The case-book of Sherlock Holmes
hour for a siesta, Watson, and then I think it will be time for our
Ryder Street adventure."
It was just four o'clock when we reached the curious apartment of
Nathan Garrideb. Mrs. Saunders, the caretaker, was about to leave, but
she had no hesitation in admitting us, for the door shut with a spring
lock and Holmes promised to see that all was safe before we left.
Shortly afterwards the outer door closed, her bonnet passed the bow
window, and we knew that we were alone in the lower floor of the house.
Holmes made a rapid examination of the premises. There was one
cupboard in a dark corner which stood out a little from the wall. It
was behind this that we eventually crouched, while Holmes in a whisper
outlined his intentions.
"He wanted to get our amiable friend out of his room--that is very
clear, and, as the collector never went out, it took some planning to
do it. The whole of this Garrideb invention was apparently for no
other end. I must say, Watson, that there is a certain devilish
ingenuity about it, even if the queer name of the tenant did give him
an opening which he could hardly have expected. He wove his plot with
remarkable cunning."
"But what did he want?"
"Well, that is what we are here to find out. It has nothing whatever
to do with our client, so far as I can read the situation. It is
something connected with the man he murdered--the man who may have been
his confederate in crime. There is some guilty secret in the room.
That is how I read it. At first I thought our friend might have
something in his collection more valuable than he knew--something worth
the attention of a big criminal. But the fact that Rodger Prescott of
evil memory inhabited these rooms points to some deeper reason. Well,
Watson, we can but possess our souls in patience and see what the hour
may bring."
That hour was not long in striking. We crouched closer in the shadow
as we heard the outer door open and shut. Then came the sharp,
metallic snap of a key, and the American was in the room. He closed
the door softly behind him, took a sharp glance around him to see that
all was safe, threw off his overcoat, and walked up to the central
table with the brisk manner of one who knows exactly what he has to do
and how to do it. He pushed the table to one side, tore up the square
of carpet on which it rested, rolled it completely back, and then,
drawing a jemmy from his inside pocket, he knelt down and worked
vigorously upon the floor. Presently we heard the sound of sliding
boards, and an instant later a square had opened in the planks. Killer
Evans struck a match, lit a stump of candle, and vanished from our view.
Clearly our moment had come. Holmes touched my wrist as a signal, and
together we stole across to the open trapdoor. Gently as we moved,
however, the old floor must have creaked under our feet, for the head
of our American, peering anxiously round, emerged suddenly from the
open space. His face turned upon us with a glare of baffled rage,
which gradually softened into a rather shamefaced grin as he realized
that two pistols were pointed at his head.
"Well, well!" said he, coolly, as he scrambled to the surface. "I
guess you have been one too many for me, Mr. Holmes. Saw through my
game, I suppose, and played me for a sucker from the first. Well, sir,
I hand it to you; you have me beat and----"
In an instant he had whisked out a revolver from his breast and had
fired two shots. I felt a sudden hot sear as if a red-hot iron had
been pressed to my thigh. There was a crash as Holmes's pistol came
down on the man's head. I had a vision of him sprawling upon the floor
with blood running down his face while Holmes rummaged him for weapons.
Then my friend's wiry arms were round me and he was leading me to a
chair.
"You're not hurt, Watson? For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!"
It was worth a wound--it was worth many wounds--to know the depth of
loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes
were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one
and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great
brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in
that moment of revelation.
"It's nothing, Holmes. It's a mere scratch."
He had ripped up my trousers with his pocket-knife.
"You are right," he cried, with an immense sigh of relief. "It is
quite superficial." His face set like flint as he glared at our
prisoner, who was sitting up with a dazed face. "By the Lord, it is as
well for you. If you had killed Watson, you would not have got out of
this room alive. Now, sir, what have you to say for yourself?"
He had nothing to say for himself. He only lay and scowled. I leaned
on Holmes's arm, and together we looked down into the small cellar
which had been disclosed by the secret flap. It was still illuminated
by the candle which Evans had taken down with him. Our eyes fell upon
a mass of rusted machinery, great rolls of paper, a litter of bottles,
and, neatly arranged upon a small table, a number of neat little
bundles.
"A printing press--a counterfeiter's outfit," said Holmes.
"Yes, sir," said our prisoner, staggering slowly to his feet and then
sinking into the chair. "The greatest counterfeiter London ever saw.
That's Prescott's machine, and those bundles on the table are two
thousand of Prescott's notes worth a hundred each and fit to pass
anywhere. Help yourselves, gentlemen. Call it a deal and let me beat
it."
Holmes laughed.
"We don't do things like that, Mr. Evans. There is no bolt-hole for
you in this country. You shot this man Prescott, did you not?"
