_Being the tale told by the holder of the eleventh ball,
Mr. Fulton Streete_
"It is the little things that tell in detective work, my dear Watson,"
said Sherlock Holmes as we sat over our walnuts and coffee one bitter
winter night shortly before his unfortunate departure to Switzerland,
whence he never returned.
"I suppose that is so," said I, pulling away upon the very excellent
stogie which mine host had provided--one made in Pittsburg in 1885, and
purchased by Holmes, whose fine taste in tobacco had induced him to lay
a thousand of these down in his cigar-cellar for three years, and then
keep them in a refrigerator, overlaid with a cloth soaked in Chateau
Yquem wine for ten. The result may be better imagined than described.
Suffice it to say that my head did not recover for three days, and the
ash had to be cut off the stogie with a knife. "I suppose so, my dear
Holmes," I repeated, taking my knife and cutting three inches of the
stogie off and casting it aside, furtively, lest he should think I did
not appreciate the excellence of the tobacco, "but it is not given to
all of us to see the little things. Is it, now?"
"Yes," he said, rising and picking up the rejected portion of the
stogie. "We all see everything that goes on, but we don't all know it.
We all hear everything that goes on, but we are not conscious of the
fact. For instance, at this present moment there is somewhere in this
world a man being set upon by assassins and yelling lustily for help.
Now his yells create a certain atmospheric disturbance. Sound is merely
vibration, and, once set going, these vibrations will run on and on and
on in ripples into the infinite--that is, they will never stop, and
sooner or later these vibrations must reach our ears. We may not know it
when they do, but they will do so none the less. If the man is in the
next room, we will hear the yells almost simultaneously--not quite, but
almost--with their utterance. If the man is in Timbuctoo, the vibrations
may not reach us for a little time, according to the speed with which
they travel. So with sight. Sight seems limited, but in reality it is
not. _Vox populi, vox Dei_. If _vox_, why not _oculus_? It is a simple
proposition, then, that the eye of the people being the eye of God, the
eye of God being all-seeing, therefore the eye of the people is
all-seeing--Q. E. D."
I gasped, and Holmes, cracking a walnut, gazed into the fire for a
moment.
"It all comes down, then," I said, "to the question, who are the
people?"
Holmes smiled grimly. "All men," he replied, shortly; "and when I say
all men, I mean all creatures who can reason."
"Does that include women?" I asked.
"Certainly," he said. "Indubitably. The fact that women _don't_ reason
does not prove that they can't. I _can_ go up in a balloon if I wish to,
but I _don't_. I _can_ read an American newspaper comic supplement, but
I _don't_. So it is with women. Women can reason, and therefore they
have a right to be included in the classification whether they do or
don't."
"Quite so," was all I could think of to say at the moment. The
extraordinary logic of the man staggered me, and I again began to
believe that the famous mathematician who said that if Sherlock Holmes
attempted to prove that five apples plus three peaches made four pears,
he would not venture to dispute his conclusions, was wise. (This was the
famous Professor Zoggenhoffer, of the Leipsic School of Moral Philosophy
and Stenography.--ED.)
"Now you agree, my dear Watson," he said, "that I have proved that we
see everything?"
"Well--" I began.
"Whether we are conscious of it or not?" he added, lighting the gas-log,
for the cold was becoming intense.
"From that point of view, I suppose so--yes," I replied, desperately.
"Well, then, this being granted, consciousness is all that is needed to
make us fully informed on any point."
"No," I said, with some positiveness. "The American people are very
conscious, but I can't say that generally they are well-informed."
I had an idea this would knock him out, as the Bostonians say, but
counted without my host. He merely laughed.
"The American is only self-conscious. Therefore he is well-informed only
as to self," he said.
"You've proved your point, Sherlock," I said. "Go on. What else have you
proved?"
"That it is the little things that tell," he replied. "Which all men
would realize in a moment if they could see the little things--and when
I say 'if they could see,' I of course mean if they could be conscious
of them."
"Very true," said I.
"And I have the gift of consciousness," he added.
I thought he had, and I said so. "But," I added, "give me a concrete
example." It had been some weeks since I had listened to any of his
detective stories, and I was athirst for another.
He rose up and walked over to his pigeon-holes, each labelled with a
letter, in alphabetical sequence.
"I have only to refer to any of these to do so," he said. "Choose your
letter."
