Littlejohn at the main office in Grace Street, that’s my advice.’
‘Would you have any objection if I looked briefly inside the building?’ Holmes inquired and, when the man appeared to hesitate, there was a chink as coins exchanged hands; at which the foreman winked, touched one finger to the brim of his hat and, having cocked his head this time in the direction of the interior of the warehouse, sauntered off in a deliberately nonchalant manner.
Taking this elaborate pantomime as permission, Holmes and I also strolled off as casually towards the double wooden doors, which were fitted with an extra entrance by way of a small wicket opening and which led into a broad stone passage.
As we entered, I noticed Holmes lift his head to sniff the air as if he had detected some peculiar aroma in the atmosphere. For my part, I could smell nothing more than the musty scent of old plaster and a damp cellar odour which seemed to come seeping up the stone steps from some basement or lower vault below the building.
The stairs in question led off to our right, one flight ascending to the upper floors, another leading downwards, this set of steps being closed off from the passage by means of a tall iron grille, secured by a padlock and chain.
Alongside the staircases ran a shaft fitted with ropes, itspurpose being, I supposed, to serve as a hoist for raising or lowering heavier items of furniture to and from the upper storeys. Another gate, this time only knee-high, barricaded off the opening to this shaft in order to prevent anyone falling accidentally down it.
At the far end of the passage was a second door, fitted with glass panels, which was locked, as Holmes discovered when he tried the handle.
It led into a small vestibule which must have given access to the front entrance in Titchbourne Street for, when I joined Holmes to peer through the dusty glass, I could see the street door with its letter-box facing us and several envelopes lying below it on a strip of matting which partly covered the bare floor-boards.
The vestibule looked unused, the paintwork grimy, the ceiling festooned with old cobwebs.
The men had begun to carry the furniture from the van into the warehouse and, taking it as a sign that it was time to depart, we left, Holmes nodding to the foreman as we passed him.
Once out of earshot, he remarked, ‘Strange, Watson!’
‘What was, Holmes?’
‘The odour of cigar smoke.’
When I confessed I had not noticed it, Holmes, whose senses were keener than those of any other man I knew, raised his eyebrows.
‘Did you not? It was stale but still strong and unmistakably from a good havana. As you know, I have made a study of the various tobaccos and the different types of ash they leave behind. * Their aromas are also quite distinctive. I cannot imagine even the foreman smoking such an expensive brand. And look at this!’
He extended the long index finger of his right hand, on the tip of which was a small dark stain.
‘Oil,’ he explained briefly before wiping it away with fastidious care on his pocket handkerchief. ‘It was from the padlockon the grille which barred off the basement stairs. I am becoming more and more interested in the case you have laid before me, my dear fellow. A missing medical student and a secretary to a charitable institution who contrives simultaneously to run an Australian sheep-farm! And now cigar smoke and a freshly oiled padlock! The investigation has begun to develop most satisfactorily.’
Although I was gratified by Holmes’ remark, I was becoming curious about our destination for he was walking ahead of me so rapidly and purposefully that I was forced to lengthen my own stride in order to keep up with him.
When I inquired, ‘Where are we going now?’, he replied over his shoulder, ‘To Grace Street, of course, to interview the manager, Mr Littlejohn.’
‘Should we not ask directions, Holmes? The district is quite unfamiliar to me.’
‘But not to me,’ he
‘Would you have any objection if I looked briefly inside the building?’ Holmes inquired and, when the man appeared to hesitate, there was a chink as coins exchanged hands; at which the foreman winked, touched one finger to the brim of his hat and, having cocked his head this time in the direction of the interior of the warehouse, sauntered off in a deliberately nonchalant manner.
Taking this elaborate pantomime as permission, Holmes and I also strolled off as casually towards the double wooden doors, which were fitted with an extra entrance by way of a small wicket opening and which led into a broad stone passage.
As we entered, I noticed Holmes lift his head to sniff the air as if he had detected some peculiar aroma in the atmosphere. For my part, I could smell nothing more than the musty scent of old plaster and a damp cellar odour which seemed to come seeping up the stone steps from some basement or lower vault below the building.
The stairs in question led off to our right, one flight ascending to the upper floors, another leading downwards, this set of steps being closed off from the passage by means of a tall iron grille, secured by a padlock and chain.
Alongside the staircases ran a shaft fitted with ropes, itspurpose being, I supposed, to serve as a hoist for raising or lowering heavier items of furniture to and from the upper storeys. Another gate, this time only knee-high, barricaded off the opening to this shaft in order to prevent anyone falling accidentally down it.
At the far end of the passage was a second door, fitted with glass panels, which was locked, as Holmes discovered when he tried the handle.
It led into a small vestibule which must have given access to the front entrance in Titchbourne Street for, when I joined Holmes to peer through the dusty glass, I could see the street door with its letter-box facing us and several envelopes lying below it on a strip of matting which partly covered the bare floor-boards.
The vestibule looked unused, the paintwork grimy, the ceiling festooned with old cobwebs.
The men had begun to carry the furniture from the van into the warehouse and, taking it as a sign that it was time to depart, we left, Holmes nodding to the foreman as we passed him.
Once out of earshot, he remarked, ‘Strange, Watson!’
‘What was, Holmes?’
‘The odour of cigar smoke.’
When I confessed I had not noticed it, Holmes, whose senses were keener than those of any other man I knew, raised his eyebrows.
‘Did you not? It was stale but still strong and unmistakably from a good havana. As you know, I have made a study of the various tobaccos and the different types of ash they leave behind. * Their aromas are also quite distinctive. I cannot imagine even the foreman smoking such an expensive brand. And look at this!’
He extended the long index finger of his right hand, on the tip of which was a small dark stain.
‘Oil,’ he explained briefly before wiping it away with fastidious care on his pocket handkerchief. ‘It was from the padlockon the grille which barred off the basement stairs. I am becoming more and more interested in the case you have laid before me, my dear fellow. A missing medical student and a secretary to a charitable institution who contrives simultaneously to run an Australian sheep-farm! And now cigar smoke and a freshly oiled padlock! The investigation has begun to develop most satisfactorily.’
Although I was gratified by Holmes’ remark, I was becoming curious about our destination for he was walking ahead of me so rapidly and purposefully that I was forced to lengthen my own stride in order to keep up with him.
When I inquired, ‘Where are we going now?’, he replied over his shoulder, ‘To Grace Street, of course, to interview the manager, Mr Littlejohn.’
‘Should we not ask directions, Holmes? The district is quite unfamiliar to me.’
‘But not to me,’ he
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