His Last Bow by Arthur Conan Doyle (simple e reader .txt) 📖

>He sprang up and shook me by the hand.

 

“I knew you would not shrink at the last,” said he, and for a

moment I saw something in his eyes which was nearer to tenderness

than I had ever seen. The next instant he was his masterful,

practical self once more.

 

“It is nearly half a mile, but there is no hurry. Let us walk,”

said he. “Don’t drop the instruments, I beg. Your arrest as a

suspicious character would be a most unfortunate complication.”

 

Caulfield Gardens was one of those lines of flat-faced pillared,

and porticoed houses which are so prominent a product of the

middle Victorian epoch in the West End of London. Next door

there appeared to be a children’s party, for the merry buzz of

young voices and the clatter of a piano resounded through the

night. The fog still hung about and screened us with its

friendly shade. Holmes had lit his lantern and flashed it upon

the massive door.

 

“This is a serious proposition,” said he. “It is certainly

bolted as well as locked. We would do better in the area. There

is an excellent archway down yonder in case a too zealous

policeman should intrude. Give me a hand, Watson, and I’ll do

the same for you.”

 

A minute later we were both in the area. Hardly had we reached

the dark shadows before the step of the policeman was heard in

the fog above. As its soft rhythm died away, Holmes set to work

upon the lower door. I saw him stoop and strain until with a

sharp crash it flew open. We sprang through into the dark

passage, closing the area door behind us. Holmes let the way up

the curving, uncarpeted stair. His little fan of yellow light

shone upon a low window.

 

“Here we are, Watson—this must be the one.” He threw it open,

and as he did so there was a low, harsh murmur, growing steadily

into a loud roar as a train dashed past us in the darkness.

Holmes swept his light along the window-sill. It was thickly

coated with soot from the passing engines, but the black surface

was blurred and rubbed in places.

 

“You can see where they rested the body. Halloa, Watson! what is

this? There can be no doubt that it is a blood mark.” He was

pointing to faint discolourations along the woodwork of the

window. “Here it is on the stone of the stair also. The

demonstration is complete. Let us stay here until a train

stops.”

 

We had not long to wait. The very next train roared from the

tunnel as before, but slowed in the open, and then, with a

creaking of brakes, pulled up immediately beneath us. It was not

four feet from the window-ledge to the roof of the carriages.

Holmes softly closed the window.

 

“So far we are justified,” said he. “What do you think of it,

Watson?”

 

“A masterpiece. You have never risen to a greater height.”

 

“I cannot agree with you there. From the moment that I conceived

the idea of the body being upon the roof, which surely was not a

very abstruse one, all the rest was inevitable. If it were not

for the grave interests involved the affair up to this point

would be insignificant. Our difficulties are still before us.

But perhaps we may find something here which may help us.”

 

We had ascended the kitchen stair and entered the suite of rooms

upon the first floor. One was a dining-room, severely furnished

and containing nothing of interest. A second was a bedroom,

which also drew blank. The remaining room appeared more

promising, and my companion settled down to a systematic

examination. It was littered with books and papers, and was

evidently used as a study. Swiftly and methodically Holmes

turned over the contents of drawer after drawer and cupboard

after cupboard, but no gleam of success came to brighten his

austere face. At the end of an hour he was no further than when

he started.

 

“The cunning dog has covered his tracks,” said he. “He has left

nothing to incriminate him. His dangerous correspondence has

been destroyed or removed. This is our last chance.”

 

It was a small tin cash-box which stood upon the writing-desk.

Holmes pried it open with his chisel. Several rolls of paper

were within, covered with figures and calculations, without any

note to show to what they referred. The recurring words, “water

pressure” and “pressure to the square inch” suggested some

possible relation to a submarine. Holmes tossed them all

impatiently aside. There only remained an envelope with some

small newspaper slips inside it. He shook them out on the table,

and at once I saw by his eager face that his hopes had been

raised.

 

“What’s this, Watson? Eh? What’s this? Record of a series of

messages in the advertisements of a paper. Daily Telegraph agony

column by the print and paper. Right-hand top corner of a page.

No dates—but messages arrange themselves. This must be the

first:

 

“Hoped to hear sooner. Terms agreed to. Write fully to address

given on card.

 

“Pierrot.

 

“Next comes:

 

“Too complex for description. Must have full report, Stuff

awaits you when goods delivered.

 

“Pierrot.

 

“Then comes:

 

“Matter presses. Must withdraw offer unless contract completed.

Make appointment by letter. Will confirm by advertisement.

 

“Pierrot.

 

“Finally:

 

“Monday night after nine. Two taps. Only ourselves. Do not be

so suspicious. Payment in hard cash when goods delivered.

 

“Pierrot.

 

“A fairly complete record, Watson! If we could only get at the

man at the other end!” He sat lost in thought, tapping his

fingers on the table. Finally he sprang to his feet.

