The Adventure of the Dying Detective

by Arthur Conan Doyle

at the silentfigure in the bed. His face was almost covered by the clothes and heappeared to be asleep. Then, unable to settle down to reading, Iwalked slowly round the room, examining the pictures of celebratedcriminals with which every wall was adorned. Finally, in my aimlessperambulation, I came to the mantelpiece. A litter of pipes,tobacco-pouches, syringes, penknives, revolver-cartridges, and otherdebris was scattered over it. In the midst of these was a small blackand white ivory box with a sliding lid. It was a neat little thing,and I had stretched out my hand to examine it more closely, when----

  It was a dreadful cry that he gave--a yell which might have been hearddown the street. My skin went cold and my hair bristled at thathorrible scream. As I turned I caught a glimpse of a convulsed faceand frantic eyes. I stood paralyzed, with the little box in my hand.

  "Put it down! Down, this instant, Watson--this instant, I say!" Hishead sank back upon the pillow and he gave a deep sigh of relief as Ireplaced the box upon the mantelpiece. "I hate to have my thingstouched, Watson. You know that I hate it. You fidget me beyondendurance. You, a doctor--you are enough to drive a patient into anasylum. Sit down, man, and let me have my rest!"

  The incident left a most unpleasant impression upon my mind. Theviolent and causeless excitement, followed by this brutality of speech,so far removed from his usual suavity, showed me how deep was thedisorganization of his mind. Of all ruins, that of a noble mind is themost deplorable. I sat in silent dejection until the stipulated timehad passed. He seemed to have been watching the clock as well as I,for it was hardly six before he began to talk with the same feverishanimation as before.

  "Now, Watson," said he. "Have you any change in your pocket?"

  "Yes."

  "Any silver?"

  "A good deal."

  "How many half-crowns?"

  "I have five."

  "Ah, too few! Too few! How very unfortunate, Watson! However, suchas they are you can put them in your watchpocket. And all the rest ofyour money in your left trouser pocket. Thank you. It will balance youso much better like that."

  This was raving insanity. He shuddered, and again made a sound betweena cough and a sob.

  "You will now light the gas, Watson, but you will be very careful thatnot for one instant shall it be more than half on. I implore you to becareful, Watson. Thank you, that is excellent. No, you need not drawthe blind. Now you will have the kindness to place some letters andpapers upon this table within my reach. Thank you. Now some of thatlitter from the mantelpiece. Excellent, Watson! There is a sugar-tongsthere. Kindly raise that small ivory box with its assistance. Placeit here among the papers. Good! You can now go and fetch Mr.Culverton Smith, of 13 Lower Burke Street."

  To tell the truth, my desire to fetch a doctor had somewhat weakened,for poor Holmes was so obviously delirious that it seemed dangerous toleave him. However, he was as eager now to consult the person named ashe had been obstinate in refusing.

  "I never heard the name," said I.

  "Possibly not, my good Watson. It may surprise you to know that theman upon earth who is best versed in this disease is not a medical man,but a planter. Mr. Culverton Smith is a well-known resident ofSumatra, now visiting London. An outbreak of the disease upon hisplantation, which was distant from medical aid, caused him to study ithimself, with some rather far-reaching consequences. He is a verymethodical person, and I did not desire you to start before six,because I was well aware that you would not find him in his study. Ifyou could persuade him to come here and give us the benefit of hisunique experience of this disease, the investigation of which has beenhis dearest hobby, I cannot doubt that he could help me."

  I gave Holmes's remarks as a consecutive whole and will not attempt toindicate how they were interrupted by gaspings for breath and thoseclutchings of his hands which indicated the pain from which he wassuffering. His appearance had changed for the worse during the fewhours that I had been with him. Those hectic spots were morepronounced, the eyes shone more brightly out of darker hollows, and acold sweat glimmered upon his brow. He still retained, however, thejaunty gallantry of his speech. To the last gasp he would always be themaster.

  "You will tell him exactly how you have left me," said he. "You willconvey the very impression which is in your own mind--a dying man--adying and delirious man. Indeed, I cannot think why the whole bed ofthe ocean is not one solid mass of oysters, so prolific the creaturesseem. Ah, I am wandering! Strange how the brain controls the brain!What was I saying, Watson?"

