by Otto Penzler
“I think you will find that right,” he said; “six thousand pounds in all.”
The writer dragged his heavy chair nearer the table, and began to count the coins two by two, withdrawing each pair from the pile with his extended forefingers in the manner of one accustomed to deal with great treasure. For a time the silence was unbroken, save by the chink of gold, when suddenly a high-keyed voice outside penetrated even the stout oak of the huge door. The shrill exclamation seemed to touch a chord of remembrance in the mind of Sir George Newnes. Nervously he grasped the arms of his chair, sitting very bolt upright, muttering:—
“Can it be he, of all persons, at this time, of all times?”
Doyle glanced up with an expression of annoyance on his face, murmuring, to keep his memory green:—
“A hundred and ten, a hundred and ten, a hundred and ten.”
“Not at home?” cried the vibrant voice. “Nonsense! Everybody is at home on Christmas Eve!”
“You don’t seem to be,” he heard the servant reply.
“Me? Oh, I have no home, merely rooms in Baker Street. I must see your master, and at once.”
“Master left in his motor car half an hour ago to attend the county ball, given tonight, at the Royal Huts Hotel, seven miles away,” answered the servant, with that glib mastery of fiction which unconsciously comes to those who are members, even in a humble capacity, of a household devoted to the production of imaginative art.
“Nonsense, I say again,” came the strident voice. “It is true that the tracks of an automobile are on the ground in front of your door, but if you will notice the markings of the puncture-proof belt, you will see that the automobile is returning and not departing. It went to the station before the last shower to bring back a visitor, and since its arrival there has been no rain. That suit of armour in the hall spattered with mud shows it to be the casing the visitor wore. The blazonry upon it of a pair of scissors above an open book resting upon a printing press, indicates that the wearer is first of all an editor; second, a publisher; and third, a printer. The only baronet in England whose occupation corresponds with his heraldic device is Sir George Newnes.”
“You forget Sir Alfred Harmsworth,” said the servant, whose hand held a copy of Answers.
If the insistent visitor was taken aback by this unlooked-for rejoinder, his manner showed no trace of embarrassment, and he went on unabashed.
“As the last shower began at ten minutes to six, Sir George must have arrived at Haslemere station on the 6:19 from Waterloo. He has had dinner, and at this moment is sitting comfortably with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, doubtless in the front room, which I see is so brilliantly lighted. Now, if you will kindly take in my card—”
“But I tell you,” persisted the perplexed servant, “that the master left in his motor car for the county ball at the Royal—”
“Oh, I know, I know. There stands his suit of armour, too, newly black-leaded, whose coat of arms is a couchant typewriter on an automobile rampant.”
“Great heavens!” cried Sir George, his eyes brightening with the light of unholy desire, “you have material enough there, Doyle, for a story in our January number. What do you say?”
A deep frown marred the smoothness of the novelist’s brow.
“I say,” he replied sternly, “that this man has been sending threatening letters to me. I have had enough of his menaces.”
“Then triply bolt the door,” advised Newnes, with a sigh of disappointment, leaning back in his chair.
“Do you take me for a man who bolts when his enemy appears?” asked Doyle fiercely, rising to his feet. “No, I will unbolt. He shall meet the Douglas in his hall!”
“Better have him in the drawing-room, where it’s warm,” suggested Sir George, with a smile, diplomatically desiring to pour oil on the troubled waters.
The novelist, without reply, spread a copy of that evening’s Westminster Gazette over the pile of gold, strode to the door, threw it open, and said coldly:—
“Show the gentleman in, please.”
There entered to them a tall, self-possessed, calm man, with clean-shaven face, eagle eye, and inquisitive nose.
Although the visit was most embarrassing at that particular juncture, the natural courtesy of the novelist restrained him from giving utterance to his resentment of the intrusion, and he proceeded to introduce the bidden to the unbidden guest as if each were equally welcome.
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, permit me to present to you Sir George—”
“It is quite superfluous,” said the newcomer, in an even voice of exasperating tenor, “for I perceive at once that one who wears a green waistcoat must be a Liberal of strong Home Rule opinions, or the editor of several publications wearing covers of emerald hue. The shamrock necktie, in addition to the waistcoat, indicates that the gentleman before me is both, and so I take it for granted that this is Sir George Newnes. How is your circulation, Sir George?”
“Rapidly rising,” replied the editor.
“I am glad of that,” asserted the intruder, suavely, “and can assure you that the temperature outside is as rapidly falling.”
The great detective spread his hands before the glowing electric fire, and rubbed them vigorously together.
“I perceive through that evening paper the sum of six thousand pounds in gold.”
Doyle interrupted him with some impatience.
“You didn’t see it through the paper; you saw it in the paper. Goodness knows, it’s been mentioned in enough of the sheets.”
“As I was about to remark,” went on Sherlock Holmes imperturbably, “I am amazed that a man whose time is so valuable should waste it in counting the money. You are surely aware that a golden sovereign weighs 123.44 grains, therefore, if I were you, I should have up the kitchen scales, dump in the metal, and figure out the amount with a lead pencil. You brought the gold in two canvas bags, did you not, Sir George?”
