His last bow Some later reminiscences of Sherlock Holmes
“Same as I said in my cable. Every last one of them, semaphore, lamp
code, Marconi—a copy, mind you, not the original. That was too
dangerous. But it’s the real goods, and you can lay to that.” He
slapped the German upon the shoulder with a rough familiarity from
which the other winced.
“Come in,” he said. “I’m all alone in the house. I was only waiting for
this. Of course a copy is better than the original. If an original were
missing they would change the whole thing. You think it’s all safe
about the copy?”
The Irish-American had entered the study and stretched his long limbs
from the armchair. He was a tall, gaunt man of sixty, with clear-cut
features and a small goatee beard which gave him a general resemblance
to the caricatures of Uncle Sam. A half-smoked, sodden cigar hung from
the corner of his mouth, and as he sat down he struck a match and relit
it. “Making ready for a move?” he remarked as he looked round him.
“Say, mister,” he added, as his eyes fell upon the safe from which the
curtain was now removed, “you don’t tell me you keep your papers in
that?”
“Why not?”
“Gosh, in a wide-open contraption like that! And they reckon you to be
some spy. Why, a Yankee crook would be into that with a can-opener. If
I’d known that any letter of mine was goin’ to lie loose in a thing
like that I’d have been a mug to write to you at all.”
“It would puzzle any crook to force that safe,” Von Bork answered. “You
won’t cut that metal with any tool.”
“But the lock?”
“No, it’s a double combination lock. You know what that is?”
“Search me,” said the American.
“Well, you need a word as well as a set of figures before you can get
the lock to work.” He rose and showed a double-radiating disc round the
keyhole. “This outer one is for the letters, the inner one for the
figures.”
“Well, well, that’s fine.”
“So it’s not quite as simple as you thought. It was four years ago that
I had it made, and what do you think I chose for the word and figures?”
“It’s beyond me.”
“Well, I chose August for the word, and 1914 for the figures, and here
we are.”
The American’s face showed his surprise and admiration.
“My, but that was smart! You had it down to a fine thing.”
“Yes, a few of us even then could have guessed the date. Here it is,
and I’m shutting down to-morrow morning.”
“Well, I guess you’ll have to fix me up also. I’m not staying in this
goldarned country all on my lonesome. In a week or less, from what I
see, John Bull will be on his hind legs and fair ramping. I’d rather
watch him from over the water.”
“But you’re an American citizen?”
“Well, so was Jack James an American citizen, but he’s doing time in
Portland all the same. It cuts no ice with a British copper to tell him
you’re an American citizen. ‘It’s British law and order over here,’
says he. By the way, mister, talking of Jack James, it seems to me you
don’t do much to cover your men.”
“What do you mean?” Von Bork asked sharply.
“Well, you are their employer, ain’t you? It’s up to you to see that
they don’t fall down. But they do fall down, and when did you ever pick
them up? There’s James—”
“It was James’s own fault. You know that yourself. He was too
self-willed for the job.”
“James was a bonehead—I give you that. Then there was Hollis.”
“The man was mad.”
“Well, he went a bit woozy towards the end. It’s enough to make a man
bug-house when he has to play a part from morning to night with a
hundred guys all ready to set the coppers wise to him. But now there is
Steiner—”
Von Bork started violently, and his ruddy face turned a shade paler.
“What about Steiner?”
“Well, they’ve got him, that’s all. They raided his store last night,
and he and his papers are all in Portsmouth jail. You’ll go off and he,
poor devil, will have to stand the racket, and lucky if he gets off
with his life. That’s why I want to get over the water as soon as you
do.”
Von Bork was a strong, self-contained man, but it was easy to see that
the news had shaken him.
“How could they have got on to Steiner?” he muttered. “That’s the worst
blow yet.”
“Well, you nearly had a worse one, for I believe they are not far off
me.”
“You don’t mean that!”
“Sure thing. My landlady down Fratton way had some inquiries, and when
I heard of it I guessed it was time for me to hustle. But what I want
to know, mister, is how the coppers know these things? Steiner is the
fifth man you’ve lost since I signed on with you, and I know the name
of the sixth if I don’t get a move on. How do you explain it, and ain’t
you ashamed to see your men go down like this?”
Von Bork flushed crimson.
“How dare you speak in such a way!”
“If I didn’t dare things, mister, I wouldn’t be in your service. But
I’ll tell you straight what is in my mind. I’ve heard that with you
German politicians when an agent has done his work you are not sorry to
see him put away.”
Von Bork sprang to his feet.
“Do you dare to suggest that I have given away my own agents!”
“I don’t stand for that, mister, but there’s a stool pigeon or a cross
somewhere, and it’s up to you to find out where it is. Anyhow I am
taking no more chances. It’s me for little Holland, and the sooner the
better.”
Von Bork had mastered his anger.
“We have been allies too long to quarrel now at the very hour of
victory,” he said. “You’ve done splendid work and taken risks, and I
can’t forget it. By all means go to Holland, and you can get a boat
from Rotterdam to New York. No other line will be safe a week from now.
I’ll take that book and pack it with the rest.”
The American held the small parcel in his hand, but made no motion to
give it up.
“What about the dough?” he asked.
“The what?”
