by David Marcum
Plummer did. Sam Gunter, Merston, and one accomplice were taken - the first and last were well known to the police - and were identified by Laker. Merston, as Holmes had suspected, had kept the lion’s share for himself, so that altogether, with what was recovered from him and the other two, nearly £11,000 was saved for Messrs. Liddle, Neal & Liddle. Merston, when taken, was in the act of packing up to take a holiday abroad, and there cash his notes, which were found, neatly packed in separate thousands, in his portmanteau. As Holmes had predicted, his gas bill was considerably less next quarter, for less than half-way through it he began a term in gaol.
As for Laker, he was reinstated, of course, with an increase of salary by way of compensation for his broken head. He had passed a terrible twenty-six hours in the cellar, unfed and unheard. Several times he had become insensible, and again and again he had thrown himself madly against the door, shouting and tearing at it, till he fell back exhausted, with broken nails and bleeding fingers. For some hours before the arrival of his rescuers he had been sitting in a sort of stupor, from which he was suddenly aroused by the sound of voices and footsteps. He was in bed for a week, and required a rest of a month in addition before he could resume his duties. Then he was quietly lectured by Mr. Neal as to betting, and, I believe, dropped that practice in consequence. I am told that he is “at the counter” now - a considerable promotion.
The Case of the Lost Foreigner
I have already said in more than one place that Holmes’s personal relations with the members of the London police force were of a cordial character. In the course of his work it has frequently been Holmes’s hap to learn of matters on which the police were glad of information, and that information was always passed on at once; and so long as no infringement of regulations or damage to public service were involved, Holmes could always rely on a return in kind.
It was with a message of a useful sort that Holmes one day dropped into Vine Street police-station and asked for a particular inspector, who was not in. Holmes sat and wrote a note, and by way of making conversation said to the inspector on duty, “Anything very startling this way today?”
“Nothing very startling, perhaps, as yet,” the inspector replied. “But one of our chaps picked up rather an odd customer a little while ago. Lunatic of some sort, I should think - in fact, I’ve sent for the doctor to see him. He’s a foreigner - a Frenchman, I believe. He seemed horribly weak and faint; but the oddest thing occurred when one of the men, thinking he might be hungry, brought in some bread. He went into fits of terror at the sight of it, and wouldn’t be pacified till they took it away again.”
“That was strange.”
“Odd, wasn’t it? And he was hungry too. They brought him some more a little while after, and he didn’t funk it a bit, - pitched into it, in fact, like anything, and ate it all with some cold beef. It’s the way with some lunatics - never the same five minutes together. He keeps crying like a baby, and saying things we can’t understand. As it happens, there’s nobody in just now who speaks French.”
“I speak French,” Holmes replied. “Shall I try him?”
“Certainly, if you will. He’s in the men’s room below. They’ve been making him as comfortable as possible by the fire until the doctor comes. He’s a long time. I expect he’s got a case on.”
Holmes found his way to the large mess-room, where three or four policemen in their shirt-sleeves were curiously regarding a young man of very disordered appearance who sat on a chair by the fire. He was pale, and exhibited marks of bruises on his face, while over one eye was a scarcely healed cut. His figure was small and slight, his coat was torn, and he sat with a certain indefinite air of shivering suffering. He started and looked round apprehensively as Holmes entered. Holmes bowed smilingly, wished him good day, speaking in French, and asked him if he spoke the language.
The man looked up with a dull expression, and after an effort or two, as of one who stutters, burst out with, “Je le nie!”
“That’s strange,” Holmes observed to the men. “I ask him if he speaks French, and he says he denies it - speaking in French.”
“He’s been saying that very often, sir,” one of the men answered, “as well as other things we can’t make anything of.”
