Short Stories of Various Types

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"Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was as right as possible.
The table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross was there to
see that I got fairly to work. He started me off upon the letter A, and
then he left me; but he would drop in from time to time to see that all
was right with me. At two o'clock he bade me good-day, complimented me
upon the amount that I had written, and locked the door of the office
after me.

"This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the manager
came in and planked down four golden sovereigns for my week's work. It
was the same next week, and the same the week after. Every morning I
was there at ten, and every afternoon I left at two. By degrees Mr.
Duncan Ross took to coming in only once of a morning, and then, after a
time, he did not come in at all. Still, of course, I never dared to
leave the room for an instant, for I was not sure when he might come,
and the billet was such a good one, and suited me so well, that I would
not risk the loss of it.

"Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about Abbots and
Archery and Armor and Architecture and Attica, and hoped with diligence
that I might get on to the B's before very long. It cost me something
in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly filled a shelf with my writings.
And then suddenly the whole business came to an end."

"To an end?"

"Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my work as usual
at ten o'clock, but the door was shut and locked, with a little square
of cardboard hammered on to the middle of the panel with a tack. Here
it is, and you can read for yourself."

He held up a piece of white cardboard about the size of a sheet of
note-paper. It read in this fashion:

THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE
IS
DISSOLVED

October, 9, 1890.

Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the rueful
face behind it, until the comical side of the affair so completely
overtopped every other consideration that we both burst out into a roar
of laughter.

"I cannot see that there is anything very funny," cried our client,
flushing up to the roots of his flaming hair. "If you can do nothing
better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere."

"No, no," cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from which he
had half risen. "I really wouldn't miss your case for the world. It is
most refreshingly unusual. But there is, if you will excuse my saying
so, something just a little funny about it. Pray, what steps did you
take when you found the card upon the door?"

"I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then I called at the
offices round, but none of them seemed to know anything about it.
Finally, I went to the landlord, who is an accountant living on the
ground-floor, and I asked him if he could tell me what had become of
the Red-headed League. He said that he had never heard of any such
body. Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He answered that the
name was new to him.

"'Well,' said I, 'the gentleman at No. 4.'

"'What, the red-headed man?'

"'Yes.'

"'Oh,' said he, 'his name was William Morris. He was a solicitor, and
was using my room as a temporary convenience until his new premises
were ready. He moved out yesterday.'

"'Where could I find him?'

"'Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 17 King
Edward Street, near St. Paul's.'

"I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it was a
manufactory of artificial knee-caps, and no one in it had ever heard of
either Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross."

"And what did you do then?" asked Holmes.

"I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice of my
assistant. But he could not help me in any way. He could only say that
if I waited I should hear by post. But that was not quite good enough,
Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose such a good place without a
struggle, so, as I had heard that you were good enough to give advice
to poor folk who were in need of it, I came right away to you."

"And you did very wisely," said Holmes. "Your case is an exceedingly
remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it. From what you
have told me I think that it is possible that graver issues hang from
it than might at first sight appear."

"Grave enough," said Mr. Jabez Wilson. "Why, I have lost four pound a
week."

"As far as you are personally concerned," remarked Holmes, "I do not
see that you have any grievance against this remarkable league. On the
contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by some L30, to say nothing
of the minute knowledge which you have gained on every subject which
comes under the letter A. You have lost nothing by them."

"No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they are, and what
their object was in playing this prank--if it was a prank--upon me. It
was a pretty expensive joke for them, for it cost them two and thirty
pounds."

"We shall endeavor to clear up these points for you. And, first, one or
two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours who first called
your attention to the advertisement--how long had he been with you?"

"About a month then."

"How did he come?"

"In answer to an advertisement."

"Was he the only applicant?"

"No, I had a dozen."

"Why did you pick him?"

"Because he was handy, and would come cheap."

"At half-wages, in fact?"

"Yes."

"What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?"

"Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his face,
though he's not short of thirty. Has a white splash of acid upon his
forehead."

Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. "I thought as
much," said he. "Have you ever observed that his ears are pierced for
earrings?"

"Yes, sir. He told me that a gypsy had done it for him when he was a
lad."

"Hum!" said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. "He is still with
you?"

"Oh yes, sir; I have only just left him."

"And has your business been attended to in your absence?"

"Nothing to complain of, sir. There's never very much to do of a
morning."

"That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an opinion upon
the subject in the course of a day or two. To-day is Saturday, and I
hope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion."