"Really, Holmes," said I, "I don't need to do that. I'll believe all you
say. In fact, I'll write it up and _sign my name_ to any statement you
choose to make."
[Illustration: THE LAMP-POSTS WERE TWISTED]
"Choose your letter, Watson," he retorted. "You and I are on terms that
make flattery impossible. Is it F, J, P, Q, or Z?"
He fixed his eye penetratingly upon me. It seemed for the moment as if I
were hypnotized, and as his gaze fairly stabbed me with its intensity,
through my mind there ran the suggestion "Choose J, choose J, choose J."
To choose J became an obsession. To relieve my mind, I turned my eye
from his and looked at the fire. Each flame took on the form of the
letter J. I left my chair and walked to the window and looked out. The
lamp-posts were twisted into the shape of the letter J. I returned, sat
down, gulped down my brandy-and-soda, and looked up at the portraits of
Holmes's ancestors on the wall. They were all J's. But I was resolved
never to yield, and I gasped out, desperately,
"Z!"
"Thanks," he said, calmly. "Z be it. I thought you would. Reflex
hypnotism, my dear Watson, is my forte. If I wish a man to choose Q, B
takes hold upon him. If I wish him to choose K, A fills his mind. Have
you ever observed how the mind of man repels a suggestion and flees to
something else, merely that it may demonstrate its independence of
another mind? Now I have been suggesting J to you, and you have chosen
Z--"
"You misunderstood me," I cried, desperately. "I did not say Z; I said
P."
"Quite so," said he, with an inward chuckle. "P was the letter I wished
you to choose. If you had insisted upon Z, I should really have been
embarrassed. See!" he added. He removed the green-ended box that rested
in the pigeon-hole marked Z, and, opening it, disclosed an emptiness.
"I've never had a Z case. But P," he observed, quietly, "is another
thing altogether."
Here he took out the box marked P from the pigeon-hole, and, opening it,
removed the contents--a single paper which was carefully endorsed, in
his own handwriting, "The Mystery of Pinkham's Diamond Stud."
"You could not have selected a better case, Watson," he said, as he
unfolded the paper and scanned it closely. "One would almost think you
had some pre-vision of the fact."
"I am not aware," said I, "that you ever told the story of Pinkham's
diamond stud. Who was Pinkham, and what kind of a diamond stud was
it--first-water or Rhine?"
"Pinkham," Holmes rejoined, "was an American millionaire, living during
business hours at Allegheny City, Pennsylvania, where he had to wear a
brilliant stud to light him on his way through the streets, which are so
dark and sooty that an ordinary search-light would not suffice. In his
leisure hours, however, he lived at the Hotel Walledup-Hysteria, in New
York, where he likewise had to wear the same diamond stud to keep him
from being a marked man. Have you ever visited New York, Watson?"
"No," said I.
"Well, when you do, spend a little of your time at the
Walledup-Hysteria. It is a hotel with a population larger than that of
most cities, with streets running to and from all points of the compass;
where men and women eat under conditions that Lucullus knew nothing of;
where there is a carpeted boulevard on which walk all sorts and
conditions of men; where one pays one's bill to the dulcet strains of a
string orchestra that woo him into a blissful forgetfulness of its size;
and where, by pressing a button in the wall, you may summon a grand
opera, or a porter who on request will lend you enough money to enable
you and your family to live the balance of your days in comfort. In
America men have been known to toil for years to amass a fortune for the
one cherished object of spending a week in this Olympian spot, and then
to be content to return to their toil and begin life anew, rich only in
the memory of its luxuries. It was here that I spent my time when, some
years ago, I went to the United States to solve the now famous Piano
Case. You will remember how sneak thieves stole a grand piano from the
residence of one of New York's first families, while the family was
dining in the adjoining room. While in the city, and indeed at the very
hotel in which I stopped, and which I have described, Pinkham's diamond
stud disappeared, and, hearing that I was a guest at the
Walledup-Hysteria, the owner appealed to me to recover it for him. I
immediately took the case in hand. Drastic questioning of Pinkham showed
that beyond all question he had lost the stud in his own apartment. He
had gone down to dinner, leaving it on the centre-table, following the
usual course of most millionaires, to whom diamonds are of no particular
importance. Pinkham wanted this one only because of its associations.
Its value, $80,000, was a mere bagatelle in his eyes.
