The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures - Mike Ashley [268]
“Remarkable, Holmes! What you say is the truth.”
“Furthermore,” my friend continued, “there is one particular bootblack in the Belgrave Road whose brown boot-cream is of a distinctive russet colour, not available commercially. I believe that he makes up the mixture himself, from an original receipt. Your footgear, Watson, bears the mark of that tradesman.”
Once again I was astonished. “But surely, Holmes, you did not summon me here to discuss bootblacks,” I ventured.
“Indeed not.” Holmes went to the fireplace, and retrieved a folded document from the mantelshelf. “You are doubtless aware of the recent holocaust in San Francisco.”
I nodded sadly. “Yes, the earthquake and the subsequent fires. A dreadful accident.”
“Accident is hardly the word, Watson. Precisely one day after the San Francisco earthquake, my good friend Pierre Curie – the distinguished French scientist – was struck and killed by a horse-cart in Paris. That misfortune was an accident. This San Francisco affair is something rather worse: our planet Earth has burst open at the seams.”
I nodded once more. “In spite of scientific progress, men are still at the mercy of Nature.”
There was a dark look in his eyes as Sherlock Holmes spoke: “It is not Nature which preys upon men, Watson. The predator who threatens humanity is man himself.” Holmes sat down and unfolded the document in his hands. “I have received a despatch from two American gentlemen: Mr Henry Evans, the president of the Continental Insurance Company; and Mr James D. Phelan, a former mayor of San Francisco. These men have pledged themselves to the cause of resurrecting their dead city, and of seeing San Francisco rise from the ashes.”
“Strange that a former mayor, rather than the current office holder, should undertake such a mission,” I remarked.
“The current mayor is part of the problem, Watson.” Sherlock Holmes glanced at the document before him. “Mr Phelan informs me that, during his own term as mayor of San Francisco, municipal funds were allocated for the wages and training of police officers and firemen, as well as funds for the purchase and maintenance of fire-engines and pump-waggons, and for horses to convey them.”
“A prudent investment, surely,” I said.
“Perhaps not,” Holmes’s frown deepened. “Mayor Phelan’s letter goes on to state that the present mayor of San Francisco – one Eugene Schmitz by name – is the agent of a ring of thieves and grafters who have systematically looted the city’s coffers and enriched themselves by several millions of stolen dollars. Due to the absence of funds, the police force and fire department of San Francisco are mere skeleton crews: ill-trained, and obliged to fulfil their duties with defective equipment. In consequence, when the earthquake struck, the death-toll was far higher than it might have been. Doctor, it may interest you to know that the recent San Francisco earthquake, and the ensuing conflagrations, have claimed seven hundred human lives.”
“Good heavens!” I exclaimed.
“Indeed. But if Mr Phelan is to be believed – and I believe him, Watson – more than 300 of those deaths, as well as 20 million dollars’ worth of property damage, are the direct result of Mayor Schmitz’s embezzlements. Had the city’s funds been allocated to their rightful needs, those people never would have died.”
“A tragedy, surely. But what has this to do with you, Holmes?”
My friend refolded Mr Phelan’s epistle and pocketed it. “The Continental Insurance Company, and several other assurance firms as well, are now threatened with bankruptcy as a result of the torrent of policy claims emanating from San Francisco. Mr Evans and his colleagues intend to make good on all claims, but they are resentful at bearing the costs for this tragedy whilst the thieves who caused it go free. Mayor Schmitz and his corrupt