by Otto Penzler
Turning to me he explained further.
“Such markings are indicative of the clarinet player. Pressure on the lip gives us our first clue; and the callus on the thumb is caused by the weight of the instrument which rests upon it.”
His good humour returned as he watched with amused eyes our surprised faces and listened to our ejaculations of praise. He had now made himself quite comfortable in the depths of his favourite easy chair, and was puffing on his brier with contentment and abandon, his legs stretched out towards the blaze.
Musingly he added: “I have of late toyed with the idea of revising my monograph on ‘The Influence of a Trade’ to include a paragraph on the indelible marks left by musical instruments upon the hands and fingers of their performers. But of course,” he put in quickly, “that need not be taken up at this time.”
He faced the young man.
“Mr. Morrison, this is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson. You may feel free to discuss your problem before him. In what way can I be of service to you?”
“By discreetly investigating the present whereabouts of a friend of mine,” replied the other, after a slight hesitation, wetting his lips nervously, and exhibiting other signs of discomfort and disquietude.
“Discreetly?” repeated Holmes with a frown.
“There is a woman involved, sir. A married woman.”
“But why come to me?” There was no mistaking the acerbity in my friend’s tone, a bluntness which clearly spelled dislike for the kind of inquiry that Morrison’s reply had evoked. “At present I am extremely occupied and cannot further burden myself with what may only be an illicit love affair. Why do you not go to the police? They are better equipped to undertake such cases.”
“The police are not discreet, sir.”
Sherlock Holmes stirred angrily in his chair.
“There are many detective agencies in the city who would be only too glad to delve into such unethical affairs. And with a discretion worthy of better things. I should suggest that you see one of them.”
But Edward Morrison, with a display of determination which surprised me, refused to accept Holmes’s dismissal. Evidently behind that sensitive exterior lay a core of firmness, a will to be heard.
“You must forgive me, Mr. Holmes,” he said, “for insisting that you take this case. Perhaps I have not stated it very clearly. It is a delicate matter which, if improperly handled, might bring about the very disclosures I dread.” He passed his white, long-fingered hand over his brow, then went on doggedly. “Yet, anxious as I am to avoid a scandal and fearful of committing what may well be an unpardonable breach of loyalty to a friend, I cannot sit idly by without making some effort to discover what has become of him.”
“Your loyalty is most commendable, my dear Mr. Morrison,” remarked Holmes ironically, “but why are you so anxious to protect the honour of a man who has shown such lack of principle, and disregard for the moral code by which we live?”
Our visitor did not reply. The picture of dejection, he kept his eyes on the worn rug, looking uncomfortable and ill at ease, his head held low.
Holmes turned round in his chair. “Come, come, sir!” he said, his voice strident with irritation. “Would you have me believe that your sole concern is your foolish friend’s present circumstances?”
Morrison’s voice was contrite when he spoke again. “Forgive me, Mr. Holmes, for trying to withhold a personal matter in the case. You see, I am engaged to marry Miss Geraldine Foote, sister of the missing man. As you have correctly surmized, my concern is less for him than for his family. They are fine people and I would not cause them unnecessary pain for all the world.” He paused, then made a gesture of entreaty. “Cannot you see that I dare not go to the police? It would drag the whole disgraceful affair into the public prints!”
“Hum,” murmured Holmes, relenting somewhat. “This changes the complexion of things.” Then, more briskly, he added, “But I fail to see what can be done to avoid the resulting scandal, should it come out later that this person—what is his name? Foote?—should Foote have run off with another man’s wife. Such deplorable behaviour can neither be condoned nor kept secret.”
Morrison was about to speak at this point, but a gesture from the detective made him close his lips.
“However, on behalf of his people, I shall look into the matter and endeavour to trace him. But it must be clearly understood that my services will end there: that I shall not stand in the way of any justifiable redress which may be demanded by those whom he has injured.” He reached for his notebook.
“Now, Mr. Morrison,” he said, his voice still brisk and businesslike, but less harsh, “let me have a few pertinent facts. First, where does your friend live?”
“At 14 Dean Street, Soho.”
“With his family?”
“No, sir. He lives alone, in a furnished suite of rooms. His folks live in Dorsetshire. We visit them each year during the Summer holidays.”
“Would you know his landlady’s name?”
“Yes. I’ve had occasion to visit him at times. Her name is Mrs. Ferrucci, an Italian….”
“Quite so. Could you describe Mr. Foote?”
“Easily. I’ve known him for many years. He is now twenty-six years of age, is five feet, nine inches in height, and weighs about twelve stone. Has very dark hair, thick and curly, and wears neither beard nor moustaches.”
“No scars or other marks of identification?”
“Not to my knowledge, Mr. Holmes.” A faint smile hovered around the troubled eyes as our client added: “He is considered quite handsome by most ladies.”
“Such a description,” commented Holmes drily, “would fit any number of men. How long has he been missing?”
