The prize-fighter, a heavily built young man with a stupid, obstinate, slab-sided face, stood awkwardly at the door, looking about him with a puzzled expression. Holmes’s debonair manner was a new experience, and though he vaguely felt that it was hostile, he did not know how to counter it. He turned to his more astute comrade for help.
“What’s the game now, Count? What’s this fellow want? What’s up?” His voice was deep and raucous.
The Count shrugged his shoulders, and it was Holmes who answered.
“If I may put it in a nutshell, Mr. Merton, I should say it was all up.”
The boxer still addressed his remarks to his associate.
“Is this cove trying to be funny, or what? I’m not in the funny mood myself.”
“No, I expect not,” said Holmes. “I think I can promise you that you will feel even less humorous as the evening advances. Now, look here, Count Sylvius. I’m a busy man and I can’t waste time. I’m going into that bedroom. Pray make yourselves quite at home in my absence. You can explain to your friend how the matter lies without the restraint of my presence. I shall try over the Hoffman ‘Barcarole’ upon my violin. In five minutes I shall return for your final answer. You quite grasp the alternative, do you not? Shall we take you, or shall we have the stone?”
Holmes withdrew, picking up his violin from the corner as he passed. A few moments later the long-drawn, wailing notes of that most haunting of tunes came faintly through the closed door of the bedroom.
“What is it, then?” asked Merton anxiously as his companion turned to him. “Does he know about the stone?”
“He knows a damned sight too much about it. I’m not sure that he doesn’t know all about it.”
“Good Lord!” The boxer’s sallow face turned a shade whiter.
“Ikey Sanders has split on us.”
“He has, has he? I’ll do him down a thick ’un for that if I swing for it.”
“That won’t help us much. We’ve got to make up our minds what to do.”
“Half a mo’,” said the boxer, looking suspiciously at the bedroom door. “He’s a leary cove that wants watching. I suppose he’s not listening?”
“How can he be listening with that music going?”
“That’s right. Maybe somebody’s behind a curtain. Too many curtains in this room.” As he looked round he suddenly saw for the first time the effigy in the window, and stood staring and pointing, too amazed for words.
“Tut! it’s only a dummy,” said the Count.
“A fake, is it? Well, strike me! Madame Tussaud ain’t in it. It’s the living spit of him, gown and all. But them curtains, Count!”
“Oh, confound the curtains! We are wasting our time, and there is none too much. He can lag us over this stone.”
“The deuce he can!”
“But he’ll let us slip if we only tell him where the swag is.”
“What! Give it up? Give up a hundred thousand quid?”
“It’s one or the other.”
Merton scratched his short-cropped pate.
“He’s alone in there. Let’s do him in. If his light were out we should have nothing to fear.”
The Count shook his head.
“He is armed and ready. If we shot him we could hardly get away in a place like this. Besides, it’s likely enough that the police know whatever evidence he has got. Hallo! What was that?”
There was a vague sound which seemed to come from the window. Both men sprang round, but all was quiet. Save for the one strange figure seated in the chair, the room was certainly empty.
“Something in the street,” said Merton. “Now look here, guv’nor, you’ve got the brains. Surely you can think a way out of it. If slugging is no use then it’s up to you.”
“I’ve fooled better men than he,” the Count answered. “The stone is here in my secret pocket. I take no chances leaving it about. It can be out of England to-night and cut into four pieces in Amsterdam before Sunday. He knows nothing of Van Seddar.”
“I thought Van Seddar was going next week.”
“He was. But now he must get off by the next boat. One or other of us must slip round with the stone to Lime Street and tell him.”
“But the false bottom ain’t ready.”
“Well, he must take it as it is and chance it. There’s not a moment to lose.” Again, with the sense of danger which becomes an instinct with the sportsman, he paused and looked hard at the window. Yes, it was surely from the street that the faint sound had come.
