The Problem of Threadneedle Street (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 2) Read Online Free PDF Page A

of an owner being deceased, we could obtain an order from a magistrate to open for his heir. Perhaps we should so inquire…”
    “That will hardly be necessary, Mr. Winthrop. The owner is here.”
    “What!?” the man exclaimed.
    “Did you not say that the box is registered to one Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esq.? I am he. Or so, two trusted men, Dr. Watson and Inspector Gregson, can readily attest.”
    There was a calm assurance of power in Holmes’ manner which could not be withstood. Gregson paused for a moment, and then chortled at this legalese twisting of words. “He’s right, Governor Winthrop. Let’s have it open.”
    “Very well,” said Winthrop, with obvious misgivings. He motioned reluctantly to his manager to help. The pair inserted their keys into the Chubb’s lock, swung open the door, and pulled out the box. We gathered round with considerable interest to see what was contained within. To our great surprise, it held only a stainless steel brandy flask, inscribed with the initials ‘S.H.’
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    I glanced over at Holmes, whose face bore the expression of one who has seen his adversary make a dangerous move at chess. He carefully picked up the flask and examined it with interest. He unscrewed the cap and sniffed at the vapors that emanated from within. His eyes flashed, and I could see from Holmes’ rigid appearance that he was vibrating with inward excitement.
    He handed the flask first to me, where I noted no apparent scent at all. I passed it to Gregson who, by the puzzled look upon his face, plainly also failed to discern what had so animated Holmes. Meanwhile, Holmes had turned to once more scrutinize the room. He walked about for a moment, every aspect of the room minutely examined and duly pondered. Without warning he dropped to the floor with an alacrity lacking in most men of five and fifty years. He crawled about for a few minutes, and then rose with a hint of triumph in his eyes. “Here you are, Gregson, mark these. They are of great importance. I think this should be the final clue that you need,” said Holmes, handing the inspector several grains of dust that had been carefully scooped onto one of his calling cards.
    Gregson stared in baffled amazement at these specks. “Dust? I am afraid I miss the point, Mr. Holmes.”
    “Truly? I think it is quite evident now exactly what has transpired. These are deep waters, Mr. Winthrop, deep and rather dirty. I see that the vault is currently lit with the incandescent bulbs of Swan and Edison. Do you keep them turned on when the vault is closed for the night?”
    “Certainly not, Mr. Holmes,” he protested. “What would be the purpose? It would be a terrible expenditure for the sake of nothing, for not even a mouse can enter this vault at night.”
    “Ah, but someone did, Mr. Winthrop, someone did. I deduce from the Governor’s testimony, Inspector Gregson, that it was dark when you and your men entered the vault?”
    “Naturally, Holmes. We brought lanterns, of course.”
    “Of course, well, the whole thing hinges upon two points. I would invite your attention very particularly to them. One is that little mound of what you referred to as dust, Gregson. The second is the curious smell inside the flask.”
    “But the flask has no smell,” protested the inspector.
    “That was the curious smell,” remarked Holmes in his typically inscrutable fashion.
    “Mr. Holmes!” cried the agitated Mr. Winthrop. “I cannot bear the suspense! If you know how the thieves entered the room, please tell us!”
    Holmes’ eyes were bright and his cheeks tinged. “When I set foot in this vault, I put myself in the man’s place and having first gauged his intelligence, I attempted to imagine how I should have proceeded under the same circumstances.”
    “How can you be certain of his intelligence, Holmes?” I inquired.
    “Come now, Watson. In the supposed Mr. Wild, we have a man with the brains to rob the most secure room in all of England, and the