“The boodle. The reward. The £500. The gunner turned damned nasty at
the last, and I had to square him with an extra hundred dollars or it
would have been nitsky for you and me. ‘Nothin’ doin’!’ says he, and he
meant it, too, but the last hundred did it. It’s cost me two hundred
pound from first to last, so it isn’t likely I’d give it up without
gettin’ my wad.”
Von Bork smiled with some bitterness. “You don’t seem to have a very
high opinion of my honour,” said he, “you want the money before you
give up the book.”
“Well, mister, it is a business proposition.”
“All right. Have your way.” He sat down at the table and scribbled a
check, which he tore from the book, but he refrained from handing it to
his companion. “After all, since we are to be on such terms, Mr.
Altamont,” said he, “I don’t see why I should trust you any more than
you trust me. Do you understand?” he added, looking back over his
shoulder at the American. “There’s the check upon the table. I claim
the right to examine that parcel before you pick the money up.”
The American passed it over without a word. Von Bork undid a winding of
string and two wrappers of paper. Then he sat gazing for a moment in
silent amazement at a small blue book which lay before him. Across the
cover was printed in golden letters _Practical Handbook of Bee
Culture_. Only for one instant did the master spy glare at this
strangely irrelevant inscription. The next he was gripped at the back
of his neck by a grasp of iron, and a chloroformed sponge was held in
front of his writhing face.
“Another glass, Watson!” said Mr. Sherlock Holmes as he extended the
bottle of Imperial Tokay.
The thickset chauffeur, who had seated himself by the table, pushed
forward his glass with some eagerness.
“It is a good wine, Holmes.”
“A remarkable wine, Watson. Our friend upon the sofa has assured me
that it is from Franz Josef’s special cellar at the Schoenbrunn Palace.
Might I trouble you to open the window, for chloroform vapour does not
help the palate.”
The safe was ajar, and Holmes standing in front of it was removing
dossier after dossier, swiftly examining each, and then packing it
neatly in Von Bork’s valise. The German lay upon the sofa sleeping
stertorously with a strap round his upper arms and another round his
legs.
“We need not hurry ourselves, Watson. We are safe from interruption.
Would you mind touching the bell? There is no one in the house except
old Martha, who has played her part to admiration. I got her the
situation here when first I took the matter up. Ah, Martha, you will be
glad to hear that all is well.”
The pleasant old lady had appeared in the doorway. She curtseyed with a
smile to Mr. Holmes, but glanced with some apprehension at the figure
upon the sofa.
“It is all right, Martha. He has not been hurt at all.”
“I am glad of that, Mr. Holmes. According to his lights he has been a
kind master. He wanted me to go with his wife to Germany yesterday, but
that would hardly have suited your plans, would it, sir?”
“No, indeed, Martha. So long as you were here I was easy in my mind. We
waited some time for your signal to-night.”
“It was the secretary, sir.”
“I know. His car passed ours.”
“I thought he would never go. I knew that it would not suit your plans,
sir, to find him here.”
“No, indeed. Well, it only meant that we waited half an hour or so
until I saw your lamp go out and knew that the coast was clear. You can
report to me to-morrow in London, Martha, at Claridge’s Hotel.”
“Very good, sir.”
“I suppose you have everything ready to leave.”
“Yes, sir. He posted seven letters to-day. I have the addresses as
usual.”
“Very good, Martha. I will look into them to-morrow. Good-night. These
papers,” he continued as the old lady vanished, “are not of very great
importance, for, of course, the information which they represent has
been sent off long ago to the German government. These are the
originals which could not safely be got out of the country.”
“Then they are of no use.”
“I should not go so far as to say that, Watson. They will at least show
our people what is known and what is not. I may say that a good many of
these papers have come through me, and I need not add are thoroughly
untrustworthy. It would brighten my declining years to see a German
cruiser navigating the Solent according to the mine-field plans which I
have furnished. But you, Watson”—he stopped his work and took his old
friend by the shoulders—“I’ve hardly seen you in the light yet. How
have the years used you? You look the same blithe boy as ever.”
“I feel twenty years younger, Holmes. I have seldom felt so happy as
when I got your wire asking me to meet you at Harwich with the car. But
you, Holmes—you have changed very little—save for that horrible
goatee.”
“These are the sacrifices one makes for one’s country, Watson,” said
Holmes, pulling at his little tuft. “To-morrow it will be but a
dreadful memory. With my hair cut and a few other superficial changes I
shall no doubt reappear at Claridge’s to-morrow as I was before this
American stunt—I beg your pardon, Watson, my well of English seems to
be permanently defiled—before this American job came my way.”
“But you have retired, Holmes. We heard of you as living the life of a
hermit among your bees and your books in a small farm upon the South
Downs.”
“Exactly, Watson. Here is the fruit of my leisured ease, the magnum
opus of my latter years!” He picked up the volume from the table and
read out the whole title, _Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with Some
Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen_. “Alone I did it.
Behold the fruit of pensive nights and laborious days when I watched
the little working gangs as once I watched the criminal world of
London.”
“But how did you get to work again?”
“Ah, I have often marvelled at it myself. The Foreign Minister alone I
could have withstood, but when the Premier also deigned to visit my
humble roof—! The fact is, Watson, that this gentleman upon the sofa