Checkmate In Nine

A chilly winter night before Christmas, and Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson are summoned by Inspector Lastrade to the scene of a ghastly murder. Holmes, Watson, and villainy at their best.

 

It was calm, chilly, and remarkably clear for a London evening, and the stars seemed almost close enough to touch. It was but a fortnight before the final day of 1899. The duties of civil practice had been demanding rather too much of me of late, and I decided that a visit to my old friend Sherlock Holmes was long overdue. I found him ensconced in his favorite armchair, surrounded by a pile of crumpled newspapers evidently newly studied, staring vacantly into the fire and puffing halfheartedly on his Meerschaum. The smoke slowly rising in wreaths from the pipe seemed to underscore the morose air of stillness that had settled into his soul. His eyes were aqueous, vacant, and empty. It was an appearance as peculiar in a man capable of his intensity as to bring to mind the image of a vibrant expansive factory lying empty and still. It was an appearance that I had come to know all too well in my association with Holmes. It was the look of agonizing torpor, the only hardship in this world that he was incapable of enduring.

It had been some weeks since he had closed the extraordinary case of the Scottish Maiden, a fascinating bit of detective work and brilliant deduction, the singular features of which will be chronicled by me once it is clear that certain parties involved are safely situated abroad and out of harm’s way. The case was quite taxing upon Holmes’ constitution, and there were times when he didn’t stop to sleep or eat for days on end. But like a hound hot upon a scent, he was fully incapable of stopping at such times. They were his raison d’etre, and everything of life in-between them was merely tedium to be endured.

But by now he had fairly recovered his health and stamina. He was ready to take up upon a new scent, but alas there was nothing on the wind. I feared that the boredom might lead him to turn again to the hypo, to the soothing dreamland of cocaine that was his only vice. And so, I decided to attempt to elevate him from his melancholy with a little conversation. “Nothing in the papers, Holmes?”

He seemed to be too far away to hear me, but in a few moments he muttered, “It seems as if even the manifold wickedness of the human heart is susceptible to the mood of the holiday season. Even London’s most incorrigible thieves, cutthroats, and scoundrels are apt to cease their depredations with the approach of Christmas.”

“Well,” I replied, “this is certainly no ordinary holiday season. This New Year’s Day marks the beginning of the new century. The papers are already editorializing about the passing of the 19^th century, conjecturing that it will certainly be difficult to eclipse in terms of war, tragedy, and sadness.”

“Oh, poppycock, Watson. The 20^th century will be sure to surpass it. We will see the same rascals round again, the same miscreants but with different names and faces. We will have the same monomaniacs, killers, and thieves to deal with, but they shall be all the more capable because of modern advances in communication, transportation, and weaponry that will enable them to commit crimes all the more hideous, difficult to prevent, and impossible to solve.”

“Well, you certainly do not paint a pretty picture of the future, Holmes. Will we not have the same brave and good men to protect us from them? And will they not also enjoy the developments of science and technology to make them more effective in that capacity?”

“Yes, my dear fellow, your point is well taken. In essence, I suppose nothing will really change. The game will go on with different rules. It will rise in pitch. The stakes will escalate, until at last humankind will be forced to take a long hard look at itself and decide whether to change or to live in a world that is no longer worth living in. Or perhaps, simply become extinct, as so very many species of the earth have already done.”

With those words, Holmes again fell into his somber reverie. I sat looking at him, trying to think of something cheerful to say, when suddenly I saw his ears perk up. Evidently, he had heard something that I did not. A moment later, I heard the grating of wheels against the curb, footsteps bounding up the stairs, and then a round knocking upon the door. Holmes turned to me with a sudden look of sanguine alertness upon his face. I rose to open the door and found Sergeant Devon of Scotland Yard standing in the corridor with a note in his hand. “Come in, come in, sergeant,” I said, “It is quite a chilly night to be out and about. Come sit by the fire, and let me pour you some brandy.”

“No, no thank you, Dr. Watson. I am here to deliver a note to Mr. Holmes. It’s from Inspector Lastrade, and he quite insisted upon its urgency.” Holmes’ face began to illuminate. He sprung from his armchair and could barely secret his delight at the prospect of a fresh case to work upon. He opened the envelope and read the scribbled note thoughtfully. Then he announced, “Watson, get your coat and hat. We are wanted on Manning Street.