"Yes, sir, and got five years for it, though it was he who pulled on
me. Five years--when I should have had a medal the size of a soup
plate. No living man could tell a Prescott from a Bank of England, and
if I hadn't put him out he would have flooded London with them. I was
the only one in the world who knew where he made them. Can you wonder
that I wanted to get to the place? And can you wonder that when I
found this crazy boob of a bug-hunter with the queer name squatting
right on the top of it, and never quitting his room, I had to do the
best I could to shift him? Maybe I would have been wiser if I had put
him away. It would have been easy enough, but I'm a soft-hearted guy
that can't begin shooting unless the other man has a gun also. But
say, Mr. Holmes, what have I done wrong, anyhow? I've not used this
plant. I've not hurt this old stiff. Where do you get me?"
"Only attempted murder, so far as I can see," said Holmes. "But that's
not our job. They take that at the next stage. What we wanted at
present was just your sweet self. Please give the Yard a call, Watson.
It won't be entirely unexpected."
So those were the facts about Killer Evans and his remarkable invention
of the three Garridebs. We heard later that our poor old friend never
got over the shock of his dissipated dreams. When his castle in the
air fell down, it buried him beneath the ruins. He was last heard of
at a nursing-home in Brixton. It was a glad day at the Yard when the
Prescott outfit was discovered, for, though they knew that it existed,
they had never been able, after the death of the man, to find out where
it was. Evans had indeed done great service and caused several worthy
C.I.D. men to sleep the sounder, for the counterfeiter stands in a
class by himself as a public danger. They would willingly have
subscribed to that soup-plate medal of which the criminal had spoken,
but an unappreciative Bench took a less favourable view, and the Killer
returned to those shades from which he had just emerged.
VII
THE PROBLEM OF THOR BRIDGE
Somewhere in the vaults of the bank of Cox and Co., at Charing Cross,
there is a travel-worn and battered tin dispatch-box with my name, John
H. Watson, M.D., Late Indian Army, painted upon the lid. It is crammed
with papers, nearly all of which are records of cases to illustrate the
curious problems which Mr. Sherlock Holmes had at various times to
examine. Some, and not the least interesting, were complete failures,
and as such will hardly bear narrating, since no final explanation is
forthcoming. A problem without a solution may interest the student,
but can hardly fail to annoy the casual reader. Among these unfinished
tales is that of Mr. James Phillimore, who, stepping back into his own
house to get his umbrella, was never more seen in this world. No less
remarkable is that of the cutter _Alicia_, which sailed one spring
morning into a small patch of mist from where she never again emerged,
nor was anything further ever heard of herself and her crew. A third
case worthy of note is that of Isadora Persano, the well-known
journalist and duellist, who was found stark staring mad with a
matchbox in front of him which contained a remarkable worm, said to be
unknown to science. Apart from these unfathomed cases, there are some
which involve the secrets of private families to an extent which would
mean consternation in many exalted quarters if it were thought possible
that they might find their way into print. I need not say that such a
breach of confidence is unthinkable, and that these records will be
separated and destroyed now that my friend has time to turn his
energies to the matter. There remain a considerable residue of cases
of greater or less interest which I might have edited before had I not
feared to give the public a surfeit which might react upon the
reputation of the man whom above all others I revere. In some I was
myself concerned and can speak as an eye-witness, while in others I was
either not present or played so small a part that they could only be
told as by a third person. The following narrative is drawn from my
own experience.
It was a wild morning in October, and I observed as I was dressing how
the last remaining leaves were being whirled from the solitary plane
tree which graces the yard behind our house. I descended to breakfast
prepared to find my companion in depressed spirits, for, like all great
artists, he was easily impressed by his surroundings. On the contrary,
I found that he had nearly finished his meal, and that his mood was
particularly bright and joyous, with that somewhat sinister
cheerfulness which was characteristic of his lighter moments.
"You have a case, Holmes?" I remarked.
"The faculty of deduction is certainly contagious, Watson," he
answered. "It has enabled you to probe my secret. Yes, I have a case.
After a month of trivialities and stagnation the wheels move once more."
"Might I share it?"
"There is little to share, but we may discuss it when you have consumed
the two hard-boiled eggs with which our new cook has favoured us.
Their condition may not be unconnected with the copy of the _Family
Herald_ which I observed yesterday upon the hall-table. Even so
trivial a matter as cooking an egg demands an attention which is
conscious of the passage of time, and incompatible with the love
romance in that excellent periodical."
A quarter of an hour later the table had been cleared and we were face
to face. He had drawn a letter from his pocket.
"You have heard of Neil Gibson, the Gold King?" he said.
"You mean the American Senator?"
"Well, he was once Senator for some Western State, but is better known
as the greatest gold-mining magnate in the world."
"Yes, I know of him. He has surely lived in England for some time.
His name is very familiar."
"Yes; he bought a considerable estate in Hampshire some five years ago.
Possibly you have already heard of the tragic end of his wife?"
"Of course. I remember it now. That is why the name is familiar. But