“In the name of all that’s wonderful, how do you know that?” asked the astonished publisher.
Sherlock Holmes, with a superior smile, casually waved his hand toward the two bags which still lay on the polished table.
“Oh, I’m tired of this sort of thing,” said Doyle wearily, sitting down in the first chair that presented itself. “Can’t you be honest, even on Christmas Eve? You know the oracles of old did not try it on with each other.”
“That is true,” said Sherlock Holmes. “The fact is, I followed Sir George Newnes into the Capital and Counties Bank this afternoon, where he demanded six thousand pounds in gold; but when he learned this would weigh ninety-six pounds seven ounces avoirdupois weight, and that even troy weight would make the sum no lighter, he took two small bags of gold and the rest in Bank of England notes. I came from London on the same train with him, but he was off in the automobile before I could make myself known, and so I had to walk up. I was further delayed by taking the wrong turning on the top and finding myself at that charming spot in the neighbourhood where a sailor was murdered by two ruffians a century or so ago.”
There was a note of warning in Doyle’s voice when he said:—
“Did that incident teach you no lesson? Did you not realise that you are in a dangerous locality?”
“And likely to fall in with two ruffians?” asked Holmes, slightly elevating his eyebrows, while the same sweet smile hovered round his thin lips. “No; the remembrance of the incident encouraged me. It was the man who had the money that was murdered. I brought no coin with me, although I expect to bear many away.”
“Would you mind telling us, without further circumlocation, what brings you here so late at night?”
Sherlock Holmes heaved a sigh, and mournfully shook his head very slowly.
“After all the teaching I have bestowed upon you, Doyle, is it possible that you cannot deduce even so simple a thing as that? Why am I here? Because Sir George made a mistake about those bags. He was quite right in taking one of them to “Undershaw,” but he should have left the other at 221B, B
aker Street. I call this little trip ‘The Adventure of the Second Swag.’ Here is the second swag on the table. The first swag you received long ago, and all I had for my share was some honeyed words of compliment in the stories you wrote. Now, it is truly said that soft words butter no parsnips, and, in this instance, they do not even turn away wrath. So far as the second swag is concerned, I have come to demand half of it.”
“I am not so poor at deduction as you seem to imagine,” said Doyle, apparently nettled at the other’s slighting reference to his powers. “I was well aware, when you came in, what your errand was. I deduced further that if you saw Sir George withdraw gold from the bank, you also followed him to Waterloo station.”
“Quite right.”
“When he purchased his ticket for Haslemere, you did the same.”
“I did.”
“When you arrived at Haslemere, you sent a telegram to your friend, Dr. Watson, telling him of your whereabouts.”
“You are wrong there; I ran after the motor car.”
“You certainly sent a telegram from somewhere, to someone, or at least dropped a note in the post-box. There are signs, which I need not mention, that point irrevocably to such a conclusion.”
The doomed man, ruined by his own self-complacency, merely smiled in his superior manner, not noticing the eager look with which Doyle awaited his answer.
“Wrong entirely. I neither wrote any telegram, nor spoke any message, since I left London.”
“Ah, no,” cried Doyle. “I see where I went astray. You merely inquired the way to my house.”
“I needed to make no inquiries. I followed the rear light of the automobile part way up the hill, and, when that disappeared, I turned to the right instead of to the left, as there was no one out on such a night from whom I could make inquiry.”
“My deductions, then, are beside the mark,” said Doyle hoarsely, in an accent which sent cold chills up and down the spine of his invited guest, but conveyed no intimation of his fate to the self-satisfied later arrival.
“Of course they were,” said Holmes, with exasperating self-assurance.
“Am I also wrong in deducing that you have had nothing to eat since you left London?”
“No, you are quite right there.”
“Well, oblige me by pressing that electric button.”
Holmes did so with much eagerness, but, although the trio waited some minutes in silence, there was no response.
“I deduce from that,” said Doyle, “that the servants have gone to bed. After I have satisfied all your claims in the way of hunger for food and gold, I shall take you back in my motor car, unless you prefer to stay here the night.”
“You are very kind,” said Sherlock Holmes.
“Not at all,” replied Doyle. “Just take that chair, draw it up to the table and we will divide the second swag.”
The chair indicated differed from all others in the room. It was straight-backed, and its oaken arms were covered by two plates, apparently of German silver. When Holmes clutched it by the arms to drag it forward, he gave one half articulate gasp, and plunged headlong to the floor, quivering. Sir George Newnes sprang up standing with a cry of alarm. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle remained seated, a seraphic smile of infinite satisfaction playing about his lips.
“Has he fainted?” cried Sir George.
“No, merely electrocuted. A simple device the Sheriff of New York taught me when I was over there last.”
“Merciful heavens! Cannot he be resuscitated?”
“My dear Newnes,” said Doyle, with the air of one from whose shoulders a great weight is lifted, “a man may fall into the chasm at the foot of the Reichenbach Fall and escape to record his adventures later, but when two thousand volts pass through the human frame, the person who owns that frame is dead.”
“You don’t mean to say you’ve murdered him?” asked Sir George, in an awed whisper.
