The Adventure of the Tired Captain A Sherlock Holmes Case

by Gaschnitz, K. Michael

“I am sorry Holmes my thoughts were elsewhere.”

  “Undoubtedly. Well let us forget about it old fellow. What’s past is past and hopefully there is no harm done.”

  “Whistle for a cab Watson, while I change,” he said disappearing into his bedroom.

  In a few moments Holmes joined me outside, minus his dressing gown and wearing his frock coat.

  The drizzle had stopped but the thick fog was still in evidence. As we climbed into the hansom Holmes gave the driver my address in Kensington. The poisonous yellow fog enveloped us and the trip back was a gloomy one. Holmes as was his custom remained aloof and uncommunicative and I knew better than to bother him with idle prattle. Once in a while the dark form of another conveyance would be outlined against the street lights. The smell of bread baking in one of the large bakeries wafted into the cab reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since the afternoon. At least it served to take my mind off of the evening’s events if only temporarily.

  We traveled in silence and time stood as still as one of the statues in Trafalgar Square. It was not a moment too soon that we arrived at my modest home in Kensington. I was puzzled by the fact that there was as yet no sign of the police.

  Holmes jumped from the cab, before it rolled to a stop, leaving me to pay the bemused driver. As I hurried to catch up I could see Holmes on all fours examining the ground. I have remarked before how my friend resembled a bloodhound in action if not in actual appearance, and never before was the comparison more exact.

  “You have found something, Holmes?”

  “Later, Watson,” he replied putting his magnifying lens back into his pocket.

  He rang the bell and paced impatiently before his summons was answered.

  “Doctor Watson, I am glad you are back,” said a visibly shaken Mrs. Dobson.

  “I have returned as quickly as possible.”

  “Mrs. Dobson,” my friend said soothingly before introductions could be made, “my name is Sherlock Holmes; I am a friend of Doctor Watson. What can you tell me of the events which transpired this evening?” As with most of the lower class she seemed uncomfortable in the face of authority. Holmes, who could have an ingratiating way with women, soon put her at ease.

  “What it is you wish to know, Mr. Holmes?” she replied.

  “Anything which you can tell me, would I am sure, be of importance.”

  “Well sir, I was just about to serve dinner when there came a ring at the front door. Upon opening it I found two gentlemen on the front step.”

  “Can you describe these men, Mrs. Dobson?”

  “I call them gentlemen but they were no more than ruffians,” she sniffed. “The one man, an Irishman I think, had blue eyes and long black hair. He appeared to be unconscious or nearly so and injured as he had a blood soaked rag wrapped around his hand.”

  “Which hand was it, dear lady?”

  “It was his left hand I believe.”

  “Are you positive?”

  “Yes sir. I remember that he was standing on the right side of the doorway with his injured hand away from the other man.”

  “Aside from his hand did this man have any other distinguishing features?”

  She furrowed her brow for a moment. “He did have a small moustache and one of his ears was pierced for an earring.”

  “Most interesting,” Holmes replied. “What of the other man?”

  “Oh he was a Chinaman,” she answered.

  My friend smiled. “Are you certain he was Chinese and not say, Japanese?”

  “Quite certain, Mr. Holmes,” she replied. “I spent much of my early life in China.”

  “Pray continue, Mrs. Dobson.”

  “The Chinaman asked me if the doctor was in as his friend had injured himself. I could not very well turn them away so I asked them to come in and wait in the hallway while I went to get the doctor. Dr. Anstruther was just starting his Yorkshire pudding but he asked me to show them into the surgery and tell them that he would be there momentarily. When I returned there was no sign of the two and for a moment I thought that they had changed their minds and left but then I heard a noise from the top of the stairs and saw the Chinese man bent over his companion who was lying upon the floor.” She stopped to take a breath.

  “From the top of the stairs,” Holmes managed to ask. “What were they doing upstairs?”