  "My directions for Mr. Culverton Smith."

  "Ah, yes, I remember. My life depends upon it. Plead with him,Watson. There is no good feeling between us. His nephew, Watson--Ihad suspicions of foul play and I allowed him to see it. The boy diedhorribly. He has a grudge against me. You will soften him, Watson.Beg him, pray him, get him here by any means. He can save me--only he!"

  "I will bring him in a cab, if I have to carry him down to it."

  "You will do nothing of the sort. You will persuade him to come. Andthen you will return in front of him. Make any excuse so as not tocome with him. Don't forget, Watson. You won't fail me. You never didfail me. No doubt there are natural enemies which limit the increaseof the creatures. You and I, Watson, we have done our part. Shall theworld, then, be overrun by oysters? No, no; horrible! You'll conveyall that is in your mind."

  I left him full of the image of this magnificent intellect babblinglike a foolish child. He had handed me the key, and with a happythought I took it with me lest he should lock himself in. Mrs. Hudsonwas waiting, trembling and weeping, in the passage. Behind me as Ipassed from the flat I heard Holmes's high, thin voice in somedelirious chant. Below, as I stood whistling for a cab, a man came onme through the fog.

  "How is Mr. Holmes, sir?" he asked.

  It was an old acquaintance, Inspector Morton, of Scotland Yard, dressedin unofficial tweeds.

  "He is very ill," I answered.

  He looked at me in a most singular fashion. Had it not been toofiendish, I could have imagined that the gleam of the fanlight showedexultation in his face.

  "I heard some rumour of it," said he.

  The cab had driven up, and I left him.

  Lower Burke Street proved to be a line of fine houses lying in thevague borderland between Notting Hill and Kensington. The particularone at which my cabman pulled up had an air of smug and demurerespectability in its old-fashioned iron railings, its massivefolding-door, and its shining brasswork. All was in keeping with asolemn butler who appeared framed in the pink radiance of a tintedelectrical light behind him.

  "Yes, Mr. Culverton Smith is in. Dr. Watson! Very good, sir, I willtake up your card."

  My humble name and title did not appear to impress Mr. Culverton Smith.Through the half-open door I heard a high, petulant, penetrating voice.

  "Who is this person? What does he want? Dear me, Staples, how oftenhave I said that I am not to be disturbed in my hours of study?"

  There came a gentle flow of soothing explanation from the butler.

  "Well, I won't see him, Staples. I can't have my work interrupted likethis. I am not at home. Say so. Tell him to come in the morning ifhe really must see me."

  Again the gentle murmur.

  "Well, well, give him that message. He can come in the morning, or hecan stay away. My work must not be hindered."

  I thought of Holmes tossing upon his bed of sickness and counting theminutes, perhaps, until I could bring help to him. It was not a timeto stand upon ceremony. His life depended upon my promptness. Beforethe apologetic butler had delivered his message I had pushed past himand was in the room.

  With a shrill cry of anger a man rose from a reclining chair beside thefire. I saw a great yellow face, coarse-grained and greasy, withheavy, double-chin, and two sullen, menacing gray eyes which glared atme from under tufted and sandy brows. A high bald head had a smallvelvet smoking-cap poised coquettishly upon one side of its pink curve.The skull was of
enormous capacity, and yet as I looked down I saw tomy amazement that the figure of the man was small and frail, twisted inthe shoulders and back like one who has suffered from rickets in hischildhood.

  "What's this?" he cried in a high, screaming voice. "What is themeaning of this intrusion? Didn't I send you word that I would see youto-morrow morning?"

  "I am sorry," said I, "but the matter cannot be delayed. Mr. SherlockHolmes--"

  The mention of my friend's name had an extraordinary effect upon thelittle man. The look of anger passed in an instant from his face. Hisfeatures became tense and alert.

  "Have you come from Holmes?" he asked.

  "I have just left him."

  "What about Holmes? How is he?"

  "He is desperately ill. That is why I have