It was in the spring of the year 1894 that all London was interested, and the
fashionable world dismayed, by the murder of the Honorable Ronald Adair under
most unusual and inexplicable circumstances. The public has already learned
those particulars of the crime which came out in the police investigation,
but a good deal was suppressed upon that occasion, since the case for the prosecution
was so overwhelmingly strong that it was not necessary to bring forward all
the facts. Only now, at the end of nearly ten years, am I allowed to supply
those missing links which make up the whole of that remarkable chain. The crime
was of interest in itself, but that interest was as nothing to me compared
to the inconceivable sequel, which afforded me the greatest shock and surprise
of any event in my adventurous life. Even now, after this long interval, I
find myself thrilling as I think of it, and feeling once more that sudden flood
of joy, amazement, and incredulity which utterly submerged my mind. Let me
say to that public, which has shown some interest in those glimpses which I
have occasionally given them of the thoughts and actions of a very remarkable
man, that they are not to blame me if I have not shared my knowledge with them,
for I should have considered it my first duty to do so, had I not been barred
by a positive prohibition from his own lips, which was only withdrawn upon
the third of last month.
It can be imagined that my close intimacy with
Sherlock Holmes had interested me deeply in crime, and that after his disappearance
I never failed to read with care the various problems which came before the
public. And I even attempted, more than once, for my own private satisfaction,
to employ his methods in their solution, though with indifferent success. There
was none, however, which appealed to me like this tragedy of Ronald Adair.
As I read the evidence at the inquest, which led up to a verdict of willful
murder against some person or persons unknown, I realized more clearly than
I had ever done the loss which the community had sustained by the death of
Sherlock Holmes. There were points about this strange business which would,
I was sure, have specially appealed to him, and the efforts of the police would
have been supplemented, or more probably anticipated, by the trained observation
and the alert mind of the first criminal agent in Europe. All day, as I drove
upon my round, I turned over the case in my mind and found no explanation which
appeared to me to be adequate. At the risk of telling a twice-told tale, I
will recapitulate the facts as they were known to the public at the conclusion
of the inquest.
The Honorable Ronald Adair was the second son
of the Earl of Maynooth, at that time governor of one of the Australian colonies.
Adair's mother had returned from Australia to undergo the operation for cataract,
and she, her son Ronald, and her daughter Hilda were living together at 427
Park Lane. The youth moved in the best society—had, so far as was known,
no enemies and no particular vices. He had been engaged to Miss Edith Woodley,
of Carstairs, but the engagement had been broken off by mutual consent some
months before, and there was no sign that it had left any very profound feeling
behind it. For the rest {sic} the man's life moved in a narrow and conventional
circle, for his habits were quiet and his nature unemotional. Yet it was upon
this easygoing young aristocrat that death came, in most strange and unexpected
form, between the hours of ten and eleven-twenty on the night of March 30,
1894.
Ronald Adair was fond of cards—playing
continually, but never for such stakes as would hurt him. He was a member of
the Baldwin, the Cavendish, and the Bagatelle card clubs. It was shown that,
after dinner on the day of his death, he had played a rubber of whist at the
latter club. He had also played there in the afternoon. The evidence of those
who had played with him— Mr. Murray, Sir John Hardy, and Colonel Moran—showed
that the game was whist, and that there was a fairly equal fall of the cards.
Adair might have lost five pounds, but not more. His fortune was a considerable
one, and such a loss could not in any way affect him. He had played nearly
every day at one club or other, but he was a cautious player, and usually rose
a winner. It came out in evidence that, in partnership with Colonel Moran,
he had actually won as much as four hundred and twenty pounds in a sitting,
some weeks before, from Godfrey Milner and Lord Balmoral. So much for his recent
history as it came out at the inquest.
On the evening of the crime, he returned from
the club exactly at ten. His mother and sister were out spending the evening
with a relation. The servant deposed that she heard him enter the front room
on the second floor, generally used as his sitting-room. She had lit a fire
there, and as it smoked she had opened the window. No sound was heard from
the room until eleven-twenty, the hour of the return of Lady Maynooth and her
daughter. Desiring to say goodnight, she attempted to enter her son's room.
The door was locked on the inside, and no answer could be got to their cries
and knocking. Help was obtained, and the door forced. The unfortunate young
man was found lying near the table. His head had been horribly mutilated by
an expanding revolver bullet, but no weapon of any sort was to be found in
the room. On the table lay two banknotes for ten pounds each and seventeen
pounds ten in silver and gold, the money arranged in little piles of varying
amount. There were some figures also upon a sheet of paper, with the names
of some club friends opposite to them, from which it was conjectured that before
his death he was endeavoring to make out his losses or winnings at cards.