“Well, the term you use is harsh, still it rather accurately sums up the situation. To speak candidly, Sir George, I don’t think they can indict us for anything more than manslaughter. You see, this is a little invention for the reception of burglars. Every night before the servants go to bed, they switch on the current to this chair. That’s why I asked Holmes to press the button. I place a small table beside the chair, and put on it a bottle of wine, whisky and soda, and cigars. Then, if any burglar comes in, he invariably sits down in the chair to enjoy himself, and so you see, that piece of furniture is an effective method of reducing crime. The number of burglars I have turned over to the parish to be buried will prove that this taking off of Holmes was not premeditated by me. This incident, strictly speaking, is not murder, but manslaughter. We shouldn’t get more than fourteen years apiece, and probably that would be cut down to seven on the ground that we had performed an act for the public benefit.”
“Apiece!” cried Sir George. “But what have I had to do with it?”
“Everything, my dear sir, everything. As that babbling fool talked, I saw in your eye the gleam which betokens avarice for copy. Indeed, I think you mentioned the January number. You were therefore accessory before the fact. I simply had to slaughter the poor wretch.”
Sir George sank back in his chair well nigh breathless with horror. Publishers are humane men who rarely commit crimes; authors, however, are a hardened set who usually perpetrate a felony every time they issue a book. Doyle laughed easily.
“I’m used to this sort of thing,” he said. “Remember how I killed off the people in ‘The White Company.’ Now, if you will help me to get rid of the body, all may yet be well. You see, I learned from the misguided simpleton himself that nobody knows where he is to-day. He often disappears for weeks at a time, so there really is slight danger of detection. Will you lend a hand?”
“I suppose I must,” cried the conscience-stricken man.
Doyle at once threw off the lassitude which the coming of Sherlock Holmes had caused, and acted now with an energy which was characteristic of him. Going to an outhouse, he brought the motor car to the front door, then, picking up Holmes and followed by his trembling guest, he went outside and flung the body into the tonneau behind. He then threw a spade and a pick into the car, and covered everything up with a waterproof spread. Lighting the lamps, he bade his silent guest get up beside him, and so they started on their fateful journey, taking the road past the spot where the sailor had been murdered, and dashing down the long hill at fearful speed toward London.
“Why do you take this direction?” asked Sir George. “Wouldn’t it be more advisable to go further into the country?”
Doyle laughed harshly.
“Haven’t you a place on Wimbledon Common? Why not bury him in your garden?”
“Merciful motors!” cried the horrified man. “How can you propose such a thing? Talking of gardens, why not have him buried in your own, which was infinitely safer than going forward at this pace.”
“Have no fear,” said Doyle reassuringly, “we shall find him a suitable sepulchre without disturbing either of our gardens. I’ll be in the centre of London within two hours.”
Sir George stared in affright at the demon driver. The man had evidently gone mad. To London, of all places in the world. Surely that was the one spot on earth to avoid.
“Stop the motor and let me off,” he cried. “I’m going to wake up the nearest magistrate and confess.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Doyle. “Don’t you see that no person on earth would suspect two criminals of making for London when they have the whole country before them? Haven’t you read my stories? The moment a man commits a crime he tries to get as far away from London as possible. Every policeman knows that, therefore, two men coming into London are innocent strangers, according to Scotland Yard.”
“But then we may be taken up for fast driving, and think of the terrible burden we carry.”
“We’re safe on the country roads, and I’ll slow down when we reach the suburbs.”
It was appro
aching three o’clock in the morning when a huge motor car turned out of Trafalgar Square, and went eastward along the Strand. The northern side of the Strand was up, as it usually is, and the motor, skilfully driven, glided past the piles of wood-paving blocks, great sombre kettles holding tar, and the general debris of a repaving convulsion. Opposite Southampton Street, at the very spot so graphically illustrated by George C. Haite on the cover of the Strand Magazine, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle stopped his motor. The Strand was deserted. He threw pick and shovel into the excavation, and curtly ordered his companion to take his choice of weapons. Sir George selected the pick, and Doyle vigorously plied the spade. In almost less time than it takes to tell, a very respectable hole had been dug, and in it was placed the body of the popular private detective. Just as the last spadeful was shovelled in place the stern voice of a policeman awoke the silence, and caused Sir George to drop his pick from nerveless hands.
“What are you two doing down there?”
“That’s all right, officer,” said Doyle glibly, as one who had foreseen every emergency. “My friend here is controller of the Strand. When the Strand is up he is responsible, and it has the largest circulation in the—I mean it’s up oftener than any other street in the world. We cannot inspect the work satisfactorily while traffic is on, and so we have been examining it in the nighttime. I am his secretary; I do the writing, you know.”
“Oh, I see,” replied the constable. “Well, gentlemen, good morning to you, and merry Christmas.”
“The same to you, constable. Just lend a hand, will you?”
The officer of the law helped each of the men up to the level of the road.
As Doyle drove away from the ill-omened spot he said:—
“Thus have we disposed of poor Holmes in the busiest spot on earth, where no one will ever think of looking for him, and we’ve put him away without even a Christmas box around him. We have buried him forever in the Strand.”