“Since Monday evening, when he was called away…”
“Monday evening?” repeated Holmes quickly, a new note, a rising inflection of interest apparent now in his voice. His manner had changed suddenly. Until now listless and disinterested, his attitude assumed intense concentration at this point in the interrogation. He abruptly changed the trend of his questioning and asked:
“Is your friend a musician like yourself, Mr. Morrison?”
“Yes, sir, he is. But I can’t understand how you could have known this, Mr. Holmes. I haven’t…”
“What instrument does he play?” My friend’s smooth voice broke in quickly. Although edged with excitement, it was well under control. Yet I could feel the suspense coiled beneath the surface.
“The violoncello. We play in the same orchestra.”
Sherlock Holmes sprang to his feet, eyes gleaming, his face now flushed and darkened.
“And I thought it a coincidence, Watson,” he exclaimed, his voice shrill, “a coincidence that both should be musicians! I was slow in connecting the two men, palpably slow, but no harm has been done by my lapse.”
He turned brusquely towards our startled visitor who had witnessed the sudden metamorphosis of a languid form reclining in a shabby robe in an old armchair, to a veritable ferret in human guise, pacing swiftly back and forth, gesticulating, talking rapidly and asking questions.
“Mr. Morrison, you were saying that on Monday evening—that would be the day before yesterday—your friend was called away. Where did this take place? In the establishment in which you are both employed?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And that is?”
“Henri Dumont’s Cafe Continental, on Shaftsbury Avenue. We play concert and dance music there, from six until midnight.”
“I see. Can you remember under what circumstances this call came for your friend? Please try to recall everything in connection with it. It may well be of the utmost importance.”
“It was during the after supper lull. We were having our meal—which the Cafe supplies us, even though not paying us a very generous wage—when one of the dining room staff came to our table with a message for Arnold—for Mr. Foote.”
“You have no idea of the contents of that note?”
“None whatever. But I do remember that Arnold seemed quite cut up after reading it.”
“Did he leave at once?”
“No, sir. He first went to our orchestra leader, Mr. Orlando. Later, Mr. Orlando told us that Arnold had begged permission to leave, saying that some very urgent business had to be attended to immediately.”
“And this permission was granted?”
“Yes, it was, but only after some heated discussion between them. You see, Mr. Holmes, there are only five of us, and each one is indispensable in such a small band. But Arnold swore he would return in time for the later dancing.” Morrison stopped, shook his head sadly. “He never did. That was the last time I saw him.”
“At what time did all this take place?”
“Around ten thirty, sir.”
Holmes absorbed this in silence for a while. When he spoke again, his voice was casual. “Can you remember whether your friend wore his hat and coat when he left?”
Morrison did not answer at once. His brow creased in thought as he struggled with the question. Finally he said: “I did not see him leave. But when we went home that night, his things were no longer there in the usual place.”
“It is then safe to assume that he had them on.” Holmes rubbed his hands together, a faint grin of satisfaction appearing on his face. It was becoming quite evident to me now that he had as yet no intentions of telling our visitor the true facts behind Arnold Foote’s disappearance. I confess to being unable, at this time, to fathom his reasons for this apparent insensitiveness. Holmes, although cold and unemotional, was neither callous nor cruel. However, I maintained a reserved silence, knowing that my friend’s actions, no matter how incomprehensible to the outsider, would later prove to be justified.
Holmes reached over for his notes and a pencil.
“Now, Mr. Morrison,” he said, “what can you tell us about the woman in the case?”
“Very little, I fear. Arnold spoke of her frequently to me. His experiences with women have been quite extensive, yet this particular person seems to have fascinated him far more than any of the others.”
“This affair, then, is of some duration?”
“Well over a year at least, sir.”
“Did you ever have occasion to meet her?”
“No. Although he would ask me to go along with him whenever he wanted to select a gift or token for her, my being an intimate of the family, as it were, made him naturally reticent and secretive where she was concerned.”
“Then you cannot give us any information whatsoever with regard to her appearance, her age, height—anything which might help us identify or trace her?”
“All I can tell you, Mr. Holmes, is that she has honey-brown hair, is above medium in height, has very small hands and feet, is inordinately fond of costume jewelry, possesses very stylish clothes, and is two or three years older than Arnold himself. And according to his glowing description, she must be extremely attractive.”
“Capital, my dear Mr. Morrison!” exclaimed my friend, sitting bolt upright in his chair, his bushy eyebrows raised in delighted surprise. “You are a model client, gifted with an exceptional memory for detail!”
My expression must have clearly mirrored the astonishment I felt on hearing this description from a man who had declared to have never set eyes upon the woman. But Holmes, chuckling as he caught sight of my face, easily explained it away.
“Mr. Morrison is merely repeating some of the phrases spoken by his friend. As for the other details did not our shrewd young friend here mention having accompanied Arnold Foote on various errands for the purpose of selecting presents for the charmer? He was thus enabled to obtain a fairly accurate picture of the woman’s tastes, her height, size of gloves, and general appearance.”
Edward Morrison nodded his agreement.
“It may prove to be of assistance to us,” went on the detective, “you may be sure.
“Would you know where this person resides, Mr. Morrison?” he asked, becoming serious once more.
