Day had broken cold and gray, exceedingly cold and gray, when the man turned aside from the main Yukon trail and climbed the high earth-bank, where a dim and little-travelled trail led eastward through the fat spruce timberland. It was a steep bank, and he paused for breath at the top, excusing the act to himself by looking at his watch. It was nine o'clock. There was no sun nor hint of sun, though there was not a cloud in the sky. It was a clear day, and yet there seemed an intangible pall o
“The doctor will be with you shortly. You doing okay?” The nurse was half-in the curtained cubicle in the ER.
I was on my stomach. I lifted my head and, like a sad cow, swung a nod her way, but she was already gone.
Earlier, Max and I were trimming the Christmas tree. We sat around smoking weed and drinking screw-top champagne until about eleven, when finally we looked at each other and wordlessly got up and started untangling the Christmas lights. I lost my balance and stepped on a string. Tiny lights were crushed like small bones under my heel.
I lifted my foot. “Oh, no,” I said.
“Blue, try this strand, will ya?”
I plugged it in the socket. “All good.” I looked at the half-trimmed tree. “Don’t we have too many white lights and not enough reds and greens?”
“Let me turn out the other lights. Wait, I gotta put on some ornaments. Sit on the couch. Okay, tell me how it looks now.”
With the overhead light and the table lamp turned off, the tree looked great. From my angle, Max looked almost as big as the tree. He was a bear with a brown beard and syrupy eyes. Max taught math and coached football and basketball at the high school. I freelanced from home, writing copy and annual reports for local businesses. We lived in the small town where Max had grown up.
I held out my hand to him. He half-dropped the box of ornaments on the floor and sat down on the sofa next to me. We squinted at the tree. That was the way to tell if the lights were right. We shared a turbo hit. I loved trimming the tree. The kids were asleep. I reached over and grabbed the last cookie they had left on a red plate for Santa.
Max pulled me onto his lap. I sat with my back to him so I could see the tree. In no time, he was hard. I tilted my neck, listened, moved my panties aside and settled on him.
“Blue, we should finish the tree,” Max said. “Right?”
I loved loving him through his clothes. Sex with our clothes on was different from naked sex. I liked to feel for him through his jeans and flannel shirt.
Max picked me up and eased us down to the floor. After a few minutes, I got on top of him. Max turned me onto my back and smashed me into the ornaments that had rolled out of the box. They broke under me. It hurt like hell, but the pleasure was building within me. I reached up and grabbed a low tree branch to try to move myself off the ornaments. I pulled the whole tree over, but hardly noticed as we kept going.
“Are you okay?” Max pulled up to look at me, glancing sideways at the tree on the floor. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No. Hurry and finish,” I whispered. It felt so good then it didn’t. The wave I was riding crashed and dribbled away. I could now feel the shards of glass digging deeper into my behind.
Max came fast and got off me gingerly. He stood up and fixed his jeans.
I lay on my back looking up at him. “Ouch.” I put my hand under my butt to brush the glass away. I rolled over onto my side. “Oh, Max, the tree.”
“Whoa, Blue. You’re covered in blood. There are ornament pieces sticking out of you.” He knelt down beside me. “Should I take them out?”
“I guess. Can you? Can you get them out?” I got up on my elbows and twisted around to look at my butt. I couldn’t see the glass, but I could sure feel it.
I looked at the horizontal tree. It made me sad. I counted the white lights.
Max was a gentle man. “Go ahead.” I wanted to cry. Christmas was ruined.
“What time is it?” I asked him
“I don’t know. Close to midnight.” Max pressed his forefinger and thumb carefully around a piece of broken ornament and pulled. It broke off in his hand leaving glass in my behind.
“Oh, Blue, baby. I’m sorry. Let me try again.” Max got up and turned on all the lights and settled down beside me.
“No. It’s okay. Lemme go try to get them out in the bathroom,” I said. “Do you think your mother heard us?”