“As to Holmes,” he continued, “we can fool him easily enough. You see, the damned fool won’t arrest us if he can get the stone. Well, we’ll promise him the stone. We’ll put him on the wrong track about it, and before he finds that it is the wrong track it will be in Holland and we out of the country.”
“That sounds good to me!” cried Sam Merton with a grin.
“You go on and tell the Dutchman to get a move on him. I’ll see this sucker and fill him up with a bogus confession. I’ll tell him that the stone is in Liverpool. Confound that whining music; it gets on my nerves! By the time he finds it isn’t in Liverpool it will be in quarters and we on the blue water. Come back here, out of a line with that keyhole. Here is the stone.”
“I wonder you dare carry it.”
“Where could I have it safer? If we could take it out of Whitehall someone else could surely take it out of my lodgings.”
“Let’s have a look at it.”
Count Sylvius cast a somewhat unflattering glance at his associate and disregarded the unwashed hand which was extended towards him.
“What–d’ye think I’m going to snatch it off you? See here, mister, I’m getting a bit tired of your ways.”
“Well, well, no offence, Sam. We can’t afford to quarrel. Come over to the window if you want to see the beauty properly. Now hold it to the light! Here!”
“Thank you!”
With a single spring Holmes had leaped from the dummy’s chair and had grasped the precious jewel. He held it now in one hand, while his other pointed a revolver at the Count’s head. The two villains staggered back in utter amazement. Before they had recovered Holmes had pressed the electric bell.
“No violence, gentlemen–no violence, I beg of you! Consider the furniture! It must be very clear to you that your position is an impossible one. The police are waiting below.”
The Count’s bewilderment overmastered his rage and fear.
“But how the deuce—?” he gasped.
“Your surprise is very natural. You are not aware that a second door from my bedroom leads behind that curtain. I fancied that you must have heard me when I displaced the figure, but luck was on my side. It gave me a chance of listening to your racy conversation which would have been painfully constrained had you been aware of my presence.”
The Count gave a gesture of resignation.
“We give you best, Holmes. I believe you are the devil himself.”
“Not far from him, at any rate,” Holmes answered with a polite smile.
Sam Merton’s slow intellect had only gradually appreciated the situation. Now, as the sound of heavy steps came from the stairs outside, he broke silence at last.
“A fair cop!” said he. “But, I say, what about that bloomin’ fiddle! I hear it yet.”
“Tut, tut!” Holmes answered. “You are perfectly right. Let it play! These modern gramophones are a remarkable invention.”
There was an inrush of police, the handcuffs clicked and the criminals were led to the waiting cab. Watson lingered with Holmes, congratulating him upon this fresh leaf added to his laurels. Once more their conversation was interrupted by the imperturbable Billy with his card-tray.
“Lord Cantlemere, sir.”
“Show him up, Billy. This is the eminent peer who represents the very highest interests,” said Holmes. “He is an excellent and loyal person, but rather of the old régime. Shall we make him unbend? Dare we venture upon a slight liberty? He knows, we may conjecture, not
hing of what has occurred.”
The door opened to admit a thin, austere figure with a hatchet face and drooping mid-Victorian whiskers of a glossy blackness which hardly corresponded with the rounded shoulders and feeble gait. Holmes advanced affably, and shook an unresponsive hand.
“How do you do, Lord Cantlemere? It is chilly for the time of year, but rather warm indoors. May I take your overcoat?”
“No, I thank you; I will not take it off.”
Holmes laid his hand insistently upon the sleeve.
“Pray allow me! My friend Dr. Watson would assure you that these changes of temperature are most insidious.”
His Lordship shook himself free with some impatience.
“I am quite comfortable, sir. I have no need to stay. I have simply looked in to know how your self-appointed task was progressing.”
“It is difficult–very difficult.”
“I feared that you would find it so.”
There was a distinct sneer in the old courtier’s words and manner.
“Every man finds his limitations, Mr. Holmes, but at least it cures us of the weakness of self-satisfaction.”
“Yes, sir, I have been much perplexed.”
“No doubt.”
“Especially upon one point. Possibly you could help me upon it?”
