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"Yes," Powell said. He reached inside his coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper taken from the ship's log. "They signed in here."
Holmes grunted and I prepared myself to endure a long harangue about preservation of evidence and the countless small clues that had undoubtedly been obliterated when the page was torn and folded and placed into Powell's pocket. But Holmes merely spread the paper gingerly in his long fingers and smiled in triumph. "Marvelous," he said.
I examined the signatures that had captured Holmes's interest. Given my long association with him, I hoped I could glean some significant detail from the paper, but I surrendered with a sigh. "I can see that one is left-handed and the other right," I said, "but can conclude nothing of consequence from that. John Smith is frequently a pseudonym. Is that it, Holmes? They lied about their identities? They were in league with the pirates?"
"They did indeed lie," Holmes said. "But in league with the pirates? Tut, tut, Watson. Let me first direct you to our pirate here." He turned back the edge of the man's right sleeve. A small cloth bag was tied snug to the wrist by a leather strap. Holmes carefully detached it and held it out.
"What a horrible smell," gasped Lestrade. "What is that rubbish?"
"By my account," Holmes said, "the bag contains chervil, unguent, nail clippings, and a chicken bone. That dirt you see is almost certainly from a grave. This is a voodoo talisman called gris-gris."
"Voodoo!" said Lestrade. "But that's practiced in Africa, isn't it? This man is hardly African, Holmes."
"No," Holmes agreed. "But let me now redirect your attention. Note the distinctive mud stains on the knees."
We crouched to examine the dead man's pants, indeed stained with mud in mottled shades of red, brown, and black.
"The pattern of the stain suggests he knelt in several very different forms of soil simultaneously: red clay found in Georgia and Te
"A greenhouse?" I mused.
"Perhaps," Holmes said dismissively. "But I am reminded of an American named John Bullocq, sometimes called the dirt magnate. In the 1850s, he made his fortune carting dirt from around the Southern states to Devil's Cape, Louisiana, where the average elevation was barely above sea level. He used the dirt to create hills that the wealthier citizens of the city could build their homes upon. They competed in their extravagant purchases of his dirt, each hoping to have his own mansion look down upon the others. Bullocq's enterprise made the soil of Devil's Cape quite uniquely varied."
Powell's face reddened. "Devil's Cape has voodoo," he said, "and pirates."
Devil's Cape had in fact been founded by pirates. The masked pirate St. Diable, scourge of the Caribbean and the Gulf of Mexico, and occasionally the waters of South America, Africa, and even Europe, had built a fortress in Louisiana to house his loot, his men, and his slaves. The fortress had ultimately grown to a city that rivaled its nearby sister, New Orleans, in size. Once years earlier at 221B Baker Street, Holmes had declared it the most corrupt and dangerous city on the face of the planet. "It is a city that swallows law, Watson," he had said. "That embraces corruption on such a grand scale as to make it almost a separate nation unto itself."
Lestrade's nose wrinkled. "So that is your conclusion, Holmes? The Friesland was attacked by pirates from Devil's Cape?"
Holmes nodded. "St. Diable, the city's founder, is long dead. But a succession of crime lords has followed, ruling the city from behind the scenes. The most recent, O Jacaré, or 'the Alligator,' adopted St. Diable's style of piracy wholesale. After the demise of my long-time adversary Professor Moriarty, I had occasion to review some of his correspondence. Moriarty and Jacaré had developed a friendship and wrote each other about such diverse topics as Calvinism, forgery, fencing, the ancient game of Go, and how best to dispose of me. Jacaré is cu
Lestrade snorted. "The attack ended many lives, but his pirates didn't even get what they came for."
"Didn't they?" Holmes smiled thinly. "The Jacaré sobriquet is misleading. For while he is certainly as fierce as an alligator, he is much less single-minded. He has a labyrinthine brain. I shouldn't be surprised if he had several goals in this single attack." He held up a finger. "The first was the subterfuge with the uniforms. Had we not pierced this veil, it could have led to a war between Denmark and the Netherlands, and quite possibly other nations in the region."
Powell frowned. "But a naval war is a grave danger for pirates. Patrols increase. More warships head to sea." He shook his head.
"Yet the war creates predictable patterns," Holmes said. "The escalation you describe is regionalized. Other areas become more vulnerable. By creating conflict here, O Jacaré could create opportunity elsewhere." He held up a second finger. "Your inventory confirmed that none of the works of art had gone astray. That was the element of your tale that originally struck me as most intriguing. But consider forgeries. If the pirates indeed stole several paintings, but left reasonable facsimiles in their place, it might take years before the truth came out. I predict further investigation will verify this." He held up a third finger. "The key to the third and final motive, however, lies in the cabin before us."
I stared past him. "You said the Americans were not in league with the pirates, Holmes," I said. "So they were his targets? Who were they?"
Holmes smiled slyly, a magician about to commence with the most astounding stage of his illusion. "You should know, Watson. After all, you have beheld them with your own eyes."
"What!"
"Examine the room, Watson. Point out the remarkable details."
I was about to retort that I saw nothing remarkable about the room at all, but stopped myself. I would never outpace Holmes, but if I applied my own powers of observation carefully, I could at least keep from being left behind. I pursed my lips. "The chair," I said. "The cots would not be comfortable for sitting, yet there is only a single chair."
"Go on."
I stared at the cots, then blushed. "The men's cots are pushed closely together," I said.
"And what do you conclude from that, Watson?"
"Well, I say, Holmes!" I blushed further. "I think that should be quite clear without speaking it aloud. It's hardly unheard of, after all, even in London."
"Why, Watson! How cosmopolitan of you!" Holmes chuckled. "Though somewhat off the mark. Did you notice the shoeprints in the rug? And the depression the chair makes in it?"
With Holmes stepping aside, I walked into the room, careful to avoid the rug. "The depression is quite deep," I said. "Whoever sat in it must have been heavy. The footprints are deep as well," I added, "though the shoes are not particularly large-perhaps my own size." I blinked. "And there's only the one pair."
"Excellent!" Holmes said. "Now, Inspector Lestrade. Would you please examine the chest wound of the pirate in the doorway?"
Lestrade crouched and looked as carefully as he could without touching the body. Long experienced with Holmes's oddities, he even sniffed the dead man's chest. Finally he stood. "Clean shot to the heart. No gunpowder on the shirt, so the shot came from several feet away at least."
Holmes looked at me. "Watson?"
Had I not known from Holmes's expression that Lestrade had missed something, I would have drawn the same conclusion as the inspector. As it was, I continued staring at the fatal wound for close to a minute before drawing back in surprise. I took Holmes's excellent magnifying lens and looked more closely. "Good God," I said.