Read Online The Ectoplasmic Man by Daniel Stashower - Free Book Online

and, at last, into the more agreeable setting of the Diogenes. We were admitted by the deaf-mute butler and shown into the Stranger’s Room, where Mycroft Holmes stood in wait for us. Though he was careless in many aspects of social custom, Mycroft made it a point to be standing whenever he received visitors. It occurs to me now that he did so to avoid being seen struggling from his chair, for Mycroft Holmes was corpulent to an astonishing degree, and for him the simplest movements required considerable and often awkward exertion.
    “Sherlock!” he cried with unaccustomed geniality. “Good of you to come. Will you take some port with me? And Doctor” — he gave my hand a fleshy press — “I am delighted to see you again as well. I must say, though, that I have noticed two or three split infinitives in your recent chronicles of my brother’s doings. Careless, Doctor. Careless!”
    “Mycroft,” said Sherlock Holmes, failing to respond to his brother’s conviviality, “we have not seen one another in three and one half years. Surely you did not call us over at this hour to discuss Watson’s literary shortcomings?”
    Mycroft sighed and lowered himself, with great effort, onto a settee. Though all physical resemblance to his brother was distorted by his massive bulk, his features retained some of the same sharpness of expression, and his eyes seemed always to hold that introspective look which I had observed in Sherlock’s when he was exerting his powers to their fullest. It was that cast which spread over Mycroft’s face now, replacing the laboured joviality of his greeting, as he lapsed into the peculiar telegraphic dialogue which the two brothers favoured when addressing each other.
    “You are looking into the matter?”
    Sherlock nodded. “And you?”
    “Enormous complications.”
    “So I gather.”
    “Do not insist.”
    “My client—”
    “A bad business.”
    “Houdini is innocent.”
    “Perhaps.”
    “Most likely.”
    “Even so.”
    “Must he be detained?”
    “Diplomatic appeasement.”
    “How so?”
    “The German business.”
    “And Houdini?”
    “Footprint.”
    “Tut!”
    “Is German.”
    “Hungarian.”
    “Allied.”
    “Come.” As always, the full import of their exchange lay in what was left unsaid, but it was obvious even to me that Mycroft was withholding information crucial to us.
    “His father was a murderer,” said Mycroft.
    “Indeed?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “That is the sort of shabby reasoning I expect from Lestrade. One may never judge the son by the father’s example, as we have good cause to know.”
    Mycroft gave a start and opened his mouth as if to reply, but he remembered my presence and decided against it. Here in the Stranger’sRoom I would catch, on occasion, an unexpected glimpse into the boyhood of Sherlock Holmes; but these images were so slight and so fragmented, like a reflection upon water, that I have never been able to piece them together into any manner of sense.
    “I hardly think that... we are dealing in an entirely different matter here,” said Mycroft, fitting a cigar into his meerschaum holder.
    “And what sort of matter is it, then? What are these stolen documents which are of such interest to the prince, Secretary O’Neill and Mycroft Holmes?”
    “Documents, Sherlock. Very important documents. I see now that I cannot dissuade you from pursuing the affair, and you will no doubt discern most of the germane information within a few days, but you may not know the nature of the documents at its core.”
    “Then how may I gauge Houdini’s possible motivation and involvement in the matter?”
    Mycroft gave a short laugh. “That is the very least of my concerns.”
    “Then it becomes the greatest of mine,” said Sherlock Holmes. “Come along, Watson. We shall have a busy day tomorrow.”
    Mycroft Holmes did not rise to see us out.
                         
    * A word that had a wider use and broader meaning in