"Well, Watson," said Holmes, when our visitor had left us, "what do you
make of it all?"

"I make nothing of it," I answered, frankly. "It is a most mysterious
business."

"As a rule," said Holmes, "the more bizarre a thing is the less
mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless crimes
which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the most
difficult to identify. But I must be prompt over this matter."

"What are you going to do, then?" I asked.

"To smoke," he answered. "It is quite a three-pipe problem, and I beg
that you won't speak to me for fifty minutes." He curled himself up in
his chair, with his thin knees drawn up to his hawk-like nose, and
there he sat with his eyes closed and his black clay pipe thrusting out
like the bill of some strange bird. I had come to the conclusion that
he had dropped asleep, and indeed was nodding myself, when he suddenly
sprang out of his chair with the gesture of a man who has made up his
mind, and put his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.

"Sarasate[221-1] plays at the St. James's Hall this afternoon," he
remarked. "What do you think, Watson? Could your patients spare you for
a few hours?"

"I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very absorbing."

"Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the city first, and
we can have some lunch on the way. I observe that there is a good deal
of German music on the program, which is rather more to my taste than
Italian or French. It is introspective, and I want to introspect. Come
along!"

We traveled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short walk
took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the singular story which we
had listened to in the morning. It was a poky, little, shabby-genteel
place, where four lines of dingy two-storied brick houses looked out
into a small railed-in enclosure, where a lawn of weedy grass and a few
clumps of faded laurel-bushes made a hard fight against a smoke-laden
and uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls and a brown board with
JABEZ WILSON in white letters, upon a corner house announced the place
where our red-headed client carried on his business. Sherlock Holmes
stopped in front of it with his head on one side, and looked it all
over, with his eyes shining brightly between puckered lids. Then he
walked slowly up the street, and then down again to the corner, still
looking keenly at the houses. Finally he returned to the pawn-broker's,
and, having thumped vigorously upon the pavement with his stick two or
three times, he went up to the door and knocked. It was instantly
opened by a bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to
step in.

"Thank you," said Holmes, "I only wished to ask you how you would go
from here to the Strand."

"Third right, fourth left," answered the assistant, promptly, closing
the door.

"Smart fellow, that," observed Holmes, as we walked away. "He is, in my
judgment, the fourth smartest man in London, and for daring, I am not
sure that he has not a claim to be third. I have known something of him
before."

"Evidently," said I, "Mr. Wilson's assistant counts for a good deal in
this mystery of the Red-headed League. I am sure that you inquired your
way merely in order that you might see him."

"Not him."

"What then?"

"The knees of his trousers."

"And what did you see?"

"What I expected to see."

"Why did you beat the pavement?"

"My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We are
spies in an enemy's country. We know something of Saxe-Coburg Square.
Let us now explore the parts which lie behind it."

The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the corner from
the retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a contrast to it as
the front of a picture does to the back. It was one of the main
arteries which convey the traffic of the city to the north and west.
The roadway was blocked with the immense stream of commerce flowing in
a double tide inward and outward, while the foot-paths were black with
the hurrying swarm of pedestrians. It was difficult to realize as we
looked at the line of fine shops and stately business premises that
they really abutted on the other side upon the faded and stagnant
square which we had just quitted.

"Let me see," said Holmes, standing at the corner, and glancing along
the line, "I should like just to remember the order of the houses here.
It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of London. There is
Mortimer's, the tobacconist, the little newspaper shop, the Coburg
branch of the City and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant, and
McFarlane's carriage-building depot. That carries us right on to the
other block. And now, doctor, we've done our work, so it's time we had
some play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land,
where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and there are no
red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums."

My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only a very
capable performer, but a composer of no mean merit. All the afternoon
he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect happiness, gently
waving his long, thin fingers in time to the music, while his gently
smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes were as unlike those of
Holmes, the sleuth-hound,[224-1] Holmes, the relentless, keen-witted,
ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible to conceive. In his
singular character the dual nature alternately presented itself, and
his extreme exactness and astuteness represented, as I have often
thought, the reaction against the poetic and contemplative mood which
occasionally predominated in him. The swing of his nature took him from
extreme languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was never
so truly formidable as when, for days on end, he had been lounging in
his arm-chair amid his improvisations and his black-letter editions.
Then it was that the lust of the chase would suddenly come upon him,
and that his brilliant reasoning power would rise to the level of
intuition, until those who were unacquainted with his methods would
look askance at him as on a man whose knowledge was not that of other
mortals. When I saw him that afternoon so enwrapped in the music at St.
James's Hall I felt that an evil time might be coming upon those whom
he had set himself to hunt down.

