The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone by Arthur Conan Doyle (howl and other poems .TXT) 📖

head and the collar of the dressing-gown which projected above the armchair in the window. At first his expression was one of pure amazement. Then the light of a horrible hope gleamed in his dark, murderous eyes. He took one more glance round to see that there were no witnesses, and then, on tiptoe, his thick stick half raised, he approached the silent figure. He was crouching for his final spring and blow when a cool, sardonic voice greeted him from the open bedroom door:

“Don’t break it, Count! Don’t break it!”

The assassin staggered back, amazement in his convulsed face. For an instant he half raised his loaded cane once more, as if he would turn his violence from the effigy to the original; but there was something in that steady gray eye and mocking smile which caused his hand to sink to his side.

“It’s a pretty little thing,” said Holmes, advancing towards the image. “Tavernier, the French modeller, made it. He is as good at waxworks as your friend Straubenzee is at air-guns.”

“Air-guns, sir! What do you mean?”

“Put your hat and stick on the side-table. Thank you! Pray take a seat. Would you care to put your revolver out also? Oh, very good, if you prefer to sit upon it. Your visit is really most opportune, for I wanted badly to have a few minutes’ chat with you. “

The Count scowled, with heavy, threatening eyebrows.

“I, too, wished to have some words with you, Holmes. That is why I am here. I won’t deny that I intended to assault you just now.”

Holmes swung his leg on the edge of the table.

“I rather gathered that you had some idea of the sort in your head,” said he. “But why these personal attentions?”

“Because you have gone out of your way to annoy me. Because you have put your creatures upon my track.”

“My creatures! I assure you no!”

“Nonsense! I have had them followed. Two can play at that game, Holmes.”

“It is a small point, Count Sylvius, but perhaps you would kindly give me my prefix when you address me. You can understand that, with my routine of work, I should find myself on familiar terms with half the rogues’ gallery, and you will agree that exceptions are invidious.”

“Well, Mr. Holmes, then.”

“Excellent! But I assure you you are mistaken about my alleged agents.”

Count Sylvius laughed contemptuously.

“Other people can observe as well as you. Yesterday there was an old sporting man. To-day it was an elderly woman. They held me in view all day.”

“Really, sir, you compliment me. Old Baron Dowson said the night before he was hanged that in my case what the law had gained the stage had lost. And now you give my little impersonations your kindly praise?”

“It was you — you yourself?”

Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “You can see in the corner the parasol which you so politely handed to me in the Minories before you began to suspect.”

“If I had known, you might never —”

“Have seen this humble home again. I was well aware of it. We all have neglected opportunities to deplore. As it happens, you did not know, so here we are!”

The Count’s knotted brows gathered more heavily over his menacing eyes. “What you say only makes the matter worse. It was not your agents but your play-acting, busybody self! You admit that you have dogged me. Why?”

“Come now, Count. You used to shoot lions in Algeria.”

“Well?”

“But why?”

“Why? The sport — the excitement — the danger!”

“And, no doubt, to free the country from a pest?”

“Exactly!”

“My reasons in a nutshell!”

The Count sprang to his feet, and his hand involuntarily moved back to his hip-pocket.

“Sit down, sir, sit down! There was another, more practical, reason. I want that yellow diamond!”

Count Sylvius lay back in his chair with an evil smile.

“Upon my word!” said he.

“You knew that I was after you for that. The real reason why you are here to-night is to find out how much I know about the matter and how far my removal is absolutely essential. Well, I should say that, from your point of view, it is absolutely essential, for I know all about it, save only one thing, which you are about to tell me.”

“Oh, indeed! And pray, what is this missing fact?”

“Where the Crown diamond now is.”

The Count looked sharply at his companion. “Oh, you want to know that, do you? How the devil should I be able to tell you where it is?”

“You can, and you will.”

“Indeed!”

“You can’t bluff me, Count Sylvius.” Holmes’s eyes, as he gazed at him, contracted and lightened until they were like two menacing points of steel. “You are absolute plate-glass. I see to the very back of your mind.”

