His last bow Some later reminiscences of Sherlock Holmes
a sleeper. “Can’t you hear me, Holmes?” There was a rustling, as if he
had shaken the sick man roughly by the shoulder.
“Is that you, Mr. Smith?” Holmes whispered. “I hardly dared hope that
you would come.”
The other laughed.
“I should imagine not,” he said. “And yet, you see, I am here. Coals of
fire, Holmes—coals of fire!”
“It is very good of you—very noble of you. I appreciate your special
knowledge.”
Our visitor sniggered.
“You do. You are, fortunately, the only man in London who does. Do you
know what is the matter with you?”
“The same,” said Holmes.
“Ah! You recognise the symptoms?”
“Only too well.”
“Well, I shouldn’t be surprised, Holmes. I shouldn’t be surprised if it
_were_ the same. A bad lookout for you if it is. Poor Victor was a dead
man on the fourth day—a strong, hearty young fellow. It was certainly,
as you said, very surprising that he should have contracted an
out-of-the-way Asiatic disease in the heart of London—a disease, too,
of which I had made such a very special study. Singular coincidence,
Holmes. Very smart of you to notice it, but rather uncharitable to
suggest that it was cause and effect.”
“I knew that you did it.”
“Oh, you did, did you? Well, you couldn’t prove it, anyhow. But what do
you think of yourself spreading reports about me like that, and then
crawling to me for help the moment you are in trouble? What sort of a
game is that—eh?”
I heard the rasping, laboured breathing of the sick man. “Give me the
water!” he gasped.
“You’re precious near your end, my friend, but I don’t want you to go
till I have had a word with you. That’s why I give you water. There,
don’t slop it about! That’s right. Can you understand what I say?”
Holmes groaned.
“Do what you can for me. Let bygones be bygones,” he whispered. “I’ll
put the words out of my head—I swear I will. Only cure me, and I’ll
forget it.”
“Forget what?”
“Well, about Victor Savage’s death. You as good as admitted just now
that you had done it. I’ll forget it.”
“You can forget it or remember it, just as you like. I don’t see you in
the witnessbox. Quite another shaped box, my good Holmes, I assure you.
It matters nothing to me that you should know how my nephew died. It’s
not him we are talking about. It’s you.”
“Yes, yes.”
“The fellow who came for me—I’ve forgotten his name—said that you
contracted it down in the East End among the sailors.”
“I could only account for it so.”
“You are proud of your brains, Holmes, are you not? Think yourself
smart, don’t you? You came across someone who was smarter this time.
Now cast your mind back, Holmes. Can you think of no other way you
could have got this thing?”
“I can’t think. My mind is gone. For heaven’s sake help me!”
“Yes, I will help you. I’ll help you to understand just where you are
and how you got there. I’d like you to know before you die.”
“Give me something to ease my pain.”
“Painful, is it? Yes, the coolies used to do some squealing towards the
end. Takes you as cramp, I fancy.”
“Yes, yes; it is cramp.”
“Well, you can hear what I say, anyhow. Listen now! Can you remember
any unusual incident in your life just about the time your symptoms
began?”
“No, no; nothing.”
“Think again.”
“I’m too ill to think.”
“Well, then, I’ll help you. Did anything come by post?”
“By post?”
“A box by chance?”
“I’m fainting—I’m gone!”
“Listen, Holmes!” There was a sound as if he was shaking the dying man,
and it was all that I could do to hold myself quiet in my hiding-place.
“You must hear me. You _shall_ hear me. Do you remember a box—an ivory
box? It came on Wednesday. You opened it—do you remember?”
“Yes, yes, I opened it. There was a sharp spring inside it. Some joke—”
“It was no joke, as you will find to your cost. You fool, you would
have it and you have got it. Who asked you to cross my path? If you had
left me alone I would not have hurt you.”
“I remember,” Holmes gasped. “The spring! It drew blood. This box—this
on the table.”
“The very one, by George! And it may as well leave the room in my
pocket. There goes your last shred of evidence. But you have the truth
now, Holmes, and you can die with the knowledge that I killed you. You
knew too much of the fate of Victor Savage, so I have sent you to share
it. You are very near your end, Holmes. I will sit here and I will
watch you die.”
Holmes’s voice had sunk to an almost inaudible whisper.
“What is that?” said Smith. “Turn up the gas? Ah, the shadows begin to
fall, do they? Yes, I will turn it up, that I may see you the better.”
He crossed the room and the light suddenly brightened. “Is there any
other little service that I can do you, my friend?”
“A match and a cigarette.”
I nearly called out in my joy and my amazement. He was speaking in his
natural voice—a little weak, perhaps, but the very voice I knew. There
was a long pause, and I felt that Culverton Smith was standing in
silent amazement looking down at his companion.
“What’s the meaning of this?” I heard him say at last in a dry, rasping
tone.
“The best way of successfully acting a part is to be it,” said Holmes.
“I give you my word that for three days I have tasted neither food nor
drink until you were good enough to pour me out that glass of water.
But it is the tobacco which I find most irksome. Ah, here _are_ some
cigarettes.” I heard the striking of a match. “That is very much
better. Halloa! halloa! Do I hear the step of a friend?”
There were footfalls outside, the door opened, and Inspector Morton
appeared.
