Sherlock spies the revolver. He takes a step so he is standing over the desk. One long reach and he’ll have it in his hand. He knows he has the courage to point it straight at Lestrade’s head and that the detective will consider him desperate enough to use it.
He can’t let this go any longer.
“If you two must waste my time and have me explain why I severely doubt this,” states Lestrade with a sigh, “I shall do so …” he turns to Holmes, “… as a preamble to having you dropped on your derriere on the street.” He sighs again. “There are at least two problems with your ploy this evening, beyond your being completely wrong about this case in general. They are as follows. Even if you are telling the truth, then you are, first of all, asking me to accept that you have escaped the clutches of the most slippery, bloodthirsty gang London has seen in years. And secondly … that they are still there waiting for us to pick them up long after realizing that you have run for help!!”
Sherlock knows that this makes sense. But he is desperate. He is hoping that there is some chance that the gang is still there, or that evidence can be found in the warehouse and a hot trail pursued. But he doubts now that he can convince Lestrade.
He eyes the revolver and reaches out –
At that instant, there is a commotion in the hallway then a voice at the door.
“They’ll be there!” barks a proud figure.
“The Swallow,” says young Lestrade, his face glowing.
Two constables come steaming up the hall.
“Sir, he just raced past us, as quick as a bird, sir!” sputters one of them, as he and his partner grind to a halt at The Swallow’s side. The boy stands erect, chest out, hands on hips.
Lestrade waves off both policemen. “L’Hirondelle,” he says in a tone of respect, approaching the famous young acrobat. “What do you have to do with this and what do you know of it?”
“I know they’ll still be there, sir. Move now and you can capture the Brixton Gang. Everything that Sherlock ’olmes ’as told you is the gospel truth.”
Lestrade’s face colors. He appears to be growing excited. He begins to pace in the tight space.
“And how do you know that?”
“I was raised in Brixton. I lived for a time in Lambeth apprenticing for a life o’ crime under the notorious Ahab Spell…. I know two o’ the Brixton Gang … well.”
Lestrade’s mouth gapes.
“I know ’ow they do things,” continues The Swallow grimly. “They put Master ’olmes on the top floor of a building they was usin’ for a dog-and-rat fight. Then they dropped to a lower floor to talk. They intended to kill ’im, they did. But they wanted ’im to stew first…. Sadists, they is. They wanted ’im to sit there all desperate-like and weepin’ for hours, just to make ’im suffer, so ’e would tell ’em what they need to know before they perished ’im. They’re still there. I’d wager a bar of gold on it.”
Lestrade keeps pacing.
“But they won’t be forever, sir. Either you go now, or you won’t ever catch ’em. Every second is a lost one. They may be climbin’ them stairs right now … or fleein’ down the streets o’ Rotherhithe. This is a big chance for you, sir.”
Lestrade bursts into action.
He rushes to his desk, opens a drawer, pulls out a carton of bullets and seizes his revolver, spinning its cartridge and feeding it.
It wasn’t loaded! thinks Sherlock.
Lestrade stuffs the other bullets into his pocket, whirls, grabs his long brown overcoat and iron bowler hat off a hook, and sweeps into the hallway, the three boys following closely behind.
“You two stay here!” he shouts at the constables. In the foyer, he calls back over his shoulder to the desk sergeant, “Send a note down the building to Division A that I want ten men on horseback to meet me at the Southwark end of the London Bridge in fifteen minutes! I have two men with me! I want arms for all of them! And four bull’s eye lanterns! Send your note NOW!”
The desk sergeant begins writing furiously.
Sherlock is full of energy, immensely excited. “And send a reporter to meet us,” he growls at the desk sergeant, “from The Times! NOW!”
The sergeant hesitates.
“Do it!” screams Lestrade, leading his motley crew out the big black doors.
The stables are in Great Scotland Yard square not more than fifty feet away. Lestrade bangs open the doors and demands that a dozen horses be saddled immediately. Sherlock can smell the strong stench of manure. Two stable boys dive into their work.
But The Swallow doesn’t follow the others into the stable. He seizes Lestrade by the coat sleeve.
“I don’t want me name mixed up with this, nor do I want the Brixton Gang on me trail,” he says earnestly. “I’ve left that life behind. You lot do this. And don’t mention me name in any report or to the press. I’ve done me bit.”
Lestrade nods.
The Swallow releases him and turns to Sherlock.
“Thank you, Master ’olmes.” He pauses. “You are a star in your own right, sir.” Sherlock glows. “And you taught me many things. You taught me that I can’t be just part good. I have to choose. And I have done that.”
Sherlock feels guilty. Could he honestly say that about himself?
“It must be awfully nice to have your brains. Developin’ your mind is an exciting and admirable thing. I’m goin’ to work on me own gray matter.”
The acrobat reaches out and shakes the young detective’s hand, then winks at him, turns the corner, and seems to vanish.
At almost the same instant, the stable boys brings two big chestnut horses forward down the main hall that separates the stalls.
“You shall ride with my son,” says Lestrade gruffly.
Sherlock Holmes has never been on a horse, the gallant beasts who are the real engines of London. He looks at their strong legs and trunks and up at their dark eyes. Their backs seem very high.
After young Lestrade mounts his steed and settles himself into the front part of the saddle, feet in the stirrups, he reaches down for the other boy’s hand. Sherlock hesitates.
“Come on!” shouts the Inspector’s son. He seems anxious to have Holmes with him.
Sherlock grips the arm and feels himself hoisted way up onto the horse’s back behind the saddle.
“Hold on!”
The horse rears up before it charges out through the wide open wooden doors and across the cobblestones. Its hooves strike the surface like gun shots. The Inspector is out in front of them.
“Hee-ah!”
They bounce violently up and down in the saddle as the magnificent animals take them flying across London. Sherlock holds on for dear life.
They cut through a smaller artery head past the fabulous Northumberland House Hotel, by Charing Cross Railway Station again, and head down The Strand until they reach Waterloo Bridge. They cross into grimy Southwark and gallop east through winding streets, wide and narrow, racing past the denizens of the night. Sherlock sees city life from another perspective now. Faces look up at them, some frightened, dirty, and toothless; others conniving and calculating. They all know this is the Force on the prowl.
Just south of London Bridge, they pause on a street near the lawns of airy, white-stoned St. Thomas’ Hospital, where the famous Florence Nightingale is in charge. They don’t have to wait for long. Within minutes they hear the other ten policemen galloping toward them from the west. Holmes spies a bookish-looking, bespectacled young man holding on to a Peeler aboard one of the horses at the rear. He is clinging to the Bobbie’s waist and looking both terrified and thrilled: the reporter from The Times! Then they are all off again, toward Rotherhithe.