A minute examination of the circumstances served
only to make the case more complex. In the first place, no reason could be
given why the young man should have fastened the door upon the inside. There
was the possibility that the murderer had done this, and had afterwards escaped
by the window. The drop was at least twenty feet, however, and a bed of crocuses
in full bloom lay beneath. Neither the flowers nor the earth showed any sign
of having been disturbed, nor were there any marks upon the narrow strip of
grass which separated the house from the road. Apparently, therefore, it was
the young man himself who had fastened the door. But how did he come by his
death? No one could have climbed up to the window without leaving traces. Suppose
a man had fired through the window, he would indeed be a remarkable shot who
could with a revolver inflict so deadly a wound. Again, Park Lane is a frequented
thoroughfare; there is a cab stand within a hundred yards of the house. No
one had heard a shot. And yet there was the dead man and there the revolver
bullet, which had mushroomed out, as soft-nosed bullets will, and so inflicted
a wound which must have caused instantaneous death. Such were the circumstances
of the Park Lane Mystery, which were further complicated by entire absence
of motive, since, as I have said, young Adair was not known to have any enemy,
and no attempt had been made to remove the money or valuables in the room.
All day I turned these facts over in my mind,
endeavoring to hit upon some theory which could reconcile them all, and to
find that line of least resistance which my poor friend had declared to be
the starting-point of every investigation. I confess that I made little progress.
In the evening I strolled across the Park, and found myself about six o'clock
at the Oxford Street end of Park Lane. A group of loafers upon the pavements,
all staring up at a particular window, directed me to the house which I had
come to see. A tall, thin man with colored glasses, whom I strongly suspected
of being a plainclothes detective, was pointing out some theory of his own,
while the others crowded round to listen to what he said. I got as near him
as I could, but his observations seemed to me to be absurd, so I withdrew again
in some disgust. As I did so I struck against an elderly, deformed man, who
had been behind me, and I knocked down several books which he was carrying.
I remember that as I picked them up, I observed the title of one of them, THE
ORIGIN OF TREE WORSHIP, and it struck me that the fellow must be some poor
bibliophile, who, either as a trade or as a hobby, was a collector of obscure
volumes. I endeavored to apologize for the accident, but it was evident that
these books which I had so unfortunately maltreated were very precious objects
in the eyes of their owner. With a snarl of contempt he turned upon his heel,
and I saw his curved back and white side-whiskers disappear among the throng.
My observations of No. 427 Park Lane did little
to clear up the problem in which I was interested. The house was separated
from the street by a low wall and railing, the whole not more than five feet
high. It was perfectly easy, therefore, for anyone to get into the garden,
but the window was entirely inaccessible, since there was no water pipe or
anything which could help the most active man to climb it. More puzzled than
ever, I retraced my steps to Kensington. I had not been in my study five minutes
when the maid entered to say that a person desired to see me. To my astonishment
it was none other than my strange old book collector, his sharp, wizened face
peering out from a frame of white hair, and his precious volumes, a dozen of
them at least, wedged under his right arm.
"You're surprised to see me, sir," said he,
in a strange, croaking voice.
I acknowledged that I was.
"Well, I've a conscience, sir, and when I chanced
to see you go into this house, as I came hobbling after you, I thought to myself,
I'll just step in and see that kind gentleman, and tell him that if I was a
bit gruff in my manner there was not any harm meant, and that I am much obliged
to him for picking up my books."
"You make too much of a trifle," said I. "May
I ask how you knew who I was?"
"Well, sir, if it isn't too great a liberty,
I am a neighbor of yours, for you'll find my little bookshop at the corner
of Church Street, and very happy to see you, I am sure. Maybe you collect yourself,
sir. Here's BRITISH BIRDS, and CATULLUS, and THE HOLY WAR—a bargain, every
one of them. With five volumes you could just fill that gap on that second
shelf. It looks untidy, does it not, sir?"
I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind
me. When I turned again, Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me across
my study table. I rose to my feet, stared at him for some seconds in utter
amazement, and then it appears that I must have fainted for the first and the
last time in my life. Certainly a gray mist swirled before my eyes, and when
it cleared I found my collar-ends undone and the tingling aftertaste of brandy
upon my lips. Holmes was bending over my chair, his flask in his hand.
"My dear Watson," said the well-remembered voice,
"I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected."
I gripped him by the arms.
"Holmes!" I cried. "Is it really you? Can it
indeed be that you are alive? Is it possible that you succeeded in climbing
out of that awful abyss?"
"Wait a moment," said he. "Are you sure that
you are really fit to discuss things? I have given you a serious shock by my
unnecessarily dramatic reappearance."
"I am all right, but indeed, Holmes, I can hardly
believe my eyes. Good heavens! to think that you—you of all men—should
be standing in my study." Again I gripped him by the sleeve, and felt the thin,
sinewy arm beneath it. "Well, you're not a spirit anyhow," said I. "My dear
chap, I'm overjoyed to see you. Sit down, and tell me how you came alive out
of that dreadful chasm."
He sat opposite to me, and lit a cigarette in
his old, nonchalant manner. He was dressed in the seedy frockcoat of the book
merchant, but the rest of that individual lay in a pile of white hair and old
books upon the table. Holmes looked even thinner and keener than of old, but
there was a dead-white tinge in his aquiline face which told me that his life
recently had not been a healthy one.