Max looked at the wall like he was trying to see through it into the bedroom on the other side. Our kids, Patrick and Mandy, doubled up when my mother-in-law visited. A widow, she lived in the same town, but spent some nights at our house. Holidays. When I had a deadline, she helped me out by watching the kids.
“She doesn’t stay up this late.”
“You have to get the tree upright. What if the kids wake up?” I said, rocking myself onto my knees and then to my feet but staying bent over like a hunchback. A few drops of blood hit the carpet. The maroon rug absorbed the blood. The wall-to-wall carpet came with the house and for the first time I was glad I hadn’t ripped it up like I’d wanted to the very first day we moved in ten years ago. Semen ran down my leg. I kissed Max on the cheek and put my hand inside his shirt. I let it rest on his chest. For a quick second, I felt like I was taking an oath on him. I shuffled down the hall to the bathroom.
Five minutes later I was back with a magnifying mirror and tweezers. “I can’t get any of them out. I can’t even turn around far enough to see them. Am I too fat? They keep breaking off and I’m still bleeding.”
I dropped to my knees pushing out my naked bottom for Max to study. “Your mother is snoring.”
I had scotch-taped some Kleenex to my bottom. “A bandage.”
“It’s soaked through. We’re going to the ER.”
“No. I’m okay. I don’t want to wake your mother—and have to tell her—“
“What? That we were making love and . . .?” Max gave me a smile. “I’ll knock and tell her we’re going.”
Max’s mother Rita had come into the living room without either of us hearing her. She wore the robe from Marshall’s I had given her last Christmas. It was too big for her. She had wrapped the tie under her breasts to keep the robe from dragging on the floor.
“I am taking Blue to the ER. If the kids wake up, I don’t want them to come in here and—“
“Rita, please,” I broke in. “This is a mess. They can’t see it.”
“Maybe I can help.” Rita put on her glasses and, crouching down, studied my butt. “Tweezers.”
“I think I have some pain meds left over from my wisdom tooth thing.” Max disappeared down the hall. I don’t think he wanted to watch. I wedged a pillow under my knees and lay with my stomach sprawled over the couch. I hated the couch. It was too big for the room. It had been Rita’s couch. I felt blood trickling down the back of my left thigh. The tree was on the floor and my mother-in-law was picking glass out of my ass.
I swallowed the pill Max held out. I heard him in the kids’ room. I heard the front door open and close. I lost track of Rita. I couldn’t remember thanking her for trying to get the glass out. All the ornaments were in pieces. I thought there might be more in the attic. Or maybe CVS was still open. I must have dozed off because the next thing I remembered, Max was helping me into the backseat of the car. I rode to the hospital on my stomach.
“Max. Can you pull over for a minute?” I said, rising up on an elbow.
“Are you going to throw up?”
“No, I want to smoke a joint. Take the edge off.”
“I think the edge should pretty well be off with that Percodan.” He steered the car into the parking lot of the Church of the Lighted Candle. There were a lot of parked cars. It was the Christmas Eve service. We went last year, but the kids were crabby and kept moving back and forth from my lap to Max’s. Finally, to contain Patrick, Max let him draw on the small collection envelopes. I let Mandy sit down on the prayer rail, and they stayed quiet through the last reading from Matthew.
“We can’t park here,” I said, dropping my head on the seat so no one could see me.
Max wheeled out of the lot, found a dark side street, and idled the car. We shared a joint.
“I’m sorry, Max.”
“Nothing to be sorry about.” Max twisted around to look at me. He wore his hair long. He looked like a throwback rock star. He played the guitar now and then. He was steady when he looked at me. He was steady when he looked at anyone he liked. His students loved him.
We pulled up to the ER entrance. “I don’t have any pants on,” I said to Max.
“Right.” Max wiggled me side to side until he got me out of the backseat. He took off his windbreaker and tied it around my waist.
