Sherlock Holmes. The Complete Stories

by Arthur Conan Doyle

  "They arrived last week."

  "But you said — why, surely this might be the missing link. How do we know that there is not something of value there?"

  "There could not possibly be, Mr. Holmes. Poor Douglas had only his pay and a small annuity. What could he have of value?"

  Holmes was lost in thought.

  "Delay no longer, Mrs. Maberley," he said at last. "Have these things taken upstairs to your bedroom. Examine them as soon as possible and see what they cohtain. I will come tomorrow and hear your report."

  It was quite evident that The Three Gables was under very close surveillance, for as we came round the high hedge at the end of the lane there was the negro prize-fighter standing in the shadow. We came on him quite suddenly, and a grim and menacing figure he looked in that lonely place. Holmes clapped his hand to his pocket.

  "Lookin' for your gun, Masser Holmes?"

  "No, for my scent-bottle, Steve."

  "You are funny, Masser Holmes, ain't you?"

  "It won't be funny for you, Steve, if I get after you. I gave you fair warning this morning."

  "Well, Masser Holmes, I done gone think over what you said, and I don't want no more talk about that affair of Masser Perkins. S'pose I can help you, Masser Holmes, I will."

  "Well, then, tell me who is behind you on this job."

  "So help me the Lord! Masser Holmes, I told you the truth before. I don't know. My boss Barney gives me orders and that's all."

  "Well, just bear in mind, Steve, that the lady in that house, and everything under that roof, is under my protection. Don't forget it."

  "All right, Masser Holmes. I'll remember."

  "I've got him thoroughly frightened for his own skin, Watson," Holmes remarked as we walked on. "I think he would double-cross his employer if he knew who he was. It was lucky I had some knowledge of the Spencer John crowd, and that Steve was one of them. Now, Watson, this is a case for Langdale Pike, and I am going to see him now. When I get back I may be clearer in the matter."

  I saw no more of Holmes during the day, but I could well imagine how he spent it, for Langdale Pike was his human book of reference upon all matters of social scandal. This strange, languid creature spent his waking hours in the bow window of a St. James's Street club and was the receiving-station as well as the transmitter for all the gossip of the metropolis. He made, it was said, a four-figure income by the paragraphs which he contributed every week to the garbage papers which cater to an inquisitive public. If ever, far down in the turbid depths of London life, there was some strange swirl or eddy, it was marked with automatic exactness by this human dial upon the surface. Holmes discreetly helped Langdale to knowledge, and on occasion was helped in turn.

  When I met my friend in his room early next morning, I was conscious from his bearing that all was well, but none the less a most unpleasant surprise was awaiting us. It took the shape of the following telegram.

  Please come out at once. Client's house burgled in the night. Police in possession.

  SUTRO.

  Holmes whistled. "The drama has come to a crisis, and quicker than I had expected. There is a great driving-power at the back of this business, Watson, which does not surprise me after what I have heard. This Sutro, of course, is her lawyer. I made a mistake, I fear, in not asking you to spend the night on guard. This fellow has clearly proved a broken reed. Well, there is nothing for it but another journey to Harrow Weald."

  We found The Three Gables a very different establishment to the orderly household of the previous day. A small group of idlers had assembled at the garden gate, while a couple of constables were examining the windows and the geranium beds. Within we met a grey old gentleman, who introduced himself as the lawyer together with a bustling, rubicund inspector, who greeted Hoimes as an old friend.

  "Well, Mr. Holmes, no chance for you in this case, I'm afraid. Just a common, ordinary burglary, and well within the capacity of the poor old police. No experts need apply."

  "I am sure the case is in very good hands," said Holmes. "Merely a common burglary, you say?"

  "Quite so. We know pretty well who the men are and where to find them. It is that gang of Barney Stockdale, with the big nigger in it— they've been seen about here."

  "Excellent! What did they get?"

  "Well, they don't seem to have got much. Mrs. Maberley was chloroformed and the house was — Ah! here is the lady herself."

  Our friend of yesterday, looking very pale and ill, had entered the room, leaning upon a little maidservant.