"I am glad to stretch myself, Watson," said
he. "It is no joke when a tall man has to take a foot off his stature for several
hours on end. Now, my dear fellow, in the matter of these explanations, we
have, if I may ask for your cooperation, a hard and dangerous night's work
in front of us. Perhaps it would be better if I gave you an account of the
whole situation when that work is finished."
"I am full of curiosity. I should much prefer
to hear now."
"You'll come with me tonight?"
"When you like and where you like."
"This is, indeed, like the old days. We shall
have time for a mouthful of dinner before we need go. Well, then, about that
chasm. I had no serious difficulty in getting out of it, for the very simple
reason that I never was in it."
"You never were in it?"
"No, Watson, I never was in it. My note to you
was absolutely genuine. I had little doubt that I had come to the end of my
career when I perceived the somewhat sinister figure of the late Professor
Moriarty standing upon the narrow pathway which led to safety. I read an inexorable
purpose in his gray eyes. I exchanged some remarks with him, therefore, and
obtained his courteous permission to write the short note which you afterwards
received. I left it with my cigarette-box and my stick, and I walked along
the pathway, Moriarty still at my heels. When I reached the end I stood at
bay. He drew no weapon, but he rushed at me and threw his long arms around
me. He knew that his own game was up, and was only anxious to revenge himself
upon me. We tottered together upon the brink of the fall. I have some knowledge,
however, of baritsu, or the Japanese system of wrestling, which has more than
once been very useful to me. I slipped through his grip, and he with a horrible
scream kicked madly for a few seconds, and clawed the air with both his hands.
But for all his efforts he could not get his balance, and over he went. With
my face over the brink, I saw him fall for a long way. Then he struck a rock,
bounded off, and splashed into the water."
I listened with amazement to this explanation,
which Holmes delivered between the puffs of his cigarette.
"But the tracks!" I cried. "I saw, with my own
eyes, that two went down the path and none returned."
"It came about in this way. The instant that
the Professor had disappeared, it struck me what a really extraordinarily lucky
chance Fate had placed in my way. I knew that Moriarty was not the only man
who had sworn my death. There were at least three others whose desire for vengeance
upon me would only be increased by the death of their leader. They were all
most dangerous men. One or other would certainly get me. On the other hand,
if all the world was convinced that I was dead they would take liberties, these
men, they would soon lay themselves open, and sooner or later I could destroy
them. Then it would be time for me to announce that I was still in the land
of the living. So rapidly does the brain act that I believe I had thought this
all out before Professor Moriarty had reached the bottom of the Reichenbach
Fall.
"I stood up and examined the rocky wall behind
me. In your picturesque account of the matter, which I read with great interest
some months later, you assert that the wall was sheer. That was not literally
true. A few small footholds presented themselves, and there was some indication
of a ledge. The cliff is so high that to climb it all was an obvious impossibility,
and it was equally impossible to make my way along the wet path without leaving
some tracks. I might, it is true, have reversed my boots, as I have done on
similar occasions, but the sight of three sets of tracks in one direction would
certainly have suggested a deception. On the whole, then, it was best that
I should risk the climb. It was not a pleasant business, Watson. The fall roared
beneath me. I am not a fanciful person, but I give you my word that I seemed
to hear Moriarty's voice screaming at me out of the abyss. A mistake would
have been fatal. More than once, as tufts of grass came out in my hand or my
foot slipped in the wet notches of the rock, I thought that I was gone. But
I struggled upward, and at last I reached a ledge several feet deep and covered
with soft green moss, where I could lie unseen, in the most perfect comfort.
There I was stretched, when you, my dear Watson, and all your following were
investigating in the most sympathetic and inefficient manner the circumstances
of my death.
"At last, when you had all formed your inevitable
and totally erroneous conclusions, you departed for the hotel, and I was left
alone. I had imagined that I had reached the end of my adventures, but a very
unexpected occurrence showed me that there were surprises still in store for
me. A huge rock, falling from above, boomed past me, struck the path, and bounded
over into the chasm. For an instant I thought that it was an accident, but
a moment later, looking up, I saw a man's head against the darkening sky, and
another stone struck the very ledge upon which I was stretched, within a foot
of my head. Of course, the meaning of this was obvious. Moriarty had not been
alone. A confederate—and even that one glance had told me how dangerous
a man that confederate was—had kept guard while the Professor had attacked
me. From a distance, unseen by me, he had been a witness of his friend's death
and of my escape. He had waited, and then making his way round to the top of
the cliff, he had endeavored to succeed where his comrade had failed.
"I did not take long to think about it, Watson.
Again I saw that grim face look over the cliff, and I knew that it was the
precursor of another stone. I scrambled down on to the path. I don't think
I could have done it in cold blood. It was a hundred times more difficult than
getting up. But I had no time to think of the danger, for another stone sang
past me as I hung by my hands from the edge of the ledge. Halfway down I slipped,
but, by the blessing of God, I landed, torn and bleeding, upon the path. I
took to my heels, did ten miles over the mountains in the darkness, and a week
later I found myself in Florence, with the certainty that no one in the world
knew what had become of me.
