Victorian Villainy by Michael Kurland Page A

said, pulling out his ancient brier and stuffing it with tobacco. “Perhaps three.”
    Having smelled the foul mixture he prefers to smoke, I excused myself and went downstairs, where I indulged in a kaffee mit schlag . Mit , as it happens, extra schlag . About an hour later Holmes came downstairs, gave a slight nod in my direction and went out the front door. After a suitable time I followed. Night had fallen, and the streetlights were sparse and dim. A chill wind was blowing in off the lake.
    Holmes was standing in the shadow of an old stable a block away. I smelled the foul tobacco odor emanating from his clothing before I actually saw him.
    “Commandant Vernet,” I said.
    “Herr Stuhl.”
    “Have your three pipes shown the way?”
    “If we had time we could build a large observation balloon and watch them from high aloft,” Holmes said. “But we have no time. I think one of us will have to stow away on that steam launch and see where she goes.”
    “If nominated I shall not run,” I told him firmly, “and if elected I shall not serve.”
    “What’s that?”
    “The American General Sherman. I am taking his excellent advice.”
    Holmes looked at me with distaste. “With all your faults,” he said, “I didn’t picture you as a coward.”
    “And neither am I foolhardy,” I told him. “There is little point in indulging in a foredoomed course of action when it will accomplish nothing and merely succeed in getting one killed. Remember Alphonse Lamphier.”
    Holmes stared glumly into the dark. “I have nothing better to offer,” he said. “In large parts of the ocean ships leave a phosphorescent wake that lasts for some time, I understand, but not in lakes, however large.”
    “What an excellent idea!” I said.
    “A phosphorescent wake?”
    “A wake of some sort. The craft will go wherever it is to go, and we shall follow in its wake.”
    “How?”
    “A moment,” I said, staring into space. “Why not oil? Some light oil dyed red should do it.”
    “Brilliant!” said Holmes. “And who shall we get to sprinkle this oil on the water as the boat progresses?”
    “We, my doubting Sherlock, shall construct a mechanism to do the task,” I said.
    And so we did. The next morning I procured a five gallon drum of fish oil, which seemed appropriate, and took it down to a deserted jetty which Holmes had observed yesterday in his wanderings. I then went back to the main street and returned with a pair of iron exercise dumbbells, purchased from a junk shop. Holmes joined me shortly after, bringing a coil of quarter-inch marine line and a small bottle of red dye; some sort of pastry dye I believe, which we added to the oil. It seemed to mix satisfactorily, so we busied ourselves affixing some handles on the drum with metal screws. The screw holes would leak slightly, but that didn’t matter.
    We changed into recently purchased bathing costumes and rented a two-man rowboat, wrapping our clothing and other items we might need in oilcloth and stowing them on the bottom of the small craft. After about twenty minutes rowing along the shore we came in sight of the pier in question. The steam launch Isolde was tied up alongside.
    There appeared to be no one on watch in the launch, so we came up as quietly as possible to the opposite side of the pier and tied our boat to a convenient hook. Slipping into the chill water, we towed the drum of oil under the pier to the starboard side of the Isolde . We could hear the deep chugging of the steam engine as we approached the boat, which suggested that there would shortly be another journey.
    I screwed two four-inch wood screws into the hull near the stern, and fastened one end of a twelve-foot length of marine line to them. The other end Holmes fastened to the oil drum. My calculations indicated that it would take the weight of both of the iron dumbbells to keep the drum submerged, so the two of them were tied firmly onto the sides of the drum. All that remained was to put