A few minutes later, we were riding in a trap with Sergeant Devon, wending our way through the streets of London. Holmes sat quietly next to me, with his collar turned up so high against the cold night air and his deerstalker pulled down so low that only his prominent nose seemed to appear between them. We alighted on a corner at the south end of Manning Street. It was a pleasant residential street lined with old poplar trees. But there, just outside the circle of light from the last gas lamp on the block, lied a dead man surrounded by a collection of Scotland Yard men, some in uniform and some in plain clothes.

We were greeted by Inspector Lastrade. “Thank you for you kind attention to this matter, Mr. Holmes. And thank you, Dr. Watson, for venturing out on such a cold night. But I think that you’ll both find something in this case of interest. Of course, I have may own theory of what happened here, but it never hurts to put another head or two to the matter.”

Holmes stood surveying the murder scene. There on the sidewalk was the body of a middle-aged man, well-dressed, lying facedown in a pool of blood that appeared to have emanated from his throat. Holmes knelt down to examine the man’s throat more closely, asking, “Has anyone moved the body?”

“No, no, Mr. Holmes. I made sure that no one was to touch it until you got here. I know how very perticular you can be about little details and such. We found his pipe in the street, about six feet from the curb. It was still warm to the touch, so you can be sure he was smoking it when he was suddenly attacked from behind. It’s clear his throat was cut, cut from ear to ear. That’s for certain. I’ve had my men search for the knife, but so far they haven’t come up with it.”

“Can we turn him over?” asked Holmes. Inspector Lastrade instructed two of his men to roll the body over so that it was lying face-up. My first sight of the bloody face almost took my breath away. It was my impression that he must have lost consciousness and died almost instantly, yet there was look of horror upon the dead man’s face that I was not accustomed to seeing in even the most grisly murders. His eyes were fairly bulging out of his head and his resolute jaw was hanging wide open as if frozen in an eternal scream that never came. From that vantage, it was clear that the man’s throat had been cut quite deeply, severing both of the carotid arteries and the windpipe. The knife appeared to have found its way all the way down to the bone of the cervical vertebrae.

Holmes took a lantern from one of the Scotland Yard men and examined the man’s face very carefully. He was about forty years of age, of medium height, with a dark complexion, heavy eyebrows, and a thick stubble of beard. Holmes produced a lens from his pocket and examined the eHHHH wound very carefully with it. Then he went through the man’s pockets for some clue as to his identity. In the breast pocket of his jacket he found a small notebook of the kind used to keep track of chess moves. The name written inside the cover was Colonel Mahmud Herat. The most recent entry in the notebook was a record of a chess game played on that very day, against a certain Mr. James Faunteroy. Colonel Herat had won the game by checkmate in only nine moves. His other breast pocket contained some thirteen pounds in banknotes, and on his right ring finger there was a large green beryl set in gold, making it clear that robbery was not the motive.

“Well, there’s no doubt that someone slit his throat, Mr. Holmes, but what gets me is how the deuce he wound up lying so perfectly flat on the sidewalk, on his face, with his body stretched out in a straight line like that. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’ve seen more throat cuttings than I’ve ever cared to see in my years on the force. And the footprints of the murderer, Mr. Holmes, you can see them clearly with all the blood, how did they wind up being in front of his body and facing it? You can’t cut a man’s throat that deep while he’s facing you, you have to do it from behind. That’s the only way to get the kind of leverage needed to create so deep a wound. So, how the devil can you account for it?” I was forced to agree with the inspector’s observations, but had nothing to contribute to explain the singular details of the crime.

“You say his pipe was found some six feet from the curb. Pray, may I see it?”

“Of course, Mr. Holmes. Here it is.”

Holmes stared at the pipe thoughtfully for a minute or two. It was a plain burl pipe, with nothing remarkable about it to my eyes, but I could see that his mind was busily calculating, examining various theories and then tossing them out like a man going through his sock drawer looking for the right sock. Then he turned to Inspector Lastrade, handed him back the pipe, and said, “Colonel Herat did not have his throat cut with a knife. He was garroted. You can see that the wire of the garrote made an impression in his flesh all the way around his neck. Someone snuck up from behind him as he stood on this corner lighting his pipe.”