"I had only one confidant—my brother Mycroft.
I owe you many apologies, my dear Watson, but it was all-important that it
should be thought I was dead, and it is quite certain that you would not have
written so convincing an account of my unhappy end had you not yourself thought
that it was true. Several times during the last three years I have taken up
my pen to write to you, but always I feared lest your affectionate regard for
me should tempt you to some indiscretion which would betray my secret. For
that reason I turned away from you this evening when you upset my books, for
I was in danger at the time, and any show of surprise and emotion upon your
part might have drawn attention to my identity and led to the most deplorable
and irreparable results. As to Mycroft, I had to confide in him in order to
obtain the money which I needed. The course of events in London did not run
so well as I had hoped, for the trial of the Moriarty gang left two of its
most dangerous members, my own most vindictive enemies, at liberty.
"I traveled for two years in Tibet, therefore,
and amused myself by visiting Lhasa, and spending some days with the head lama.
You may have read of the remarkable explorations of a Norwegian named Sigerson,
but I am sure that it never occurred to you that you were receiving news of
your friend. I then passed through Persia, looked in at Mecca, and paid a short
but interesting visit to the Khalifa at Khartoum the results of which I have
communicated to the Foreign Office. Returning to France, I spent some months
in a research into the coal-tar derivatives, which I conducted in a laboratory
at Montpellier, in the south of France. Having concluded this to my satisfaction
and learning that only one of my enemies was now left in London, I was about
to return when my movements were hastened by the news of this very remarkable
Park Lane Mystery, which not only appealed to me by its own merits, but which
seemed to offer some most peculiar personal opportunities. I came over at once
to London, called in my own person at Baker Street, threw Mrs. Hudson into
violent hysterics, and found that Mycroft had preserved my rooms and my papers
exactly as they had always been. So it was, my dear Watson, that at two o'clock
today I found myself in my old armchair in my own old room, and only wishing
that I could have seen my old friend Watson in the other chair which he has
so often adorned."
Such was the remarkable narrative to which I
listened on that April evening—a narrative which would have been utterly
incredible to me had it not been confirmed by the actual sight of the tall,
spare figure and the keen, eager face, which I had never thought to see again.
In some manner he had learned of my own sad bereavement, and his sympathy was
shown in his manner rather than in his words. "Work is the best antidote to
sorrow, my dear Watson," said he; "and I have a piece of work for us both tonight
which, if we can bring it to a successful conclusion, will in itself justify
a man's life on this planet." In vain I begged him to tell me more. "You will
hear and see enough before morning," he answered. "We have three years of the
past to discuss. Let that suffice until half-past nine, when we start upon
the notable adventure of the empty house."
It was indeed like old times when, at that hour,
I found myself seated beside him in a hansom, my revolver in my pocket, and
the thrill of adventure in my heart. Holmes was cold and stern and silent.
As the gleam of the street-lamps flashed upon his austere features, I saw that
his brows were drawn down in thought and his thin lips compressed. I knew not
what wild beast we were about to hunt down in the dark jungle of criminal London,
but I was well assured, from the bearing of this master huntsman, that the
adventure was a most grave one—while the sardonic smile which occasionally
broke through his ascetic gloom boded little good for the object of our quest.
I had imagined that we were bound for Baker
Street, but Holmes stopped the cab at the corner of Cavendish Square. I observed
that as he stepped out he gave a most searching glance to right and left, and
at every subsequent street corner he took the utmost pains to assure that he
was not followed. Our route was certainly a singular one. Holmes's knowledge
of the byways of London was extraordinary, and on this occasion he passed rapidly
and with an assured step through a network of mews and stables, the very existence
of which I had never known. We emerged at last into a small road, lined with
old, gloomy houses, which led us into Manchester Street, and so to Blandford
Street. Here he turned swiftly down a narrow passage, passed through a wooden
gate into a deserted yard, and then opened with a key the back door of a house.
We entered together, and he closed it behind us.
The place was pitch dark, but it was evident
to me that it was an empty house. Our feet creaked and crackled over the bare
planking, and my outstretched hand touched a wall from which the paper was
hanging in ribbons. Holmes's cold, thin fingers closed round my wrist and led
me forward down a long hall, until I dimly saw the murky fanlight over the
door. Here Holmes turned suddenly to the right and we found ourselves in a
large, square, empty room, heavily shadowed in the corners, but faintly lit
in the center from the lights of the street beyond. There was no lamp near,
and the window was thick with dust, so that we could only just discern each
other's figures within. My companion put his hand upon my shoulder and his
lips close to my ear.
"Do you know where we are?" he whispered.
"Surely that is Baker Street" I answered, staring
through the dim window.
"Exactly. We are in Camden House, which stands
opposite to our own old quarters."
"But why are we here?"