  “I am sure I don’t know Mr. Holmes, I assumed that they were looking for the surgery. I told them in no uncertain terms that the surgery was downstairs and that they should have waited in the hallway.”

  Holmes was quiet for a moment. “Let us backtrack for a moment Mrs. Dobson. You mentioned that this Chinese person spoke English?”

  “Perfect English, Mr. Homes. Is that important?”

  “Perhaps. It may indicate that he is a local man and not a visitor here or...........or it may indicate nothing. Please go on, you were saying that the Chinaman was bent over his friend.”

  “Yes, Mr. Holmes.”

  “So this badly injured man who was at the point of unconsciousness just moments before had climbed the rather lengthy flight of stairs which I noticed when I came in?” Holmes asked of her.

  “It does seem queer sir,” said Mrs. Dobson.

  “It does indeed. What did you do following this minor miracle, Mrs. Dobson?”

  “At that moment, Doctor Anstruther along with Mrs. Anstruther, Mrs. Watson and her maid appeared from the dining room. The Doctor then went upstairs to lend assistance. When he reached the top of the staircase the man on the floor pulled a revolver from his jacket and ordered all of us upstairs into the bedroom. It was as he began to tie us up, that poor Dr. Anstruther tried to go for help. The Chinaman went after him and then I heard a shot. A few minutes later he returned and led Mrs. Watson from the room. Then I remember a funny smell and everything went dark.”

  Saying this, she rose from her chair and fled from the room, with tears in her eyes.

  My own maid, red eyed and in evident shock could add nothing to Mrs. Dobson’s description of events.

  Mrs. Anstruther was also of little help save for mentioning that the one man had a noticeable limp. I glanced across at Holmes.

  Following this rather unproductive interview with Mrs. Anstruther, Mrs. Dobson led us upstairs to the main bedroom.

  “Thank you Mrs. Dobson, if we have further need of you we shall ring,” he said, by way of dismissal. Now that he had finished his interrogation he took no more notice of her than he would have a potted plant standing in the corner.

  Closing the bedroom door my friend immediately threw himself to the floor and began to scrutinize the carpet, all the while mumbling to himself. It was a ritual which was familiar and yet always fascinating. He picked up something from the floor and put it into an envelope which he carried for such a purpose.

  “What have you found, Holmes?” He ignored me; instead, raising himself off the floor he minutely began an examination of the bed, as well as the ropes which were used to bind the women.

  “You should have cut these ropes Watson, not untied them. One can learn much from knots.”

  “There was not a knife at hand, Holmes.”

  “Surely your neighbour must have a scalpel in there,” he said pointing to the neglected medical bag sitting on the floor.

  “I shouldn’t wonder,” I murmured. “The ropes aside have you discovered anything?”

  “I have discovered many things, Watson, but nothing of immediate importance,” he said.

  “Holmes if we are to believe Mrs. Dobson’s account of tonight’s events do you think that one of these two men could be the individual who has been watching my house? What with the limp and the bandage wrapped around his left hand to disguise his missing finger the resemblance seems more than a coincidence.”

  “Well since we have no reason not to believe the excellent Mrs. Dobson I must say it seems possible,” Holmes admitted.

  “What is it that you found on the floor?” I asked.

  “It appears to be your old fa
vorite, Schippers Tabak Special.”

  “Schippers ..........?” I began.

  “Ship’s, Watson. If you would have bothered to read my monograph Upon the Distinction Between the Ashes of the Various Tobaccos you would have noticed that some of the ashes which had fallen to the floor was that of a pipe tobacco. No doubt they were deposited there by the intruders,” he said. “I notice that Dr. Anstruther does not smoke that brand,” he added.

  “He does not smoke at all,” I said.

  “There are ashes in his bedside ashtray,” a puzzled Holmes pointed out.

  For once I had the advantage of him. “It is Mrs. Anstruther who smokes a pipe.”

  He laughed. “Well I do not think that any self respecting woman would discard ashes onto the floor.” I did not point out that any self respecting woman would not be smoking a pipe at all.

