The Return of Sherlock Holmes
a long telegram from Paris which seemed to solve the whole
question.
A discovery has just been made by the Parisian police (said the
_Daily Telegraph_) which raises the veil which hung round the
tragic fate of Mr. Eduardo Lucas, who met his death by violence
last Monday night at Godolphin Street, Westminster. Our readers
will remember that the deceased gentleman was found stabbed in
his room, and that some suspicion attached to his valet, but that
the case broke down on an _alibi_. Yesterday a lady, who has been
known as Mme. Henri Fournaye, occupying a small villa in the Rue
Austerlitz, was reported to the authorities by her servants as
being insane. An examination showed she had indeed developed
mania of a dangerous and permanent form. On inquiry, the police
have discovered that Mme. Henri Fournaye only returned from a
journey to London on Tuesday last, and there is evidence to
connect her with the crime at Westminster. A comparison of
photographs has proved conclusively that M. Henri Fournaye and
Eduardo Lucas were really one and the same person, and that the
deceased had for some reason lived a double life in London and
Paris. Mme. Fournaye, who is of Creole origin, is of an extremely
excitable nature, and has suffered in the past from attacks of
jealousy which have amounted to frenzy. It is conjectured that it
was in one of these that she committed the terrible crime which
has caused such a sensation in London. Her movements upon the
Monday night have not yet been traced, but it is undoubted that a
woman answering to her description attracted much attention at
Charing Cross Station on Tuesday morning by the wildness of her
appearance and the violence of her gestures. It is probable,
therefore, that the crime was either committed when insane, or
that its immediate effect was to drive the unhappy woman out of
her mind. At present she is unable to give any coherent account
of the past, and the doctors hold out no hopes of the
reestablishment of her reason. There is evidence that a woman,
who might have been Mme. Fournaye, was seen for some hours upon
Monday night watching the house in Godolphin Street.
“What do you think of that, Holmes?” I had read the account aloud
to him, while he finished his breakfast.
“My dear Watson,” said he, as he rose from the table and paced up
and down the room, “You are most long-suffering, but if I have
told you nothing in the last three days, it is because there is
nothing to tell. Even now this report from Paris does not help us
much.”
“Surely it is final as regards the man’s death.”
“The man’s death is a mere incident—a trivial episode—in
comparison with our real task, which is to trace this document
and save a European catastrophe. Only one important thing has
happened in the last three days, and that is that nothing has
happened. I get reports almost hourly from the government, and it
is certain that nowhere in Europe is there any sign of trouble.
Now, if this letter were loose—no, it _can’t_ be loose—but if it
isn’t loose, where can it be? Who has it? Why is it held back?
That’s the question that beats in my brain like a hammer. Was it,
indeed, a coincidence that Lucas should meet his death on the
night when the letter disappeared? Did the letter ever reach him?
If so, why is it not among his papers? Did this mad wife of his
carry it off with her? If so, is it in her house in Paris? How
could I search for it without the French police having their
suspicions aroused? It is a case, my dear Watson, where the law
is as dangerous to us as the criminals are. Every man’s hand is
against us, and yet the interests at stake are colossal. Should I
bring it to a successful conclusion, it will certainly represent
the crowning glory of my career. Ah, here is my latest from the
front!” He glanced hurriedly at the note which had been handed
in. “Halloa! Lestrade seems to have observed something of
interest. Put on your hat, Watson, and we will stroll down
together to Westminster.”
It was my first visit to the scene of the crime—a high, dingy,
narrow-chested house, prim, formal, and solid, like the century
which gave it birth. Lestrade’s bulldog features gazed out at us
from the front window, and he greeted us warmly when a big
constable had opened the door and let us in. The room into which
we were shown was that in which the crime had been committed, but
no trace of it now remained save an ugly, irregular stain upon
the carpet. This carpet was a small square drugget in the centre
of the room, surrounded by a broad expanse of beautiful,
old-fashioned wood-flooring in square blocks, highly polished.
Over the fireplace was a magnificent trophy of weapons, one of
which had been used on that tragic night. In the window was a
sumptuous writing-desk, and every detail of the apartment, the
pictures, the rugs, and the hangings, all pointed to a taste
which was luxurious to the verge of effeminacy.
“Seen the Paris news?” asked Lestrade.
Holmes nodded.
“Our French friends seem to have touched the spot this time. No
doubt it’s just as they say. She knocked at the door—surprise
visit, I guess, for he kept his life in water-tight
compartments—he let her in, couldn’t keep her in the street. She
told him how she had traced him, reproached him. One thing led to
another, and then with that dagger so handy the end soon came. It
wasn’t all done in an instant, though, for these chairs were all
swept over yonder, and he had one in his hand as if he had tried
to hold her off with it. We’ve got it all clear as if we had seen
it.”