“All is in order and this is your man,” said Holmes.
The officer gave the usual cautions.
“I arrest you on the charge of the murder of one Victor Savage,” he
concluded.
“And you might add of the attempted murder of one Sherlock Holmes,”
remarked my friend with a chuckle. “To save an invalid trouble,
Inspector, Mr. Culverton Smith was good enough to give our signal by
turning up the gas. By the way, the prisoner has a small box in the
right-hand pocket of his coat which it would be as well to remove.
Thank you. I would handle it gingerly if I were you. Put it down here.
It may play its part in the trial.”
There was a sudden rush and a scuffle, followed by the clash of iron
and a cry of pain.
“You’ll only get yourself hurt,” said the inspector. “Stand still, will
you?” There was the click of the closing handcuffs.
“A nice trap!” cried the high, snarling voice. “It will bring _you_
into the dock, Holmes, not me. He asked me to come here to cure him. I
was sorry for him and I came. Now he will pretend, no doubt, that I
have said anything which he may invent which will corroborate his
insane suspicions. You can lie as you like, Holmes. My word is always
as good as yours.”
“Good heavens!” cried Holmes. “I had totally forgotten him. My dear
Watson, I owe you a thousand apologies. To think that I should have
overlooked you! I need not introduce you to Mr. Culverton Smith, since
I understand that you met somewhat earlier in the evening. Have you the
cab below? I will follow you when I am dressed, for I may be of some
use at the station.
“I never needed it more,” said Holmes as he refreshed himself with a
glass of claret and some biscuits in the intervals of his toilet.
“However, as you know, my habits are irregular, and such a feat means
less to me than to most men. It was very essential that I should
impress Mrs. Hudson with the reality of my condition, since she was to
convey it to you, and you in turn to him. You won’t be offended,
Watson? You will realise that among your many talents dissimulation
finds no place, and that if you had shared my secret you would never
have been able to impress Smith with the urgent necessity of his
presence, which was the vital point of the whole scheme. Knowing his
vindictive nature, I was perfectly certain that he would come to look
upon his handiwork.”
“But your appearance, Holmes—your ghastly face?”
“Three days of absolute fast does not improve one’s beauty, Watson. For
the rest, there is nothing which a sponge may not cure. With vaseline
upon one’s forehead, belladonna in one’s eyes, rouge over the
cheek-bones, and crusts of beeswax round one’s lips, a very satisfying
effect can be produced. Malingering is a subject upon which I have
sometimes thought of writing a monograph. A little occasional talk
about half-crowns, oysters, or any other extraneous subject produces a
pleasing effect of delirium.”
“But why would you not let me near you, since there was in truth no
infection?”
“Can you ask, my dear Watson? Do you imagine that I have no respect for
your medical talents? Could I fancy that your astute judgment would
pass a dying man who, however weak, had no rise of pulse or
temperature? At four yards, I could deceive you. If I failed to do so,
who would bring my Smith within my grasp? No, Watson, I would not touch
that box. You can just see if you look at it sideways where the sharp
spring like a viper’s tooth emerges as you open it. I dare say it was
by some such device that poor Savage, who stood between this monster
and a reversion, was done to death. My correspondence, however, is, as
you know, a varied one, and I am somewhat upon my guard against any
packages which reach me. It was clear to me, however, that by
pretending that he had really succeeded in his design I might surprise
a confession. That pretence I have carried out with the thoroughness of
the true artist. Thank you, Watson, you must help me on with my coat.
When we have finished at the police-station I think that something
nutritious at Simpson’s would not be out of place.”
His Last Bow: The War Service of Sherlock Holmes
It was nine o’clock at night upon the second of August—the most
terrible August in the history of the world. One might have thought
already that God’s curse hung heavy over a degenerate world, for there
was an awesome hush and a feeling of vague expectancy in the sultry and
stagnant air. The sun had long set, but one blood-red gash like an open
wound lay low in the distant west. Above, the stars were shining
brightly, and below, the lights of the shipping glimmered in the bay.
The two famous Germans stood beside the stone parapet of the garden
walk, with the long, low, heavily gabled house behind them, and they
looked down upon the broad sweep of the beach at the foot of the great
chalk cliff in which Von Bork, like some wandering eagle, had perched
himself four years before. They stood with their heads close together,
talking in low, confidential tones. From below the two glowing ends of
their cigars might have been the smouldering eyes of some malignant
fiend looking down in the darkness.
A remarkable man this Von Bork—a man who could hardly be matched among
all the devoted agents of the Kaiser. It was his talents which had
first recommended him for the English mission, the most important
mission of all, but since he had taken it over those talents had become
more and more manifest to the half-dozen people in the world who were
really in touch with the truth. One of these was his present companion,
Baron Von Herling, the chief secretary of the legation, whose huge
100-horse-power Benz car was blocking the country lane as it waited to
waft its owner back to London.
“So far as I can judge the trend of events, you will probably be back
in Berlin within the week,” the secretary was saying. “When you get
there, my dear Von Bork, I think you will be surprised at the welcome
you will receive. I happen to know what is thought in the highest
quarters of your work in this country.” He was a huge man, the
secretary, deep, broad, and tall, with a slow, heavy fashion of speech
which had been his main asset in his political career.
Von Bork laughed.