"Because it commands so excellent a view of
that picturesque pile. Might I trouble you, my dear Watson, to draw a little
nearer to the window, taking every precaution not to show yourself, and then
to look up at our old rooms—the starting- point of so many of your little
fairy-tales? We will see if my three years of absence have entirely taken away
my power to surprise you."
I crept forward and looked across at the familiar
window. As my eyes fell upon it, I gave a gasp and a cry of amazement. The
blind was down, and a strong light was burning in the room. The shadow of a
man who was seated in a chair within was thrown in hard, black outline upon
the luminous screen of the window. There was no mistaking the poise of the
head, the squareness of the shoulders, the sharpness of the features. The face
was turned half-round, and the effect was that of one of those black silhouettes
which our grandparents loved to frame. It was a perfect reproduction of Holmes.
So amazed was I that I threw out my hand to make sure that the man himself
was standing beside me. He was quivering with silent laughter.
"Well?" said he.
"Good heavens!" I cried. "It is marvelous."
"I trust that age doth not wither nor custom
stale my infinite variety," said he, and I recognized in his voice the joy
and pride which the artist takes in his own creation. "It really is rather
like me, is it not?"
"I should be prepared to swear that it was you."
"The credit of the execution is due to Monsieur
Oscar Meunier, of Grenoble, who spent some days in doing the molding. It is
a bust in wax. The rest I arranged myself during my visit to Baker Street this
afternoon."
"But why?"
"Because, my dear Watson, I had the strongest
possible reason for wishing certain people to think that I was there when I
was really elsewhere."
"And you thought the rooms were watched?"
"I KNEW that they were watched."
"By whom?"
"By my old enemies, Watson. By the charming
society whose leader lies in the Reichenbach Fall. You must remember that they
knew, and only they knew, that I was still alive. Sooner or later they believed
that I should come back to my rooms. They watched them continuously, and this
morning they saw me arrive."
"How do you know?"
"Because I recognized their sentinel when I
glanced out of my window. He is a harmless enough fellow, Parker by name, a
garroter by trade, and a remarkable performer upon the jew's-harp. I cared
nothing for him. But I cared a great deal for the much more formidable person
who was behind him, the bosom friend of Moriarty, the man who dropped the rocks
over the cliff, the most cunning and dangerous criminal in London. That is
the man who is after me tonight Watson, and that is the man who is quite unaware
that we are after him."
My friend's plans were gradually revealing themselves.
From this convenient retreat, the watchers were being watched and the trackers
tracked. That angular shadow up yonder was the bait, and we were the hunters.
In silence we stood together in the darkness and watched the hurrying figures
who passed and repassed in front of us. Holmes was silent and motionless; but
I could tell that he was keenly alert, and that his eyes were fixed intently
upon the stream of passersby. It was a bleak and boisterous night and the wind
whistled shrilly down the long street. Many people were moving to and fro,
most of them muffled in their coats and cravats. Once or twice it seemed to
me that I had seen the same figure before, and I especially noticed two men
who appeared to be sheltering themselves from the wind in the doorway of a
house some distance up the street. I tried to draw my companion's attention
to them; but he gave a little ejaculation of impatience, and continued to stare
into the street. More than once he fidgeted with his feet and tapped rapidly
with his fingers upon the wall. It was evident to me that he was becoming uneasy,
and that his plans were not working out altogether as he had hoped. At last,
as midnight approached and the street gradually cleared, he paced up and down
the room in uncontrollable agitation. I was about to make some remark to him,
when I raised my eyes to the lighted window, and again experienced almost as
great a surprise as before. I clutched Holmes's arm, and pointed upward.
"The shadow has moved!" I cried.
It was indeed no longer the profile, but the
back, which was turned towards us.
Three years had certainly not smoothed the asperities
of his temper or his impatience with a less active intelligence than his own.
"Of course it has moved," said he. "Am I such
a farcical bungler, Watson, that I should erect an obvious dummy, and expect
that some of the sharpest men in Europe would be deceived by it? We have been
in this room two hours, and Mrs. Hudson has made some change in that figure
eight times, or once in every quarter of an hour. She works it from the front,
so that her shadow may never be seen. Ah!" He drew in his breath with a shrill,
excited intake. In the dim light I saw his head thrown forward, his whole attitude
rigid with attention. Outside the street was absolutely deserted. Those two
men might still be crouching in the doorway, but I could no longer see them.
All was still and dark, save only that brilliant yellow screen in front of
us with the black figure outlined upon its center Again in the utter silence
I heard that thin, sibilant note which spoke of intense suppressed excitement.
An instant later he pulled me back into the blackest corner of the room, and
I felt his warning hand upon my lips. The fingers which clutched me were quivering.
Never had I known my friend more moved, and yet the dark street still stretched
lonely and motionless before us.
