trip to this place. At that time, Holmes' attention had been much given to the end-of-track and the area where the boxcar had been discovered. Now he seemed interested in the stretch of ground between there and the small hill with the rock-filled entrance to the abandoned tin mine. But then, he had paid scant attention to it previously. I doubted if he expected to come up with a clue at this late date, and felt that he shared that thought.
"There is really little we can do until the boys get here, Watson, though I did want to get to the spot as soon as possible."
But it was not Bertie and Tiny who arrived. Rather, it was another voice that called out and succeeded in startling me no end, for I was convinced that we were alone in this deserted spot.
"Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson," was the cry that surprised me as we were making our way toward the mine entrance.
From the woods on one side of the hill, Richard Ledger appeared on the run. In one hand was the Beals revolving rifle I had seen him use so effectively.
Holmes and I came to a stop, and as Ledger reached us, there was an added complication.
"Very slow, Ledger," said a strange voice. Clued by the direction of the sound, my eyes flashed to the top of the hill. Standing there was a tall and swarthy man with an Enfield rifle pointed directly at the three of us, as were the guns in the hands of the two men standing beside him. There was no sound for a long and nerve-racking moment, and the whole scene became a frozen tableau. Then Ledger, with a shrug that might have meant anything, reached out slowly with the hand carrying the Beals rifle. He was facing Holmes and myself, his left side toward the hill and the menacing men atop it. Then he pitched the rifle some distance from him. A moving object attracts the eye; and I fancy the riflemen instinctively watched the falling weapon, perhaps in anticipation that it might fire when it hit the ground.
Ledger's left hand, resting on the lapel of the unbuttoned topcoat he was wearing, moved the garment slightly away from his body and I saw a holster attached to his belt in front with the handle of a revolver pointing toward his right side. Simultaneous with this movement, his right hand flashed to the exposed gun butt, then reversed direction in a border draw. As the muzzle cleared the leather, it was already pointing in the direction of the hill. Of a sudden, there was a drumbeat of sound. Not single shots, but what seemed like a continuous roar. In a moment like this the eye transmits the image to the brain with a speed akin to that of light, which is a good thing since it all happened at once.
In but a fraction more than one second, five shots burst from Ledger's gun. The first shattered the rifle in the hands of the swarthy man. The second caught his right-hand companion in the forehead, passing out through the top of his head. The third one found the last of the trio in the vicinity of his left breast pocket. The fourth caught the swarthy man in his mouth and plowed into his brain, while the fifth blew its way between his eyes, making an obscene hole going in and a much larger one going out.
It was unbelievable, but there were three dead men on top of that hill before the first body hit the ground.
An unreal silence claimed the clearing and the hill on one side of it. There was the smell of cordite that wrinkled my nostrils. Then, from a silver beech on top of the hill, a bird trilled questioningly, as though to inquire what was going on. You'll never understand, little feathered friend, I thought. You'll also be quite surprised if you flit to the ground, for the green of the turf is being stained a darkish red.
Ledger blew on the muzzle of his gun and began to slide it back into its holster when I found my voice.
"Pardon me," I said, in a higher tone than is customary for me. I gestured toward the revolver. "May I?"
As he handed me the weapon, from the corner of my eye I noted Holmes regarding me strangely.