  "You gave me good advice, Mr. Holmes," said she, smiling ruefully. "Alas, I did not take it! I did not wish to trouble Mr. Sutro, and so I was unprotected."

  "I only heard of it this morning," the lawyer explained.

  "Mr. Holmes advised me to have some friend in the house. I neglected his advice, and I have paid for it."

  "You look wretchedly ill," said Holmes. "Perhaps you are hardly equal to telling me what occurred."

  "It is all here," said the inspector, tapping a bulky notebook.

  "Still, if the lady is not too exhausted—"

  "There is really so little to tell. I have no doubt that wicked Susan had planned an entrance for them. They must have known the house to an inch. I was conscious for a moment of the chloroform rag which was thrust over my mouth, but I have no notion how long I may have been senseless. When I woke, one man was at the bedside and another was rising with a bundle in his hand from among my son's baggage, which was partially opened and littered over the floor. Before he could get away I sprang up and seized him."

  "You took a big risk," said the inspector.

  "I clung to him, but he shook me off, and the other may have struck me, for I can remember no more. Mary the maid heard the noise and began screaming out of the window. That brought the police, but the rascals had got away."

  "What did they take?"

  "Well, I don't think there is anything of value missing. I am sure there was nothing in my son's trunks."

  "Did the men leave no clue?"

  "There was one sheet of paper which I may have torn from the man that I grasped. It was lying all crumpled on the floor. It is in my son's handwriting."

  "Which means that it is not of much use," said the inspector. "Now if it had been in the burglar's—"

  "Exactly," said Holmes. "What rugged common sense! None the less, I should be curious to see it."

  The inspector drew a folded sheet of foolscap from his pocketbook.

  "I never pass anything, however trifling," said he with some pomposity. "That is my advice to you, Mr. Holmes. In twentyfive years' experience I have learned my lesson. There is always the chance of finger-marks or something."

  Holmes inspected the sheet of paper.

  "What do you make of it, Inspector?"

  "Seems to be the end of some queer novel, so far as I can see."

  "It may certainly prove to be the end of a queer tale," said Holmes. "You have noticed the number on the top of the page. It is two hundred and forty-five. Where are the odd two hundred and forty-four pages?"

  "Well, I suppose the burglars got those. Much good may it do them!"

  "It seems a queer thing to break into a house in order to steal such papers as that. Does it suggest anything to you, Inspector?"

  "Yes, sir, it suggests that in their hurry the rascals just grabbed at what came first to hand. I wish them joy of what they got."

  "Why should they go to my son's things?" asked Mrs. Maberley.

  "Well, they found nothing valuable downstairs, so they tried their luck upstairs. That is how I read it. What do you make of it, Mr. Holmes?"

  "I must think it over, Inspector. Come to the window, Watson." Then, as we stood together, he read over the fragment of paper. It began in the middle of a sentence and ran like this:

  "…face bled considerably from the cuts and blows, but it was nothing to the bleeding of his heart as he saw that lovely face, the face for which he had been prepared to sacrifice his very life,
looking out at his agony and humiliation. She smiled — yes, by Heaven! she smiled, like the heartless fiend she was, as he looked up at her. It was at that moment that love died and hate was born. Man must live for something. If it is not for your embrace, my lady, then it shall surely be for your undoing and my complete revenge."

  "Queer grammar!" said Holmes with a smile as he handed the paper back to the inspector. "Did you notice how the 'he' suddenly changed to 'my'? The writer was so carried away by his own story that he imagined himself at the supreme moment to be the hero."

  "It seemed mighty poor stuff," said the inspector as he replaced it in his book. "What! are you off, Mr. Holmes?"

  "I don't think there is anything more for me to do now that the case is in such capable hands. By the way, Mrs. Maberley, did you say you wished to travel?"

  "It has always been my dream, Mr. Holmes."

  "Where would you like to go — Cairo, Madeira, the Riviera?"

  "Oh if I had the money I would go round the world."

  "Quite so. Round the world. Well, good-morning. I may drop you a line in the evening." As we passed the window I caught a glimpse of the inspector's smile and shake of the head. "These clever fellows have always a touch of madness." That was what I read in the inspector's smile.