Holmes placed his hand kindly on the man’s shoulder and asked his name. The reply was for a little while an inarticulate gurgle, presently merging into a meaningless medley of words and syllables - “Qu’est ce qu’ - il n’a - Leystar Squarr - sacré nom - not spik it - quel chemin - sank you ver’ mosh - je le nie! je le nie!” He paused, stared, and then, as though realizing his helplessness, he burst into tears.
“He’s been a-cryin’ two or three times,” said the man who had spoken before. “He was a-cryin’ when we found him.”
Several more attempts Holmes made to communicate with the man, but though he seemed to comprehend what was meant, he replied with nothing but meaningless gibber, and finally gave up the attempt, and, leaning against the side of the fireplace, buried his head in the bend of his arm.
Then the doctor arrived and made his examination. While it was in progress Holmes took aside the policeman who had been speaking before and questioned him further. He had himself found the Frenchman in a dull back street by Golden Square, where the man was standing helpless and trembling, apparently quite bewildered and very weak. He had brought him in, without having been able to learn anything about him. One or two shopkeepers in the street where he was found were asked, but knew nothing of him - indeed, had never seen him before.
“But the curiousest thing,” the policeman proceeded, “was in this ’ere room, when I brought him a loaf to give him a bit of a snack, seein’ he looked so weak an’ ’ungry. You’d ’a thought we was a-goin’ to poison ’im. He fair screamed at the very sight o’ the bread, an’ he scrouged hisself up in that corner an’ put his hands in front of his face. I couldn’t make out what was up at first - didn’t tumble to it’s bein’ the bread he was frightened of, seein’ as he looked like a man as ’ud be frightened at anything else afore that. But the nearer I came with it the more he yelled, so I took it away an’ left it outside, an’ then he calmed down. An’ s’elp me, when I cut some bits off that there very loaf an’ brought ’em in, with a bit o’ beef, he just went for ’em like one o’clock. He wasn’t frightened o’ no bread then, you bet. Rum thing, how the fancies takes ’em when they’re a bit touched, ain’t it? All one way one minute, all the other the next.”
“Yes, it is. By the way, have you another uncut loaf in the place?”
“Yes, sir. Half a dozen if you like.”
“One will be enough. I am going over to speak to the doctor. Wait awhile until he seems very quiet and fairly comfortable; then bring a loaf in quietly and put it on the table, not far from his elbow. Don’t attract his attention to what you are doing.”
The doctor stood looking thoughtfully down on the Frenchman, who, for his part, stared gloomily, but tranquilly, at the fireplace. Holmes stepped quietly over to the doctor and, without disturbing the man by the fire, said interrogatively, “Aphasia?”
The doctor tightened his lips, frowned, and nodded significantly. “Motor,” he murmured, just loudly enough for Holmes to hear; “and there’s a general nervous break-down as well, I should say. By the way, perhaps there’s no agraphia. Have you tried him with pen and paper?”
Pen and paper were brought and set before the man. He was told, slowly and distinctly, that he was among friends, whose only object was to restore him to his proper health. Would he write his name and address, and any other information he might care to give about himself, on the paper before him?
The Frenchman took the pen and stared at the paper; then slowly, and with much hesitation, he traced some marks.
The man paused after the last of these futile characters, and his pen stabbed into the paper with a blot, as he dazedly regarded his work. Then wi
th a groan he dropped it, and his face sank again into the bend of his arm.
The doctor took the paper and handed it to Holmes. “Complete agraphia, you see,” he said. “He can’t write a word. He begins to write ‘Monsieur’ from sheer habit in beginning letters thus; but the word tails off into a scrawl. Then his attempts become mere scribble, with just a trace of some familiar word here and there - but quite meaningless all.”
Although he had never before chanced to come across a case of aphasia (happily a rare disease), Holmes was acquainted with its general nature. He knew that it might arise either from some physical injury to the brain, or from a break-down consequent on some terrible nervous strain. He knew that in the case of motor aphasia the sufferer, though fully conscious of all that goes on about him, and though quite understanding what is said to him is entirely powerless to put his own thoughts into spoken words - has lost, in fact, the connection between words and their spoken symbols. Also that in most bad cases agraphia - the loss of ability to write words with any reference to their meaning - is commonly an accompaniment.
