by David Marcum
The case I have referred to occurred some time before my own acquaintance with him began - in 1875, in fact. He had called one Monday morning at an office in regard to something connected with one of those uninteresting, though often difficult, cases which formed, perhaps, the bulk of his practice, when he was informed of a most mysterious murder that had taken place in another part of the same building on the previous Saturday afternoon. Owing to the circumstances of the case, only the vaguest account had appeared in the morning papers, and even this, as it chanced, Holmes had not read.
The building was one of a new row in a partly rebuilt street near the National Gallery. The whole row had been built by a speculator for the purpose of letting out in flats, suites of chambers, and in one or two cases, on the ground floors, offices. The rooms had let very well, and to desirable tenants, as a rule. The least satisfactory tenant, the proprietor reluctantly admitted, was a Mr. Rameau, a West Indian gentleman, single, who had three rooms on the top floor but one of the particular building that Holmes was visiting. His rent was paid regularly, but his behavior had produced complaints from other tenants. He got uproariously drunk, and screamed and howled in unknown tongues. He fell asleep on the staircase, and ladies were afraid to pass. He bawled rough chaff down the stairs and along the corridors at butcher-boys and messengers, and played on errand-boys brutal practical jokes that ended in police-court summonses. He once had a way of sliding down the balusters, shouting: “Ho! ho! ho! yah!” as he went, but as he was a big, heavy man, and the balusters had been built for different treatment, he had very soon and very firmly been requested to stop it. He had plenty of money, and spent it freely; but it was generally felt that there was too much that was light-hearted about him to fit him to live among quiet people.
How much longer the landlord would have stood this sort of thing, Holmes’s informant said, was a matter of conjecture, for on the Saturday afternoon in question the tenancy had come to a startling full-stop. Rameau had been murdered in his room, and the body had, in the most unaccountable fashion, been secretly removed from the premises.
The strongest possible suspicion pointed to a man who had been employed in shoveling and carrying coals, cleaning windows, and chopping wood for several of the buildings, and who had left that very Saturday. The crime had, in fact, been committed with this man’s chopper, and the man himself had been heard, again and again, to threaten Rameau, who, in his brutal fashion, had made a butt of him. This man was a Frenchman, Victor Goujon by name, who had lost his employment as a watchmaker by reason of an injury to his right hand, which destroyed its steadiness, and so he had fallen upon evil days and odd jobs.
He was a little man of no great strength, but extraordinarily excitable, and the coarse gibes and horse-play of the big man drove him almost to madness. Rameau would often, after some more than ordinarily outrageous attack, contemptuously fling Goujon a shilling, which the little Frenchman, although wanting a shilling badly enough, would hurl back in his face, almost weeping with impotent rage. “Pig! Canaille!” he would scream. “Dirty pig! Take your sheelin’ to vere you ’ave stole it! Voleur! Pig!”
There was a tortoise living in the basement, of which Goujon had made rather a pet, and Rameau would sometimes use this animal as a missile, flinging it at the little Frenchman’s head. On one such occasion the tortoise struck the wall so forcibly as to break its shell, and then Goujon seized a shovel and rushed at his tormentor with such blind fury that the latter made a bolt of it. These were but a few of the passages between Rameau and the fuel-porter, but they illustrate the state of feeling between them.
Goujon, after correspondence with a relative in France who offered him work, gave notice to leave, which expired on the day of the crime. At about three that afternoon a housemaid, proceeding toward Rameau’s rooms, met Goujon as he was going away. Goujon bade her good-by, and, pointing in the direction of Rameau’s rooms, said exultantly: “Dere shall be no more of ’im for me; vit ’im I ’ave done for. Zut! I mock me of ’im! ’E vill never tracasser me no more.” And he went away.
The girl went to the outer door of Rameau’s rooms, knocked, and got no reply. Concluding that the tenant was out, she was about to use her keys, when she found that the door was unlocked. She passed through the lobby and into the sitting-room, and there fell in a dead faint at the sight that met her eyes. Rameau lay with his back across the sofa and his head - drooping within an inch of the ground. On the head was a fearful gash, and below it was a pool of blood.