"You want to go home, no doubt, doctor," he remarked, as we emerged.

"Yes, it would be as well."

"And I have some business to do which will take some hours. This
business at Coburg Square is serious."

"Why serious?"

"A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason to
believe that we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day being Saturday
rather complicates matters. I shall want your help to-night."

"At what time?"

"Ten will be early enough."

"I shall be at Baker Street at ten."

"Very well. And, I say, doctor, there may be some little danger, so
kindly put your army revolver in your pocket." He waved his hand,
turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant among the crowd.

I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbors, but I was always
oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my dealings with Sherlock
Holmes. Here I had heard what he had heard, I had seen what he had
seen, and yet from his words it was evident that he saw clearly not
only what had happened, but what was about to happen, while to me the
whole business was still confused and grotesque. As I drove home to my
house in Kensington I thought it all over, from the extraordinary story
of the red-headed copier of the "Encyclopaedia" down to the visit to
Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous words with which he had parted from
me. What was this nocturnal expedition, and why should I go on? Where
were we going, and what were we to do? I had the hint from Holmes that
this smooth-faced pawnbroker's assistant was a formidable man--a man
who might play a deep game. I tried to puzzle it out, but gave it up in
despair, and set the matter aside until night should bring an
explanation.

It was a quarter past nine when I started from home and made my way
across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two
hansoms were standing at the door, and, as I entered the passage, I
heard the sound of voices from above. On entering his room I found
Holmes in animated conversation with two men, one of whom I recognized
as Peter Jones, the official police agent, while the other was a long,
thin, sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and oppressively respectable
frock-coat.

"Ha! our party is complete," said Holmes, buttoning up his pea-jacket,
and taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack. "Watson, I think you
know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr.
Merryweather, who is to be our companion in to-night's adventure."

"We're hunting in couples again, doctor, you see," said Jones, in his
consequential way. "Our friend here is a wonderful man for starting a
chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him do the running down."

"I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase,"
observed Mr. Merryweather, gloomily.

"You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir," said the
police agent, loftily. "He has his own little methods, which are, if he
won't mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical and fantastic,
but he has the makings of a detective in him. It is not too much to say
that once or twice, as in that business of the Sholto murder and the
Agra treasure,[227-1] he has been more nearly correct than the official
force."

"Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right," said the stranger,
with deference. "Still, I confess that I miss my rubber. It is the
first Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I have not had my
rubber."

"I think you will find," said Sherlock Holmes, "that you will play for
a higher stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and that the play
will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will be
some L30,000; and for you, Jones, it will be the man upon whom you wish
to lay your hands."

"John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He's a young man,
Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession, and I would
rather have my bracelets on him than on any criminal in London. He's a
remarkable man, is young John Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke,
and he himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His brain is as cunning as
his fingers, and though we meet signs of him at every turn, we never
know where to find the man himself. He'll crack a crib in Scotland one
week, and be raising money to build an orphanage in Cornwall the next.
I've been on his track for years, and have never set eyes on him yet."

"I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night. I've
had one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree with
you that he is at the head of his profession. It is past ten, however,
and quite time that we started. If you two will take the first hansom,
Watson and I will follow in the second."

Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive, and
lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard in the
afternoon. We rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit streets
until we emerged into Farringdon Street.

"We are close there now," my friend remarked. "This fellow Merryweather
is a bank director, and personally interested in the matter. I thought
it as well to have Jones with us also. He is not a bad fellow, though
an absolute imbecile in his profession. He has one positive virtue. He
is as brave as a bulldog, and as tenacious as a lobster if he gets his
claws upon any one. Here we are, and they are waiting for us."

We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had found
ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and, following the
guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a narrow passage and
through a side door, which he opened for us. Within there was a small
corridor, which ended in a very massive iron gate. This also was
opened, and led down a flight of winding stone steps, which terminated
at another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped to light a
lantern, and then conducted us down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and
so, after opening a third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which was
piled all round with crates and massive boxes.

"You are not very vulnerable from above," Holmes remarked, as he held
up the lantern and gazed about him.

"Nor from below," said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon the
flags which lined the floor. "Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow!" he
remarked, looking up in surprise.

