The Disappearance of Daniel Question
by Barrie
Roberts
GO BACK TO SHORT STORIES
PAGE
The Mission in Wharton's Row
was a dark and insalubrious place, close to the docks.
There we met the Reverend Bledlow, a thin, pale,
exhausted cleric, who told us that Danny the
street-sweeper had come to the mission about a year
earlier.
"He was brought here by a seaman from
the docks," he said. "Were you aware that he could not
speak?"
Holmes nodded and the clergyman went on.
"When our nurse came to examine him, she found that he
was not naturally speechless. At some point his tongue
had been removed."
"Great Heavens!" I exclaimed.
"What monster would do that?"
"Exactly, Dr.
Watson," said the missionary. "I assumed him to be the
victim of some savagery abroad."
"Was he able to
write?" asked Holmes.
"I gave him paper and
pencil in that hope, but he merely covered pages with
scribblings. There was nothing intelligible, though his
writing was that of an educated man. I could not
determine his nationality, though I thought him
European. We named him Daniel Question, but I'm afraid
his fellows called him Dumb Danny."
"And you have
no idea of his present whereabouts?" asked my
friend.
"No," said the clergyman. "He has left
his few belongings here, which makes me fear that he has
met with some harm. I have enquired of the hospitals but
they have not seen him. I fear he may be
dead."
We examined the pathetic items which the
crossing-sweeper had left. There was a seaman's
pocketknife, a cheap tin tobacco box and a few rags of
clothing. I recall that among them was a greasy,
tattered strip of necktie which my friend examined and
held up to the light, even turning it inside out. We
left the Mission no wiser than we had come.
That
is all I recall of the affair. Months later when I
enquired of his progress on the case, Holmes informed me
that he had come to a dead end.
I recited my
recollection to Holmes and he nodded. "Excellent,
Watson," he said. "You do not, I think, know how the
matter ended as far as the public was concerned. Some
months after Phillimore's disappearance, a body surfaced
in the Thames. The man had been struck about the head
and apparently murdered. Mrs. Phillimore identified her
son by a signet ring. By then an examination of the
Bank's affairs had revealed a series of abstractions of
funds by James Phillimore. The combination was too much
for the poor lady and she died shortly
afterwards."
"So he robbed his own bank," I said.
"But what on earth made him run on that morning? And
what became of the money?"
"It was the sight of
the crossing-sweeper that provoked his flight," said
Holmes. "The Bank of England attempted to trace the
money but was not, I believe, successful."
"But
why should the crossing-sweeper have driven Phillimore
to flee?" I asked.
Holmes smiled. "You may," he
said, "consider that question until we return to London,
for at the end of your holiday I propose to trespass
upon your hospitality a little, while I bring this
matter to a conclusion."
Not another word would
he say on the subject during the rest of my holiday, but
when I left for London Holmes accompanied me. As we
alighted on the platform at Victoria Station a young man
in civilian clothing touched his hat to us.
"Mr.
Holmes?" he said. "I am Chief Inspector Robinson from
Scotland Yard. Could we perhaps step into the
refreshment room?"
We accompanied him to the
tea-room where he laid a manilla envelope on the
table.
"Your letter to the Yard, Mr. Holmes,
caused a certain flutter. There were those who believed
that you were dead, and there are still some who recall
a few of the matters in which you assisted . .
."
"I dare say that there are still some who
remember me as an unofficial meddler with elaborate
theories," interrupted Holmes.
Robinson smiled.
"There are those too," he said, "but the Commissioner
believed your requests should be looked into speedily.
This envelope contains the fruits of our enquiries-the
details of the Smallfish family, a cable from the
consulate, the Bank of England's results and the burial
particulars, as requested."
He pushed the
envelope towards Holmes and rose from the table. "The
Commissioner wishes me to ask if you would be kind
enough to inform him of your findings if you are able to
solve the matter, Mr. Holmes. Moreover, he wishes you
good hunting."
He strode away and we collected
our luggage, found a cab and made our way to my
home.
After dinner that night, as we sat over a
bottle of port, I could contain myself no
longer.
"Holmes," I pleaded, "are you yet able to
explain the Phillimore affair to me?"
He smiled.
"Ah, Watson! You know my desire to see my little tricks
completed before I reveal their mechanisms."
He
paused to fill his pipe. "Let me remind you," he said,
"that it was always my view that the appearance of the
crossing-sweeper impelled Phillimore to
flight."