He took out his phone. “Hey, Blue. I’m not laughing at you.” Max snapped a picture of me from behind. “You’ll love this by New Year’s Eve.”
Max did the talking with the ER receptionist. A cop standing just off to the side of the check-in desk watched us. I was sure he could tell we were high. Max looked over and smiled at him. The cop nodded and walked away. Max handed the receptionist his insurance card. He assured the woman I didn’t have another insurance policy. He stood there and filled out all the forms she handed him on a clipboard.
A man in blue scrubs came up to me and took my arm.
“I gotta wait here, Blue.” He nodded toward the double doors.
The aide walked me back to a curtained cubicle. I wanted to make conversation with him. I tried to read his nametag. I had trouble getting up on the gurney.
“Going to be a few minutes. Busy night,” a nurse said, waking me up again. She shoved a thermometer in my ear and took my blood pressure. Before I could say anything, she was gone. I was sure she thought glass in my ass wasn’t a serious emergency. I lay on my stomach. I used to lie on my stomach when I was a teenager and talk on the phone. I once talked for three hours to a boy I had never met. My best friend, Ashley, had given him my number. Sometimes he’d talked so low I couldn’t hear him. I’d lain in the dark not knowing what to say back. I remember feeling my pelvis getting wider, spreading like a big saucer over the bedspread. I’d wondered how I would first kiss him. I’d wanted his hands on me.
Someone had draped a sheet over me. Max’s jacket was on the floor. I stared at the high school mascot of a falcon coming in for a landing.
I had never been in an ER before. Christmas lights were hung along the one wall so each cubicle had a weak green-red shimmer. It was like the scene in The Godfather, when Michael goes to the hospital and it’s Christmas and no one is guarding his father. I closed my eyes. I was sleepy. I thought about how I had gotten here. I had to get ready for the doctor’s questions. We should have finished the tree and put together the dollhouse for Mandy and put the training wheels on Patrick’s new red bike by now.
I was really high and kept falling asleep. I jerked awake feeling like I was going to throw up. My mind was racing from one thing to another. My mother popped into my head. She had a different life. A life I couldn’t afford, but was brought up to expect. I had to go to the bathroom. I wondered if I could pee standing up. There was no clock. I heard low voices coming from the cubicle to my left. My curtain riffled a bit. I hoped the nurse was coming back. I wanted the one who was pretty. No makeup, a little overweight, but bouncy, in charge.
My mother was not a particularly pretty woman, but in her passport picture, she looked beautiful. She drank dirty martinis with extra olives. She wore a two-strand pearl necklace. She didn’t have to work. She had heavy crystal wine and water glasses of different sizes and several salt and pepper shakers for specific holidays. I won’t ever have her life. I felt a little let down by that. Cheated. Even so, I would have liked to see her swoop into the ER in her blue crepe suit, wearing low-heeled, good Italian shoes, and take care of me.
I think the nurse said Max had gone back home for a while. How long have I been in here? I wonder if the nurse told the doctor I’m high. I thought loving sex was like being of pot of boiling water. When did I become that pot of boiling water? It was the day when everyone had been gone and I was alone in the house. My father was at work, and my sister and my mother were out—I wasn’t sure where either of them had gone. I got down in the living room, close by the couch so no one could see me through the bay window, and masturbated. I had a sudden orgasm, though I hadn’t known that was what it was. I remember thinking two things when I got up from the floor; playing with myself was going to be something I would do again and again, and I had to keep it a secret.
“What happened?” The doctor flipped on the fluorescent overhead light.
I got up on my elbows and looked at him. A terrible flash jolted me. Had he been inside my head? Did he know what I’d been thinking about? He stepped back out of the cubicle and my mind wandered back to my mother and my sister.
* * *
Keeping it a secret turned out to be hard. Like the night when my sister jumped out of her bed and in one step pulled the covers off of me. I lay still with my hands between my legs.
“Mom! She’s at it again,” my older sister called out. I was surprised the next-door neighbors didn’t turn on their lights to find out what the fuss was about.
