The mighty Morris has to its credit many an endearing feature. Ask any driver and he will mention such things as comfort, luxury, fuel economy, or the obvious prestige of ownership. But stand that man in front of his locked car to view the spectacle of his ignition keys dangling in the steering column and he will then address his praise towards the inevitably faulty boot-lock and the detachable rear seat. Pooley had crawled into more than a few Morrises on drunken evenings past when further staggering home looked out of the question. Now he was hardly backward in going that very direction.
Nemesis was yet two hundred and fifty yards to the fore. As the car ploughed on relentlessly towards the yawning chasm ahead, Jim clawed at the rear seat with his maimed fingers. With the kind of superhuman effort which would have done credit to any one of a dozen Boy’s Own Paper heroes, he plunged into the boot and fought it open.
With one bound he was free.
As the car breasted the rim of the chasm and dashed itself down towards oblivion, Jim tumbled out into the roadway, bowling over and over like a rag doll, to the accompaniment of many a sickening, bone-shattering report. He came to a final dislocated standstill a few short yards from doom. A loud explosion beneath, a column of flame, and a rising black mushroom cloud of oily smoke signalled the sorry end of a fine car. Pooley made a feeble attempt to rise, but to no avail. Every bone in his body seemed broken several times over. His head was pointing the wrong way round for a start. A flood tide of darkness engulfed the fallen hero and Jim lapsed away into a dark oblivion of unconsciousness.
14
John Omally pressed his way through Professor Slocombe’s ever-open French windows. The old scholar sat in a fireside chair earnestly conversing with the hawk-nosed man from another time. He waved his hand in familiar fashion towards the whisky decanter.
“So where is lucky Jim?” Sherlock Holmes asked. “Putting in his bid for the brewery?”
Omally shook his head and his face showed more than just a trace of bitterness. “I Was to meet Jim at the bench. We were planning a Nile cruise.” John flung the bundle of holiday brochures he had acquired the night before into the Professor’s fire. “I missed him. No doubt he is lying even now in the arms of some avaricious female. Oh, cruel fate.”
“Cruel fate indeed,” said Holmes darkly. “Lucky Jim may not be quite so lucky as he thinks himself to be.”
Omally pinched at the top of his nose. “We sank a few last night and that is a fact. Jim wisely kept back a wheelbarrow-load for expenses. He was more than generous.”
“So I understand. I regret that we were unable to attend the festivities. Tell me now, would I be right in assuming that Jim was wearing gloves last night?”
Omally nodded. “Said that the money had given him a rash. I didn’t give it a lot of thought, you know what these millionaires are like, walking round in Kleenex boxes and drinking Campbells soup from tins, it’s quite regular to those lads.”
Sherlock Holmes leant forward in his seat. “Might I ask you to show me your hands?”
Omally thrust them hurriedly behind his back.
“As I deduced,” said the great detective. “Both door and window was it?”
Omally bit at his lip and nodded ruefully. “Until but a few minutes since.”
Professor Slocombe cast Holmes a questioning glance.
“Purely a matter of deduction,” that man explained. “Let me see if I can set the scene, as it were. Mr Omally here has seen his dearest friend become a multimillionaire in the matter of an hour and a half. He helps him transport these riches to the bank and the two spend the night in revelry, finally returning to their respective abodes. But our friend cannot sleep, he paces the floor, he is assailed with doubts. Will the money change his companion, will it destroy their long and enduring friendship? Will he turn his back upon him? At last he can stand it no longer, his mind is made up. He will set out at once to his friend’s house and knock him up. But this is not to be. He tries to open his door but it will not move. After many vain attempts to secure his freedom he tries the window, this proves similarly unrewarding, the glass cannot even be broken.”
Professor Slocombe looked quizzically towards Omally who was catching flies with his mouth. “Is this true?” he asked.
“In most respects; it fair put the fear of the Almighty into me I can tell you.”
“We are indeed dealing with mighty forces here,” said Sherlock Holmes, springing to his feet. “And now I think that should we wish to entertain any hope of saving your friend we had best move with some expediency. Let us pray that the trail is not yet cold.” Without uttering another word he whisked on his tweedy jacket and plunged out through the French windows, followed by Professor Slocombe. Omally shook his head in total disbelief at it all, tossed back his drink, and followed in hot pursuit.
Holmes strode ahead up the sweeping tree-lined drive of the Butts Estate and crossed the road towards the Memorial Library. Before Pooley’s bench he halted and threw himself to his hands and knees. “Aha,” he said, taking up the spent butt of an expensive cigarette. “He’s been here and he walked towards the kerb.” Omally and the Professor looked at one another. Omally shrugged. Holmes scrutinized the roadway. “He entered a roadster here and was driven off at some speed in that direction.”
“Can you make out the licence plate number?” Omally said cynically.
Holmes looked him up and down coldly. “I can tell you that he was helped into the car by a gentleman of foreign extraction, who parts his hair on the left side and has his shoes hand-made, size seven and a half.”
Omally’s eyes widened. “Antoine, Bob the bookie’s chauffeur.”
“Such was my conclusion. Now, unless you wish to waste more valuable time in fruitless badinage, I would suggest that we make haste. Time is of the essence.”
“Lead on,” said John Omally.
It is a goodly jog from the Memorial Library to the old quarry, but Holmes led the way without faltering once upon his course. Here and there along the route he dropped once more to his knees and examined the road surface. Each time Omally felt certain that he had lost his way, but each time the detective rose again and pointed the way ahead. At length the three men turned into the old quarry road. Ahead in the distance lay the crumpled wreckage which had been Jim Pooley. With a small cry Omally bounded forward and came to a standstill over the disaster area. “Oh, no,” said he, sinking to his knees. “Oh no, it wasn’t worth this.”
Sherlock Holmes and the Professor slowly approached, the old man supporting himself upon his stick and wheezing terribly. “Is he…?” the words stuck in the Professor’s throat.