‘This is how I see it, then,’ explained Sherlock Holmes. ‘For some reason, Alferakki and Smith Copton need Terehoff’s shop. There is a mystery here, and in the end we will solve it. I think a major crime is in preparation.’
‘Is that what you presume?’ Watson interrupted.
‘I am certain of that. And so they decided to squeeze out Terehoff, come what may. That’s why they did all those horrible things. I haven’t yet examined the old premises, but I presume that the trick was all of an optical nature, which means they are skilled. Utilizing the power of superstition, they got rid of the employees. But Terehoff was still being stubborn. That’s when Copton appeared, and his task was to create the final outrage, which forced out Terehoff.’
‘So what did he rub into the wood?’ asked Watson. ‘I smelt it. Despite the passage of time, the odour had survived. I nearly went out of my mind, sniffing that wood at the police station.’
Sherlock Holmes smiled, ‘I was able to place that odour instantly. I came across it in South Africa some ten years ago. A tribesman wanted to get out of being a guide to a British detachment. He didn’t want to desert, which meant facing a firing squad. And so, one day, when he entered the camp, everyone nearly went out of their minds. Tethered horses tried to break away. Oxen tore through the camp and brought down tents. The men cursed and ran in all directions. That same odour came from him. The guide calmly paraded up and down the camp, claiming he had rubbed himself with an antidote against mosquitoes. He was ordered to get the hell out of there, or else.’
Watson laughed, ‘How very droll! And what was the antidote?’
‘Juice squeezed from African gorse. The plant only grows in southern and central Africa, and even so, rarely. But to continue. Copton was hired as a sales assistant, brought a jar of this foul liquid and rubbed some of it into the wood without being noticed. And achieved his aim.’
‘What then?’ asked Watson.
‘Then,’ answered Sherlock Holmes, ‘when Terehoff left, Alferakki immediately took over, while Copton left Terehoff’s employment for whatever more substantial task awaited him.’
‘Your conclusions are certainly logical,’ said Watson.
‘It is very likely that, by themselves, the pair cannot cope with the matter at hand,’ Sherlock Holmes went on developing his thoughts, ‘because there is talk of a third person. But they don’t want to share with him and, for some reason, consider him a danger to themselves. They probably promised him the earth to come in with them and, having used him, they’ll get rid of him. I can see another crime taking place here.’
‘Do you really think so?’ asked Watson.
‘Of that I am certain. I have a strange premonition of an irreversible tragedy.’ Sherlock Holmes was silent for a little while. ‘And so, my dear colleague, keep an eye on Copton while I do the same to Alferakki. We part now, but we must get under way early tomorrow morning. Some mysterious plot is being hatched before our eyes. It would be a shame if we don’t put a stop to it.’
‘With you on the case, success is bound to come!’ said Watson warmly. ‘Meanwhile, I’ll take your advice and get a sound night’s sleep to make sure I am full of energy in the morning. A very good night!’
‘Good night!’ Sherlock Holmes rose and shook his hand.
They parted, having first agreed on prearranged recognition signals and where to meet.
VI
Soon after noon on the following day, a middle-aged man with a long dark beard and the looks and conduct of a merchant of average means entered the Commercial Centre of the fair and made his way slowly along the arcade. Outside Alferakki’s shop, he examined the sign above the door and then the goods in the window. He scratched the back of his head and went in.
‘Would you be wholesalers?’ he asked the owner standing by the till.
‘Wholesale and retail, both.’ The man locked the till and approached the customer.
‘So,’ said the latter, stroking his beard, ‘and where are your goods manufactured? Russia?’
‘Never,’ said the owner smugly. ‘Our goods come from Turkey, Greece and Italy. Allow me to ask whether you trade in such goods, too?’
‘Yes,’ said the visitor. ‘My business premises are in Yeltze and Orla, from where we export to other places. Kromi, for example, Karacheff, Griazi.’
‘Very glad to make your acquaintance,’ Alferakki smiled and bowed. ‘I am sure our goods will give you satisfaction. Do look for yourself.’ And with a broad gesture he indicated the counters and shelves.
‘Won’t buy unless I try,’ smirked the buyer. ‘I take it, you’re in business, not just for idle chatter.’
‘Goes without saying,’ said the owner.
The buyer began to examine and try the goods, making observations that showed his familiarity with the business. He went round the shop slowly, from time to time asking to see this or that item from the shelves. He then asked for samples of a quarter pound in weight of each item. He paid, promised to return in a few days, and left.
Who would have recognized Sherlock Holmes in this buyer! Leaving the shop, he glanced at his watch and made his way to one of the restaurants in the park opposite the Commercial Centre. Watson was already there, at a table by the window.
They shook hands and asked the waiter to show them to a private room, where they ordered lunch. They were on their own there and could speak freely, though they had to keep their voices down.
‘Have you been following Copton?’ asked Sherlock Holmes.
‘Yes,’ answered Watson. ‘He met Alferakki today. Part of their conversation was inaudible. Part incomprehensible. But I did manage to catch one phrase. Copton asked Alferakki if he’d managed to remove the cinematograph—’
Sherlock Holmes jumped at this word with a look of pleasure on his face. ‘Hurrah!’ he exclaimed. ‘So that’s the use to which this appliance was first put in Russia!’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Watson, looking puzzled.
‘Oh, haven’t you read anything about this remarkable new invention. It’s a so-called living and moving photograph.’
‘I’ve read about it,’ said Watson, sounding aggrieved. ‘What’s it got to do with the matter at hand?’
‘You’ll see,’ said Sherlock Holmes smugly.
[For the information of readers, the cinematograph had already appeared elsewhere, but in Russia it wasn’t widely known yet.]
‘Did you not note, Watson, a metal box nailed to the door of Alferakki’s shop?’ asked Sherlock Holmes.
‘I did see it,’ answered Watson. ‘I presume it is a ventilator or an electric meter.’
‘That’s what anyone is likely to think,’ Watson nodded. ‘Who would think that a projector, as yet unknown in Russia, is hidden inside. This is where a hole was knocked through the wall for a ventilator and it is through this hole that the light passed from the appliance in the metal box. From what Terehoff had to say, the shelves at the back of the store were covered with a large linen sheet at night. This sheet was the screen. All those demons, prancing skeletons, coffins, were projected on it.’
‘But how did they get the appliance to work?’ asked Watson.
‘It works automatically; the tape winds automatically. I remember now, traces of electric wires on the box to get the mechanism going. Well, my dear Watson, you certainly didn’t waste time and effort today. Keep on at it, do, and I’m sure you’ll come up with more of interest.’
‘Oh, no,’ answered Watson. ‘That’s all that I have for you. Now it’s your turn.’
‘My pleasure,’ said Sherlock Holmes. He lit up a cigar, drank a glass of Benedictine and, chasing it down with black coffee, began to speak.