The New Annotated Sherlock Holmes: The Complete Short Stories: The Return of Sherlock Holmes, His Last Bow and The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes (Non-slipcased edition) (Vol. 2) (The Annotated Books)

by Doyle, Arthur Conan

  “Most interesting,” said Holmes. “Did he observe the appearance of these men—did he hear them talk?”

  “They bundled him into a cab that was beside the kerb.”

  H. M. Brock, R. I., and Joseph Simpson, R. B. A., Strand Magazine, 1911

  “No; he is clean dazed. He just knows that he was lifted up as if by magic and dropped as if by magic. Two at least were in it, and maybe three.”

  “And you connect this attack with your lodger?”

  “Well, we’ve lived there fifteen years and no such happenings ever came before. I’ve had enough of him. Money’s not everything. I’ll have him out of my house before the day is done.”

  “Wait a bit, Mrs. Warren. Do nothing rash. I begin to think that this affair may be very much more important than appeared at first sight. It is clear now that some danger is threatening your lodger. It is equally clear that his enemies, lying in wait for him near your door, mistook your husband for him in the foggy morning light. On discovering their mistake they released him. What they would have done had it not been a mistake, we can only conjecture.”

  “Well, what am I to do, Mr. Holmes?”

  “I have a great fancy to see this lodger9 of yours, Mrs. Warren.”

  “I don’t see how that is to be managed, unless you break in the door. I always hear him unlock it as I go down the stair after I leave the tray.”

  “He has to take the tray in. Surely we could conceal ourselves and see him do it.”

  The landlady thought for a moment.

  “Well, sir, there’s the box-room opposite. I could arrange a looking-glass, maybe, and if you were behind the door—”

  “Excellent!” said Holmes. “When does he lunch?”

  “About one, sir.”

  “Then Dr. Watson and I will come round in time. For the present, Mrs. Warren, good-bye.”

  At half-past twelve we found ourselves upon the steps of Mrs. Warren’s house—a high, thin, yellow-brick edifice in Great Orme Street, a narrow thoroughfare at the northeast side of the British Museum. Standing as it does near the corner of the street, it commands a view down Howe Street, with its more pretentious houses. Holmes pointed with a chuckle to one of these, a row of residential flats, which projected so that they could not fail to catch the eye.

  Great Orme Street, properly Great Ormond Street.

  Old London

  “See, Watson!” said he. “ ‘High red house with stone facings.’ There is the signal station all right. We know the place, and we know the code; so surely our task should be simple. There’s a ‘To Let’ card in that window. It is evidently an empty flat to which the confederate has access.10 Well, Mrs. Warren, what now?”

  “I have it all ready for you. If you will both come up and leave your boots below on the landing, I’ll put you there now.”

  It was an excellent hiding-place which she had arranged. The mirror was so placed that, seated in the dark, we could very plainly see the door opposite. We had hardly settled down in it, and Mrs. Warren left us, when a distant tinkle announced that our mysterious neighbour had rung. Presently the landlady appeared with the tray, laid it down upon a chair beside the closed door, and then, treading heavily, departed. Crouching together in the angle of the door, we kept our eyes fixed upon the mirror. Suddenly, as the landlady’s footsteps died away, there was the creak of a turning key, the handle revolved, and two thin hands darted out and lifted the tray from the chair. An instant later it was hurriedly replaced, and I caught a glimpse of a dark, beautiful, horrified face glaring at the narrow opening of the box-room. Then the door crashed to, the key turned once more, and all was silence. Holmes twitched my sleeve, and together we stole down the stair.

  “I caught a glimpse of a dark, beautiful, horrified face glaring at thenarrow opening of the box-room.”

  H. M. Brock, R. I., and Joseph Simpson, R. B. A., Strand Magazine, 1911

  “I will call again in the evening,” said he to the expectant landlady. “I think, Watson, we can discuss this business better in our own quarters.”

  “My surmise, as you saw, proved to be correct,” said he, speaking from the depths of his easy-chair. “There has been a substitution of lodgers. What I did not foresee is that we should find a woman, and no ordinary woman,11 Watson.”