  "Now, Watson, we are at the last lap of our little journey," said Holmes when we were back in the roar of central London once more. "I think we had best clear the matter up at once, and it would be well that you should come with me, for it is safer to have a witness when you are dealing with such a lady as Isadora Klein."

  We had taken a cab and were speeding to some address in Grosvenor Square. Holmes had been sunk in thought, but he roused himself suddenly.

  "By the way, Watson, I suppose you see it all clearly?"

  "No, I can't say that I do. I only gather that we are going to see the lady who is behind all this mischief."

  "Exactly! But does the name Isadora Klein convey nothing to you? She was, of course, the celebrated beauty. There was never a woman to touch her. She is pure Spanish, the real blood of the masterfui Conquistadors, and her people have been leaders in Pernambuco for generations. She married the aged German sugar king, Klein, and presently found herself the richest as well as the most lovely widow upon earth. Then there was an interval of adventure when she pleased her own tastes. She had several lovers, and Douglas Maberley, one of the most striking men in London, was one of them. It was by all accounts more than an adventure with him. He was not a society butterfly but a strong, proud man who gave and expected all. But she is the 'belle dame sans merci' of fiction. When her caprice is satisfied the matter is ended, and if the other party in the matter can't take her word for it she knows how to bring it home to him."

  "Then that was his own story—"

  "Ah! you are piecing it together now. I hear that she is about to marry the young Duke of Lomond, who might almost be her son. His Grace's ma might overlook the age, but a big scandal would be a different matter, so it is imperative — Ah! here we are."

  It was one of the finest corner-houses of the West End. A machine-like footman took up our cards and returned with word that the lady was not at home. "Then we shall wait until she is," said Holmes cheerfully.

  The machine broke down.

  "Not at home means not at home to you," said the footman.

  "Good," Holmes answered. "That means that we shall not have to wait. Kindly give this note to your mistress."

  He scribbled three or four words upon a sheet of his notebook, folded it, and handed it to the man.

  "What did you say, Holmes?" I asked.

  "I simply wrote: 'Shall it be the police, then?' I think that should pass us in."

  It did — with amazing celerity. A minute later we were in an Arabian Nights drawing-room, vast and wonderful, in a half gloom, picked out with an occasional pink electric light. The lady had come, I felt, to that time of life when even the proudest beauty finds the half light more welcome. She rose from a settee as we entered: tall, queenly, a perfect figure, a lovely mask-like face, with two wonderful Spanish eyes which looked murder at us both.

  "What is this intrusion — and this insulting message?" she asked, holding up the slip of paper.

  "I need not explain, madame. I have too much respect for your intelligence to do so — though I confess that intelligence has been surprisingly at fault of late."

  "How so, sir?"

  "By supposing that your hired bullies could frighten me from my work. Surely no man would take up my profession if it were not that danger attracts him. It was you, then, who forced me to examine the case of young Maberley."

  "I have no idea what you are talking about. What have I to do with hired bullies?"

  Holmes turned away wearily.

  "Yes, I have underrated your intelligence. Well, good-afternoon!"

  "Stop! Where are you going?"

  "To Scotland Yard."

  We had not got halfway to the door before she had overtaken us and was holding his arm. She had turned in a moment from steel to velvet.

  "Come and sit down, gentlemen. Let us talk this matter over. I feel that I may be frank with you, Mr. Holmes. You have the feelings of a gentleman. How quick a woman's instinct is to find it out. I will treat you as a friend."

  "I cannot promise to reciprocate, madame. I am not the law, but I represent justice so far as my feeble powers go. I am ready to listen, and then I will tell you how I will act."

  "No doubt it was foolish of me to threaten a brave man like yourself."

  "What was really foolish, madame, is that you have placed yourself in the power of a band of rascals who may blackmail or give you away."

  "No, no! I am not so simple. Since I have promised to be frank, I may say that no one, save Barney Stockdale and Susan, his wife, have the least idea who their employer is. As to them, well, it is not the first —" She smiled and nodded with a charming coquettish intimacy.

  "I see. You've tested them before."