But suddenly I was aware of that which his keener
senses had already distinguished. A low, stealthy sound came to my ears, not
from the direction of Baker Street, but from the back of the very house in
which we lay concealed. A door opened and shut. An instant later steps crept
down the passage—steps which were meant to be silent, but which reverberated
harshly through the empty house. Holmes crouched back against the wall, and
I did the same, my hand closing upon the handle of my revolver. Peering through
the gloom, I saw the vague outline of a man, a shade blacker than the blackness
of the open door. He stood for an instant, and then he crept forward, crouching,
menacing, into the room. He was within three yards of us, this sinister figure,
and I had braced myself to meet his spring, before I realized that he had no
idea of our presence. He passed close beside us, stole over to the window,
and very softly and noiselessly raised it for half a foot. As he sank to the
level of this opening, the light of the street, no longer dimmed by the dusty
glass, fell full upon his face.
The man seemed to be beside himself with excitement.
His two eyes shone like stars, and his features were working convulsively.
He was an elderly man, with a thin, projecting nose, a high, bald forehead,
and a huge grizzled mustache. An opera hat was pushed to the back of his head,
and an evening dress shirtfront gleamed out through his open overcoat. His
face was gaunt and swarthy, scored with deep, savage lines. In his hand he
carried what appeared to be a stick, but as he laid it down upon the floor
it gave a metallic clang. Then from the pocket of his overcoat he drew a bulky
object, and he busied himself in some task which ended with a loud, sharp click,
as if a spring or bolt had fallen into its place. Still kneeling upon the floor
he bent forward and threw all his weight and strength upon some lever, with
the result that there came a long, whirling, grinding noise, ending once more
in a powerful click. He straightened himself then, and I saw that what he held
in his hand was a sort of gun, with a curiously misshapen butt. He opened it
at the breech, put something in, and snapped the breech-lock. Then, crouching
down, he rested the end of the barrel upon the ledge of the open window, and
I saw his long mustache. droop over the stock and his eye gleam as it peered
along the sights. I heard a little sigh of satisfaction as he cuddled the butt
into his shoulder; and saw that amazing target, the black man on the yellow
ground, standing clear at the end of his foresight. For an instant he was rigid
and motionless. Then his finger tightened on the trigger. There was a strange,
loud whiz and a long, silvery tinkle of broken glass. At that instant Holmes
sprang like a tiger on to the marksman's back, and hurled him flat upon his
face. He was up again in a moment, and with convulsive strength he seized Holmes
by the throat, but I struck him on the head with the butt of my revolver, and
he dropped again upon the floor. I fell upon him, and as I held him my comrade
blew a shrill call upon a whistle. There was the clatter of running feet upon
the pavement, and two policemen in uniform, with one plainclothes detective,
rushed through the front entrance and into the room.
"That you, Lestrade?" said Holmes.
"Yes, Mr. Holmes. I took the job myself. It's
good to see you back in London, sir."
"I think you want a little unofficial help.
Three undetected murders in one year won't do, Lestrade. But you handled the
Molesey Mystery with less than your usual—that's to say, you handled it
fairly well."
We had all risen to our feet, our prisoner breathing
hard, with a stalwart constable on each side of him. Already a few loiterers
had begun to collect in the street. Holmes stepped up to the window, closed
it, and dropped the blinds. Lestrade had produced two candles, and the policemen
had uncovered their lanterns. I was able at last to have a good look at our
prisoner.
It was a tremendously virile and yet sinister
face which was turned towards us. With the brow of a philosopher above and
the jaw of a sensualist below, the man must have started with great capacities
for good or for evil. But one could not look upon his cruel blue eyes, with
their drooping, cynical lids, or upon the fierce, aggressive nose and the threatening,
deep-lined brow, without reading Nature's plainest danger-signals. He took
no heed of any of us, but his eyes were fixed upon Holmes's face with an expression
in which hatred and amazement were equally blended. "You fiend!" he kept on
muttering. "You clever, clever fiend!"
"Ah, Colonel!" said Holmes, arranging his rumpled
collar. "`Journeys end in lovers' meetings,' as the old play says. I don't
think I have had the pleasure of seeing you since you favored me with those
attentions as I lay on the ledge above the Reichenbach Fall."
The colonel still stared at my friend like a
man in a trance. "You cunning, cunning fiend!" was all that he could say.
"I have not introduced you yet," said Holmes.
"This, gentlemen, is Colonel Sebastian Moran, once of Her Majesty's Indian
Army, and the best heavy-game shot that our Eastern Empire has ever produced.
I believe I am correct Colonel, in saying that your bag of tigers still remains
unrivaled?"
The fierce old man said nothing, but still glared
at my companion. With his savage eyes and bristling mustache. he was wonderfully
like a tiger himself.
"I wonder that my very simple stratagem could
deceive so old a SHIKARI," said Holmes. "It must be very familiar to you. Have
you not tethered a young kid under a tree, lain above it with your rifle, and
waited for the bait to bring up your tiger? This empty house is my tree, and
you are my tiger. You have possibly had other guns in reserve in case there
should be several tigers, or in the unlikely supposition of your own aim failing
you. These," he pointed around, "are my other guns. The parallel is exact."
