The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
“How did you trace it, then?”
He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all covered with dates
and names.
“I have spent the whole day,” said he, “over Lloyd’s registers and
files of the old papers, following the future career of every vessel
which touched at Pondicherry in January and February in ’83. There were
thirty-six ships of fair tonnage which were reported there during those
months. Of these, one, the _Lone Star_, instantly attracted my
attention, since, although it was reported as having cleared from
London, the name is that which is given to one of the states of the
Union.”
“Texas, I think.”
“I was not and am not sure which; but I knew that the ship must have an
American origin.”
“What then?”
“I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that the barque _Lone
Star_ was there in January, ’85, my suspicion became a certainty. I
then inquired as to the vessels which lay at present in the port of
London.”
“Yes?”
“The _Lone Star_ had arrived here last week. I went down to the Albert
Dock and found that she had been taken down the river by the early tide
this morning, homeward bound to Savannah. I wired to Gravesend and
learned that she had passed some time ago, and as the wind is easterly
I have no doubt that she is now past the Goodwins and not very far from
the Isle of Wight.”
“What will you do, then?”
“Oh, I have my hand upon him. He and the two mates, are as I learn, the
only native-born Americans in the ship. The others are Finns and
Germans. I know, also, that they were all three away from the ship last
night. I had it from the stevedore who has been loading their cargo. By
the time that their sailing-ship reaches Savannah the mail-boat will
have carried this letter, and the cable will have informed the police
of Savannah that these three gentlemen are badly wanted here upon a
charge of murder.”
There is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid of human plans, and the
murderers of John Openshaw were never to receive the orange pips which
would show them that another, as cunning and as resolute as themselves,
was upon their track. Very long and very severe were the equinoctial
gales that year. We waited long for news of the _Lone Star_ of
Savannah, but none ever reached us. We did at last hear that somewhere
far out in the Atlantic a shattered stern-post of a boat was seen
swinging in the trough of a wave, with the letters “L. S.” carved upon
it, and that is all which we shall ever know of the fate of the _Lone
Star_.
VI. THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP
Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal of the
Theological College of St. George’s, was much addicted to opium. The
habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some foolish freak when he
was at college; for having read De Quincey’s description of his dreams
and sensations, he had drenched his tobacco with laudanum in an attempt
to produce the same effects. He found, as so many more have done, that
the practice is easier to attain than to get rid of, and for many years
he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object of mingled horror and
pity to his friends and relatives. I can see him now, with yellow,
pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point pupils, all huddled in a
chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble man.
One night—it was in June, ’89—there came a ring to my bell, about the
hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the clock. I sat up
in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work down in her lap and made
a little face of disappointment.
“A patient!” said she. “You’ll have to go out.”
I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.
We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps upon
the linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad in some
dark-coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the room.
“You will excuse my calling so late,” she began, and then, suddenly
losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms about my
wife’s neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder. “Oh, I’m in such trouble!”
she cried; “I do so want a little help.”
“Why,” said my wife, pulling up her veil, “it is Kate Whitney. How you
startled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were when you came in.”
“I didn’t know what to do, so I came straight to you.” That was always
the way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birds to a
lighthouse.
“It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wine and
water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or should you
rather that I sent James off to bed?”
“Oh, no, no! I want the doctor’s advice and help, too. It’s about Isa.
He has not been home for two days. I am so frightened about him!”
It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her husband’s
trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend and school
companion. We soothed and comforted her by such words as we could find.
Did she know where her husband was? Was it possible that we could bring
him back to her?
It seems that it was. She had the surest information that of late he
had, when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in the farthest
east of the City. Hitherto his orgies had always been confined to one
day, and he had come back, twitching and shattered, in the evening. But
now the spell had been upon him eight-and-forty hours, and he lay
there, doubtless among the dregs of the docks, breathing in the poison
or sleeping off the effects. There he was to be found, she was sure of
it, at the Bar of Gold, in Upper Swandam Lane. But what was she to do?