  “I would also expect that Mrs. Dobson is diligent in her cleaning duties,” he stated.

  “No doubt, but what bearing does that have on matters?” I asked.

  “One of the first things that I noticed upon entering the house was the not so faint imprint of muddy shoes upon the stairs. As it has been raining for much of the evening the marks were undoubtedly left by the two gentlemen in question. The same footprints appear on the bedroom carpet. As it seems improbable that anyone else besides the participants in this evening’s little drama have been in your neighbour’s bedroom since the rain began it would stand to reason that the footmarks were made by these two men.”

  “That much makes sense Holmes, but how do you know that neither I nor Doctor Anstruther made them?”

  “Come Watson, do you really think that after all these years I would not recognize your footprints even though you are wearing newly resoled boots?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “As for your neighbour if you compare the slippers under the bed to the footprints left on the carpet the injured man has feet a full two sizes larger than Doctor Anstruther. He is also some two inches taller.”

  “How do you know that it was the injured man that left the footprint Holmes?”

  “The injured man as you may remember had a noticeable and for our purposes significant limp. So of course you would expect one of his legs to make a deeper imprint on the carpet than the other. I have found evidence of such.”

  “What of his height, Holmes, you said he was about two inches taller than Doctor Anstruther.”

  “Well as I have demonstrated to you before a man’s height can be approximated by both the size of his foot and to a lesser extent the length of his stride. Of course an individual’s stride is also much dictated by habit and circumstance but on the average a person, say of my height will have a stride of a fixed length.”

  “None of this helps much, as there are four and a half million people in London it will be like looking for a needle in the proverbial haystack,” I remarked with little enthusiasm.

  “Unfortunately you may be right, Watson. However we shall file it away for future reference.”

  He abruptly turned on his heel and strode out of the bedroom and down the stairs. I followed as quickly as my tired legs could carry me. His eyes never left the faint trail of blood which was upon the carpet. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs when the blood trail itself stopped.

  “Why would the trail suddenly end here?” he asked almost to himself. “Judging from the small amount of blood evident the wound would have been but a modest one but I very much doubt that it would have stopped bleeding so abruptly.”

  “I never thought of that Holmes, you are right though and certainly my neighbour in his flight would not have time to bind his wound.”

  “Tell me Watson, is your neighbour a large man?”

  “No. He is in fact quite small. Why do you ask?”

  For a moment it seemed as if he hadn’t heard me.

  “Holmes?”

  He shook himself from his reverie. “Possibly his pursuer for some reason has carried him away,” he said dreamily.

  Saying this he quickly disappeared into the surgery returning in a matter of moments. Without seeming to remember my presence he left the house. He whistled for a cab and stood silently on the sidewalk smoking a cigarette, staring into the blackness of the night.

  Within minutes a hansom pulled up. The fog had lifted and I could see steam rising from the wet horse. Holmes leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes.

  “Holmes,” I said “I think I should point out to you something which may have escaped your notice.”

  “What is that, Watson?”

  “One of these men must have a basic understanding of medicine.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Chloroform is a devilishly tricky drug to administer without overdosing the patient. Many patients have died from the improper use of it.”

  “That is a good point Watson. Although I have made a study of such things it is as well to have a professional’s opinion.” Again he lapsed into silence.

  “Why would the intruders have used both the drug and rope to subdue their captives?” I asked.

  “I fancy the answer is a simple one, Watson,” he said, the light from a street lamp briefly lighting up his face. “In preparation for their task they had of course brought the rope with them. However upon seeing the bottle of chloroform in your neighbour’s surgery they may have thought that it would be a more effective method of rending their captives helpless. They tied them up to make it easier to administer the ether and as a safeguard should the unfamiliar drug not prove effective. As a quick examination of the premises proved, the drug used must have been from your neighbour’s stock as both his surgery and medical bag were unaccountably missing the customary bottle.”