  “She saw us.”

  “Well, she saw something to alarm her. That is certain. The general sequence of events is pretty clear, is it not? A couple seek refuge in London from a very terrible and instant danger. The measure of that danger is the rigour of their precautions. The man, who has some work which he must do, desires to leave the woman in absolute safety while he does it. It is not an easy problem, but he solved it in an original fashion, and so effectively that her presence was not even known to the landlady who supplies her with food. The printed messages, as is now evident, were to prevent her sex being discovered by her writing. The man cannot come near the woman, or he will guide their enemies to her.12 Since he cannot communicate with her direct, he has recourse to the agony column of a paper. So far all is clear.”

  “But what is at the root of it?”

  “Ah, yes, Watson—severely practical, as usual! What is at the root of it all? Mrs. Warren’s whimsical problem enlarges somewhat and assumes a more sinister aspect as we proceed. This much we can say: that it is no ordinary love escapade. You saw the woman’s face at the sign of danger. We have heard, too, of the attack upon the landlord, which was undoubtedly meant for the lodger. These alarms, and the desperate need for secrecy, argue that the matter is one of life or death. The attack upon Mr. Warren further shows that the enemy, whoever they are, are themselves not aware of the substitution of the female lodger for the male. It is very curious and complex, Watson.”

  “Why should you go further in it? What have you to gain from it?”

  “What, indeed? It is Art for Art’s sake, Watson. I suppose when you doctored you found yourself studying cases without thought of a fee?”

  “For my education, Holmes.”

  “Education never ends, Watson. It is a series of lessons with the greatest for the last. This is an instructive case. There is neither money nor credit in it, and yet one would wish to tidy it up. When dusk comes we should find ourselves one stage advanced in our investigation.”

  When we returned to Mrs. Warren’s rooms, the gloom of a London winter evening had thickened into one grey curtain, a dead monotone of colour, broken only by the sharp yellow squares of the windows and the blurred haloes of the gaslamps. As we peered from the darkened sitting-room of the lodging-house, one more dim light glimmered high up through the obscurity.

  “Someone is moving in that room,” said Holmes in a whisper, his gaunt and eager face thrust forward to the window-pane. “Yes, I can see his shadow. There he is again! He has a candle in his hand. Now he is peering across. He wants to be sure that she is on the look-out. Now he begins to flash. Take the message also, Watson, that we may check each other. A single flash—that is ‘A,’ surely. Now, then. How many did you make it? Twenty.13 So did I. That should mean ‘T.’ A T—that’s intelligible enough! Another ‘T.’ Surely this is the beginning of a second word. Now, then—TENTA. Dead stop. That can’t be all, Watson? ATTENTA gives no sense. Nor is it any better as three words AT, TEN, TA, unless ‘T.A.’ are a person’s initials. There it goes again! What’s that? ATTE—why, it is the same message over again. Curious, Watson, very curious! Now he is off once more! AT—why, he is repeating it for the third time. ‘ATTENTA’ three times! How often will he repeat it? No, that seems to be the finish. He has withdrawn from the window. What do you make of it, Watson?”

  “A cipher message, Holmes.”

  My companion gave a sudden chuckle of comprehension. “And not a very obscure cipher, Watson,” said he. “Why, of course, it is Italian! The ‘A’ means that it is addressed to a woman. ‘Beware! Beware! Beware!’ How’s that Watson?”14

  “I believe you have hit it.”

  “Not a doubt of it. It is a very urgen
t message, thrice repeated to make it more so. But beware of what? Wait a bit; he is coming to the window once more.”

  Again we saw the dim silhouette of a crouching man and the whisk of the small flame across the window as the signals were renewed. They came more rapidly than before—so rapid that it was hard to follow them.