The girl must have lain unconscious for about ten minutes. When she came to her senses, she dragged herself, terrified, from the room and up to the housekeeper’s apartments, where, being an excitable and nervous creature, she only screamed “Murder!” and immediately fell in a fit of hysterics that lasted three-quarters of an hour. When at last she came to herself, she told her story, and, the hall-porter having been summoned, Rameau’s rooms were again approached.
The blood still lay on the floor, and the chopper, with which the crime had evidently been committed, rested against the fender; but the body had vanished! A search was at once made, but no trace of it could be seen anywhere. It seemed impossible that it could have been carried out of the building, for the hall-porter must at once have noticed anybody leaving with so bulky a burden. Still, in the building it was not to be found.
When Holmes was informed of these things on Monday, the police were, of course, still in possession of Rameau’s rooms. Inspector Nettings, Holmes was told, was in charge of the case, and as the inspector was an acquaintance of his, and was then in the rooms upstairs, Holmes went up to see him.
Nettings was pleased to see Holmes, and invited him to look around the rooms. “Perhaps you can spot something we have overlooked,” he said. “Though it’s not a case there can be much doubt about.”
“You think it’s Goujon, don’t you?”
“Think? Well, rather! Look here! As soon as we got here on Saturday, we found this piece of paper and pin on the floor. We showed it to the housemaid, and then she remembered - she was too much upset to think of it before - that when she was in the room the paper was laying on the dead man’s chest - pinned there, evidently. It must have dropped off when they removed the body. It’s a case of half-mad revenge on Goujon’s part, plainly. See it; you read French, don’t you?”
The paper was a plain, large half-sheet of note-paper, on which a sentence in French was scrawled in red ink in a large, clumsy hand, thus:
puni par un vengeur de la tortue.
“Puni par un vengeur de la tortue,” Holmes repeated musingly. “ ‘Punished by an avenger of the tortoise,’ That seems odd.”
“Well, rather odd. But you understand the reference, of course. Have they told you about Rameau’s treatment of Goujon’s pet tortoise?”
“I think it was mentioned among his other pranks. But this is an extreme revenge for a thing of that sort, and a queer way of announcing it.”
“Oh, he’s mad - mad with Rameau’s continual ragging and baiting,” Nettings answered. “Anyway, this is a plain indication - plain as though he’d left his own signature. Besides, it’s in his own language - French. And there’s his chopper, too.”
“Speaking of signatures,” Holmes remarked, “perhaps you have already compared this with other specimens of Goujon’s writing?”
“I did think of it, but they don’t seem to have a specimen to hand, and, anyway, it doesn’t seem very important. There’s ‘avenger of the tortoise’ plain enough, in the man’s own language, and that tells everything. Besides, handwritings are easily disguised.”
“Have you got Goujon?”
“Well, no; we haven’t. There seems to be some little difficulty about that. But I expect to have him by this time to-morrow. Here comes Mr. Styles, the landlord.”
Mr. Styles was a thin, querulous, and withered-looking little man, who twitched his eyebrows as he spoke, and
spoke in short, jerky phrases.
“No news, eh, inspector, eh? eh? Found out nothing else, eh? Terrible thing for my property - terrible! Who’s your friend?”
Nettings introduced Holmes.
“Shocking thing this, eh, Mr. Holmes? Terrible! Comes of having anything to do with these blood-thirsty foreigners, eh? New buildings and all - character ruined. No one come to live here now, eh? Tenants murdered by my own servants - terrible! You formed any opinion, eh?”
“I dare say I might if I went into the case.”
“Yes, yes - same opinion as inspector’s, eh? I mean an opinion of your own?” The old man scrutinized Holmes’s face sharply.
“If you’d like me to look into the matter - ” Holmes began.
“Eh? Oh, look into it! Well, I can’t commission you, you know - matter for the police. Mischief’s done. Police doing very well, I think - must be Goujon. But look about the place, certainly, if you like. If you see anything likely to serve my interests, tell me, and - and - perhaps I’ll employ you, eh, eh? Good-afternoon.”
The landlord vanished, and the inspector laughed. “Likes to see what he’s buying, does Mr. Styles,” he said.
