feeling, no doubt, but it hurts my pride. It becomes a personal matter
with me now, and, if God sends me health, I shall set my hand upon this
gang. That he should come to me for help, and that I should send him
away to his death—!” He sprang from his chair and paced about the room
in uncontrollable agitation, with a flush upon his sallow cheeks, and a
nervous clasping and unclasping of his long, thin hands.
“They must be cunning devils,” he exclaimed, at last. “How could they
have decoyed him down there? The Embankment is not on the direct line
to the station. The bridge, no doubt, was too crowded, even on such a
night, for their purpose. Well, Watson, we shall see who will win in
the long run. I am going out now!”
[Illustration: “‘HOLMES,’ I CRIED, ‘YOU ARE TOO LATE’”]
“To the police?”
“No; I shall be my own police. When I have spun the web they may take
the flies, but not before.”
All day I was engaged in my professional work, and it was late in the
evening before I returned to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes had not come
back yet. It was nearly ten o’clock before he entered, looking pale
and worn. He walked up to the sideboard, and, tearing a piece from the
loaf, he devoured it voraciously, washing it down with a long draught
of water.
“You are hungry,” I remarked.
“Starving. It had escaped my memory. I have had nothing since
breakfast.”
“Nothing?”
“Not a bite. I had no time to think of it.”
“And how have you succeeded?”
“Well.”
“You have a clew?”
“I have them in the hollow of my hand. Young Openshaw shall not long
remain unavenged. Why, Watson, let us put their own devilish trade-mark
upon them. It is well thought of!”
“What do you mean?”
He took an orange from the cupboard, and, tearing it to pieces, he
squeezed out the pips upon the table. Of these he took five, and thrust
them into an envelope. On the inside of the flap he wrote “S. H. for J.
O.” Then he sealed it and addressed it to “Captain James Calhoun, Bark
_Lone Star_, Savannah, Georgia.”
“That will await him when he enters port,” said he, chuckling. “It may
give him a sleepless night. He will find it as sure a precursor of his
fate as Openshaw did before him.”
“And who is this Captain Calhoun?”
“The leader of the gang. I shall have the others, but he first.”
“How did you trace it, then?”
He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all covered with dates
and names.
“I have spent the whole day,” said he, “over Lloyd’s registers and the
files of the old papers, following the future career of every vessel
which touched at Pondicherry in January and February in ’83. There
were thirty-six ships of fair tonnage which were reported there during
those months. Of these, one, the _Lone Star_, instantly attracted my
attention, since, although it was reported as having cleared from
London, the name is that which is given to one of the States of the
Union.”
“Texas, I think.”
“I was not and am not sure which; but I knew that the ship must have an
American origin.”
“What then?”
“I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that the bark _Lone
Star_ was there in January, ’85, my suspicion became a certainty. I
then inquired as to the vessels which lay at present in the port of
London.”
“Yes?”
“The _Lone Star_ had arrived here last week. I went down to the Albert
Dock, and found that she had been taken down the river by the early
tide this morning, homeward bound to Savannah. I wired to Gravesend,
and learned that she had passed some time ago; and as the wind is
easterly, I have no doubt that she is now past the Goodwins, and not
very far from the Isle of Wight.”
“What will you do, then?”
“Oh, I have my hand upon him. He and the two mates, are, as I learn,
the only native-born Americans in the ship. The others are Finns and
Germans. I know, also, that they were all three away from the ship last
night. I had it from the stevedore who has been loading their cargo. By
the time that their sailing-ship reaches Savannah the mail-boat will
have carried this letter, and the cable will have informed the police
of Savannah that these three gentlemen are badly wanted here upon a
charge of murder.”
There is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid of human plans, and
the murderers of John Openshaw were never to receive the orange pips
which would show them that another, as cunning and as resolute as
themselves, was upon their track. Very long and very severe were the
equinoctial gales that year. We waited long for news of the _Lone
Star_ of Savannah, but none ever reached us. We did at last hear that
somewhere far out in the Atlantic a shattered stern-post of a boat was
seen swinging in the trough of a wave, with the letters “L. S.” carved
upon it, and that is all which we shall ever know of the fate of the
_Lone Star_.
Adventure VI
THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP
Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal of the
Theological College of St. George’s, was much addicted to opium. The
habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some foolish freak when he
was at college; for having read De Quincey’s description of his dreams
and sensations, he had drenched his tobacco with laudanum in an attempt
to produce the same effects. He found, as so many more have done, that
the practice is easier to attain than to get rid of, and for many years
he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object of mingled horror
and pity to his friends and relatives. I can see him now, with yellow,
pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point pupils, all huddled in a
chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble man.
One night—it was in June, ’89—there came a ring to my bell, about the
hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the clock. I sat up
in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work down in her lap and made
a little face of disappointment.