"But how?" I interjected. "That poor
wretch can hardly have known of Phillimore's financial
manoeuvres."
"True, Watson. Nevertheless it seems
his mere presence drove Phillimore to precipitate
flight, to mumble a ridiculous explanation and flee from
the Square and from his whole existence. Therefore
Phillimore must have recognised the sweeper as someone
who could damage him in some way."
"But the man
was a witless, speechless pauper."
"Perhaps
Phillimore did not know that. But in any case it is more
likely that he recognised the mark."
"The
religious mark?" I enquired.
"Mrs. Phillimore,
who probably had little experience of foreigners,
thought him a native with a religious mark, though those
are usually tattooed, not branded. The Reverend Bledlow,
who had daily experience of foreign seamen from all over
the globe, thought him European. We know that his tongue
had been removed. That, and the branded hand, suggested
only one thing to me, Watson. A man who had been
tortured by that abominable brotherhood, born in Sicily,
but now present in Italy, Corsica, France, and even the
United States."
"The Black Hand Gang!" I
exclaimed.
"Precisely, Watson. One of its names
and one of its emblems."
"But what can the
crossing-sweeper have had to do with them?"
"He
was evidently their victim," said Holmes. "Had he been a
member-even a minor one-the hand would have been a mark
of punishment applied to his corpse. More pertinent is
the question of Phillimore's probable connection with
that unholy order, and that I was unable to unravel.
When it was revealed after his death that funds were
missing from the Bank, I inferred that he had been
paying the Black Hand and that they had been responsible
for his demise, but I got no further until I came across
new information."
"How lucky!" I
exclaimed.
"Luck," said my friend, sternly,
"usually consists in the ability of the well-prepared
mind to take full advantage of an unexpected
opportunity."
"What was the opportunity,
then?"
"It is not possible," he said, "to be as
unsociable in the country as in town. In Baker Street I
could deal only with you, Mrs. Hudson, and those who
called on me professionally. Country people rely upon
each other for society, for entertainment, and often for
assistance. If I had not bent a little to that
convention I should not have enjoyed two decades of
peace in Fulworth. A retired schoolmaster there cajoled
me into assisting him with the translation of some
Anglo-Saxon documents, having read of my researches in
the subject, and at our conclusion he insisted on
inviting me to dine with him."
He grimaced at the
recollection. "I steeled myself for an evening of
Hawsley's dull chatter and that-in short-is exactly what
I received, but in trying to divert the stream of my
host's patter, my eye fell upon his necktie, a curious
confection in deep purple struck with narrow bands of
white and lime green. I thought it a school or college
tie, though I could not identify it and it occurred to
me that I had seen the pattern before."
He paused
and looked straight at me. "I have explained to you on
many occasions, Watson, the significance of patterns in
any investigation, whether visual or otherwise, and I
rarely forget one once I have noticed it. I asked him if
it was a school tie.
"'Certainly,' he said. 'It
is the Old Chorlotian's, which I wear by courtesy as a
former master there.'
"Recollection flashed into
my mind. 'Were you long at Chorling College?' I asked,
and when he confirmed that almost all his teaching had
been done there, I asked, 'Do you by chance recall a boy
named James Phillimore?' Whereupon he said that he did
and produced a photograph of a Rugby football team with
the boy in the front rank.
"'Who is the lad next
to him?' I asked Hawsley. 'Is he a relative?'
"He
shook his head. 'No,' he said, 'though they were alike
enough to be brothers. That is Frank Smallfish. Funny
name, but his family was Italian originally. He was
Phillimore's pal throughout their years at Chorling,
inseparable they were and always engaged in
pranks.'
"'Do you know what became of them?' I
asked.
"'Phillimore,' he said, 'went to the bad,
I'm sorry to say. Robbed his family bank and ended up in
the river.' He shook his head sadly.
"'And
Smallfish?' I asked.
"'I don't know,' he said. 'I
know that his father was ruined and shot himself shortly
after the boy left Chorling. What became of the lad I
never heard.' And he shook his head
again."
Holmes smiled at a recollection. "Poor
Hawsley must have thought me a dull guest indeed,
Watson, for very shortly I made my excuses and left in
order to mull over the new information."
"And
where did it take you?" I asked.