“How do you know he was lighting his pipe, Mr. Holmes?”

“Because there is a freshly-burned match at the foot of the curb, one that is identical in type to the matches in the box found in his pocket. Pickwick Matches have a distinctive appearance, my dear inspector. They are made from Indian boxwood, and fracture quite more easily than other brands.”

“Well, I’ll be.”

“The man who garroted him is between six feet and six feet four inches tall, very heavily built, and in possession of extraordinary physical strength. He is cunning, without fear, and utterly ruthless.”

“Now just how do you know that, Mr. Holmes?”

“I suspect he has a military background, because the technique that he used was quite professional, not something you learn out of books but rather something you drill at and practice. He snuck up behind Colonel Herat, slipped the wire garrote quickly over his head, pulled tight, then twisted the wooden handles one over the other, while simultaneously turning his body so that his back was in contact with colonel’s back. Then he lowered his bodyweight and flipped the colonel entirely over backwards. The force applied caused the thin wire of the garrote to cut almost down to the bone all around the neck. A knife cannot produce such a wound. Colonel Herat’s body ended up just as you see it, with the murderer standing over him with his feet about two feet apart and pointing towards the body. Then he untwisted the wire of the garrote and slipped off into the night. As to which direction, I cannot say. You and your men have done such an admirable job of obscuring his footprints that he might well have headed to any point on the compass. You are to be commended.”

“Ah, Mr. Holmes, so the man was playing chess today. Well, it just so happens that there’s a chess club just two blocks north of here, The Dunhill Chess Club. Maybe I should go poking around there and asking a few questions?”

“You might do so if you like, but I’m afraid you won’t likely find your murderer in a chess club. Chess players are a calculating breed, to be certain. But I don’t think you are likely to find a murderer among them, even if they have been checkmated in nine moves. My guess is that this murder is an act of pure vengeance. A vendetta. I suggest that you find out all that you can about our dead colonel. Somewhere in his past, he came to cross-purposes with the wrong sort of fellow. Quite the wrong sort of fellow indeed.”

“Well, you can have your theories, Mr. Holmes. But I’ll be making a little visit to The Dunhill Chess Club all the same. The old nose leads me that way, Mr. Homes, and the old nose is never wrong.” He pointed to his nose with his index finger as he said it, and Holmes seemed barely capable of disguising his amusement.

We returned to Baker Street in the trap that the inspector had provided for us. Holmes stoked the fire as I poured two stiff glasses of whiskey and topped them each with carbonated water from the gasogene. While I cannot speak for Holmes, I confess that I was somewhat in need of a drink after witnessing the results of such a ghastly murder. I am not ashamed to admit that it sent a shiver right through me. I could not seem to get the image of the victim’s bloodied and horrified face out of my mind.

No sooner had we lit our pipes and settled in to enjoy our drinks than we heard the rapid light footsteps of someone rushing up the stairs. Then came a furious desperate knock upon the door. I jumped up to open it, only to find a Middle Eastern man, nicely dressed, with a look of sheer panic upon his face. I could not help but notice that the ring finger on his right hand displayed a large green beryl set in gold, which to my recollection appeared identical to the ring I had seen on the dead man. “Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?” he asked breathlessly, in an accent that was unmistakably Afghani. “I need his help. I don’t know who else to turn to.”

“Why yes, of course, come right in, my good fellow,” I said. As he came through the door, Holmes looked the man over intimately with his quick discerning eyes, as was his wont. While Holmes’ face may have appeared unchanged to some, my intimate acquaintance with him told me that he had already noticed something of immense interest in the man. But before either of us could utter a word, the man blurted out, “I am Colonel Mahmud Herat.”

“Good heavens!” I exclaimed out. My nerves had already sustained one shock that evening, and this added on top of it seemed almost too much. Holmes remained fully composed, however, and rose from his chair to lead Colonel Herat over to a comfortable chair by the fire and ease him into it, saying, “I beg you to take a seat and tell me about it, from the beginning.” Then he sat down just opposite the colonel, leaned back in his chair with his long thin fingertips together, closed his eyes, and listened carefully to an extraordinary narrative that seemed almost to be coming from the other side of the grave.