“Then, of course, you see where the diamond is!”

Holmes clapped his hands with amusement, and then pointed a derisive finger. “Then you do know. You have admitted it!”

“I admit nothing.”

“Now, Count, if you will be reasonable we can do business. If not, you will get hurt.”

Count Sylvius threw up his eyes to the ceiling. “And you talk about bluff!” said he.

Holmes looked at him thoughtfully like a master chess-player who meditates his crowning move. Then he threw open the table drawer and drew out a squat notebook.

“Do you know what I keep in this book?”

“No, sir, I do not!”

“You!”

“Me!”

“Yes, sir, you! You are all here — every action of yor vile and dangerous life.”

“Damn you, Holmes!” cried the Count with blazing eyes. “There are limits to my patience!”

“It’s all here, Count. The real facts as to the death of old Mrs. Harold, who left you the Blymer estate, which you so rapidly gambled away.”

“You are dreaming!”

“And the complete life history of Miss Minnie Warrender.”

“Tut! You will make nothing of that!”

“Plenty more here, Count. Here is the robbery in the train de-luxe to the Riviera on February 13, 1892. Here is the forged check in the same year on the Credit Lyonnais.”

“No, you’re wrong there.”

“Then I am right on the others! Now, Count, you are a card-player. When the other fellow has all the trumps, it saves time to throw down your hand.”

“What has all this talk to do with the jewel of which you spoke?”

“Gently, Count. Restrain that eager mind! Let me get to the points in my own humdrum fashion. I have all this against you; but, above all, I have a clear case against both you and your fighting bully in the case of the Crown diamond.”

“Indeed!”

“I have the cabman who took you to Whitehall and the cabman who brought you away. I have the commissionaire who saw you near the case. I have Ikey Sanders, who refused to cut it up for you. Ikey has peached, and the game is up.”

The veins stood out on the Count’s forehead. His dark, hairy hands were clenched in a convulsion of restrained emotion. He tried to speak, but the words would not shape themselves.

“That’s the hand I play from,” said Holmes. “I put it all upon the table. But one card is missing. It’s the king of diamonds. I don’t know where the stone is.”

“You never shall know.”

“No? Now, be reasonable, Count. Consider the situation. You are going to be locked up for twenty years. So is Sam Merton. What good are you going to get out of your diamond? None in the world. But if you hand it over — well, I’ll compound a felony. We don’t want you or Sam. We want the stone. Give that up, and so far as I am concerned you can go free so long as you behave yourself in the future. If you make another slip well, it will be the last. But this time my commission is to get the stone, not you.”

“But if I refuse?”

“Why, then — alas! — it must be you and not the stone.”

Billy had appeared in answer to a ring.

“I think, Count, that it would be as well to have your friend Sam at this conference. After all, his interests should be represented. Billy, you will see a large and ugly gentleman outside the front door. Ask him to come up.”

“If he won’t come, sir?”

“No violence, Billy. Don’t be rough with him. If you tell him that Count Sylvius wants him he will certainly come.”

“What are you going to do now?” asked the Count as Billy disappeared.

“My friend Watson was with me just now. I told him that I had a shark and a gudgeon in my net; now I am drawing the net and up they come together.”

The Count had risen from his chair, and his hand was behind his back. Holmes held something half protruding from the pocket of his dressing-gown.

“You won’t die in your bed, Holmes.”

“I have often had the same idea. Does it matter very much? After all, Count, your own exit is more likely to be perpendicular than horizontal. But these anticipations of the future are morbid. Why not give ourselves up to the unrestrained enjoyment of the present?”

A sudden wild-beast light sprang up in the dark, menacing eyes of the master criminal. Holmes’s figure seemed to grow taller as he grew tense and ready.

“It is no use your fingering your revolver, my friend,” he said in a quiet voice. “You know perfectly well that you dare not use it, even if I gave you time to draw it. Nasty, noisy things, revolvers, Count. Better stick to air-guns. Ah! I think I hear the fairy footstep of your estimable partner. Good day, Mr. Merton. Rather dull in the street, is it not?”

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.”