Between the Thames and the Tiber by Ted Riccardi Page B

often told Holmes that his disdain for note keeping was part of his physical laziness.
    “On some days, my dear Sherlock, I lack even the energy to pull open a drawer in my desk. The brain, however, remains active. What better solution, then, could there be than to commit to memory the papers to which I must refer in the future?”
    Holmes smiled as he recalled his brother’s words. “There was one inconsistency in my brother’s habits, however,” he said.
    “And what was that?” I asked.
    “He kept a day book of his thoughts on current problems, often speculating in it on possible solutions. When the book was full, he destroyed it after committing to memory what he wished. Sometimes he procrastinated indefinitely before he burned it. He left the latest one on his desk untouched. It contains, amidst a jumble of thoughts and scribblings, a rather disquieting note: ‘Branko Vrukonovic Die Tote Stadt in London. Extreme danger to us. Must warn Sherlock of impending catastrophe. . . .’ Here the writing grows weak and turns into an old man’s illegible scribble.”
    “And who is Vrukonovic?” I asked.
    “I have no idea,” said Holmes. “I have looked through the entire diary and, allowing for Mycroft’s bizarre and often recherché reasoning, I remain puzzled. Die Tote Stadt, if memory serves, is the name of an old anarchist group.”
    He interrupted himself to hand me the book.
    “Take a look yourself. There is nothing that would illumine the name Vrukonovic, but there are other things perhaps hidden from our gaze at the moment.”
    I leafed quickly through the diary. Except for the single entry that Holmes had indicated, there appeared to be little of relevance to my unpractised eye.
    “And what other things are there?”
    “Look more carefully, Watson, particularly at the second-to-the-last page.”
    I did as Holmes directed and saw a thin piece of wire about six inches in length and perhaps an eighth of an inch in width. It had been doubled over and curved so that it looked like a small pair of tongs. I noticed too that the wire had been traced onto the page in pencil.
    “But surely, my dear Holmes, this has little to do with anything. It looks as though Mycroft may have been playing with a paper fastener.”
    “It is indeed a paper clip, Watson, but I doubt if it is a mere irrelevancy. Mycroft did nothing without a reason. No, the wire and the drawing may be part of an attempt to arrive at a solution to whatever he was investigating. For us, it must remain an indispensable clew. The wire is not of British manufacture. Notice also, Watson, that there are striations at different points scratched onto the surface of the inside. Let us have the glass, Watson.”
    I handed him his magnifying glass. He studied the inside of the wire for several minutes and then said: “What I can read, Watson, are numbers and letters but no words. They are quite small, no doubt done by a skilled craftsman, probably a jeweler. Take them down as follows. Reading from the right tong towards the curve: 1G 2J NilR 3C; in the curve RH; and then on the second tong outwards towards its end: 4P 5B NilR 6G 7B.
    I handed Holmes what I had written. “A difficult one, Holmes.”
    “No doubt, Watson, and a very short message, so cryptic that we may not be able to decipher it. But let us reason it out. Sometimes we may know more than we think. This is a message that may originate with Die Tote Stadt. Let us see what we can find out about them. Watson, please hand me the “D” volume from our criminal indexes.”
    I did so, and he quickly leafed through it and read; “Die Tote Stadt: a clandestine group bent on assassination, sabotage, and other anarchist acts. Seven members of mixed nationality forced to leave England. One Gordonov incarcerated. Others still at large; presumably have re-grouped in Europe, probably Italy. Their names: Gabrinowich; Cabez; Jetic; Branko; Vrukonovic; and the leader, Prinzip.”
    Holmes paused for a moment.