“Mr. Holmes, the dead man you found on that corner on Manning Street was my identical twin brother, Ahmad, and I have no one to blame but myself for his death. May God forgive me for what I have done!”

“Nonsense, colonel, surely it was not you who is responsible for this ghastly murder. You cannot blame yourself,” said Holmes in a most reassuring tone.

But the poor man was anything but assured and sprang from his chair in agitation, asserting, “No, no, Mr. Holmes, I killed him just as certainly as if I myself had garroted him. I only wish that it was me instead of him lying dead, at least I would not have to live with it for the rest of my life.

Ahmad and I grew up in Kabul, and as young boys we both took an avid interest in chess. Though we were identical twins and nearly matched with regard to most of our talents, there was one thing that Ahmad was always better at, playing chess. He had a gift for the game, Mr. Holmes, and he loved it. As the years passed, I maintained only a casual involvement in chess, but Ahmad never stopped playing, studying, and competing in it. He was truly brilliant. I believe he could have been an international champion, if his attentions had not been diverted to business and family matters.

When I first came to London with my wife, about two years ago, I discovered The Dunhill Chess Club just a few blocks from our apartment. I began playing there on Wednesday evenings, just to pass the time and make some new friends. The strongest player in the club was Mr. James Faunteroy, a pompous windbag who never seemed to be able to keep from bragging and boasting about his prowess, irritating everyone in the club without end. I’m sure you know the type, Mr. Holmes.

Two weeks ago my wife and I got news that my brother Ahmad was coming to visit us for the holidays. Naturally I was delighted. The annual Dunhill Chess Club championship was going on when he arrived, and I had the good fortune of making it to the final match, pitting me against Mr. Faunteroy. I dreaded the thought of him beating me, and then having to listen to him goading me about it for the rest of the year. Suddenly I got the idea, born solely of my own vanity, to have Ahmad play that final match against the braggart in my place. He could wear my clothes, as we were always the same size, and I could get my wife to give him the same haircut that she gave me. It would be difficult to tell us apart.

Well, as I’m sure you can imagine, the whole hoax went off perfectly. In the final game, Ahmad checkmated Mr. Faunteroy in nine moves and won the championship. Then, may God forgive me, he no sooner left the club than he was struck down by that fiend.”

Holmes opened his eyes and asked, “You mean you know who it was that murdered your brother?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, it was that monster. I knew that he would follow me to London, but I never once dreamed that I would put Ahmad into jeopardy by having him impersonate me for a stupid chess game.”

“His name, colonel, if you please, give me his name,” pleaded Holmes impatiently.

“Rhaman Khan, Mr. Holmes, infamously known in my country as the Lion of Kandahar. Believe me, Mr. Holmes, he is a man whose trail of sadistic violence, torture, and murder has rightly earned him that title.”

“But,” said Holmes, “I thought that he had been captured by the British and imprisoned.”

“He was, Mr. Holmes. In fact, I myself was responsible for his capture. I was a spy for the British and managed to insinuate my way into his unit. It was really more of a rabble than a regular military unit, Mr. Holmes, but he ruled it with an iron hand. His men feared him, and with good reason.

During one raid on a British supply depot, he happened to notice that I wasn’t fighting fervidly enough. That night, he made an example out of me in front of his men. He is a giant of a man, Mr. Holmes, six feet three in height and some eighteen stone in weight. When he was a young man, a British bullet passing through his cheek left his face looking like the monster that he is. Oh, if only the Tommy that fired that bullet had taken better aim. He picked me up by the neck and held me with my feet off the ground as he spoke to his troops, telling them to watch what happens when they don’t fight. In a moment I passed out. I woke up in a pool of blood with a fractured jaw, both eyes swollen closed, and some broken ribs. I don’t know why he didn’t kill me. I only wish to God that he had.

About a month later, I heard that he was planning an audacious solo raid on the headquarters of General Stanley, with the object of assassinating him in his own bed in retaliation for having hung several of his men. His vengeance knew no bounds. I had become well acquainted with General Stanley and found him to be an honorable man and a credit to his profession. Just hours before the raid, I managed to escape on horseback and make my way to the British outpost. I accompanied three privates to General Stanley’s headquarters. That night we all waited in his bedroom, knowing that the beast would soon show up.