How could she, a young and timid woman, make her way into such a place
and pluck her husband out from among the ruffians who surrounded him?
There was the case, and of course there was but one way out of it.
Might I not escort her to this place? And then, as a second thought,
why should she come at all? I was Isa Whitney’s medical adviser, and as
such I had influence over him. I could manage it better if I were
alone. I promised her on my word that I would send him home in a cab
within two hours if he were indeed at the address which she had given
me. And so in ten minutes I had left my armchair and cheery
sitting-room behind me, and was speeding eastward in a hansom on a
strange errand, as it seemed to me at the time, though the future only
could show how strange it was to be.
But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my adventure.
Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the high wharves
which line the north side of the river to the east of London Bridge.
Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approached by a steep flight of
steps leading down to a black gap like the mouth of a cave, I found the
den of which I was in search. Ordering my cab to wait, I passed down
the steps, worn hollow in the centre by the ceaseless tread of drunken
feet; and by the light of a flickering oil-lamp above the door I found
the latch and made my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with
the brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden berths, like the
forecastle of an emigrant ship.
Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying in
strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown
back, and chins pointing upward, with here and there a dark,
lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of the black shadows
there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright, now faint, as
the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls of the metal pipes. The
most lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and others talked
together in a strange, low, monotonous voice, their conversation coming
in gushes, and then suddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling
out his own thoughts and paying little heed to the words of his
neighbour. At the farther end was a small brazier of burning charcoal,
beside which on a three-legged wooden stool there sat a tall, thin old
man, with his jaw resting upon his two fists, and his elbows upon his
knees, staring into the fire.
As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe for
me and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth.
“Thank you. I have not come to stay,” said I. “There is a friend of
mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him.”
There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and peering
through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and unkempt, staring
out at me.
“My God! It’s Watson,” said he. He was in a pitiable state of reaction,
with every nerve in a twitter. “I say, Watson, what o’clock is it?”
“Nearly eleven.”
“Of what day?”
“Of Friday, June 19th.”
“Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What d’you
want to frighten a chap for?” He sank his face onto his arms and began
to sob in a high treble key.
“I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting this two
days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!”
“So I am. But you’ve got mixed, Watson, for I have only been here a few
hours, three pipes, four pipes—I forget how many. But I’ll go home with
you. I wouldn’t frighten Kate—poor little Kate. Give me your hand! Have
you a cab?”
“Yes, I have one waiting.”
“Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something. Find what I owe,
Watson. I am all off colour. I can do nothing for myself.”
I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of sleepers,
holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug,
and looking about for the manager. As I passed the tall man who sat by
the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at my skirt, and a low voice
whispered, “Walk past me, and then look back at me.” The words fell
quite distinctly upon my ear. I glanced down. They could only have come
from the old man at my side, and yet he sat now as absorbed as ever,
very thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling down
from between his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer lassitude
from his fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back. It took all
my self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a cry of
astonishment. He had turned his back so that none could see him but I.
His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull eyes had
regained their fire, and there, sitting by the fire and grinning at my
surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He made a slight motion
to me to approach him, and instantly, as he turned his face half round
to the company once more, subsided into a doddering, loose-lipped
senility.
“Holmes!” I whispered, “what on earth are you doing in this den?”
“As low as you can,” he answered; “I have excellent ears. If you would
have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend of yours I
should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you.”
“I have a cab outside.”
“Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust him, for he
appears to be too limp to get into any mischief. I should recommend you
also to send a note by the cabman to your wife to say that you have
thrown in your lot with me. If you will wait outside, I shall be with
you in five minutes.”
It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes’ requests, for they
were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward with such a quiet
air of mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitney was once confined in
the cab my mission was practically accomplished; and for the rest, I
could not wish anything better than to be associated with my friend in
one of those singular adventures which were the normal condition of his
existence. In a few minutes I had written my note, paid Whitney’s bill,
led him out to the cab, and seen him driven through the darkness. In a
very short time a decrepit figure had emerged from the opium den, and I
was walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes. For two streets he