“A patient!” said she. “You’ll have to go out.”
I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.
We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps
upon the linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad in some
dark-colored stuff, with a black veil, entered the room.
“You will excuse my calling so late,” she began, and then, suddenly
losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms about my
wife’s neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder. “Oh, I’m in such trouble!”
she cried; “I do so want a little help.”
“Why,” said my wife, pulling up her veil, “it is Kate Whitney. How you
startled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were when you came in.”
“I didn’t know what to do, so I came straight to you.” That was always
the way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birds to a
light-house.
“It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wine and
water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or should you
rather that I sent James off to bed?”
“Oh, no, no! I want the Doctor’s advice and help, too. It’s about Isa.
He has not been home for two days. I am so frightened about him!”
It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her husband’s
trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend and school
companion. We soothed and comforted her by such words as we could find.
Did she know where her husband was? Was it possible that we could bring
him back to her?
It seemed that it was. She had the surest information that of late he
had, when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in the farthest
east of the city. Hitherto his orgies had always been confined to one
day, and he had come back, twitching and shattered, in the evening.
But now the spell had been upon him eight-and-forty hours, and he lay
there, doubtless among the dregs of the docks, breathing in the poison
or sleeping off the effects. There he was to be found, she was sure of
it, at the “Bar of Gold,” in Upper Swandam Lane. But what was she to
do? How could she, a young and timid woman, make her way into such a
place, and pluck her husband out from among the ruffians who surrounded
him?
There was the case, and of course there was but one way out of it.
Might I not escort her to this place? And then, as a second thought,
why should she come at all? I was Isa Whitney’s medical adviser, and
as such I had influence over him. I could manage it better if I were
alone. I promised her on my word that I would send him home in a
cab within two hours if he were indeed at the address which she had
given me. And so in ten minutes I had left my arm-chair and cheery
sitting-room behind me, and was speeding eastward in a hansom on a
strange errand, as it seemed to me at the time, though the future only
could show how strange it was to be.
But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my adventure.
Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the high wharves
which line the north side of the river to the east of London Bridge.
Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approached by a steep flight of
steps leading down to a black gap like the mouth of a cave, I found the
den of which I was in search. Ordering my cab to wait, I passed down
the steps, worn hollow in the centre by the ceaseless tread of drunken
feet, and by the light of a flickering oil-lamp above the door I found
the latch, and made my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy
with the brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden berths, like the
forecastle of an emigrant ship.
Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying in
strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown back
and chins pointing upward, with here and there a dark, lack-lustre eye
turned upon the new-comer. Out of the black shadows there glimmered
little red circles of light, now bright, now faint, as the burning
poison waxed or waned in the bowls of the metal pipes. The most lay
silent, but some muttered to themselves, and others talked together in
a strange, low, monotonous voice, their conversation coming in gushes,
and then suddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling out his own
thoughts, and paying little heed to the words of his neighbor. At the
farther end was a small brazier of burning charcoal, beside which on a
three-legged wooden stool there sat a tall, thin old man, with his jaw
resting upon his two fists, and his elbows upon his knees, staring into
the fire.
As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe for
me and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth.
“Thank you. I have not come to stay,” said I. “There is a friend of
mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him.”
There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and, peering
through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and unkempt, staring
out at me.
“My God! It’s Watson,” said he. He was in a pitiable state of reaction,
with every nerve in a twitter. “I say, Watson, what o’clock is it?”
“Nearly eleven.”
“Of what day?”
“Of Friday, June 19th.”
“Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What d’you
want to frighten a chap for?” He sank his face onto his arms, and began
to sob in a high treble key.
“I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting this two
days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!”
“So I am. But you’ve got mixed, Watson, for I have only been here a few
hours, three pipes, four pipes—I forget how many. But I’ll go home
with you. I wouldn’t frighten Kate—poor little Kate. Give me your
hand! Have you a cab?”
“Yes, I have one waiting.”
“Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something. Find what I owe,
Watson. I am all off color. I can do nothing for myself.”
I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of sleepers,
holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug,
and looking about for the manager. As I passed the tall man who sat
by the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at my skirt, and a low voice
whispered, “Walk past me, and then look back at me.” The words fell
quite distinctly upon my ear. I glanced down. They could only have come
from the old man at my side, and yet he sat now as absorbed as ever,
very thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling down
from between his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer lassitude
from his fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back. It took
all my self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a cry of
astonishment. He had turned his back so that none could see him but
I. His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull eyes had
regained their fire, and there, sitting by the fire, and grinning at
my surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He made a slight
motion to me to approach him, and instantly, as he turned his face half
round to the company once more, subsided into a doddering, loose-lipped
senility.