No sooner had he made his way through the general’s window than he found himself staring into the muzzles of three Martini rifles. He knew there was no escape, but that did not diminish the fury in his eyes when he saw me standing there with those three Tommies. I will never forget his words, Mr. Holmes, when he said, ‘You will pay dearly for this, my friend, I promise you.’ It sent a chill through me.

As you know, Mr. Holmes, he was taken to the British prison at Jakar. It’s one of the most secure prisons in the world, and geographically isolated amidst the most treacherous terrain in all of Afghanistan. Even those who have escaped Jakar have not survived for long, quickly falling victim to the elements, wild animals, or bandits. I got married, came to London, and went on with my life. But I never forgot his chilling words, ‘You will pay dearly for this, my friend, I promise you.’ I had no doubt that he meant them, and that if he ever managed to get out of that hellhole he would find me and exact his vengeance.

Late last year, I received word that he had escaped from Jakar with two accomplices. Then the accomplices were both found brutally murdered in London. It was assumed that he himself had killed them, but he was never found. I knew, Mr. Holmes, I knew in my heart that I hadn’t seen the last of him. But I never dreamed that he would kill my poor brother, and the horror of it is, Mr. Holmes, that it is all my own fault.”

“Now, now, colonel, you can’t look at the matter in that way. It was a misadventure, a cruel twist of fate, something that no one could have foreseen. You simply cannot blame yourself.”

“While Ahmad was playing in that chess match against Faunteroy, I went to visit my old friend Timur, the night editor at the London Gazette. I brought along some cigars, and we sat chatting about our schooldays. Just as I was about to say goodnight, one of his reporters burst into the room with a scoop for the morning edition: Colonel Mahmud Herat had been garroted to death on Manning Street. You can imagine how my heart did sink, Mr. Holmes. I knew instantly what had happened, and that it was entirely my own fault for allowing the silly charade to take place.”

“Have you told your friend, the night editor, to publish the story as it stood?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, I thought that if Khan believed he had been successful in killing me then it might give my wife and me a head start in evading him.”

“Quite so,” said Holmes in agreement, “But you will never rest easy until this man is brought to justice.”

“Nor will my wife.”

Just about then came the sound of slow heavy steps ascending the stairs, and then a loud imperious knock upon the door. Holmes jumped to his feet, ushered the colonel into his bedroom, closed the bedroom door, and then resumed a comfortable position in his chair. I opened the door to find none other than Inspector Lastrade. I invited him in.

“Well, Mr. Holmes,” he said haughtily, “I paid a little visit to The Dunhill Chess Club and asked some questions. I found that the dead man lived with his wife, just a few blocks from the club. So, I sauntered down and had a nice chat with Mrs. Herat. I must say she wasn’t too hard on the eyes, if you like the Middle Eastern birds I mean. I told her about her husband having been murdered, and she barely blinked, Mr. Holmes. She retained her composure completely. Now I’ve been on the force for long enough to know that it’s not normal, Mr. Holmes. Not normal at all. If you ask me, she’s got something to do with it. Perhaps a love triangle or some such thing. Now that Colonel Mahmud Herat is out of the way, she can pursue her other love interest. Or perhaps Colonel Mahmud Herat had a nice fat life insurance policy on him.”

“Perhaps,” said Holmes amusedly.

“Oh, you can smirk all you want, Mr. Holmes, but I’m a professional who has come to understand that the old nose knows,” he said, as he pointed to his nose with his index finger.

“Well, perhaps you are onto something, inspector. But before you arrest Mrs. Herat, there is someone that I would like you to make the acquaintance of.” Holmes stood up and walked into his bedroom, emerging from it with the colonel in tow. “Inspector Lastrade, I would like you to meet Colonel Mahmud Herat.”

Lastrade’s jaw fairly dropped open as he stared at the colonel. Finally, he managed to utter a few words. They were spoken so quietly that I could not make it out clearly, but I am almost certain that he said,  “Cheese and cherries!” Then he shrank down into the nearest chair and sat wordless.