 

“Well, perhaps it won’t be so difficult, after all. There is

nothing more to be done here, Watson. I think we might drive

round to the offices of the Daily Telegraph, and so bring a good

day’s work to a conclusion.”

 

Mycroft Holmes and Lestrade had come round by appointment after

breakfast next day and Sherlock Holmes had recounted to them our

proceedings of the day before. The professional shook his head

over our confessed burglary.

 

“We can’t do these things in the force, Mr. Holmes,” said he.

“No wonder you get results that are beyond us. But some of these

days you’ll go too far, and you’ll find yourself and your friend

in trouble.”

 

“For England, home and beauty—eh, Watson? Martyrs on the altar

of our country. But what do you think of it, Mycroft?”

 

“Excellent, Sherlock! Admirable! But what use will you make of

it?”

 

Holmes picked up the Daily Telegraph which lay upon the table.

 

“Have you seen Pierrot’s advertisement to-day?”

 

“What? Another one?”

 

“Yes, here it is:

 

“To-night. Same hour. Same place. Two taps. Most vitally

important. Your own safety at stake.

 

“Pierrot.

 

“By George!” cried Lestrade. “If he answers that we’ve got him!”

 

“That was my idea when I put it in. I think if you could both

make it convenient to come with us about eight o’clock to

Caulfield Gardens we might possibly get a little nearer to a

solution.”

 

One of the most remarkable characteristics of Sherlock Holmes was

his power of throwing his brain out of action and switching all

his thoughts on to lighter things whenever he had convinced

himself that he could no longer work to advantage. I remember

that during the whole of that memorable day he lost himself in a

monograph which he had undertaken upon the Polyphonic Motets of

Lassus. For my own part I had none of this power of detachment,

and the day, in consequence, appeared to be interminable. The

great national importance of the issue, the suspense in high

quarters, the direct nature of the experiment which we were

trying—all combined to work upon my nerve. It was a relief to

me when at last, after a light dinner, we set out upon our

expedition. Lestrade and Mycroft met us by appointment at the

outside of Gloucester Road Station. The area door of Oberstein’s

house had been left open the night before, and it was necessary

for me, as Mycroft Holmes absolutely and indignantly declined to

climb the railings, to pass in and open the hall door. By nine

o’clock we were all seated in the study, waiting patently for our

man.

 

An hour passed and yet another. When eleven struck, the measured

beat of the great church clock seemed to sound the dirge of our

hopes. Lestrade and Mycroft were fidgeting in their seats and

looking twice a minute at their watches. Holmes sat silent and

composed, his eyelids half shut, but every sense on the alert.

He raised his head with a sudden jerk.

 

“He is coming,” said he.

 

There had been a furtive step past the door. Now it returned.

We heard a shuffling sound outside, and then two sharp taps with

the knocker. Holmes rose, motioning us to remain seated. The gas

in the hall was a mere point of light. He opened the outer door,

and then as a dark figure slipped past him he closed and fastened

it. “This way!” we heard him say, and a moment later our man

stood before us. Holmes had followed him closely, and as the man

turned with a cry of surprise and alarm he caught him by the

collar and threw him back into the room. Before our prisoner had

recovered his balance the door was shut and Holmes standing with

his back against it. The man glared round him, staggered, and

fell senseless upon the floor. With the shock, his broad-brimmed

hat flew from his head, his cravat slipped sown from his lips,

and there were the long light beard and the soft, handsome

delicate features of Colonel Valentine Walter.

 

Holmes gave a whistle of surprise.

 

“You can write me down an ass this time, Watson,” said he. “This

was not the bird that I was looking for.”

 

“Who is he?” asked Mycroft eagerly.

 

“The younger brother of the late Sir James Walter, the head of

the Submarine Department. Yes, yes; I see the fall of the cards.

He is coming to. I think that you had best leave his examination

to me.”

 

We had carried the prostrate body to the sofa. Now our prisoner

sat up, looked round him with a horror-stricken face, and passed

his hand over his forehead, like one who cannot believe his own

senses.

 

“What is this?” he asked. “I came here to visit Mr. Oberstein.”

 

“Everything is known, Colonel Walter,” said Holmes. “How an

English gentleman could behave in such a manner is beyond my

comprehension. But your whole correspondence and relations with

Oberstein are within our knowledge. So also are the

circumstances connected with the death of young Cadogan West.

Let me advise you to gain at least the small credit for

repentance and confession, since there are still some details

which we can only learn from your lips.”

 

The man groaned and sank his face in his hands. We waited, but

he was silent.

 

“I can assure you,” said Holmes, “that every essential is already

known. We know that you were pressed for money; that you took an

impress of the keys which your brother held; and that you entered

into a correspondence with Oberstein, who answered your letters

through the advertisement columns of the Daily Telegraph. We are

aware that you went down to the office in the fog on Monday

night, but that you were seen and followed by young Cadogan West,

who had probably some previous reason to suspect you. He saw

your theft, but could not give the alarm, as it was just