  "They are good hounds who run silent."

  "Such hounds have a way sooner or later of biting the hand that feeds them. They will be arrested for this burglary. The police are already after them."

  "They will take what comes to them. That is what they are paid for. I shall not appear in the matter."

  "Unless I bring you into it."

  "No, no, you would not. You are a gentleman. It is a woman's secret."

  "In the first place, you must give back this manuscript."

  She broke into a ripple of laughter and walked to the fireplace. There was a calcined mass which she broke up with the poker. "Shall I give this back?" she asked. So roguish and exquisite did she look as she stood before us with a challenging smile that I felt of all Holmes's criminals this was the one whom he would find it hardest to face. However, he was immune from sentiment.

  "That seals your fate," he said coldly. "You are very prompt in your actions, madame, but you have overdone it on this occasion."

  She threw the poker down with a clatter.

  "How hard you are!" she cried. "May I tell you the whole story?"

  "I fancy I could tell it to you."

  "But you must look at it with my eyes, Mr. Holmes. You must realize it from the point of view of a woman who sees all her life's ambition about to be ruined at the last moment. Is such a woman to be blamed if she protects herself?"

  "The original sin was yours."

  "Yes, yes! I admit it. He was a dear boy, Douglas, but it so chanced that he could not fit into my plans. He wanted marriage — marriage, Mr. Holmes — with a penniless commoner. Nothing less would serve him. Then he became pertinacious. Because I had given he seemed to think that I still must give, and to him only. It was intolerable. At last I had to make him realize it."

  "By hiring ruffians to beat him under your own window."

  "You do indeed seem to know everything. Well, it is true. Barney and the boys drove him away, and were, I admit, a little rough in doing so. But what did he do t
hen? Could I have believed that a gentleman would do such an act? He wrote a book in which he described his own story. I, of course, was the wolf; he the lamb. It was all there, under different names, of course; but who in all London would have failed to recognize it? What do you say to that, Mr. Holmes?"

  "Well, he was within his rights."

  "It was as if the air of Italy had got into his blood and brought with it the old cruel Italian spirit. He wrote to me and sent me a copy of his book that I might have the torture of anticipation. There were two copies, he said — one for me, one for his publisher."

  "How did you know the publisher's had not reached him?"

  "I knew who his publisher was. It is not his only novel, you know. I found out that he had not heard from Italy. Then came Douglas's sudden death. So long as that other manuscript was in the world there was no safety for me. Of course, it must be among his effects, and these would be returned to his mother. I set the gang at work. One of them got into the house as servant. I wanted to do the thing honestly. I really and truly did. I was ready to buy the house and everything in it. I offered any price she cared to ask. I only tried the other way when everything else had failed. Now, Mr. Holmes, granting that I was too hard on Douglas — and, God knows, I am sorry for it! — what else could I do with my whole future at stake?"

  Sherlock Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

  "Well, well," said he, "I suppose I shall have to compound a felony as usual. How much does it cost to go round the world in first-class style?"

  The lady stared in amazement.

  "Could it be done on five thousand pounds?"

  "Well, I should think so, indeed!"

  "Very good. I think you will sign me a check for that, and I will see that it comes to Mrs. Maberley. You owe her a little change of air. Meantime, lady" — he wagged a cautionary forefinger—"have a care! Have a care! You can't play with edged tools forever without cutting those dainty hands."

  X. The Adventure of the Lion's Mane

  It is a most singular thing that a problem which was certainly as abstruse and unusual as any which I have faced in my long professional career should have come to me after my retirement, and be brought, as it were, to my very door. It occurred after my withdrawal to my little Sussex home, when I had given myself up entirely to that soothing life of Nature for which I had so often yearned during the long years spent amid the gloom of London. At this period of my life the good Watson had passed almost beyond my ken. An occasional week-end visit was the most that I ever saw of him. Thus I must act as my own chronicler. Ah! had he but been with me, how much he might have made of so wonderful a happening and of my eventual triumph against every difficulty! As it is, however, I must needs tell my tale in my own plain way, showing by my words each step upon the difficult road which lay before me as I searched for the mystery of the Lion's Mane.