sir,” says the man, sweating and gasping a little for breath. “After all,
you
are in
my
territory.”
“My name is Holmes … and I am in the employ of Scotland Yard.”
“Are you, now?”
“Yes … I am.”
“Und vhy should I tell you who I am?”
“Because there was murder done here and anyone on the premises is a suspect.”
“Including yourself?”
“I said I was in the employ —”
“Yes, of Scotland Yard. You vill have to prove zat, should you vant to get out of here alive.”
“I … I have a guard outside the door. If I do not reappear soon, there will be trouble for you.”
“But I am difficult to find, sir. You know zat yourself. Ze vall is sealed. I could simply leave your body in here.”
“I … I am armed.” Sherlock lets the knife slip down his sleeve and into sight.
“So am I,” says the man, and he pulls a revolver out of his greatcoat and points it at Sherlock’s head. “I always carry zis late at night.”
There is silence for a moment. Holmes begins to sweat. The knife handle feels slippery in his hand. He thinks he hears something, a sort of rustling, coming from the inner chamber down the stairs.
“I tease you, my boy,” says the man, putting the gun away. “But you should not be here. Come. I shall escort you back to ze main room. I know ze hocus-pocus that will move ze vall again. It is another button on ze inside!”
“Your name, sir,” says Sherlock, still pointing the blade at the man. “You have not given me your name.”
“I am Riyah, Oscar Riyah.”
THE CURIOUS MR. RIYAH
W hen they return to the main room, Riyah begins to explain. In fact, he seems to be in a talkative mood.
“I own ze property, ze hotel, und all of ze below stairs.”
“Why have you not come forward, spoken to Scotland Yard?”
“I am a Jew, you know. My father vas one, at least. I am one of zose evil money-grubbing Jews … und I prefer to not be associated vis any murders, you vill understand. I am sure ze police can do zeir job vizout speaking vis me.”
Sherlock doesn’t tell him about his own Jewish blood.
“Do they know about the inner chamber?”
“Vhy are you asking me? I thought you vere vith zem. Or don’t you remember?” He winks at the boy.
“I …”
“No need to explain. You are an acquaintance of ze boy, Scuttle, I imagine, but a little more curious, and brighter, shall ve say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t believe zey know about ze inner chamber, no. And ve shan’t inform them, shall ve?”
Why is he telling me all of this? Why doesn’t he just throw me out?
“What about the other chamber?”
“Other?”
“The lower one. I saw an opening and a staircase descending.”
The man’s face darkens. “Did you, now? Zat’s too bad.”
“I … I won’t say a word.”
“I have never been down zere.”
“But you own it.”
“Vhen I purchased zis building, zere vere stories about a dungeon beneath it, used by Villiam ze Conqueror in ze 11 th century. Men vere tortured in it, put on racks and stretched until zeir limbs snapped. I … have no interest in going down zere. Why would I?”
“But I heard a sound down —”
“I have heard zese sounds too. But I zink it is just vater trickling, or deep gasses gurgling beneath ze earth.”
“But —”
“I would not be surprised,” continues the Jew, “if Nottingham went zere zough. Perhaps he keeps his doves and rabbits zere.”
“Nottingham?”
“Yes, I let ze premises to him.”
“I thought so!”
“You are pleased?”
“I have a friend on the Force, not much older than I. His father is Inspector Lestrade.”
“Ah!”
“That’s … that’s the reason I’m here. You might say that I am an
unofficial
police employee, and I discovered how to get in. It has been my belief all along that the studio belonged to Nottingham.”
“Vell, you are correct.”
“You must tell the police! They think it’s Hemsworth’s.”
“As I said, I prefer to keep out
you
are in
my
territory.”
“My name is Holmes … and I am in the employ of Scotland Yard.”
“Are you, now?”
“Yes … I am.”
“Und vhy should I tell you who I am?”
“Because there was murder done here and anyone on the premises is a suspect.”
“Including yourself?”
“I said I was in the employ —”
“Yes, of Scotland Yard. You vill have to prove zat, should you vant to get out of here alive.”
“I … I have a guard outside the door. If I do not reappear soon, there will be trouble for you.”
“But I am difficult to find, sir. You know zat yourself. Ze vall is sealed. I could simply leave your body in here.”
“I … I am armed.” Sherlock lets the knife slip down his sleeve and into sight.
“So am I,” says the man, and he pulls a revolver out of his greatcoat and points it at Sherlock’s head. “I always carry zis late at night.”
There is silence for a moment. Holmes begins to sweat. The knife handle feels slippery in his hand. He thinks he hears something, a sort of rustling, coming from the inner chamber down the stairs.
“I tease you, my boy,” says the man, putting the gun away. “But you should not be here. Come. I shall escort you back to ze main room. I know ze hocus-pocus that will move ze vall again. It is another button on ze inside!”
“Your name, sir,” says Sherlock, still pointing the blade at the man. “You have not given me your name.”
“I am Riyah, Oscar Riyah.”
THE CURIOUS MR. RIYAH
W hen they return to the main room, Riyah begins to explain. In fact, he seems to be in a talkative mood.
“I own ze property, ze hotel, und all of ze below stairs.”
“Why have you not come forward, spoken to Scotland Yard?”
“I am a Jew, you know. My father vas one, at least. I am one of zose evil money-grubbing Jews … und I prefer to not be associated vis any murders, you vill understand. I am sure ze police can do zeir job vizout speaking vis me.”
Sherlock doesn’t tell him about his own Jewish blood.
“Do they know about the inner chamber?”
“Vhy are you asking me? I thought you vere vith zem. Or don’t you remember?” He winks at the boy.
“I …”
“No need to explain. You are an acquaintance of ze boy, Scuttle, I imagine, but a little more curious, and brighter, shall ve say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t believe zey know about ze inner chamber, no. And ve shan’t inform them, shall ve?”
Why is he telling me all of this? Why doesn’t he just throw me out?
“What about the other chamber?”
“Other?”
“The lower one. I saw an opening and a staircase descending.”
The man’s face darkens. “Did you, now? Zat’s too bad.”
“I … I won’t say a word.”
“I have never been down zere.”
“But you own it.”
“Vhen I purchased zis building, zere vere stories about a dungeon beneath it, used by Villiam ze Conqueror in ze 11 th century. Men vere tortured in it, put on racks and stretched until zeir limbs snapped. I … have no interest in going down zere. Why would I?”
“But I heard a sound down —”
“I have heard zese sounds too. But I zink it is just vater trickling, or deep gasses gurgling beneath ze earth.”
“But —”
“I would not be surprised,” continues the Jew, “if Nottingham went zere zough. Perhaps he keeps his doves and rabbits zere.”
“Nottingham?”
“Yes, I let ze premises to him.”
“I thought so!”
“You are pleased?”
“I have a friend on the Force, not much older than I. His father is Inspector Lestrade.”
“Ah!”
“That’s … that’s the reason I’m here. You might say that I am an
unofficial
police employee, and I discovered how to get in. It has been my belief all along that the studio belonged to Nottingham.”
“Vell, you are correct.”
“You must tell the police! They think it’s Hemsworth’s.”
“As I said, I prefer to keep out
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