“You apply for my advice rather late in the day. I thought that you had your own all-sufficient methods. Still, I am ready to help you.”
“You see, Lord Cantlemere, we can no doubt frame a case against the actual thieves.”
“When you have caught them.”
“Exactly. But the question is–how shall we proceed against the receiver?”
“Is this not rather premature?”
“It is as well to have our plans ready. Now, what would you regard as final evidence against the receiver?”
“The actual possession of the stone.”
“You would arrest him upon that?”
“Most undoubtedly.”
Holmes seldom laughed, but he got as near it as his old friend Watson could remember.
“In that case, my dear sir, I shall be under the painful necessity of advising your arrest.”
Lord Cantlemere was very angry. Some of the ancient fires flickered up into his sallow cheeks.
“You take a great liberty, Mr. Holmes. In fifty years of official life I cannot recall such a case. I am a busy man, sir, engaged upon important affairs, and I have no time or taste for foolish jokes. I may tell you frankly, sir, that I have never been a believer in your powers, and that I have always been of the opinion that the matter was far safer in the hands of the regular police force. Your conduct confirms all my conclusions. I have the honour, sir, to wish you good-evening.”
Holmes had swiftly changed his position and was between the peer and the door.
“One moment, sir,” said he. “To actually go off with the Mazarin stone would be a more serious offence than to be found in temporary possession of it.”
“Sir, this is intolerable! Let me pass.”
“Put your hand in the right-hand pocket of your overcoat.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“Come–come, do what I ask.”
An instant later the amazed peer was standing, blinking and stammering, with the great yellow stone on his shaking palm.
“What! What! How is this, Mr. Holmes?”
“Too bad, Lord Cantlemere, too bad!” cried Holmes. “My old friend here will tell you that I have an impish habit of practical joking. Also that I can never resist a dramatic situation. I took the liberty–the very great liberty, I admit–of putting the stone into your pocket at the beginning of our interview.”
The old peer stared from the stone to the smiling face before him.
“Sir, I am bewildered. But–yes–it is indeed the Mazarin stone. We are greatly your debtors, Mr. Holmes. Your sense of humour may, as you admit, be somewhat perverted, and its exhibition remarkably untimely, but at least I withdraw any reflection I have made upon your amazing professional powers. But how—”
“The case is but half finished; the details can wait. No doubt, Lord Cantlemere, your pleasure in telling of this successful result in the exalted circle to which you return will be some small atonement for my practical joke. Billy, you will show his Lordship out, and tell Mrs. Hudson that I should be glad if she would send up dinner for two as soon as possible.”
THE ADVENTURE OF THE THREE GABLES
I DON’T THINK that any of my adventures with Mr. Sherlock Holmes opened quite so abruptly, or so dramatically, as that which I associate with The Three Gables. I had not seen Holmes for some days and had no idea of the new channel into which his activities had been directed. He was in a chatty mood that morning, however, and had just settled me into the well-worn low armchair on one side of the fire, while he had curled down with his pipe in his mouth upon the opposite chair, when our visitor arrived. If I had said that a mad bull had arrived it would give a clearer impression of what occurred.
The door had flown open and a huge negro had burst into the room. He would have been a comic figure if he had not been terrific, for he was dressed in a very loud gray check suit with a flowing salmon-coloured tie. His broad face and flattened nose were thrust forward, as his sullen dark eyes, with a smouldering gleam of malice in them, turned from one of us to the other.
“Which of you gen’l’men is Masser Holmes?” he asked.
Holmes raised his pipe with a languid smile.
“Oh! it’s you, is it?” said our visitor, coming with an unpleasant, stealthy step round the angle of the table. “See here, Masser Holmes, you keep your hands out of other folks’ business. Leave folks to manage their own affairs. Got that, Masser Holmes?”
“Keep on talking,” said Holmes. “It’s fine.”
“Oh! it’s fine, is it?” growled the savage. “It won’t be so damn fine if I have to trim you up a bit. I’ve handled your kind before now, and they didn’t look fine when I was through with them. Look at that, Masser Holmes!”
