“Then in 1920, Damian Adler arrived in Shanghai. As I said, he found rooms in-I shouldn't perhaps call it a house, it is a compound of many dwellings, an arrangement that fosters close, almost familial ties-the girls who were there at the time remember Mr Adler with respect and affection. He went through periods of heavy drinking, and was arrested twice in the waning months of 1920.”
By now, Holmes did not even blink.
“The first arrest was for being so drunk the wagon that picked him up thought he was dead.”
“Well,” I murmured, “he only claimed that he was free from drugs use.”
Holmes paid my comment no mind. “And the second?”
“Ah, well, that was a month later, and more serious. Mr Adler was in a brawl in November 1920, and beat a man up. He was arrested, but when the man came out of hospital three days later, he refused to press charges. Adler was let go with a warning.”
Lofte was watching Holmes in a manner that suggested anticipation. Holmes studied him, then obediently asked, “Do we know who the victim was?”
A tiny smile flickered over the Swiss man's mouth, and he went back to his envelope. This time the document was two pieces of paper pinned together in the corner; it took Mycroft a full minute to read and pass on this one, a police report recording the injuries of one John Haycock: Concussion, broken collar bone, cracked humerus, contusions, broken tooth-fairly standard stuff for a bar brawl. Holmes flipped over to the second page, and there was a photograph of our human punching bag, his features so swollen and bruised, his mother would not have known him.
“John Haycock, eh?” Holmes mused.
“The address he gave the hospital was false,” Lofte said.
The man's hair was dark, but there was no telling if he had a scar beside his eye.
Holmes was studying the photograph, then shook his head. “It's a pity-”
He stopped, his eyes darting to Lofte's fingers on the near-flat envelope. “You don't?”
In answer, the man in the worn suit drew out a glossy photograph and half-stood to lay it with great deliberation on the table before Holmes. He sat back, on his face a look of tired contentment. “This was put into my hands by a reporter of one of the Shanghai dailies, ninety-five minutes before-” He shot a glance at Mycroft. “Shall we say, I happened to know that a military 'plane was about to leave, and I thought that might be my best chance to get this photograph to London.”
“What day was this?” I asked. Mycroft had wired his request for information ten days earlier; Lofte must have assembled all this information in a matter of hours.
“Sunday.”
Two of us frankly stared at him; Mycroft studied his glass, but one side of his mouth had a small curl of satisfaction.
“Six days to cross two entire continents?” I marvelled. “Impossible!”
“Not if one is given carte blanche with requisitioning aeroplanes and rescheduling trains. I employed nine aeroplanes, three trains, eighteen motor-cars, two motor-cycles, one bicycle, and a rickshaw.”
Mycroft spoke up. “My department has an ongoing interest in what one might call practical experiments in rapid travel. Mr Lofte now holds the record.”
“Won a tenner, too,” our Twentieth-Century Mercury murmured. “ Harrison bet me I couldn't do it in under eight days. My partner in Shanghai,” he explained.
Holmes resumed the photograph, tilting it for me when I looked over his arm.
“My reporter friend became interested in Hayden a year ago when he heard a rumour that the good Reverend was quietly selling up church holdings-several buildings, in good parts of town, a lot of stocks and valuables that members had donated for charitable works which somehow didn't come to fruition. There were also rumours of darker doings, several deaths among his congregation. The photo was taken the tenth of September last year; the next day, the Reverend was on a boat for England. The reporter reckons various officials were paid off, not to notice. Hayden won't be prosecuted, but on the other hand, he won't be welcomed back.”
Hayden's image was quite clear, despite having been taken across a busy street. The man, strong in body and haughty in manner, was dressed in a beautifully cut summer-weight suit and a shirt with an ordinary soft collar and neck-tie. He had his straw hat in his hand as he prepared to climb into a car waiting at the kerb. Something must have caught his attention, because he was turned slightly, face-on to the camera. He looked vaguely familiar, although I had only seen the back of his head, so far as I knew. His eyes were dark and compelling, his mouth full, his hair sleek and black. And his left eye was elongated by a stripe of darker skin, a scar like the tail of a comet. Like the reappearing shape of the Children of Lights.
Holmes passed it over to Mycroft. “We need copies.”
“Certainly. Lofte, did you have anything else for us?”
“A few clippings about the church, but that's it.”
I shifted, and three pairs of eyes turned to me. Not that I wished to be greedy, however: “The Adlers have a child. Estelle. Did you come upon any birth record for her?”
Lofte's tired face sagged with remorse. “I was told to investigate the background of Damian Adler's wife, Yolanda, at all haste. I interpreted that to mean her background before their marriage. I did not pursue copies of their marriage certificate, or their current bank accounts, or the child's papers. I can get that information in a day, if you need it.”
“The only urgent piece of information we need is, did she have another child, after Dorothy Hayden in 1913 but before she married Damian?”
“I was working at speed and may have missed some details. To be honest, I don't know if I would have caught sight of another child, had there been one.”
“That's all right. Thank you.”
Mycroft rose. “We shall turn you free to sleep the sleep of the righteous. You have a room?”
“The Travellers' will have one.” He stood, a trifle stiffly, and shook hands all around. Mycroft led him to the door, but Holmes interrupted.
“Lofte?” The man turned to look back. “Altogether, a most impressive feat.”
The younger man's face was transformed by a sudden grin. “It was, wasn't it?” he said, and left.
When Mycroft came back, he was not carrying the photograph.
35
Third Birth: A man born once lives unaware of good and
evil. A man born twice sees good and evil, within and
without. Very few achieve a third birth: birth into divinity,
knowing that good and evil are not opposing forces, but
intertwining gifts that together make the burning heart of
Power. A third-born man is little less than the angels. A
third-born man is the image of God.
Testimony, III:8
MYCROFT CLEARED AWAY THE EMPTY PLATTER and the glasses, and returned with an antique-looking bottle and smaller glasses. Having cocoa and red wine already arguing in my stomach, I turned down his offer.
“I've been saving this for you to try,” Mycroft told his brother. “I'd have brought it out for Mr Lofte, but I judged that in his condition, strong drink might render him unconscious.” The two men sipped and made appreciative noises and traded opinions on districts and pre-war (pre-Boer war) vintages before my ostentatious glance at my wrist-watch returned us to the task at hand.
“I had two more telephone calls from Lestrade today,” Mycroft said. “On the first, he informed me that he had, in fact, put out arrest warrants for both of you. On the second, he asked if you had fled the country with Damian Adler.”
“Has Damian fled the country?” I asked.
“So far as I could determine, Lestrade's evidence consists of Scotland Yard's inability to find him. So, Sherlock, what have you found for us amongst the primitive monuments?”