  I was about to say something when the cab came to a stop. “You might as well stay the night, Watson,” said Holmes stepping onto the pavement. “Mrs. Hudson can make you up a bed.”

  “I was about to suggest the same thing,” I said alighting from the cab and following him inside.

  I slumped into my favorite chair and Holmes poured me a brandy while Mrs. Hudson made up the bed in my old room. Holmes lit his brier pipe which was one of his other favorite companions and sat opposite me in his velvet lined arm-chair his knees drawn up to his chin and his eyes closed. The smoke from his pipe curled around his head.

  “Why do you not go to your bed, Watson, I will need you at your best tomorrow,” he suddenly said.

  “No, Holmes I will never be able to sleep,” I replied. “Besides you may need my help.”

  “I will do nothing tonight, Watson, besides poison myself with several ounces of black shag.”

  The day had been a long one and if I was to do Mary any good, I would indeed need my bed. I bade Holmes a good night and climbed the stairs to my old bedroom. I crawled wearily into the bed and even though I didn’t think I would ever sleep again the arms of Hypnos immediately enveloped me in a welcome and gentle embrace and I was asleep.

  CHAPTER 6

  I awoke late the following morning and as luck would have it I had no patients needing my services until later that afternoon.

  Holmes, as was his custom during our long and fulfilling association, had arisen before me as evidenced by the half eaten breakfast on the table. He was nowhere to be seen.

  I shook the cobwebs from my brain and rang for Mrs. Hudson to bring up my own breakfast.

  I had just lit a cigarette and begun to read the morning Telegraph when the landlady appeared, a welcoming smile upon her face.

  “Good morning, dear lady. I was hoping that I could trouble you for some coffee and possibly a piece of toast. I am feeling quite famished.”

  “Good morning to you, Doctor. It would be a pleasure to have my cooking appreciated by someone,” she said with a disapproving look at the partially eaten meal left on the table.

  She bustled out of the door and down the stairs but like a genie from a bottle she quickly reappeared carrying a pitcher of hot water, a razor and a towel.
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  “There is still a wash basin in your old room if you care to have a wash and a shave,” she said opening the shutters, “I shall send up your breakfast.”

  “Thank you Mrs. Hudson you are a godsend.” I leisurely performed by ablutions and soon I was feeling like a new man.

  I entered the sitting room to the enticing smell of a hearty English breakfast. Kippers, rashers and eggs, coffee and everything else the English hold dear in the morning was on the table. Thankfully she spared me the fate of having to partake of her porridge which was always thick and somewhat bland.

  “It is always a pleasure to partake of one of your magnificent repasts, Mrs. Hudson,” I told her as she gathered the detritus of Holmes’ breakfast.

  “It is nice to have you with us again, Doctor,” she replied amiably.

  “By the way Mrs. Hudson have you seen Mr. Holmes this morning,” I asked her between sips of hot black coffee.

  “He left about an hour ago, Doctor and asked me not to awaken you. He mentioned that he should be back by eleven o’clock and for you to await his return if it is convenient.”

  She finished piling Holmes’ dishes onto her tray “Where shall I put this, Doctor?” she asked picking an item up from the table.

  “What is it, Mrs. Hudson?”

  She handed a small pamphlet to me. It was Holmes’ own small yet important work on the history of tattooing. “Just leave it on the table. You know how Mr. Holmes hates to have his things moved.”

  “Only too well, Doctor,” she said with a small laugh. She replaced the book and without further ado left the room.

  Even though I would have liked nothing more than to return to my own house on the chance that Mary would be there I thought it best to wait; if she had made good her escape there was an excellent chance that she would come to Baker Street feeling that our own home would now be too dangerous.

  I helped myself to another serving of bacon, eggs and coffee and settled down to finish reading the paper. I had just started to read a small article concerning the opening of the Imperial Institute when Holmes returned. For the briefest of moments I felt a hatred of the man as he looked as if he had just returned from a holiday on the Riviera compared to how I must have looked.