“Holmes!” I whispered, “what on earth are you doing in this den?”
“As low as you can,” he answered; “I have excellent ears. If you would
have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend of yours I
should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you.”
“I have a cab outside.”
“Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust him, for he
appears to be too limp to get into any mischief. I should recommend you
also to send a note by the cabman to your wife to say that you have
thrown in your lot with me. If you will wait outside, I shall be with
you in five minutes.”
It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes’s requests, for they
were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward with such a quiet
air of mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitney was once confined
in the cab my mission was practically accomplished, and for the rest,
I could not wish anything better than to be associated with my friend
in one of those singular adventures which were the normal condition of
his existence. In a few minutes I had written my note, paid Whitney’s
bill, led him out to the cab, and seen him driven through the darkness.
In a very short time a decrepit figure had emerged from the opium
den, and I was walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes. For two
streets he shuffled along with a bent back and an uncertain foot. Then,
glancing quickly round, he straightened himself out and burst into a
hearty fit of laughter.
“I suppose, Watson,” said he, “that you imagine that I have added
opium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other little
weaknesses on which you have favored me with your medical views.”
“I was certainly surprised to find you there.”
“But not more so than I to find you.”
“I came to find a friend.”
“And I to find an enemy.”
“An enemy?”
“Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural prey.
Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable inquiry, and
I have hoped to find a clew in the incoherent ramblings of these
sots, as I have done before now. Had I been recognized in that den my
life would not have been worth an hour’s purchase; for I have used it
before now for my own purposes, and the rascally Lascar who runs it has
sworn to have vengeance upon me. There is a trap-door at the back of
that building, near the corner of Paul’s Wharf, which could tell some
strange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonless nights.”
“What! You do not mean bodies?”
“Aye, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we had £1000 for every
poor devil who has been done to death in that den. It is the vilest
murder-trap on the whole river-side, and I fear that Neville St. Clair
has entered it never to leave it more. But our trap should be here.”
He put his two forefingers between his teeth and whistled shrilly—a
signal which was answered by a similar whistle from the distance,
followed shortly by the rattle of wheels and the clink of horses’
hoofs.
“Now, Watson,” said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart dashed up through the
gloom, throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light from its side
lanterns. “You’ll come with me, won’t you?”
“If I can be of use.”
“Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use; and a chronicler still more so.
My room at ‘The Cedars’ is a double-bedded one.”
“‘The Cedars?’”
“Yes; that is Mr. St. Clair’s house. I am staying there while I conduct
the inquiry.”
“Where is it, then?”
“Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive before us.”
“But I am all in the dark.”
“Of course you are. You’ll know all about it presently. Jump up here.
All right, John; we shall not need you. Here’s half a crown. Look out
for me to-morrow, about eleven. Give her her head. So long, then!”
He flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away through the
endless succession of sombre and deserted streets, which widened
gradually, until we were flying across a broad balustraded bridge, with
the murky river flowing sluggishly beneath us. Beyond lay another dull
wilderness of bricks and mortar, its silence broken only by the heavy,
regular footfall of the policeman, or the songs and shouts of some
belated party of revellers. A dull wrack was drifting slowly across the
sky, and a star or two twinkled dimly here and there through the rifts
of the clouds. Holmes drove in silence, with his head sunk upon his
breast, and the air of a man who is lost in thought, while I sat beside
him, curious to learn what this new quest might be which seemed to tax
his powers so sorely, and yet afraid to break in upon the current of
his thoughts. We had driven several miles, and were beginning to get
to the fringe of the belt of suburban villas, when he shook himself,
shrugged his shoulders, and lit up his pipe with the air of a man who
has satisfied himself that he is acting for the best.
“You have a grand gift of silence, Watson,” said he. “It makes you
quite invaluable as a companion. ’Pon my word, it is a great thing
for me to have some one to talk to, for my own thoughts are not over
pleasant. I was wondering what I should say to this dear little woman
to-night when she meets me at the door.”
“You forget that I know nothing about it.”
“I shall just have time to tell you the facts of the case before we get
to Lee. It seems absurdly simple, and yet, somehow, I can get nothing
to go upon. There’s plenty of thread, no doubt, but I can’t get the end
of it into my hand. Now, I’ll state the case clearly and concisely to
you, Watson, and maybe you can see a spark where all is dark to me.”
“Proceed, then.”
“Some years ago—to be definite, in May, 1884—there came to Lee a
gentleman, Neville St. Clair by name, who appeared to have plenty
of money. He took a large villa, laid out the grounds very nicely,
and lived generally in good style. By degrees he made friends in the
neighborhood, and in 1887 he married the daughter of a local brewer, by
whom he now has two children. He had no occupation, but was interested
in several companies, and went into town as a rule in the morning,
returning by the 5.14 from Cannon Street every night. Mr. St. Clair is
now thirty-seven years of age, is a man of temperate habits, a good
husband, a very affectionate father, and a man who is popular with all
who know him. I may add that his whole debts at the present moment,
as far as we have been able to ascertain, amount to £88 10_s._, while
he has £220 standing to his credit in the Capital and Counties Bank.