Holmes’s first impulse was to walk out of the place at once. But his interest in the case had been roused, and he determined, at any rate, to examine the rooms, and this he did very minutely. By the side of the lobby was a bath-room, and in this was fitted a tip-up wash-basin, which Holmes inspected with particular attention. Then he called the housekeeper, and made inquiries about Rameau’s clothes and linen. The housekeeper could give no idea of how many overcoats or how much linen he had had. He had all a foreigner’s love of display, and was continually buying new clothes, which, indeed, were lying, hanging, littering, and choking up the bedroom in all directions. The housekeeper, however, on Holmes’s inquiring after such a garment in particular, did remember one heavy black ulster, which Rameau had very rarely worn - only in the coldest weather.
“After the body was discovered,” Holmes asked the housekeeper, “was any stranger observed about the place - whether carrying anything or not?”
“No, sir,” the housekeeper replied. “There’s been particular inquiries about that. Of course, after we knew what was wrong and the body was gone, nobody was seen, or he’d have been stopped. But the hall-porter says he’s certain no stranger came or went for half an hour or more before that - the time about when the housemaid saw the body and fainted.”
At this moment a clerk from the landlord’s office arrived and handed Nettings a paper. “Here you are,” said Nettings to Holmes; “they’ve found a specimen of Goujon’s handwriting at last, if you’d like to see it. I don’t want it; I’m not a graphologist, and the case is clear enough for me anyway.”
Holmes took the paper. “This” he said, “is a different sort of handwriting from that on the paper. The red-ink note about the avenger of the tortoise is in a crude, large, clumsy, untaught style of writing. This is small, neat, and well formed - except that it is a trifle shaky, probably because of the hand injury.”
“That’s nothing,” contended Nettings. “handwriting clues are worse than useless, as a rule. It’s so easy to disguise and imitate writing; and besides, if Goujon is such a good penman as you seem to say, why, he could all the easier alter his style. Say now yourself, can any fiddling question of handwriting get over this thing about ‘avenging the tortoise’ - practically a written confession - to say nothing of the chopper, and what he said to the housemaid as he left?”
“Well,” said Holmes, “perhaps not; but we’ll see. Meantime” - turning to the landlord’s clerk - “possibly you will be good enough to tell me one or two things. First, what was Goujon’s character?”
“Excellent, as far as we know. We never had a complaint about him except for little matters of carelessness - leaving coal-scuttles on the staircases for people to fall over, losing shovels, and so on. He was certainly a bit careless, but, as far as we could see, quite a decent little fellow. One would never have thought him capable of committing murder for the sake of a tortoise, though he was rather fond of the animal.”
“The tortoise is dead now, I understand?”
“Yes.”
“Have you a lift in this building?”
“Only for coals and heavy parcels. Goujon used to work it, sometimes going up and down in it himself with coals, and so on; it goes into the basement.”
“And are the coals kept under this building?”
“No. The store for the whole row is under the next two houses - the basements communicate.”
“Do you know Rameau’s other name?”
“César Rameau he signed in our agreement.”
“Did he ever mention his relations?”
“No. That is to say, he did say something one day when he was very drunk; but, of course, it was all rot. Some one told him not to make such a row - he was a beastly tenant - and he said he was the best man in the place, and his brother was Prime Minister, and all sorts of things. Mere drunken rant! I never heard of his saying anything sensible about relations. We know nothing of his connections; he came here on a banker’s reference.”
“Thanks. I think that’s all I want to ask. You notice,” Holmes proceeded, turning to Nettings, “the only ink in this place is scented and violet, and the only paper is tinted and scented, too, with a monogram. The paper that was pinned on Rameau’s breast is in red ink on common and rather grubby paper, therefore it was written somewhere else and brought here. Inference, premeditation.”
“Yes, yes. But are you an inch nearer with all these speculations? Can you get nearer than I am now without them?”
“Well, perhaps not,” Holmes replied. “I don’t profess at this moment to know the criminal; you do. I’ll concede you that point for the present. But you don’t offer an opinion as to who removed Rameau’s body - which I think I know.”
“Who was it, then?”
“Come, try and guess that yourself. It wasn’t Goujon; I don’t mind letting you know that. But it was a person quite within your knowledge of the case. You’ve mentioned the person’s name more than once.”