In the minutes that followed, Holmes paced up and down the room with his chin almost on his chest and his hands clasped behind his back. He seemed to be in a separate world, completely unresponsive to anything that was said to him. Finally, he lifted his eyes to the ceiling and exclaimed, “Ha!” Then he sat back down in his armchair and said, “Inspector, I must have your word that you will not breathe a word about this matter to anyone. Not to anyone at all. It is imperative that we allow the newspapers to run the specious story of the colonel’s death.”

“You have my word on it, Mr. Holmes,” said Lastrade solemnly.

“Colonel, I must have your word that you will do exactly as I say and leave the matter entirely up to me.”

“But, Mr. Holmes, you cannot deny me the opportunity to settle this score, blood for blood, with my own hands,” said Colonel Herat. “It is the way of our people.”

“With due respect, colonel, I have some doubt that you will even be able to find Rhaman Khan in this teeming metropolis of four million people huddled together in such proximity, much less best him in mortal combat. You can be certain that this brute will take great delight in finishing the job that he came to do. You must promise me that you will follow my instructions to the letter. The account will be settled, but you must leave it up to me.”

“I will leave the matter in your hands, Mr. Holmes. But if you should fail, I will never rest until his blood is on my knife.”

Holmes picked up his pipe, lit it, and puffed on it thoughtfully for a few moments. Then he remarked, “When a big game hunter wishes to bag a lion, he stakes a lamb out in the forest and then waits for the lion to come to take it. We shall see if this little strategy will work as well for the Lion of Kandahar.”

 

The next morning, I joined Holmes for breakfast. I was quite pleased to see that he was in a particularly sanguine state of mind and had an excellent appetite. After breakfast, he asked me to accompany him to a dingy little fight club in East End. It was a melancholy place, dark, dirty, run-down, and redolent of stale sweat. In the center of the club was a standard boxing ring, and in it were two fighters sparring. A stocky middle-aged man with a bull neck and a bright red beret stood outside the ring, shouting instructions at one of the fighters.

“Your boy has style, but he is dropping his left after he jabs,” said Holmes as we walked up behind the stocky man.

“Bah, he can take that other fellow’s head off anytime I tell him to,” said the man without turning around.

“How have you been, Amin? It has been a long time,” said Holmes.

With that, the man turned around in surprise. A warm smile came across his face and he shot both of his hands out to grasp Holmes’ hand and shake it energetically. “Why, Sherlock, how have you been? It has been some time, yes, but I can still taste that right cross of yours. You have missed your calling, my friend, you could have made it to the top of this game.”

“We had some lively bouts together, did we not?”

“Ah yes, we did. But now I am a trainer and promoter. And you, I understand, are a famous detective.”

“Yes, Amin, and I am afraid it is a professional matter about which I have come to see you. I know that you are a man of honor, someone that I can place my faith in. I know that you are intimately connected with the Afghani community in London, with those on both sides of the fence. I have come to beg a favor of you.”

“Yes, our lives certainly take some interesting turns, do they not? Now I have many friends, Sherlock, some illustrious and some not so illustrious. But if there is any way that I may be of service to an old friend, I am at your command.”

“I would like you to see to it that this letter gets delivered to a certain Rhaman Khan. I have reason to believe that he is here in London, and I would like to have him receive this letter anonymously. It is essential that he not know that it came from me.”

Amin’s face stiffened upon hearing the name. “This Rhaman Khan, he is a bit of a tough character, my friend. They don’t call him the Lion of Kandahar without reason. On behalf of our community, Sherlock, I must apologize his presence. We are a tightly woven group, we Afghanis. Our history has made us so. But there are certain members of our community who are, let us say, an embarrassment. You can rest assured that the note will be delivered to him by sundown, Sherlock, and not a word about how it fell into my hands.”

“Excellent. I knew that I could depend upon you. Thank you, Amin,” said Holmes, and the two shook hands again.

While it was not Holmes’ manner to share his plans with me, I could sense that he was filled with delight over what had now been set afoot. There was a certain spring in his stride that was unmistakable. I returned to my practice and spent the better part of the day seeing patients. Holmes returned to Baker Street.

Late that evening, as I prepared to retire, there came a sudden knock at the door. My wife rolled her eyes at the thought of me having to see another patient, but I went downstairs with a candle to see who it was. There in the doorway was an old sailor with his face all bloodied and swollen. “Are you a doctor?” he asked in an unmistakably cockney accent.