Holmes raised his eyebrows.
“And yet you have sent for me?”
“Ah, yes, that’s another matter—a mere trifle, but the sort of
thing you take an interest in—queer, you know, and what you might
call freakish. It has nothing to do with the main fact—can’t
have, on the face of it.”
“What is it, then?”
“Well, you know, after a crime of this sort we are very careful
to keep things in their position. Nothing has been moved. Officer
in charge here day and night. This morning, as the man was buried
and the investigation over—so far as this room is concerned—we
thought we could tidy up a bit. This carpet. You see, it is not
fastened down, only just laid there. We had occasion to raise it.
We found——”
“Yes? You found——”
Holmes’s face grew tense with anxiety.
“Well, I’m sure you would never guess in a hundred years what we
did find. You see that stain on the carpet? Well, a great deal
must have soaked through, must it not?”
“Undoubtedly it must.”
“Well, you will be surprised to hear that there is no stain on
the white woodwork to correspond.”
“No stain! But there must——”
“Yes, so you would say. But the fact remains that there isn’t.”
He took the corner of the carpet in his hand and, turning it
over, he showed that it was indeed as he said.
“But the under side is as stained as the upper. It must have left
a mark.”
Lestrade chuckled with delight at having puzzled the famous
expert.
“Now, I’ll show you the explanation. There _is_ a second stain,
but it does not correspond with the other. See for yourself.” As
he spoke he turned over another portion of the carpet, and there,
sure enough, was a great crimson spill upon the square white
facing of the old-fashioned floor. “What do you make of that, Mr.
Holmes?”
“Why, it is simple enough. The two stains did correspond, but the
carpet has been turned round. As it was square and unfastened it
was easily done.”
“The official police don’t need you, Mr. Holmes, to tell them
that the carpet must have been turned round. That’s clear enough,
for the stains lie above each other—if you lay it over this way.
But what I want to know is, who shifted the carpet, and why?”
I could see from Holmes’s rigid face that he was vibrating with
inward excitement.
“Look here, Lestrade,” said he, “has that constable in the
passage been in charge of the place all the time?”
“Yes, he has.”
“Well, take my advice. Examine him carefully. Don’t do it before
us. We’ll wait here. You take him into the back room. You’ll be
more likely to get a confession out of him alone. Ask him how he
dared to admit people and leave them alone in this room. Don’t
ask him if he has done it. Take it for granted. Tell him you
_know_ someone has been here. Press him. Tell him that a full
confession is his only chance of forgiveness. Do exactly what I
tell you!”
“By George, if he knows I’ll have it out of him!” cried Lestrade.
He darted into the hall, and a few moments later his bullying
voice sounded from the back room.
“Now, Watson, now!” cried Holmes with frenzied eagerness. All the
demoniacal force of the man masked behind that listless manner
burst out in a paroxysm of energy. He tore the drugget from the
floor, and in an instant was down on his hands and knees clawing
at each of the squares of wood beneath it. One turned sideways as
he dug his nails into the edge of it. It hinged back like the lid
of a box. A small black cavity opened beneath it. Holmes plunged
his eager hand into it and drew it out with a bitter snarl of
anger and disappointment. It was empty.
“Quick, Watson, quick! Get it back again!” The wooden lid was
replaced, and the drugget had only just been drawn straight when
Lestrade’s voice was heard in the passage. He found Holmes
leaning languidly against the mantelpiece, resigned and patient,
endeavouring to conceal his irrepressible yawns.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Holmes, I can see that you are
bored to death with the whole affair. Well, he has confessed, all
right. Come in here, MacPherson. Let these gentlemen hear of your
most inexcusable conduct.”
The big constable, very hot and penitent, sidled into the room.
“I meant no harm, sir, I’m sure. The young woman came to the door
last evening—mistook the house, she did. And then we got talking.
It’s lonesome, when you’re on duty here all day.”
“Well, what happened then?”
“She wanted to see where the crime was done—had read about it in
the papers, she said. She was a very respectable, well-spoken
young woman, sir, and I saw no harm in letting her have a peep.
When she saw that mark on the carpet, down she dropped on the
floor, and lay as if she were dead. I ran to the back and got
some water, but I could not bring her to. Then I went round the
corner to the Ivy Plant for some brandy, and by the time I had
brought it back the young woman had recovered and was off—ashamed
of herself, I daresay, and dared not face me.”
“How about moving that drugget?”
“Well, sir, it was a bit rumpled, certainly, when I came back.
You see, she fell on it and it lies on a polished floor with