"To a
realisation that I had broken one of my own rules in
narrowing my analysis of the case too early. I had
convinced myself that the root of that singular tragedy
and those monstrous crimes lay abroad. I realised that
the explanation lay, instead, in that boyhood friendship
at Chorling.
"Shortly after the boys left
Chorling," he continued, "Frank's father was ruined by
Phillimore's Commercial Bank. Such was his Italian sense
of honour that he shot himself. His son's sense of
honour dictated revenge upon the Phillimore family and
his erstwhile friend. He waited his chance, and it came
when James Phillimore holidayed in Naples. Perhaps
Smallfish even lured him there. That city's underworld
swarms with those whose allegiance is to the Black Hand
and there young Phillimore was taken
prisoner."
"But he returned for his father's
funeral," I objected.
Holmes shook his head
slowly. "No, Watson. Frank Smallfish saw the opportunity
presented by Phillimore senior's death and returned to
England to commence a daring and heartless imposture
that enabled him to rob Phillimore's Bank of the sums he
had promised the brotherhood in Italy for their
services, or perhaps even for the sums they may have
demanded in blackmail. Armed with a knowledge of James
Phillimore gained from their long friendship,
strengthened by their accidental resemblance, he was
successful for several years.
Mrs. Phillimore
merely thought that he was a changed man and forgetful
in small things. What must he have thought and felt when
he stepped from his front door and saw the real
Phillimore standing at the foot of the steps? He did not
know that his victim was by then witless and speechless.
He thought that his evil game was up, and he
ran."
"It certainly meets the facts," I said,
"but it is all theoretical."
"Not so, Watson. I
made a serious error of thinking and an equally serious
error of practice when I failed to identify that greasy
rag left by the crossing-sweeper as an Old Chorlotian's
tie. Had I pursued my enquiries at the College I might
have saved Smallfish's life for the hangman. My
enquiries of Scotland Yard were to confirm such points
as I could."
"You believe that he killed James
Phillimore, then?" I said.
"He killed him or had
him killed, and then was himself murdered because he was
of no further use to the Black Hand."
"But how
came the real Phillimore to Welton
Square?"
Holmes drew a telegram from the envelope
which Robinson had given him. "Here is the reply to an
enquiry which I asked the Yard to send to our Consulate
at Naples: 'Person of that description brought here by
nuns in 1902 with request for repatriation to England.
Unable to establish identity or citizenship. Matter left
to local religious charity.' So poor Phillimore made his
way home somehow and lived amongst the poorest of the
poor. Who knows what dim recollection drew him to Welton
Square and made him return to see, each day, the
half-remembered face and hear the half-remembered voice
of his mother?"
"Could the Yard confirm any more
of your argument?"
"They were able to confirm
what I suspected. That Smallfish was an assumed name,
based upon the Sicilian 'Pisciotto.' It means 'small
fish,' Watson, and the Black Hand use it in our sense of
'small fry' to refer to the petty criminals who carry
out the organisation's routine tasks. Frank Smallfish's
family may already have had connections with the
brotherhood in the past.
"The Bank of England
traced the stolen funds through France and Switzerland
to an account in Naples, held in a false name and
emptied before they traced it."
"Then you have
made your case," I declared, "apart from your belief
that Smallfish killed Phillimore."
He nodded,
pleased as always by acknowledgement of his
extraordinary talents. "The Yard told me something
else," he said, "and tomorrow, after a Turkish bath
which, apart from your companionship, is the only good
reason for visiting London, I shall show
you."
The following afternoon we stood in a great
cemetery in the East of London. Holmes, after a word at
the keeper's lodge, led me to an unkempt patch of grass,
unmarked by headstone or memorial, which lay under a far
wall. He pointed with his stick.
"That," he said,
"is what the keeper calls Plot 643-pauper's 1903-and
there lie the remains of a tongueless labourer with a
hand branded on his face. Like the man who impersonated
him in life, his body came out of the Thames and had
similar injuries to the skull."
We gazed in
silence at the last resting place of the real James
Phillimore. As we turned away, Holmes said, "You see
Watson, I have found James Phillimore, though whether
your readers in the Strand will relish a story of
suicide, murder, and heartbreak, embodying the most
fiendishly singular revenge I have ever known, I cannot
say."
THE ENDPage
1GO BACK TO SHORT STORIES
PAGESubscribe!
•
One Year: $19.95 (reg.
$24.95) •
Two Years: $34.95 (reg.
$39.95) 