“Why, yes, yes, please come in, my good man. What in the devil happened to you?”

“Oh I got meself into a bit of a row, I did. I was telling everyone at the pub what a bucket of fish guts that Sherlock Holmes fella is. Yes, a bucket of fish guts is what he is.”

“Now, see here,” I said, “It just so happens that Sherlock Holmes is a personal friend of mine. A very close friend. I do not appreciate your impertinence.”

“Ah, then you must be that Dr. Watson fella. They say you’re even more ignorant than Holmes, if that’s possible. I don’t suppose it is though.”

“Why, I have a mind to blacken your other eye if you continue your insults. That will be enough of your impudence.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t hit Sherlock Holmes, would you?”

“No, but I might just hit you,” I answered, raising my right fist to him.

“Why, you ain’t got the nerve!” he exclaimed. With that, I felt all vestiges of forbearance leave me, and I cocked my fist back to strike him. With that he began laughing like a madman and said, “A friend of Sherlock Holmes? Why, you don’t even know Sherlock Holmes when you meet him!” Suddenly he was speaking in the voice of my old friend, and I realized that Holmes had deceived me once again by the use of costume, makeup, and his consummate acting skills.

“Holmes, what the devil has happened to you. Come in, let me take a look at those wounds. Sit down. Let me light a lamp and examine you.”

As I cleansed his face I could see that he had multiple contusions, a swollen left eye, a cut on his chin and left eyelid, and a split lip that would require several sutures to close. Holmes showed no discomfort at anything I did, remaining quietly stoic as I attended to him. I might even say that he seemed invigorated, almost giddy, by what had happened. When I was finished, I could not resist the urge to ask him about it.

Holmes reached into his pocket for his pipe and lit it. As he puffed on it, I could barely restrain myself from laughing at the way his swollen lips awkwardly struggled to close around the bit of his pipe. “Well, my dear Watson, I have made the acquaintance of a lion. The Lion of Kandahar. That note that I had delivered to him, via Amin, notified him that the man he had killed was not Colonel Herat, but rather his twin brother. It instructed him to meet me at an isolated spot down by the docks if he would like to purchase information about Colonel Herat’s hiding place.

Well our Lion of Kandahar showed up on time, and he lived up to his name in every respect. He was a gruesome looking character, huge and hideous in appearance. It is interesting how the ugliness in a person’s soul somehow always manages to impress itself upon their physiognomy. He was in no mood to bargain with me over the price of the information, however, and decided straight away to beat it out of me, just as I had expected he would. Of course I could not give it up easily, Watson, for fear that he would become suspicious. I took quite a little drubbing before finally telling him where the colonel was hiding. He left me nearly unconscious on the wharf, and it’s a wonder he didn’t just finish me off. His parting words were, “If you warn him that I am coming, I will find you. I will make you sorry that you were not born a dog. I promise you.”

“But, Holmes, why in the world did you tell him where the colonel is hiding?”

“He is hiding in a very well-chosen place, Watson. It is a two-story house on an unlighted street in St. John’s Wood, just down the lane from a Scotland Yard station. The house is owned by Inspector Lastrade’s sister, a widow whose husband was a sergeant in the Northumberland Fusiliers and left her a very nice Webley revolver with which she can shoot through the eye of a needle. God help our Lion of Kandahar if he happens to wander within pistol range of that woman. She lives on the first floor, and rents the second floor out to boarders. The colonel and his wife are residing there as we speak. To get to them, our Lion of Kandahar must avoid using any firearms due to the proximity with Scotland Yard. He will need to climb the ivy up to the second floor, make his way onto the balcony, and get to them through the French windows. When he does, we shall have a nice little welcoming party waiting for him. I have a little score to settle with the Lion of Kandahar, and I relish the prospect of showing him some little fisticuffs of my own persuasion.”

“But, Holmes, how will we know when he will make his move?”

“It will be tonight, Watson, count on it. The sky has been uncharacteristically clear of late. Tomorrow night begins the new moon, and he must work in darkness. I have instructed the colonel and his wife to make themselves conspicuous but not vulnerable by day, for I am certain he will scout them before venturing forth upon the hunt. We will be there before dark, waiting for him.”

“So you would like me to come along?”

“Yes, Watson, your presence will be invaluable. I suggest you bring your revolver.”