My mother stood in the doorway blocking most of the hall light. There was a halo about her head. It seemed like she didn’t want to come all the way into our room.
“Blue, I don’t want you to hurt yourself. It’s not a ladylike thing to do. So let’s not talk about it anymore.” She closed our door.
I pulled the blanket back up over me and scrunched down so my head was covered. In those fifteen seconds, I was out of the club. My sister and my mother stood together and I was shut out. And I never really understood much of what either one of them said after that.
For three days, I resisted. I didn’t want to hurt myself. But by day four, I was at it again—only waiting until my sister was asleep. Soon after, we moved into a bigger house and I had my own room.
Then playing with myself was replaced, though never entirely given up, with sex. I was at a friend’s house in Playa del Rey. It was an old beach house with a view of the ocean on the corner of Vista and Sandwater Drive. Most of the houses around it had been remodeled. Some were empty. My friend’s house only had a new kitchen, though there were plans for the dining room. All the wallpaper and the old wooden floors were stripped away. Her parents had lost their money. In my last two years of high school, a lot of my friends’ parents lost their money. Friends who went on vacations, attended private school, and bought designer purses were taking out loans for college.
I snorted cocaine with this boy in a hoodie. I never saw his whole face. We sat by ourselves on the porch the family used mostly to store things. I did a second line and he put his hand between my legs. Every ninety seconds a plane flew over the narrow highway, then over the beach, and disappeared out to sea. Instead of moving closer to the boy or touching him, I watched the planes. I came after two planes.
He drove me home, taking Jefferson, which ran along the Ballona Wetlands. He pulled over. Why was he stopping the car? He pointed out the passenger window. I turned and saw one white bird standing all alone. I looked over at him. His hoodie was off. He smiled and said, “Snowy Egret.”
* * *
“What happened?” The doctor was back. Had he been talking to me all this time? He looked at his iPad. He was gorgeous. He looked dead-tired, which made him all the more attractive.
I didn’t know how to explain my accident. I was fucking my husband and the next thing I knew there was glass in my derriere. Fanny. Backside. Butt. Heine. Rump. Rear. Bum. I pointed to my bottom. I shouldn’t have smoked that joint in the car.
The doctor whipped off the sheet.
“What happened?” the doctor said again, leaning close to my naked behind.
“We were trimming the Christmas tree and I tripped and fell on some ornaments.” I felt his breath on the backs of my thighs.
“You trim your tree naked?”
I was not sure the doctor actually asked me that. I decided not to offer up additional commentary.
“Painful?” he asked.
“Uh-huh.” I turned as much as I could to look at him.
“Yes. That was painful too,” I said.
He smiled, keeping his eyes on my butt. “How old are they?”
“Five and seven.” Then I realized I hadn't thought much about them. They had fallen asleep despite telling me they were going to stay up all night and wait for Santa.
“We were having sex,” I blurted out.
“Nice to love someone that much.”
“Yeah. Love. Maybe desire,” I said into the gurney’s thin mattress.
“Potato, potata,” he said.
The doctor started to pull out the pieces of glass.
I yelped. I hoped no one would come in with a gunshot wound and take him away from me. The bouncy nurse materialized beside him.
“I am going to give you something for the pain.”
Silently I said Yes! to the pain meds and pumped my fist when he stepped out of the curtained room. I was sure he wasn’t coming back. He was probably going to hand me off to an intern to finish the job.
“Here.” The nurse held out two pills and a small paper cup of water. She didn’t make eye contact with me.
“Some of the glass is pretty deep. You are going to need a few stitches.” He said and turned to whisper something I didn’t catch to the nurse.
I was still high. I wanted to lick his eyelids. “Sorry you have to work on Christmas Eve.”
“It’s okay. I don’t celebrate Christmas.” He pulled a rolling stool over and sat down to get closer to my butt. He knew he was going to be there for a while.