He swung a huge knotted lump of a fist under my friend’s nose. Holmes examined it closely with an air of great interest. “Were you born so?” he asked. “Or did it come by degrees?”
It may have been the icy coolness of my friend, or it may have been the slight clatter which I made as I picked up the poker. In any case, our visitor’s manner became less flamboyant.
“Well, I’ve given you fair warnin’,” said he. “I’ve a friend that’s interested out Harrow way–you know what I’m meaning–and he don’t intend to have no buttin’ in by you. Got that? You ain’t the law, and I ain’t the law either, and if you come in I’ll be on hand also. Don’t you forget it.”
“I’ve wanted to meet you for some time,” said Holmes. “I won’t ask you to sit down, for I don’t like the smell of you, but aren’t you Steve Dixie, the bruiser?”
“That’s my name, Masser Holmes, and you’ll get put through it for sure if you give me any lip.”
“It is certainly the last thing you need,” said Holmes, staring at our visitor’s hideous mouth. “But it was the killing of young Perkins outside the Holborn Bar—What! you’re not going?”
The negro had sprung back, and his face was leaden. “I won’t listen to no such talk,” said he. “What have I to do with this ’ere Perkins, Masser Holmes? I was trainin’ at the Bull Ring in Birmingham when this boy done gone get into trouble.”
“Yes, you’ll tell the magistrate about it, Steve,” said Holmes. “I’ve been watching you and Barney Stockdale—”
“So help me the Lord! Masser Holmes—”
“That’s enough. Get out of it. I’ll pick you up when I want you.”
“Good-mornin’, Masser Holmes. I hope there ain’t no hard feelin’s about this ’ere visit?”
“There will be unless you tell me who sent you.”
“Why, there ain’t no secret about that, Masser Holmes. It was that same gen’l’man that you have just done gone mention.�
��
“And who set him on to it?”
“S’elp me. I don’t know, Masser Holmes. He just say, ‘Steve, you go see Mr. Holmes, and tell him his life ain’t safe if he go down Harrow way.’ That’s the whole truth.” Without waiting for any further questioning, our visitor bolted out of the room almost as precipitately as he had entered. Holmes knocked out the ashes of his pipe with a quiet chuckle.
“I am glad you were not forced to break his woolly head, Watson. I observed your manœuvres with the poker. But he is really rather a harmless fellow, a great muscular, foolish, blustering baby, and easily cowed, as you have seen. He is one of the Spencer John gang and has taken part in some dirty work of late which I may clear up when I have time. His immediate principal, Barney, is a more astute person. They specialize in assaults, intimidation, and the like. What I want to know is, who is at the back of them on this particular occasion?”
“But why do they want to intimidate you?”
“It is this Harrow Weald case. It decides me to look into the matter, for if it is worth anyone’s while to take so much trouble, there must be something in it.”
“But what is it?”
“I was going to tell you when we had this comic interlude. Here is Mrs. Maberley’s note. If you care to come with me we will wire her and go out at once.”
DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES [I read]:
I have had a succession of strange incidents occur to me in connection with this house, and I should much value your advice. You would find me at home any time to-morrow. The house is within a short walk of the Weald Station. I believe that my late husband, Mortimer Maberley, was one of your early clients.
Yours faithfully,
MARY MABERLEY.
The address was “The Three Gables, Harrow Weald.”
“So that’s that!” said Holmes. “And now, if you can spare the time, Watson, we will get upon our way.”
A short railway journey, and a shorter drive, brought us to the house, a brick and timber villa, standing in its own acre of undeveloped grassland. Three small projections above the upper windows made a feeble attempt to justify its name. Behind was a grove of melancholy, half-grown pines, and the whole aspect of the place was poor and depressing. None the less, we found the house to be well furnished, and the lady who received us was a most engaging elderly person, who bore every mark of refinement and culture.
The Complete Sherlock Holmes Page 177