There is no reason, therefore, to think that money troubles have been
weighing upon his mind.
“Last Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into town rather earlier
than usual, remarking before he started that he had two important
commissions to perform, and that he would bring his little boy home a
box of bricks. Now, by the merest chance, his wife received a telegram
upon this same Monday, very shortly after his departure, to the effect
that a small parcel of considerable value which she had been expecting
was waiting for her at the offices of the Aberdeen Shipping Company.
Now, if you are well up in your London, you will know that the offices
of the company is in Fresno Street, which branches out of Upper Swandam
Lane, where you found me to-night. Mrs. St. Clair had her lunch,
started for the city, did some shopping, proceeded to the company’s
office, got her packet, and found herself at exactly 4.35 walking
through Swandam Lane on her way back to the station. Have you followed
me so far?”
“It is very clear.”
“If you remember, Monday was an exceedingly hot day, and Mrs. St.
Clair walked slowly, glancing about in the hope of seeing a cab, as
she did not like the neighborhood in which she found herself. While
she was walking in this way down Swandam Lane, she suddenly heard an
ejaculation or cry, and was struck cold to see her husband looking down
at her, and, as it seemed to her, beckoning to her from a second-floor
window. The window was open, and she distinctly saw his face, which she
describes as being terribly agitated. He waved his hands frantically
to her, and then vanished from the window so suddenly that it seemed
to her that he had been plucked back by some irresistible force from
behind. One singular point which struck her quick feminine eye was
that, although he wore some dark coat, such as he had started to town
in, he had on neither collar nor necktie.
[Illustration: “AT THE FOOT OF THE STAIRS SHE MET THIS LASCAR
SCOUNDREL.”]
“Convinced that something was amiss with him, she rushed down the
steps—for the house was none other than the opium den in which you
found me to-night—and, running through the front room, she attempted
to ascend the stairs which led to the first floor. At the foot of the
stairs, however, she met this Lascar scoundrel of whom I have spoken,
who thrust her back, and, aided by a Dane, who acts as assistant there,
pushed her out into the street. Filled with the most maddening doubts
and fears, she rushed down the lane, and, by rare good-fortune, met, in
Fresno Street, a number of constables with an inspector, all on their
way to their beat. The inspector and two men accompanied her back, and,
in spite of the continued resistance of the proprietor, they made their
way to the room in which Mr. St. Clair had last been seen. There was no
sign of him there. In fact, in the whole of that floor there was no one
to be found, save a crippled wretch of hideous aspect, who, it seems,
made his home there. Both he and the Lascar stoutly swore that no one
else had been in the front room during the afternoon. So determined
was their denial that the inspector was staggered, and had almost come
to believe that Mrs. St. Clair had been deluded, when, with a cry, she
sprang at a small deal box which lay upon the table, and tore the lid
from it. Out there fell a cascade of children’s bricks. It was the toy
which he had promised to bring home.
“This discovery, and the evident confusion which the cripple showed,
made the inspector realize that the matter was serious. The rooms were
carefully examined, and results all pointed to an abominable crime.
The front room was plainly furnished as a sitting-room, and led into a
small bedroom, which looked out upon the back of one of the wharves.
Between the wharf and the bedroom window is a narrow strip, which is
dry at low tide, but is covered at high tide with at least four and
a half feet of water. The bedroom window was a broad one, and opened
from below. On examination traces of blood were to be seen upon the
window-sill, and several scattered drops were visible upon the wooden
floor of the bedroom. Thrust away behind a curtain in the front room
were all the clothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair, with the exception of
his coat. His boots, his socks, his hat, and his watch—all were there.
There were no signs of violence upon any of these garments, and there
were no other traces of Mr. Neville St. Clair. Out of the window he
must apparently have gone, for no other exit could be discovered, and
the ominous blood-stains upon the sill gave little promise that he
could save himself by swimming, for the tide was at its very highest at
the moment of the tragedy.
“And now as to the villains who seemed to be immediately implicated in
the matter. The Lascar was known to be a man of the vilest antecedents,
but as, by Mrs. St. Clair’s story, he was known to have been at the
foot of the stair within a very few seconds of her husband’s appearance
at the window, he could hardly have been more than an accessory to the
crime. His defense was one of absolute ignorance, and he protested that
he had no knowledge as to the doings of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and
that he could not account in any way for the presence of the missing
gentleman’s clothes.