  “ ‘PERICOLO’—‘pericolo’—eh, what’s that, Watson? ‘Danger,’ isn’t it? Yes, by Jove, it’s a danger signal. There he goes again! ‘PERI.’ Halloa, what on earth—”

  The light had suddenly gone out, the glimmering square of window had disappeared, and the third floor formed a dark band round the lofty building, with its tiers of shining casements. That last warning cry had been suddenly cut short. How, and by whom? The same thought occurred on the instant to us both. Holmes sprang up from where he crouched by the window.

  “This is serious, Watson,” he cried. “There is some devilry going forward! Why should such a message stop in such a way?15 I should put Scotland Yard in touch with this business—and yet, it is too pressing for us to leave.”

  “Shall I go for the police?”

  “We must define the situation a little more clearly. It may bear some more innocent interpretation. Come, Watson, let us go across ourselves and see what we can make of it.”

  PART II

  AS we walked rapidly down Howe Street I glanced back at the building which we had left. There, dimly outlined at the top window, I could see the shadow of a head, a woman’s head, gazing tensely, rigidly, out into the night, waiting with breathless suspense for the renewal of that interrupted message. At the doorway of the Howe Street flats a man, muffled in a cravat and greatcoat, was leaning against the railing. He started as the hall-light fell upon our faces.

  “Holmes!” he cried.

  “Why, Gregson!” said my companion as he shook hands with the Scotland Yard detective. “Journeys end with lovers’ meetings.16 What brings you here?”

  “The same reasons that bring you, I expect,” said Gregson. “How you got on to it I can’t imagine.”

  “Different threads, but leading up to the same tangle. I’ve been taking the signals.”

  “Signals?”

  “Yes, from that window. They broke off in the middle. We came over to see the reason. But since it is safe in your hands I see no object in continuing the business.”

  “Wait a bit!” cried Gregson, eagerly. “I’ll do you this justice, Mr. Holmes, that I was never in a case yet that I didn’t feel stronger for having you on my side. There’s only the one exit to these flats, so we have him safe.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Well, well, we score over you for once, Mr. Holmes. You must give us best this time.” He struck his stick sharply upon the ground, on which a cabman, his whip in his hand, sauntered over from a four-wheeler which stood on the far side of the street. “May I introduce you to Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” he said to the cabman. “This is Mr. Leverton, of Pinkerton’s American Agency.”17

  “The hero of the Long Island Cave Mystery?”18 said Holmes. “Sir, I am pleased to meet you.”

  The American, a quiet, businesslike young man, with a clean-shaven, hatchet face, flushed up at the words of commendation. “I am on the trail of my life now, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “If I can get Gorgiano—”

  “What! Gorgiano of the Red Circle?”19

  “Oh, he has a European fame, has he? Well, we’ve learned all about him in America. We know he is at the bottom of fifty murders, and yet we have nothing positive we can take him on. I tracked him over from New York, and I’ve been close to him for a week in London, waiting some excuse to get my hand on his collar. Mr. Gregson and I ran him to ground in that big tenement house, and there’s only the one door, so he can’t slip us. There’s three folk come out since he went in, but I’ll swear he wasn’t one of them.”

  “Mr. Holmes talks of signals,” said Gregson. “I expect, as usual, he knows a good deal that we don’t.”

  In a few clear words Holmes explained the situation as it had appeared to us. The American struck his hands together with vexation.

  “He’s on to us!” he cried.

  “Why do you think so?”

  “Well, it figures out that way, does it not? Here he is, sending out messages to an accomplice—there are several of his gang in London. Then suddenly, just as by your own account he was telling them that there was danger, he broke short off. What could it mean except that from the window he had suddenly either caught sight of us in the street, or in some way come to understand how close the danger was, and that he must act right away if he was to avoid it? What do you suggest, Mr. Holmes?”

  “That we go up at once and see for ourselves.”

  “But we have no warrant for his arrest.”

  “He is in unoccupied premises under suspicious circumstances,” said Gregson. “That is good enough for the moment. When we have him by the heels we can see if New York can’t help us to keep him. I’ll take the responsibility of arresting him now.”