Colonel Moran sprang forward with a snarl of
rage, but the constables dragged him back. The fury upon his face was terrible
to look at.
"I confess that you had one small surprise for
me," said Holmes. "I did not anticipate that you would yourself make use of
this empty house and this convenient front window. I had imagined you as operating
from the street, where my friend, Lestrade and his merry men were awaiting
you. With that exception, all has gone as I expected."
Colonel Moran turned to the official detective.
"You may or may not have just cause for arresting
me," said he, "but at least there can be no reason why I should submit to the
gibes of this person. If I am in the hands of the law, let things be done in
a legal way."
"Well, that's reasonable enough," said Lestrade.
"Nothing further you have to say, Mr. Holmes, before we go?"
Holmes had picked up the powerful air-gun from
the floor, and was examining its mechanism.
"An admirable and unique weapon," said he, "noiseless
and of tremendous power: I knew Von Herder, the blind German mechanic, who
constructed it to the order of the late Professor Moriarty. For years I have
been aware of its existence though I have never before had the opportunity
of handling it. I commend it very specially to your attention, Lestrade and
also the bullets which fit it."
"You can trust us to look after that, Mr. Holmes,"
said Lestrade, as the whole party moved towards the door. "Anything further
to say?"
"Only to ask what charge you intend to prefer?"
"What charge, sir? Why, of course, the attempted
murder of Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
"Not so, Lestrade. I do not propose to appear
in the matter at all. To you, and to you only, belongs the credit of the remarkable
arrest which you have effected. Yes, Lestrade, I congratulate you! With your
usual happy mixture of cunning and audacity, you have got him."
"Got him! Got whom, Mr. Holmes?"
"The man that the whole force has been seeking
in vain—Colonel Sebastian Moran, who shot the Honorable Ronald Adair with
an expanding bullet from an air-gun through the open window of the second-floor
front of No. 427 Park Lane, upon the thirtieth of last month. That's the charge,
Lestrade. And now, Watson, if you can endure the draught from a broken window,
I think that half an hour in my study over a cigar may afford you some profitable
amusement."
Our old chambers had been left unchanged through
the supervision of Mycroft Holmes and the immediate care of Mrs. Hudson. As
I entered I saw, it is true, an unwonted tidiness, but the old landmarks were
all in their place. There were the chemical corner and the acid-stained, deal-topped
table. There upon a shelf was the row of formidable scrapbooks and books of
reference which many of our fellow-citizens would have been so glad to burn.
The diagrams, the violin-case, and the pipe-rack— even the Persian slipper
which contained the tobacco—all met my eyes as I glanced round me. There
were two occupants of the room—one, Mrs. Hudson, who beamed upon us both
as we entered— the other, the strange dummy which had played so important
a part in the evening's adventures. It was a wax-coloured model of my friend,
so admirably done that it was a perfect facsimile. It stood on a small pedestal
table with an old dressing-gown of Holmes's so draped round it that the illusion
from the street was absolutely perfect.
"I hope you observed all precautions, Mrs. Hudson?"
said Holmes.
"I went to it on my knees, sir, just as you
told me."
"Excellent. You carried the thing out very well.
Did you observe where the bullet went?"
"Yes, sir. I'm afraid it has spoilt your beautiful
bust, for it passed right through the head and flattened itself on the wall.
I picked it up from the carpet. Here it is!"
Holmes held it out to me. "A soft revolver bullet,
as you perceive, Watson. There's genius in that, for who would expect to find
such a thing fired from an airgun? All right, Mrs. Hudson. I am much obliged
for your assistance. And now, Watson, let me see you in your old seat once
more, for there are several points which I should like to discuss with you."
He had thrown off the seedy frockcoat, and now
he was the Holmes of old in the mouse-coloured dressing-gown which he took
from his effigy.
"The old SHIKARI'S nerves have not lost their
steadiness, nor his eyes their keenness," said he, with a laugh, as he inspected
the shattered forehead of his bust.
"Plumb in the middle of the back of the head
and smack through the brain. He was the best shot in India, and I expect that
there are few better in London. Have you heard the name?"
"No, I have not."
"Well, well, such is fame! But, then, if I remember
right, you had not heard the name of Professor James Moriarty, who had one
of the great brains of the century. Just give me down my index of biographies
from the shelf."
He turned over the pages lazily, leaning back
in his chair and blowing great clouds from his cigar.
"My collection of M's is a fine one," said he.
"Moriarty himself is enough to make any letter illustrious, and here is Morgan
the poisoner, and Merridew of abominable memory, and Mathews, who knocked out
my left canine in the waiting-room at Charing Cross, and, finally, here is
our friend of tonight"
He handed over the book, and I read:
MORAN, SEBASTIAN, COLONEL. Unemployed. Formerly
1st Bangalore Pioneers. Born London, 1840. Son of Sir Augustus Moran, C. B.,
once British Minister to Persia. Educated Eton and Oxford. Served in Jowaki
Campaign, Afghan Campaign, Charasiab (dispatches), Sherpur, and Cabul. Author
of HEAVY GAME OF THE WESTERN HIMALAYAS (1881); THREE MONTHS IN THE JUNGLE (1884).