“This is a local anesthetic. You will feel a pinch,” said the doctor.
I felt the stitches being pulled through my skin. I didn’t mind the tug. It gave me something to follow. So what if I didn’t have the money or the house or the leisure I grew up with? Every day I looked out of my front door and saw matching houses, clipped lawns, and cars too big for the driveways. What did the people next door and across the street think about sex? What kind of sex did they have? How often? Did they use props? Vibrators? I wanted to know—was I normal? Did other people think sex was as good as a new house, good scotch, private schools, or a closetful of salt and pepper shakers?
“What do you celebrate?” I asked.
“Your husband is outside,” the doctor said, ignoring my question. He steadied me as I inched off the gurney. “The stitches come out in seven days. Keep the wounds clean and dry. Come back here or go to your regular doctor.” He held out a prescription. “Fill this. If you get a fever, call me.”
I nodded; hoping clean and dry didn’t mean no sex. I tied Max’s windbreaker around my waist to hide my bare ass. I looked up to say something, but the doctor was gone and Max was standing in front of me holding Patrick by the hand and balancing Mandy on his hip.
“They were awake when I got back to the house,”Max said. “So I brought them with me.”
“Merry Christmas, Mommy,” they whispered.
“Merry Christmas, babies,” I said. “How did you get back here?”
“One of the nurses said it was okay. She knows Daddy,” Patrick explained. “There she is.” Patrick pointed to the bouncy nurse who had taken my blood pressure and assisted the doctor.
“Everything okay here?”
The nurse touched Max’s back with the palm of her hand. I didn’t like it. Made me think they had slept together. Max knew almost everyone in town. For all I knew they could have gone to the prom together.
Don’t walk over there. That’s what Max told me about looking too closely at bad things. You look over the edge, get too close, you are gonna fall off a cliff. I fucked a bunch of guys before Max. I only walked over to size up the drop.
“We’re good.” Max shifted Mandy to his other hip and reached out for me.
When we got home, I rushed the kids past the living room, but I didn’t have to. Rita had tacked up a sheet so the kids couldn’t see in. I grabbed Mandy’s pink bedspread and wrapped it around me and lay on my stomach in the middle of Mandy’s bed. The kids settled on their backs with their legs straight as toothpicks, as though they were afraid they might hurt me if their little bodies came in contact with mine. I read them The Christmas Tree That Stayed Up All Year. Halfway through the second reading, they were both asleep, but I finished the book anyway before slipping out.
I went down the hall to the living room. I pulled the sheet aside and peered in. It was almost 3:00 a.m. Rita was on her knees, trying to fit the dollhouse together. She had trimmed the tree with bows made of kite string and rows of buttons strung on brown twine. I don’t know how she had gotten the tree upright on her own. Using her shoulder for balance, I knelt down beside her.
Rita patted my hand and kept at the dollhouse.
“Last week I had the Salvation Army come over to take the couch.”
“Uh-huh,” Rita said.
“They couldn’t take it. They couldn’t get it through the hall. They asked me how I got it in here in the first place. I told them Max took out the window and pushed it in.”
“That’s Max,” Rita said.
“My college roommate was coming over that night. I was embarrassed we had no furniture. He must have asked you to borrow the couch that morning.”
“He came over saying he had to have it.”
“He spent all afternoon fitting the window frame back in.”
“You don’t have to keep the couch, Blue,” Rita said, and snapped the last piece of the dollhouse in place.
Woozy, I lay down on my side in front of the couch. My butt throbbed. I should have asked the doctor for an actual pain pill. I couldn’t ask Max to go out on Christmas to fill a scrip. “I know. But I was. . . .relieved when they couldn’t take it.”
Our kids were conceived on that couch. How could I have forgotten that? Buried in the couch was more of Max—remains of our lovemaking. And jokes and fights and apologies and spit-up. And pennies and dirt. Us.