“You will have him taken to the infirmary, I suppose?” Holmes asked.
“Yes,” the doctor replied. “I shall go and see about it at once.”
The man looked up again as they spoke. The policeman had, in accordance with Holmes’s request, placed a loaf of bread on the table near him, and now as he looked up he caught sight of it. He started visibly and paled, but gave no such signs of abject terror as the policeman had previously observed. He appeared nervous and uneasy, however, and presently reached stealthily toward the loaf. Holmes continued to talk to the doctor, while closely watching the Frenchman’s behavior from the corner of his eye.
The loaf was what is called a “plain cottage,” of solid and regular shape. The man reached it and immediately turned it bottom up on the table. Then he sank back in his chair with a more contented expression, though his gaze was still directed toward the loaf. The policeman grinned silently at this curious maneuver.
The doctor left, and Holmes accompanied him to the door of the room. “He will not be moved just yet, I take it?” Holmes asked as they parted.
“It may take an hour or two,” the doctor replied. “Are you anxious to keep him here?”
“Not for long; but I think there’s a curious inside to the case, and I may perhaps learn something of it by a little watching. But I can’t spare very long.”
At a sign from Holmes the loaf was removed. Then Holmes pulled the small table closer to the Frenchman and pushed the pen and sheets of paper toward him. The maneuver had its result. The man looked up and down the room vacantly once or twice and then began to turn the papers over. From that he went to dipping the pen in the inkpot, and presently he was scribbling at random on the loose sheets. Holmes affected to leave him entirely alone, and seemed to be absorbed in a contemplation of a photograph of a police-division brass band that hung on the wall, but he saw every scratch the man made.
At first there was nothing but meaningless scrawls and attempted words. Then rough sketches appeared, of a man’s head, a chair or what not. On the mantelpiece stood a small clock - apparently a sort of humble presentation piece, the body of the clock being set in a horse-shoe frame, with crossed whips behind it. After a time the Frenchman’s eyes fell on this, and he began a crude sketch of it. That he relinquished, and went on with other random sketches and scribblings on the same piece of paper, sketching and scribbling over the sketches in a half-mechanical sort of way, as of one who trifles with a pen during a brown study. Beginning at the top left-hand corner of the paper, he traveled all round it till he arrived at the left-hand bottom corner. Then dashing his pen hastily across his last sketch he dropped it, and with a great shudder turned away again and hid his face by the fireplace.
Holmes turned at once and seized the papers on the table. He stuffed them all into his coat-pocket, with the exception of the last which the man had been engaged on, and this, a facsimile of which is subjoined, he studied earnestly for several minutes.
Holmes wished the men good day, and made his way to the inspector.
“Well,” the inspector said, “not much to be got out of him, is there? The doctor will be sending for him presently.”
“I fancy,” said Holmes, “that this may turn out a very important case. Possibly - quite possibly - I may not have guessed correctly, and so I won’t tell you anything of it till I know a little more. But what I want now is a messenger. Can I send somebody at once in a cab to my friend Brett at his chambers?”
“Certainly. I’ll find somebody. Want to write a note?”
Holmes wrote and dispatched a note, which reached me in less than ten minutes. Then he asked the inspector, “Have you searched the Frenchman?”
“Oh, yes. We went all over him, when we found he couldn’t explain himself, to see if we could trace his friends or his address. He didn’t seem to mind. But there wasn’t a single thing in his pocket - not a single thing, barring a rag of a pocket-handkerchief with no marking on it.”
“You noticed that somebody had stolen his watch, I suppose?”
“Well, he hadn’t got one.”
“But he had one of those little vertical button-holes in his waistcoat, used to fasten a watchguard to, and it was much worn and frayed, so that he must be in the habit of carrying a watch; and it is gone.”