"Now of course, if he positively left it on the table, it must have been
taken by some one who had entered the room. Investigation proved that
the maid, a valet, a fellow-millionaire from Chicago, and Pinkham's
children had been the only ones to do this. The maid and the valet were
above suspicion. Their fees from guests were large enough to place them
beyond the reach of temptation. I questioned them closely, and they
convinced me at once of their innocence by conducting me through the
apartments of other guests wherein tiaras of diamonds and necklaces of
pearls--ropes in very truth--rubies, turquoise, and emerald ornaments of
priceless value, were scattered about in reckless profusion.
"'D' yez t'ink oi'd waste me toime on an eighty-t'ousand-dollar shtood,
wid all dhis in soight and moine for the thrubble uv swipin' ut?" said
the French maid.
[Illustration: HOLMES IN DISGUISE INTERVIEWS WATTLES]
"I acquitted her at once, and the valet similarly proved his innocence,
only with less of an accent, for he was supposed to be English, and not
French, as was the maid, although they both came from Dublin. This
narrowed the suspects down to Mr. Jedediah Wattles, of Chicago, and
the children. Naturally I turned my attention to Wattles. A six-year-old
boy and a four-year-old girl could hardly be suspected of stealing a
diamond stud. So drawing on Pinkham for five thousand dollars to pay
expenses, I hired a room in a tenement-house in Rivington Street--a
squalid place it was--disguised myself with an oily, black, burglarious
mustache, and dressed like a comic-paper gambler. Then I wrote a note to
Wattles, asking him to call, saying that I could tell him something to
his advantage. He came, and I greeted him like a pal. 'Wattles,' said I,
'you've been working this game for a long time, and I know all about
you. You are an ornament to the profession, but we diamond-thieves have
got to combine. Understand?' 'No, I don't' said he. 'Well, I'll tell
you,' said I. 'You're a man of good appearance, and I ain't, but I know
where the diamonds are. If we work together, there's millions in it.
I'll spot the diamonds, and you lift 'em, eh? You can do it,' I added,
as he began to get mad. 'The ease with which you got away with old
Pinky's stud, that I've been trying to pull for myself for years, shows
me that.'
"I was not allowed to go further. Wattles's indignation was great enough
to prove that it was not he who had done the deed, and after he had
thrashed me out of my disguise, I pulled myself together and said, 'Mr.
Wattles, I am convinced that you are innocent.' As soon as he recognized
me and realized my object in sending for him, he forgave me, and, I must
say, treated me with great consideration.
"But my last clew was gone. The maid, the valet, and Wattles were proved
innocent. The children alone remained, but I could not suspect them.
Nevertheless, on my way back to the hotel I bought some rock-candy, and,
after reporting to Pinkham, I asked casually after the children.
[Illustration: "'YOU DID TOO!' SAID POLLY"]
"'They're pretty well,' said Pinkham. 'Billie's complaining a little,
and the doctor fears appendicitis, but Polly's all right. I guess
Billie's all right too. The seventeen-course dinners they serve in the
children's dining-room here aren't calculated to agree with Billie's
digestion, I reckon.'
"'I'd like to see 'em,' said I. 'I'm very fond of children.'
"Pinkham immediately called the youngsters in from the nursery. 'Guess
what I've got,' I said, opening the package of rock-candy. 'Gee!' cried
Billie, as it caught his eye. 'Gimme some!' 'Who gets first piece?' said
I. 'Me!' cried both. 'Anybody ever had any before?' I asked. 'He has,'
said Polly, pointing to Billie. The boy immediately flushed up. ''Ain't,
neither!' he retorted. 'Yes you did, too,' said Polly. '_You swallered
that piece pop left on the centre-table the other night!_' 'Well,
anyhow, it was only a little piece,' said Billie. 'An' it tasted like
glass,' he added. Handing the candy to Polly, I picked Billie up and
carried him to his father.
"'Mr. Pinkham,' said I, handing the boy over, 'here is your diamond. It
has not been stolen; it has merely been swallowed.' 'What?' he cried.
And I explained. The stud mystery was explained. Mr. Pinkham's boy had
eaten it."
Holmes paused.
"Well, I don't see how that proves your point," said I. "You said that
it was the little things that told--"
"So it was," said Holmes. "If Polly hadn't told--"
"Enough," I cried; "it's on me, old man. We will go down to Willis's and
have some Russian caviare and a bottle of Burgundy."
Holmes put on his hat and we went out together. It is to get the money
to pay Willis's bill that I have written this story of "The Mystery of
Pinkham's Diamond Stud."