I never thought I would marry a man who didn’t own a suit. I looked at the mantelpiece, the bookcase with the carved molding because he had seen one like it in my mother’s house. The chandelier he’d rewired and hung. I looked at the things Max had made. I turned onto my stomach to squint at the green and red lights. Max didn’t debate the trajectory of his life. He lived it. And he loved me.
I heard the mudroom door shut and we both turned to see Max standing in the doorway, pulling down the sheet.
“Here we go. The last piece,” Max said, holding up Patrick’s bike with the training wheels.
It was in the spring of the year 1894 that all London was interested, and the fashionable world dismayed, by the murder of the Honourable 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 have done 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 , 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 Honourable 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 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 easy-going 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 good-night, she had 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 bank-notes 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 endeavouring 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, it would indeed be a remarkable shot who could with a revolver inflict so deadly a wound. Again, Park Lane is a frequented thoroughfare, and 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, endeavouring 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 coloured glasses, whom I strongly suspected of being a plain-clothes 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 endeavoured 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 neighbour 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 grey mist swirled before my eyes, and when it cleared I found my collar-ends undone and the tingling after-taste 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 arm.
“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 am 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 frock-coat 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 co-operation, 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 to-night?”
“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 grey 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 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. This 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 upwards, 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 endeavoured 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 Lhassa and spending some days with the head Llama. 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 Montpelier, 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 to-day I found myself in my old arm-chair 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 to-night 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 forwards 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 centre 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 our little adventures? We will see if my three years of absence have entirely taken away my power to surprise you.” a house
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 moulding. It is a bust in wax. The rest I arranged myself during my visit to Baker Street this afternoon.”
“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 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 to-night, 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 passers-by. 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 upwards.
“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 centre. 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 moustache. An opera-hat was pushed to the back of his head, and an evening dress shirt-front 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-block. Then, crouching down, he rested the end of the barrel upon the ledge of the open window, and I saw his long moustache 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 fore sight. 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 plain-clothes 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 favoured 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 unrivalled?”
The fierce old man said nothing, but still glared at my companion; with his savage eyes and bristling moustache 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 Honourable 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 30th 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 scrap-books 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 preserved 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 air-gun. 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 frock-coat, 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 aright, 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 to-night.”
He handed over the book, and I read: “MORAN, SEBASTIAN, COLONEL. Unemployed. Formerly 1st Bengalore 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 (despatches), 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 honourable 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 to go wrong. Without any open scandal he still made India too 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 look-out 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 Honourable 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, Moran 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 endeavouring 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.”
Leon Pecquet had been a traditional dog breeder for nearly ten years when he decided to try something radically new.
Until then, the dozen or so dogs in his care roamed free within the gentle confines of a split-rail fence lined with chicken wire which ran along the border of several acres of open pasture. They slept and took shelter from the rain and snow in an old barn near the back of Leon’s property, about a hundred yards behind his house. Dogs went in and out of the barn an
OFFICER LARRY MICHAELS had been trolling the streets for prostitutes for about an hour, but he hadn’t had much luck. A strong north wind had turned a beautiful late October afternoon into a chilly evening. The girls had gone away, all but one, and she was standing on the corner of 29th and South Robinson outside an auto parts store, hugging her breasts, legs glued together for warmth. She huddled against the wind, wearing a beige halter top beneath a wispy purple blouse, black spandex ti
Leon Pecquet had been a traditional dog breeder for nearly ten years when he decided to try something radically new.
Until then, the dozen or so dogs in his care roamed free within the gentle confines of a split-rail fence lined with chicken wire which ran along the border of several acres of open pasture. They slept and took shelter from the rain and snow in an old barn near the back of Leon’s property, about a hundred yards behind his house. Dogs went in and out of the barn and chased each other through the fields as they pleased.
When he wasn’t working, Leon spent much of his time with his dogs, feeding them, caring for them and playing with them, tossing sticks and rubber balls for them to find and retrieve in the tall grass.
Leon worked on com
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