"I must really ask you to be a little more quiet," said Holmes,
severely. "You have already imperilled the whole success of our
expedition. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to sit down
upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?"

The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a very
injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his knees upon
the floor, and, with the lantern and a magnifying lens, began to
examine minutely the cracks between the stones. A few seconds sufficed
to satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again, and put his glass in
his pocket.

"We have at least an hour before us," he remarked; "for they can hardly
take any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed. Then they
will not lose a minute, for the sooner they do their work the longer
time they will have for their escape. We are at present, doctor--as no
doubt you have divined--in the cellar of the city branch of one of the
principal London banks. Mr. Merryweather is the chairman of directors,
and he will explain to you that there are reasons why the more daring
criminals of London should take a considerable interest in this cellar
at present."

"It is our French gold," whispered the director. "We have had several
warnings that an attempt might be made upon it."

"Your French gold?"

"Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our resources, and
borrowed, for that purpose, 30,000 napoleons[230-1] from the Bank of
France. It has become known that we have never had occasion to unpack
the money, and that it is still lying in our cellar. The crate upon
which I sit contains 2000 napoleons packed between layers of lead foil.
Our reserve of bullion is much larger at present than is usually kept
in a single branch office, and the directors have had misgivings upon
the subject."

"Which were very well justified," observed Holmes. "And now it is time
that we arranged our little plans. I expect that within an hour matters
will come to a head. In the meantime, Mr. Merryweather, we must put the
screen over that dark lantern."

"And sit in the dark?"

"I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket, and I
thought that, as we were a _partie carree_,[231-1] you might have your
rubber after all. But I see that the enemy's preparations have gone so
far that we cannot risk the presence of a light. And, first of all, we
must choose our positions. These are daring men, and though we shall
take them at a disadvantage, they may do us some harm unless we are
careful. I shall stand behind this crate, and do you conceal yourselves
behind those. Then, when I flash a light upon them, close in swiftly.
If they fire, Watson, have no compunction about shooting them down."

I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden case behind
which I crouched. Holmes shot the slide across the front of his
lantern, and left us in pitch darkness--such an absolute darkness as I
have never before experienced. The smell of hot metal remained to
assure us that the light was still there, ready to flash out at a
moment's notice. To me, with my nerves worked up to a pitch of
expectancy, there was something depressing and subduing in the sudden
gloom, and in the cold, dank air of the vault.

"They have but one retreat," whispered Holmes. "That is back through
the house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you have done what I
asked you, Jones?"

"I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door."

"Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be silent and
wait."

What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it was but an
hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the night must have
almost gone, and the dawn be breaking above us. My limbs were weary and
stiff, for I feared to change my position; yet my nerves were worked up
to the highest pitch of tension, and my hearing was so acute that I
could not only hear the gentle breathing of my companions, but I could
distinguish the deeper, heavier in-breath of the bulky Jones from the
thin, sighing note of the bank director. From my position I could look
over the case in the direction of the floor. Suddenly my eyes caught
the glint of a light.

At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then it
lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then, without any
warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand appeared; a white,
almost womanly hand, which felt about in the center of the little area
of light. For a minute or more the hand, with its writhing fingers,
protruded out of the floor. Then it was withdrawn as suddenly as it
appeared, and all was dark again save the single lurid spark which
marked a chink between the stones.

Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a rending, tearing
sound, one of the broad, white stones turned over upon its side, and
left a square, gaping hole, through which streamed the light of a
lantern. Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut, boyish face, which
looked keenly about it, and then, with a hand on either side of the
aperture, the figure drew itself shoulder-high and waist-high, until
one knee rested upon the edge. In another instant he stood at the side
of the hole, and was hauling after him a companion, lithe and small
like himself, with a pale face and a shock of very red hair.

"It's all clear," he whispered. "Have you the chisel and the bags?
Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and I'll swing for it!"

Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the collar.
The other dived down the hole, and I heard the sound of rending cloth
as Jones clutched at his skirts. The light flashed down upon the barrel
of a revolver, but Holmes's hunting crop came down on the man's wrist,
and the pistol clinked upon the stone floor.

"It's no use, John Clay," said Holmes, blandly. "You have no chance at
all."

"So I see," the other answered, with the utmost coolness. "I fancy that
my pal is all right, though I see you have got his coat-tails."

"There are three men waiting for him at the door," said Holmes.

"Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing very completely. I must
compliment you."

"And I you," Holmes answered. "Your red-headed idea was very new and
effective."

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