“Yes, they know when the money disappeared and have told us,” admits Lestrade, lowering his voice.
“And when was that, exactly?”
The distinguished policeman now has a decision to make. Should he tell this ragged half-Jew an intimate detail of police business? He is inclined not to.
“Father, I think you sh –” begins his son, sensing his reluctance.
“Silence,” says the father.
He again reflects on the Whitechapel murder, how the boy had investigated a vicious killing that didn’t have a single witness and pieced together the entire event, uncovering precise details, based on the fact that it was observed in the night by two crows. It really was remarkable. The Inspector also considers the acclaim he had gained from the boy’s heroics and how he hadn’t had to give him one scrap of credit. Could the boy be as ingenious this time? Unlikely. But what if this brilliant robbery was committed by major stars of the criminal world, and young Sherlock Holmes actually holds the key? The applause, which he could direct entirely to himself, would be deafening. Who would believe that such an invisible minor and a half-breed to boot, was responsible? Lestrade tells himself he is a good man, but one must sometimes resort to darker methods in the cause of what is right.
“Step this way,” he says quietly. He leads Sherlock to an area close to the wall, allowing only his son to follow.
“The incident occurred between one o’clock and two on the afternoon of the first day of July,” he murmurs.
A thrill goes through Sherlock. The Mercures’ show had begun at one. He can’t resist a smart response.
“That means the operation began at approximately 1:05.”
“How do you –” begins young Lestrade.
“He doesn’t!” snaps his father. “Now, what are you going to give me in exchange?” He looks around, “Tell me quietly.” He feels a bit ridiculous even asking the boy, but can’t resist.
“Bring the guard out and let me ask him a few questions. All shall be revealed.”
This is the only way Sherlock can crack the case – he has no other means to make the guard answer his questions. He needs police authority.
Lestrade regards him for a moment. He wonders what the boy is up to.
“We shall not ‘bring him out,’ as you put it…. We shall go in and see him.”
It is an irregular thing to do – bring the boy right into the vault room inside a sealed-off police investigation zone – but Lestrade cannot bring himself to have anyone else about when this boy questions the guard. Chances are he will fail and make the Inspector look foolish. But if this minor were to solve the crime out here in front of others, then that would be even worse. Everyone would know. It just wouldn’t be right. London cannot have the sense that its safety, the solution to any of it serious crimes, is in the hands and minds of children. Again, one must sometimes use questionable methods to achieve good ends.
“Come with me,” says Lestrade, nodding to both Sherlock and his son. He motions to a policeman standing at the vault room door, who opens it and lets them in.
The young guard is sitting on a thick wooden chair, the only piece of furniture in the room. A curtain is drawn in front of the wall to his left, obviously where the vault is built into it. There is a string looping across his chest and attached to a whistle, the top of which can be detected sticking up from his right breast pocket. No one would be able to enter this room without being seen and the alarm being given; the guard could not be attacked from behind; and a Bobbie is always stationed outside the door.
Sherlock looks up. The glass ceiling of the Palace is visible above this room. He notices where the tops of the walls end, a good twenty-five feet below the ceiling. For an instant he glances toward the performance area down the nave. He thought he might be able to see the summits of the Mercures’ towers, but can’t. The perches must be just below.
Lestrade makes sure the door is closed behind them before he speaks.
“This is Master Sherlock Holmes,” he says to the guard. “He has a few questions for you. Anything that is said at this time inside this room is strictly police business and cannot be revealed to anyone at any time in the future. Do you understand?”
“I do,” says the young man quietly. Sherlock observes him. A youth of about nineteen or twenty years of age, with sandy hair, the beginnings of a mustache, and bags under his eyes from recent sleeplessness – obviously upset about what has transpired. But his look isn’t one of guilt. That worries Sherlock, though he commences his interrogation anyway. His plan is to startle his interviewee and bring him quickly to heel.
“You keep the combination to this vault in your left breast pocket, do you not?” Holmes had seen the whistle in the right pocket.
The young guard is startled by this remarkable opening comment. “Did the police tell –” he begins.
Sherlock cuts him off.
“I have it on good authority that you were in conversation with disreputable individuals in this building on the very day before the robbery and that you told them where the combination is kept.”
“I –”
“Do not lie to me. Lying will put you into a deeper hole than you are in now.”
The guard hesitates.
“Yes. Yes, I told a couple of people.”
Lestrade had been leaning against the vault wall as if bored. He takes a step forward.
“Do you know that I can prove that those strangers were members of the Brixton Gang?”
The guard’s eyes bulge. Lestrade steps even closer. His son had been nearer to the action, standing close to Sherlock. His father gently brushes him aside, staring at the young guard.
“Now you must come clean,” stresses Sherlock, going for the jugular. “What happened on the day of robbery? Did you let someone in here? Otherwise, how could they enter without being seen?” He pauses dramatically. “Or, did they force their way in, assault you and get away, your shame afterwards preventing you from telling the authorities that it was your loose lips that caused this terrible theft of one hundred thousand pounds?”
Sherlock doesn’t know exactly what happened. But he is speaking aggressively, sure that this will shake the young man and cause him to reveal what he knows. And what he knows will unlock everything. The details of the daring robbery are about to be heard.
But the guard surprises him.
“No!” he asserts with confidence. “No one came in here. I will swear to it on a Bible. There was no robbery! I don’t know why money is missing from the vault. I was here the entire time. Nothing happened!”
“Are you quite finished?” asks Lestrade glaring at Holmes and stepping between the two.
“No … I –” stumbles Sherlock.
“I think you are,” shoots back the Inspector. “This young man,” he points at the guard, “has told us everything we have asked of him. And everything he has said turns out to be the gospel truth. We knew he bragged a bit too much about his job to others – he is hiding nothing from us. He comes from a respectable family with money invested in the Palace, a place from which he will one day profit. He certainly wishes it no harm. His home has been searched and so has his bank account. You are dead wrong about everything, Master Holmes. I suggest you leave and don’t come back. If I see you on these grounds, I shall have you forcibly removed … or perhaps horsewhipped!”
“There was robbery here,” sputters Sherlock. “It commenced at 1:05 on the first instant of July. It was committed by the Brixton Gang. And it is connected to the murder of Monsieur Mercure.”
“How?” demands Lestrade, holding back a smile.
“I … I don’t know that part yet.”
“I see.”
“But, if you allow me, I can make it so you can lay your hands on both the murderer and every member of the Brixton Gang.”