“From various chance remarks made by Arnold, at different times, I gathered that she lives somewhere in Chelsea.”
“Chelsea?” Holmes’s eyes sparkled. “Splendid! Did your friend ever mention her husband?”
“Rarely, sir, and only indirectly. It was a subject which was, of course, quite distasteful to him.”
“Now, Mr. Morrison, I want you to think carefully before you answer my next question. It is this: Does Arnold Foote know whether the husband is aware of this illicit relationship?”
Morrison gave a visible start, then he nodded slowly and pensively. “I have good reason for believing that he does,” he replied very quietly.
Holmes’s shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly.
“What makes you think so, Mr. Morrison?” he asked.
The young man stared gloomily at the rug as he made his reply. “Arnold has been depressed and worried for some time. No amount of questioning ever elicited any replies, but I could see that there was something weighing on his mind. One night, about a week ago I think, as we walked home, he muttered something about ‘skating on very thin ice’ or some such phrase. Then—and I recall these words clearly—he said, ‘Teddy, I think the old man smells a rat.’ ”
“He did not clarify the statement?” asked Holmes.
“No. At that moment we had reached the corner of Dean Street, where he lives, and there we parted.”
“And since then he has made no further reference to the subject?”
“None whatsoever.”
The detective relapsed into silence, and for several minutes not a word was exchanged. When he spoke again, it was to ask: “You have nothing further to add which may be of use?”
Morrison shook his head. “I’m afraid not, sir.”
Something in my friend’s manner as he removed the dottles from his pipe and started to refill it with slow deliberation, warned me that he was about to break the tragic news. I waited for the revelation with a troubled brow.
“Mr. Morrison,” he said, “I deeply regret the necessity which has compelled me to withhold the news until now. My next words will shock you, I fear; yet they must be spoken. Your friend, Arnold Foote, is dead.”
The thin face of our visitor turned deathly pale as he stared with dazed incomprehension at Holmes’s grave features. His haggard eyes looked from one to the other with such pathos and grief that I all but sprang to my feet, expecting him to pitch over in a dead faint. But he rallied instantly, for when he spoke his voice, although low, was firm and controlled.
“Are you certain of this, Mr. Holmes? Quite certain?”
Holmes nodded grimly. “As certain as I am that he met with foul play.”
“Murdered?” Morrison’s pale lips scarcely moved as he uttered the word.
“Yes, he was murdered,” repeated my friend, “and it was to facilitate our investigations that I questioned you prior to revealing the fact that he was dead.”
Morrison shuddered without raising his head which he had rested on his hands, and remained silent as the detective went on in a kindly tone: “So you see, my dear Mr. Morrison, your well-intentioned efforts to spare his people unnecessary grief have proved to be of no avail.”
The young man raised his drawn face.
“How did he die?” he asked.
“We have good reason for suspecting that he was poisoned,” began the detective.
“Then it was she—she must have done it!” he exclaimed, his eyes wild and staring. “I tell you it was she!” Then he stopped, shook his head, muttering, “But why? In heaven’s name, why?”
“That is what we are trying to discover,” replied Holmes soberly. Then in a firmer tone he continued: “Now, sir, pull yourself together. The law claims forfeit for the life of your friend. You must do your utmost to help bring his murderer to justice.”
“You are right, Mr. Holmes. I’m sorry I acted like an old woman. Tell me if there is anything I can do….”
“Ah! That is much bet
ter,” exclaimed Holmes. “You well understand, of course, that it is now a police matter and cannot be kept hidden or suppressed any longer. I advise you to go at once to Scotland Yard and to depose everything you have told us. You may also be asked to testify at the inquest and no doubt be called upon to perform the unpleasant duty of identifying the body.”
Edward Morrison rose shakily to his feet. “I shall do as you say, Mr. Holmes.” And with a faint nod of his head, he reached for his mackintosh and sadly took his leave.
After our unhappy visitor had departed upon his dismal errand, Holmes continued to smoke on in silence for several minutes. I had been quite shocked by his cold, deliberate lack of consideration, and was actually contemplating a few carefully chosen words of reproach on the subject when, as was often his habit, he broke into my thoughts without preamble.
“I quite agree with you, Watson. It was cruel, yet necessary, believe me. I am not so totally lacking in feeling as to ride roughshod over a sensitive person’s susceptibilities without good cause. Yet,” he went on, in that dogmatic tone he affected at certain times, “sentimentality has no place in the recesses of an analyst’s brain. It interferes with the finely tempered tools which he uses. It nullifies his best efforts.”
I nodded thoughtfully. I was recalling the words spoken by Stamford some years before: “Not out of malevolence, but simply in a spirit of inquiry.”
“Whatever young Morrison’s opinion of his friend’s derelictions,” he went on broodingly, “he could hardly be expected to return illuminating replies to my questions once his mind had been stunned by the news of Foote’s tragic end. The dead influence the living at such moments.”
And remembering the young man’s reaction, I was forced to agree with his sober explanation. Mollified to some extent, and anxious to change the tone of the discussion, I asked: “Do you believe that the woman caused his death? That she poisoned him?”