Address: Conduit Street. Clubs: The Anglo-Indian, the Tankerville, the Bagatelle
Card Club.
On the margin was written, in Holmes's precise
hand:
The second most dangerous man in London.
"This is astonishing," said I, as I handed back
the volume. "The man's career is that of an honorable soldier."
"It is true," Holmes answered. "Up to a certain
point he did well. He was always a man of iron nerve, and the story is still
told in India how he crawled down a drain after a wounded man-eating tiger.
There are some trees, Watson, which grow to a certain height, and then suddenly
develop some unsightly eccentricity. You will see it often in humans. I have
a theory that the individual represents in his development the whole procession
of his ancestors, and that such a sudden turn to good or evil stands for some
strong influence which came into the line of his pedigree. The person becomes,
as it were, the epitome of the history of his own family."
"It is surely rather fanciful."
"Well, I don't insist upon it. Whatever the
cause, Colonel Moran began hot to hold him. He retired, came to London, and
again acquired an evil name. It was at this time that he was sought out by
Professor Moriarty, to whom for a time he was chief of the staff. Moriarty
supplied him liberally with money, and used him only in one or two very high-class
jobs, which no ordinary criminal could have undertaken. You may have some recollection
of the death of Mrs. Stewart, of Lauder, in 1887. Not? Well, I am sure Moran
was at the bottom of it, but nothing could be proved. So cleverly was the colonel
concealed that, even when the Moriarty gang was broken up, we could not incriminate
him. You remember at that date, when I called upon you in your rooms, how I
put up the shutters for fear of air-guns? No doubt you thought me fanciful.
I knew exactly what I was doing, for I knew of the existence of this remarkable
gun, and I knew also that one of the best shots in the world would be behind
it. When we were in Switzerland he followed us with Moriarty, and it was undoubtedly
he who gave me that evil five minutes on the Reichenbach ledge.
"You may think that I read the papers with some
attention during my sojourn in France, on the lookout for any chance of laying
him by the heels. So long as he was free in London, my life would really not
have been worth living. Night and day the shadow would have been over me, and
sooner or later his chance must have come. What could I do? I could not shoot
him at sight, or I should myself be in the dock. There was no use appealing
to a magistrate. They cannot interfere on the strength of what would appear
to them to be a wild suspicion. So I could do nothing. But I watched the criminal
news, knowing that sooner or later I should get him. Then came the death of
this Ronald Adair. My chance had come at last. Knowing what I did, was it not
certain that Colonel Moran had done it? He had played cards with the lad, he
had followed him home from the club, he had shot him through the open window.
There was not a doubt of it. The bullets alone are enough to put his head in
a noose. I came over at once. I was seen by the sentinel, who would, I knew,
direct the colonel's attention to my presence. He could not fail to connect
my sudden return with his crime, and to be terribly alarmed. I was sure that
he would make an attempt to get me out of the way AT once, and would bring
round his murderous weapon for that purpose. I left him an excellent mark in
the window, and, having warned the police that they might be needed—by
the way, Watson, you spotted their presence in that doorway with unerring accuracy—I
took up what seemed to me to be a judicious post for observation, never dreaming
that he would choose the same spot for his attack. Now, my dear Watson, does
anything remain for me to explain?"
"Yes," said I. "You have not made it clear what
was Colonel Moran's motive in murdering the Honorable Ronald Adair?"
"Ah! my dear Watson, there we come into those
realms of conjecture, where the most logical mind may be at fault. Each may
form his own hypothesis upon the present evidence, and yours is as likely to
be correct as mine."
"You have formed one, then?"
"I think that it is not difficult to explain
the facts. It came out in evidence that Colonel Moran and young Adair had,
between them, won a considerable amount of money. Now, undoubtedly played foul—of
that I have long been aware. I believe that on the day of the murder Adair
had discovered that Moran was cheating. Very likely he had spoken to him privately,
and had threatened to expose him unless he voluntarily resigned his membership
of the club, and promised not to play cards again. It is unlikely that a youngster
like Adair would at once make a hideous scandal by exposing a well known man
so much older than himself. Probably he acted as I suggest. The exclusion from
his clubs would mean ruin to Moran, who lived by his ill-gotten card-gains.
He therefore murdered Adair, who at the time was endeavoring to work out how
much money he should himself return, since he could not profit by his partner's
foul play. He locked the door lest the ladies should surprise him and insist
upon knowing what he was doing with these names and coins. Will it pass?"
"I have no doubt that you have hit upon the
truth."
"It will be verified or disproved at the trial.
Meanwhile, come what may, Colonel Moran will trouble us no more. The famous
air-gun of Von Herder will embellish the Scotland Yard Museum, and once again
Mr. Sherlock Holmes is free to devote his life to examining those interesting
little problems which the complex life of London so plentifully presents."