 

That afternoon, Holmes and I situated ourselves in the bedroom adjoining the colonel’s and took pains to remain away from any windows. When darkness set, we had the colonel and his wife get into their bed. When they turned down the bedroom lamp, we ushered his wife downstairs to stay with Inspector Lastrade’s sister and her Webley. Holmes got into bed with the colonel and covered himself up. I lied down on the floor, on the far side of the bed from the French windows, and we waited. The colonel was armed with a Khyber knife, a long and extremely sharp Afghani weapon that looked to be more like a sword. Holmes had his hunting crop, and I my revolver.

We lied still and wordless for hours, and I began to find it difficult to remain awake. Around midnight, I’m afraid I could no longer resist the urge to drift off into a light sleep. Suddenly, I was awoken with a start by Holmes shaking me. There was the sound of soft footfalls upon the balcony and then a slight clicking sound as the knob to the French windows turned and unlatched them. I struggled to lie perfectly still, but my heart was pounding so hard that I feared the intruder would hear it.

Suddenly there was a scream. I sat up to see the silhouette of the colonel swinging his Khyber knife at the huge hulking figure that stood just inside the room. The beast ducked and then got hold of the colonel’s arm. Then he buried his own knife into the colonel’s chest. Just then, Holmes was upon him with his hunting crop, bringing it down upon his hand sharply and knocking the knife to the ground. Then Holmes hit the beast with a solid right hand to the jaw, which seemed to have little effect more than enraging him all the more. He picked Holmes up and threw him across the room, sending him crashing through the French windows and onto the balcony. It was a miracle that he did not go completely over the railing and fall off to the ground below.

I stood up and trained my revolver upon him, firing my first shot into the center of his body. The shot had no discernible effect on him, and before I could get off another he had hurled himself across the bed like an infuriated bull and gotten his hands around my throat. I had almost lost consciousness when I felt his grip suddenly loosen. Then he fell directly atop me with all of his massive weight, and I saw the colonel standing above us and his long Khyber knife sticking out from the left side of the beast’s back.

As soon as I could get out from under the hulking frame, I looked about for Holmes. He had gotten himself back up and was storming back in to renew the fight. When he saw the beast taking his last breaths, he almost seemed disappointed.

I did not get my first good look at the beast until the lamps were lit, and I was glad of it. He was an enormous specimen, not an inch or an ounce less than the colonel had estimated. His face was broad and powerful, cruel, barely human, and covered with scars. The British bullet that had pieced his cheek had left the worst of these scars, and it contracted as it healed to force his mouth into a cruel twist that remained with him even in death. By good fortune, the long blade of the colonel’s Khyber knife had found its home in the beast’s heart, causing an almost instant death.

The Lion of Kandahar was dead, and the colonel had gotten his wish by avenging his brother’s death with his own hand. The colonel’s own wounds were serious but not mortal. We escorted him to the nearest hospital and saw to it that he received immediate attention. Later that night, Holmes and I retired to the rooms at Baker Street. Sitting beside the fire, enjoying a quiet pipe, with glasses of brandy in our hands, the whole incident seemed to have already fallen behind us. It was like a distant dream.

“Well, Watson, the Lion of Kandahar certainly could have made an excellent prize fighter. The old boy had quite a chin. That right cross that I hit him with had plenty on it, yet it seemed to have absolutely no effect.”

“Why, the man was hardly human at all.”

“Well, we can be grateful that the new century will not have to endure the likes of Rhaman Khan. But there will be others to take his place. Villains are like the teeth of shark’s, my dear Watson, when one falls out another comes along to replace it.”

“So it seems, Holmes, an endless parade of them.“

And so, the new century will not be a boring one for me, or for the detectives that will follow me in the years to come. The shark’s new teeth are even sharper than the ones that they replace. The villains will be bigger, stronger, smarter, better equipped, and even more ruthless than the ones we know today. And the good people must be more courageous, thoughtful, prepared, and indefatigable in their pursuit of them.”

“Happy holidays, Holmes,” I said, raising my glass to his.

“Happy holidays, my dear Watson,” he replied. We clicked our brandy glasses together and drank a toast.

 

THE END

 

 

Author's Note

Look for it, and my other books, on Amazon.com!