“Yes, and everything else too, eh? Looks like robbery. He’s had a knock or two in the face - notice that?”
“I saw the bruises and the cut, of course; and his collar has been broken away, with the back button; somebody has taken him by the collar or throat. Was he wearing a hat when he was found?”
“No.”
“That would imply that he had only just left a house. What street was he found in?”
“Henry Street - a little off Golden Square. Low street, you know.”
“Did the constable notice a door open near by?”
The inspector shook his head. “Half the doors in the street are open,” he said, “pretty nearly all day.”
“Ah, then there’s nothing in that. I don’t think he lives there, by the bye. I fancy he comes from more in the Seven Dials or Drury Lane direction. Did you notice anything about the man that gave you a clue to his occupation - or at any rate to his habits?”
“Can’t say I did.”
“Well, just take a look at the back of his coat before he goes away - just over the loins. Good day.”
As I have said, Holmes’s messenger was quick. I happened to be in - having lately returned from a latish lunch - when he arrived with this note:
My dear B.,
I meant to have lunched with you today, but have been kept. I expect you are idle this afternoon, and I have a case that will interest you - perhaps be useful to you from a journalistic point of view. If you care to see anything of it, cab away at once to Fitzroy Square, south side, where I’ll meet you. I will wait no later than 3.30.
Yours, S.H.
I had scarce a quarter of an hour, so I seized my hat and left my chambers at once. As it happened, my cab and Holmes’s burst into Fitzroy Square from opposite sides almost at the same moment, so that we lost no time.
“Come,” said Holmes, taking my arm and marching me off, “we are going to look for some stabling. Try to feel as though you’d just set up a brougham and had come out to look for a place to put it in. I fear we may have to delude some person with that belief presently.”
“Why - what do you want stables for? And why make me your excuse?”
“As to what I want the stables for - really I’m not altogether sure myself. As to making you an excuse - well, even the humblest excuse is better than none. But come, here are some stables. Not good enough, though, even if any of them were empty. Come on.”
We had stopped for an instant at the entrance to a small alley of r
ather dirty stables, and Holmes, paying apparently but small attention to the stables themselves, had looked sharply about him with his gaze in the air.
“I know this part of London pretty well,” Holmes observed, “and I can only remember one other range of stabling near by; we must try that. As a matter of fact, I’m coming here on little more than conjecture, though I shall be surprised if there isn’t something in it. Do you know anything of aphasia?”
“I have heard of it, of course, though I can’t say I remember ever knowing a case.”
“I’ve seen one today - very curious case. The man’s a Frenchman, discovered helpless in the street by a policeman. The only thing he can say that has any meaning in it at all is ‘je le nie,’ and that he says mechanically, without in the least knowing what he is saying. And he can’t write. But he got sketching and scrawling various things on some paper, and his scrawls - together with another thing or two - have given me an idea. We’re following it up now. When we are less busy, and in a quiet place, I’ll show you the sketches and explain things generally; there’s no time now, and I may want your help for a bit, in which case ignorance may prevent you spoiling things, you clumsy ruffian. Hullo! here we are, I think!”
We had stopped at the end of another stable-yard, rather dirtier than the first. The stables were sound but inelegant sheds, and one or two appeared to be devoted to other purposes, having low chimneys, on one of which an old basket was rakishly set by way of cowl. Beside the entrance a worn-out old board was nailed, with the legend, “Stabling to Let,” in letters formerly white on a ground formerly black.
“Come,” said Holmes, “we’ll explore.”
We picked our way over the greasy cobble-stones and looked about us. On the left was the wall enclosing certain back-yards, and on the right the stables. Two doors in the middle of these were open, and a butcher’s young man, who with his shiny bullet head would have been known for a butcher’s young man anywhere, was wiping over the new-washed wheel of a smart butcher’s cart.
