The Holmes-Dracula File Fred Saberhagen (feel good fiction books txt) 📖

   “These things are all exactly as I found them, Mr. Holmes. Except for looking into the handbag, as I’ve explained, I haven’t touched a thing. I don’t know as this shirt or whatever it is has any connection with the crime at all, but still...”

   Holmes’ only answer was a distracted grunt. He was already in action. At first ignoring the items in the chalked circles, he devoted himself to a methodical inspection of the whole area. At times he bent until his eye was almost in contact with the planks; again, he stood at his full height to examine carefully the rusted metal of the fixed machinery, and the peeling sides of the boathouse.

   Here he suddenly gave a small, sharp cry of triumph, pulled out a pocketknife, and with controlled energy dug into the faded wood at a point a little above eye level. In a minute or two he had extracted a small object, which he held out on his palm for our inspection. It was a bullet, much flattened by the resistance of the stout wooden beam by which its flight had been arrested.

   Before Lestrade or I could offer much in the way of comment upon this discovery, Holmes was off again. For several minutes he squatted beside the boathouse, frowning at some peculiar scratches that I now perceived upon the deck planks there. These suggested to me that the wood had been raked with sharp metal tines, like those of a pitchfork, or perhaps by the claws of some large, strong animal. Holmes measured them carefully with his pocket tape, but said nothing about them at the time.

   Only when he had completed this general survey did Holmes turn to what Lestrade had termed the clues. Of these, the weapon was the first my friend picked up.

   Lestrade said quickly: “Of the Derringer type, as you’ll note, Mr. Holmes. A two-shot model, and it smells as if at least one’s been fired.”

   “That is so.” Holmes had opened the breech, closed it again, and was now scrutinizing the pistol keenly through a small lens he had whipped out of his pocket. “And I observe on it many small scratches, almost randomly distributed; this gun has been carried loose in a handbag or purse, rather than a holster or a man’s pocket, for some considerable period of time.” Handing the gun over to Lestrade, Holmes moved to pick up the purse.

   “I did look into that pretty thoroughly, Mr. Holmes,” said the official detective in a somewhat defensive tone. “There’s precious little in it that’s going to be of any help to us, beyond what I’ve already found. You’ll note that there’s no money left to speak of.”

   Holmes pulled from the purse some sheets of the writing-paper that Lestrade had mentioned earlier. All were blank save for the Great Eastern letterhead. Crouching, Holmes set these down on the damp planking, then pulled out the rest of the purse’s contents. On the paper he placed a small bunch of keys, of which I could see that some were for common locks and some for Chubb’s. After the keys there came some stamps, a few pence and a shilling, and a small handkerchief. That was all.

   Tossing Lestrade the empty purse, Holmes muttered something impatiently, and moved on to pick up and smooth out the crumpled garment. It proved to be a peculiar-looking sort of shirt or gown, which was very damp, and left a wet mark where it had lain upon the lighter dampness of the wood. Holmes with his long fingers held it up by the shoulders, as if intending to measure it against his own spare frame. We all three of us gazed at the garment—my two companions looking rather blankly at it, if I may say so—for some time.

   “I have seen a similar shirt,” I ventured to remark, at length, “used in an institution for the criminally insane. Its design allows changing the dress of very violent patients, without undoing the strong restraints that have been placed upon their limbs. Observe how the sleeves are divided lengthwise, and their sections held together with small cloth ties. This allows the shirt to be put on and taken off while the patient’s wrists remain fettered.”

   “Precisely,” said Holmes in a dry voice. It was his customary way of acknowledging the receipt of some useful bit of information. He turned the shirt round in his hands and sniffed at it.

   “Well, gentlemen, we seem to have the identity of our killer all but settled now.” Lestrade took off his hat, ran a hand through his dark hair, and settled the hat on firmly once again. “It’s a real maniac we’re after—the nature of the wound alone shows that. This shirt shows that he’s just escaped from somewhere, and once we learn where, we’ll have a name and a description, and we’ll also be in a fair way to know where he’s likely to turn up next. Run to a pattern, these lunatics do, as you’re no doubt aware, Doctor.”

   Summoning the constable who had been standing guard, Lestrade issued urgent orders; the man turned and trotted off along the pier toward the shore. The inspector turned back to us. “They’ll have the message at the Yard in a few minutes, and inquiries will be going out by wire at once. Well, Mr. Holmes, it begins to look after all as if there was no need to trouble you with this case... hallo, what is it now?”

   Holmes was staring fixedly at the garment which he still held in his hands. I, at his side, saw with some uneasiness that a tinge of pallor had come into his face, and there raced through my mind an apprehension lest his nervous symptoms of the previous March be recurring. Following his gaze, I discovered its object at the same time as Lestrade,