His last bow Some later reminiscences of Sherlock Holmes
unfurnished, so far as I could judge, in the upper rooms. Oberstein
lived there with a single valet, who was probably a confederate
entirely in his confidence. We must bear in mind that Oberstein has
gone to the Continent to dispose of his booty, but not with any idea of
flight; for he had no reason to fear a warrant, and the idea of an
amateur domiciliary visit would certainly never occur to him. Yet that
is precisely what we are about to make.”
“Could we not get a warrant and legalise it?”
“Hardly on the evidence.”
“What can we hope to do?”
“We cannot tell what correspondence may be there.”
“I don’t like it, Holmes.”
“My dear fellow, you shall keep watch in the street. I’ll do the
criminal part. It’s not a time to stick at trifles. Think of Mycroft’s
note, of the Admiralty, the Cabinet, the exalted person who waits for
news. We are bound to go.”
My answer was to rise from the table.
“You are right, Holmes. We are bound to go.”
He sprang up and shook me by the hand.
“I knew you would not shrink at the last,” said he, and for a moment I
saw something in his eyes which was nearer to tenderness than I had
ever seen. The next instant he was his masterful, practical self once
more.
“It is nearly half a mile, but there is no hurry. Let us walk,” said
he. “Don’t drop the instruments, I beg. Your arrest as a suspicious
character would be a most unfortunate complication.”
Caulfield Gardens was one of those lines of flat-faced pillared, and
porticoed houses which are so prominent a product of the middle
Victorian epoch in the West End of London. Next door there appeared to
be a children’s party, for the merry buzz of young voices and the
clatter of a piano resounded through the night. The fog still hung
about and screened us with its friendly shade. Holmes had lit his
lantern and flashed it upon the massive door.
“This is a serious proposition,” said he. “It is certainly bolted as
well as locked. We would do better in the area. There is an excellent
archway down yonder in case a too zealous policeman should intrude.
Give me a hand, Watson, and I’ll do the same for you.”
A minute later we were both in the area. Hardly had we reached the dark
shadows before the step of the policeman was heard in the fog above. As
its soft rhythm died away, Holmes set to work upon the lower door. I
saw him stoop and strain until with a sharp crash it flew open. We
sprang through into the dark passage, closing the area door behind us.
Holmes led the way up the curving, uncarpeted stair. His little fan of
yellow light shone upon a low window.
“Here we are, Watson—this must be the one.” He threw it open, and as he
did so there was a low, harsh murmur, growing steadily into a loud roar
as a train dashed past us in the darkness. Holmes swept his light along
the window-sill. It was thickly coated with soot from the passing
engines, but the black surface was blurred and rubbed in places.
“You can see where they rested the body. Halloa, Watson! what is this?
There can be no doubt that it is a blood mark.” He was pointing to
faint discolorations along the woodwork of the window. “Here it is on
the stone of the stair also. The demonstration is complete. Let us stay
here until a train stops.”
We had not long to wait. The very next train roared from the tunnel as
before, but slowed in the open, and then, with a creaking of brakes,
pulled up immediately beneath us. It was not four feet from the
window-ledge to the roof of the carriages. Holmes softly closed the
window.
“So far we are justified,” said he. “What do you think of it, Watson?”
“A masterpiece. You have never risen to a greater height.”
“I cannot agree with you there. From the moment that I conceived the
idea of the body being upon the roof, which surely was not a very
abstruse one, all the rest was inevitable. If it were not for the grave
interests involved the affair up to this point would be insignificant.
Our difficulties are still before us. But perhaps we may find something
here which may help us.”
We had ascended the kitchen stair and entered the suite of rooms upon
the first floor. One was a dining-room, severely furnished and
containing nothing of interest. A second was a bedroom, which also drew
blank. The remaining room appeared more promising, and my companion
settled down to a systematic examination. It was littered with books
and papers, and was evidently used as a study. Swiftly and methodically
Holmes turned over the contents of drawer after drawer and cupboard
after cupboard, but no gleam of success came to brighten his austere
face. At the end of an hour he was no further than when he started.
“The cunning dog has covered his tracks,” said he. “He has left nothing
to incriminate him. His dangerous correspondence has been destroyed or
removed. This is our last chance.”
It was a small tin cash-box which stood upon the writing-desk. Holmes
pried it open with his chisel. Several rolls of paper were within,
covered with figures and calculations, without any note to show to what
they referred. The recurring words, “water pressure” and “pressure to
the square inch” suggested some possible relation to a submarine.
Holmes tossed them all impatiently aside. There only remained an
envelope with some small newspaper slips inside it. He shook them out
on the table, and at once I saw by his eager face that his hopes had
been raised.
“What’s this, Watson? Eh? What’s this? Record of a series of messages
in the advertisements of a paper. _Daily Telegraph_ agony column by the
print and paper. Right-hand top corner of a page. No dates—but messages
arrange themselves. This must be the first:
“Hoped to hear sooner. Terms agreed to. Write fully to address given on
card.—Pierrot.
“Next comes:
“Too complex for description. Must have full report. Stuff awaits you
when goods delivered.—Pierrot.
