“Yes, sir,” I added, merely to arouse him, “in just ten seconds! Ten
short, beautiful seconds.”
“Mr. Postlethwaite,” said the Nizam--Postlethwaite was the name I
was travelling under--“Mr. Postlethwaite,” said the Nizam--otherwise
Wilkins--“your remarks interest me greatly.” His face wreathed with a
smile that I had never before seen there. “I have thought as you do in
regard to this poor Indian prince, but I must confess I don't see how
he can get out of giving the Queen that diamond. Have a cigar, Mr.
Postlethwaite, and, waiter, bring us a triple magnum of champagne. Do
you really think, Mr. Postlethwaite, that there is a way out of it? If
you would like a ticket to Westminster for the ceremony, there are a
half-dozen.”
He tossed six tickets for seats among the crowned heads across the table
to me. His eagerness was almost too painful to witness.
“Thank you,” said I, calmly pocketing the tickets, for they were of rare
value at that time. “The way out of it is very simple.”
“Indeed, Mr. Postlethwaite,” said he, trying to keep cool. “Ah--are you
interested in rubies, sir? There are a few which I should be pleased to
have you accept”--and with that over came a handful of precious stones
each worth a fortune. These also I pocketed as I replied:
“Why, certainly; if I were the Nizam,” said I, “I'd lose that diamond.”
A shade of disappointment came over Mr. Wilkins's face.
“Lose it? How? Where?” he asked, with a frown.
“Yes. Lose it. Any way I could. As for the place where it should be
lost, any old place will do as long as it is where he can find it again
when he gets back home. He might leave it in his other clothes, or--”
“Make that two triple magnums, waiter,” cried Mr. Wilkins, excitedly,
interrupting me. “Postlethwaite, you're a genius, and if you ever want a
house and lot in Calcutta, just let me know and they're yours.”
You never saw such a change come over a man in all your life. Where he
had been all gloom before, he was now all smiles and jollity, and
from that time on to his return to India Mr. Wilkins was as happy as a
school-boy at the beginning of vacation. The next day the diamond was
lost, and whoever may have it at this moment, the British Crown is not
in possession of the Jigamaree gem.
But, as my friend Terence Mulvaney says, that is another story. It is of
the mystery immediately following this concerning which I have set out
to write.
I was sitting one day in my office on Apollyon Square opposite the
Alexandrian library, smoking an absinthe cigarette, which I had rolled
myself from my special mixture consisting of two parts tobacco, one part
hasheesh, one part of opium dampened with a liqueur glass of absinthe,
when an excited knock sounded upon my door.
“Come in,” I cried, adopting the usual formula.
The door opened and a beautiful woman stood before me clad in most regal
garments, robust of figure, yet extremely pale. It seemed to me that I
had seen her somewhere before, yet for a time I could not place her.
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” said she, in deliciously musical tones, which,
singular to relate, she emitted in a fashion suggestive of a recitative
passage in an opera.
“The same,” said I, bowing with my accustomed courtesy.
“The ferret?” she sang, in staccato tones which were ravishing to my
musical soul.
I laughed. “That term has been applied to me, madame,” said I, chanting
my answer as best I could. “For myself, however, I prefer to assume the
more modest title of detective. I can work with or without clues, and
have never yet been baffled. I know who wrote the Junius letters, and
upon occasions have been known to see through a stone wall with my naked
eye. What can I do for you?”
“Tell me who I am!” she cried, tragically, taking the centre of the room
and gesticulating wildly.
“Well--really, madame,” I replied. “You didn't send up any card--”
“Ah!” she sneered. “This is what your vaunted prowess amounts to, eh?
Ha! Do you suppose if I had a card with my name on it I'd have come
to you to inquire who I am? I can read a card as well as you can, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes.”
“Then, as I understand it, madame,” I put in, “you have suddenly
forgotten your identity and wish me to--”
“Nothing of the sort. I have forgotten nothing. I never knew for
certain who I am. I have an impression, but it is based only on hearsay
evidence,” she interrupted.
For a moment I was fairly puzzled. Still I did not wish to let her know
this, and so going behind my screen and taking a capsule full of cocaine
to steady my nerves, I gained a moment to think. Returning, I said:
“This really is child's play for me, madame. It won't take more than a
week to find out who you are, and possibly, if you have any clews at all
to your identity, I may be able to solve this mystery in a day.”
“I have only three,” she answered, and taking a piece of swan's-down,
a lock of golden hair, and a pair of silver-tinsel tights from her
portmanteau she handed them over to me.
My first impulse was to ask the lady if she remembered the name of the
asylum from which she had escaped, but I fortunately refrained from
doing so, and she shortly left me, promising to return at the end of the
week.
For three days I puzzled over the clews. Swan's-down, yellow hair, and a
pair of silver-tinsel tights, while very interesting no doubt at times,
do not form a very solid basis for a theory establishing the identity of
so regal a person as my visitor. My first impression was that she was a
vaudeville artist, and that the exhibits she had left me were a part of
her make-up. This I was forced to abandon shortly, because no woman with
the voice of my visitor would sing in vaudeville. The more ambitious
stage was her legitimate field, if not grand opera itself.
At this point she returned to my office, and I of course reported
progress. That is one of the most valuable things I learned while on
earth--when you have done nothing, report progress.
“I haven't quite succeeded as yet,” said I, “but I am getting at it
slowly. I do not, however, think it wise to acquaint you with my present
notions until they are verified beyond peradventure. It might help me
somewhat if you were to tell me who it is you think you are. I could
work either forward or backward on that hypothesis, as seemed best, and
so arrive at a hypothetical truth anyhow.”
“That's just what I don't want to do,” said she. “That information might
bias your final judgment. If, however, acting on the clews which you
have, you confirm my impression that I am such and such a person, as
well as the views which other people have, then will my status be well
defined and I can institute my suit against my husband for a judicial
separation, with back alimony, with some assurance of a successful
issue.”