  Our official detectives may blunder in the matter of intelligence, but never in that of courage. Gregson climbed the stair to arrest this desperate murderer with the same absolutely quiet and businesslike bearing with which he would have ascended the official staircase of Scotland Yard. The Pinkerton man had tried to push past him, but Gregson had firmly elbowed him back. London dangers were the privilege of the London force.

  The door of the left-hand flat upon the third landing was standing ajar. Gregson pushed it open. Within all was absolute silence and darkness. I struck a match, and lit the detective’s lantern. As I did so, and as the flicker steadied into a flame, we all gave a gasp of surprise. On the deal boards of the carpetless floor there was outlined a fresh track of blood. The red steps pointed towards us and led away from an inner room, the door of which was closed. Gregson flung it open and held his light full blaze in front of him, whilst we all peered eagerly over his shoulders.

  In the middle of the floor of the empty room was huddled the figure of an enormous man, his clean-shaven, swarthy face grotesquely horrible in its contortion, and his head encircled by a ghastly crimson halo of blood, lying in a broad wet circle upon the white woodwork. His knees were drawn up, his hands thrown out in agony, and from the centre of his broad, brown, upturned throat there projected the white haft of a knife driven blade-deep into his body. Giant as he was, the man must have gone down like a pole-axed ox before that terrific blow. Beside his right hand a most formidable horn-handled, two-edged dagger lay upon the floor, and near it a black kid glove.

  “By George! it’s Black Gorgiano himself!” cried the American detective. “Someone has got ahead of us this time.”

  “‘By George! It’s Black Gorgiano himself!’ cried the American detective.”

  H. M. Brock, R. I., Strand Magazine, 1911

  “Holmes was passing the candle backwards and forwards across the window-panes.”

  H. M. Brock, R. I., Strand Magazine, 1911

  “Here is the candle in the window, Mr. Holmes,” said Gregson. “Why, whatever are you doing?”

  Holmes had stepped across, had lit the candle, and was passing it backwards and forwards across the window-panes. Then he peered into the darkness, blew the candle out, and threw it on the floor.

  “I rather think that will be helpful,” said he. He came over and stood in deep thought while the two professionals were examining the body. “You say that three people came out from the flat while you were waiting downstairs,” said he, at last. “Did you observe them closely?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Was there a fellow about thirty, black-bearded, dark, of middle size?”

  “Yes; he was the last to pass me.”

  “That is your man, I fancy. I can give you his description, and we have a very excellent outline of his footmark. That should be enough for you.”

  “Not much, Mr. Holmes, among the millions of London.”

  “Perhaps not. That is why I thought it best to summon this lady t
o your aid.”

  We all turned round at the words. There, framed in the doorway, was a tall and beautiful woman—the mysterious lodger of Bloomsbury. Slowly she advanced, her face pale and drawn with a frightful apprehension, her eyes fixed and staring, her terrified gaze rivetted upon the dark figure on the floor.

  “Slowly she advanced, her face pale and drawn with a frightful apprehension.”

  H. M. Brock, R. I., Strand Magazine, 1911

  “You have killed him!” she muttered. “Oh, Dio mio, you have killed him!” Then I heard a sudden sharp intake of her breath, and she sprang into the air with a cry of joy. Round and round the room she danced, her hands clapping, her dark eyes gleaming with delighted wonder, and a thousand pretty Italian exclamations pouring from her lips. It was terrible and amazing to see such a woman so convulsed with joy at such a sight. Suddenly she stopped and gazed at us all with a questioning stare.

  “But you! You are police, are you not? You have killed Giuseppe Gorgiano. Is it not so?”

  “We are police, madam.”

  She looked round into the shadows of the room.

  “But where, then, is Gennaro?” she asked. “He is my husband, Gennaro Lucca. I am Emilia Lucca, and we are both from New York. Where is Gennaro? He called me this moment from this window, and I ran with all my speed.”

  “It was I who called,” said Holmes.

  “You! How could you call?”

  “Your cipher was not difficult, madam. Your presence here was desirable. I knew that I had only to flash ‘Vieni’ and you would surely come.”