“Then comes:
“Matter presses. Must withdraw offer unless contract completed. Make
appointment by letter. Will confirm by advertisement.—Pierrot.
“Finally:
“Monday night after nine. Two taps. Only ourselves. Do not be so
suspicious. Payment in hard cash when goods delivered.—Pierrot.
“A fairly complete record, Watson! If we could only get at the man at
the other end!” He sat lost in thought, tapping his fingers on the
table. Finally he sprang to his feet.
“Well, perhaps it won’t be so difficult, after all. There is nothing
more to be done here, Watson. I think we might drive round to the
offices of the _Daily Telegraph_, and so bring a good day’s work to a
conclusion.”
Mycroft Holmes and Lestrade had come round by appointment after
breakfast next day and Sherlock Holmes had recounted to them our
proceedings of the day before. The professional shook his head over our
confessed burglary.
“We can’t do these things in the force, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “No
wonder you get results that are beyond us. But some of these days
you’ll go too far, and you’ll find yourself and your friend in
trouble.”
“For England, home and beauty—eh, Watson? Martyrs on the altar of our
country. But what do you think of it, Mycroft?”
“Excellent, Sherlock! Admirable! But what use will you make of it?”
Holmes picked up the _Daily Telegraph_ which lay upon the table.
“Have you seen Pierrot’s advertisement to-day?”
“What? Another one?”
“Yes, here it is:
“To-night. Same hour. Same place. Two taps. Most vitally important.
Your own safety at stake.—Pierrot.
“By George!” cried Lestrade. “If he answers that we’ve got him!”
“That was my idea when I put it in. I think if you could both make it
convenient to come with us about eight o’clock to Caulfield Gardens we
might possibly get a little nearer to a solution.”
One of the most remarkable characteristics of Sherlock Holmes was his
power of throwing his brain out of action and switching all his
thoughts on to lighter things whenever he had convinced himself that he
could no longer work to advantage. I remember that during the whole of
that memorable day he lost himself in a monograph which he had
undertaken upon the Polyphonic Motets of Lassus. For my own part I had
none of this power of detachment, and the day, in consequence, appeared
to be interminable. The great national importance of the issue, the
suspense in high quarters, the direct nature of the experiment which we
were trying—all combined to work upon my nerve. It was a relief to me
when at last, after a light dinner, we set out upon our expedition.
Lestrade and Mycroft met us by appointment at the outside of Gloucester
Road Station. The area door of Oberstein’s house had been left open the
night before, and it was necessary for me, as Mycroft Holmes absolutely
and indignantly declined to climb the railings, to pass in and open the
hall door. By nine o’clock we were all seated in the study, waiting
patiently for our man.
An hour passed and yet another. When eleven struck, the measured beat
of the great church clock seemed to sound the dirge of our hopes.
Lestrade and Mycroft were fidgeting in their seats and looking twice a
minute at their watches. Holmes sat silent and composed, his eyelids
half shut, but every sense on the alert. He raised his head with a
sudden jerk.
“He is coming,” said he.
There had been a furtive step past the door. Now it returned. We heard
a shuffling sound outside, and then two sharp taps with the knocker.
Holmes rose, motioning us to remain seated. The gas in the hall was a
mere point of light. He opened the outer door, and then as a dark
figure slipped past him he closed and fastened it. “This way!” we heard
him say, and a moment later our man stood before us. Holmes had
followed him closely, and as the man turned with a cry of surprise and
alarm he caught him by the collar and threw him back into the room.
Before our prisoner had recovered his balance the door was shut and
Holmes standing with his back against it. The man glared round him,
staggered, and fell senseless upon the floor. With the shock, his
broad-brimmed hat flew from his head, his cravat slipped down from his
lips, and there were the long light beard and the soft, handsome
delicate features of Colonel Valentine Walter.
Holmes gave a whistle of surprise.
“You can write me down an ass this time, Watson,” said he. “This was
not the bird that I was looking for.”
“Who is he?” asked Mycroft eagerly.
“The younger brother of the late Sir James Walter, the head of the
Submarine Department. Yes, yes; I see the fall of the cards. He is
coming to. I think that you had best leave his examination to me.”
We had carried the prostrate body to the sofa. Now our prisoner sat up,
looked round him with a horror-stricken face, and passed his hand over
his forehead, like one who cannot believe his own senses.
“What is this?” he asked. “I came here to visit Mr. Oberstein.”
“Everything is known, Colonel Walter,” said Holmes. “How an English
gentleman could behave in such a manner is beyond my comprehension. But
your whole correspondence and relations with Oberstein are within our
knowledge. So also are the circumstances connected with the death of
young Cadogan West. Let me advise you to gain at least the small credit
for repentance and confession, since there are still some details which
we can only learn from your lips.”
The man groaned and sank his face in his hands. We waited, but he was
silent.
“I can assure you,” said Holmes, “that every essential is already
known. We know that you were pressed for money; that you took an
impress of the keys which your brother held; and that you entered into
a correspondence with Oberstein, who answered your letters through the
advertisement columns of the _Daily Telegraph_. We are aware that you
went down to the office in the fog on Monday night, but that you were