Nettings stared blankly. “I don’t understand you in the least,” he said. “But, of course, you mean that this mysterious person you speak of as having moved the body committed the murder?”
“No, I don’t. Nobody could have been more innocent of that.”
“Well,” Nettings concluded with resignation, “I’m afraid one of us is rather thick-headed. What will you do?”
“Interview the person who took away the body,” Holmes replied, with a smile.
“But, man alive, why? Why bother about the person if it isn’t the criminal?”
“Never mind - never mind; probably the person will be a most valuable witness.”
“Do you mean you think this person - whoever it is - saw the crime?”
“I think it very probable indeed.”
“Well, I won’t ask you any more. I shall get hold of Goujon; that’s simple and direct enough for me. I prefer to deal with the heart of the case - the murder itself - when there’s such clear evidence as I have.”
“I shall look a little into that, too, perhaps,” Holmes said, “and, if you like, I’ll tell you the first thing I shall do.”
“What’s that?”
“I shall have a good look at a map of the West Indies, and I advise you to do the same. Good-morning.”
Nettings stared down the corridor after Holmes, and continued staring for nearly two minutes after he had disappeared. Then he said to the clerk, who had remained: “What was he talking about?”
“Don’t know,” replied the clerk. “Couldn’t make head nor tail of it.”
“I don’t believe there is a head to it,” declared Nettings; “nor a tail either. He’s kidding us.”
&n
bsp; Nettings was better than his word, for within two hours of his conversation with Holmes, Goujon was captured and safe in a cab bound for Bow Street. He had been stopped at Newhaven in the morning on his way to Dieppe, and was brought back to London. But now Nettings met a check.
Late that afternoon he called on Holmes to explain matters. “We’ve got Goujon,” he said, gloomily, “but there’s a difficulty. He’s got two friends who can swear an alibi. Rameau was seen alive at half-past one on Saturday, and the girl found him dead about three. Now, Goujon’s two friends, it seems, were with him from one o’clock till four in the afternoon, with the exception of five minutes when the girl saw him, and then he left them to take a key or something to the housekeeper before finally leaving. They were waiting on the landing below when Goujon spoke to the housemaid, heard him speaking, and had seen him go all the way up to the housekeeper’s room and back, as they looked up the wide well of the staircase. They are men employed near the place, and seem to have good characters. But perhaps we shall find something unfavorable about them. They were drinking with Goujon, it seems, by way of ‘seeing him off.’ ”
“Well,” Holmes said, “I scarcely think you need trouble to damage these men’s characters. They are probably telling the truth. Come, now, be plain. You’ve come here to get a hint as to whether my theory of the case helps you, haven’t you?”
“Well, if you can give me a friendly hint, although, of course, I may be right, after all. Still, I wish you’d explain a bit as to what you meant by looking at a map and all that mystery. Nice thing for me to be taking a lesson in my own business after all these years! But perhaps I deserve it.”
“See, now,” quoth Holmes, “you remember what map I told you to look at?”
“The West Indies.”
“Right! Well, here you are.” Holmes reached an atlas from his book-shelf. “Now, look here: the biggest island of the lot on this map, barring Cuba, is Hayti. You know as well as I do that the western part of that island is peopled by the black republic of Hayti, and that the country is in a degenerate state of almost unexampled savagery, with a ridiculous show of civilization. There are revolutions all the time; the South American republics are peaceful and prosperous compared to Hayti. The state of the country is simply awful - read Sir Spenser St. John’s book on it. President after president of the vilest sort forces his way to power and commits the most horrible and bloodthirsty excesses, murdering his opponents by the hundred and seizing their property for himself and his satellites, who are usually as bad, if not worse, than the president himself. Whole families - men, women, and children - are murdered at the instance of these ruffians, and, as a consequence, the most deadly feuds spring up, and the presidents and their followers are always themselves in danger of reprisals from others. Perhaps the very worst of these presidents in recent times has been the notorious Domingue, who was overthrown by an insurrection, as they all are sooner or later, and compelled to fly the country. Domingue and his nephews, one of whom was Chief Minister, while in power committed the cruellest bloodshed, and many members of the opposite party sought refuge in a small island lying just to the north of Hayti, but were sought out there and almost exterminated. Now, I will show you that island on the map. What is its name?”