The Sign of the Four
card. He had doubtless planned beforehand that should he slay the major
he would leave some such record upon the body as a sign that it was not
a common murder, but, from the point of view of the four associates,
something in the nature of an act of justice. Whimsical and bizarre
conceits of this kind are common enough in the annals of crime, and
usually afford valuable indications as to the criminal. Do you follow
all this?”
“Very clearly.”
“Now, what could Jonathan Small do? He could only continue to keep a
secret watch upon the efforts made to find the treasure. Possibly he
leaves England and only comes back at intervals. Then comes the
discovery of the garret, and he is instantly informed of it. We again
trace the presence of some confederate in the household. Jonathan, with
his wooden leg, is utterly unable to reach the lofty room of
Bartholomew Sholto. He takes with him, however, a rather curious
associate, who gets over this difficulty, but dips his naked foot into
creasote, whence comes Toby, and a six-mile limp for a half-pay officer
with a damaged tendo Achillis.”
“But it was the associate, and not Jonathan, who committed the crime.”
“Quite so. And rather to Jonathan’s disgust, to judge by the way he
stamped about when he got into the room. He bore no grudge against
Bartholomew Sholto, and would have preferred if he could have been
simply bound and gagged. He did not wish to put his head in a halter.
There was no help for it, however: the savage instincts of his
companion had broken out, and the poison had done its work: so Jonathan
Small left his record, lowered the treasure-box to the ground, and
followed it himself. That was the train of events as far as I can
decipher them. Of course as to his personal appearance he must be
middle-aged, and must be sunburned after serving his time in such an
oven as the Andamans. His height is readily calculated from the length
of his stride, and we know that he was bearded. His hairiness was the
one point which impressed itself upon Thaddeus Sholto when he saw him
at the window. I don’t know that there is anything else.”
“The associate?”
“Ah, well, there is no great mystery in that. But you will know all
about it soon enough. How sweet the morning air is! See how that one
little cloud floats like a pink feather from some gigantic flamingo.
Now the red rim of the sun pushes itself over the London cloud-bank. It
shines on a good many folk, but on none, I dare bet, who are on a
stranger errand than you and I. How small we feel with our petty
ambitions and strivings in the presence of the great elemental forces
of nature! Are you well up in your Jean Paul?”
“Fairly so. I worked back to him through Carlyle.”
“That was like following the brook to the parent lake. He makes one
curious but profound remark. It is that the chief proof of man’s real
greatness lies in his perception of his own smallness. It argues, you
see, a power of comparison and of appreciation which is in itself a
proof of nobility. There is much food for thought in Richter. You have
not a pistol, have you?”
“I have my stick.”
“It is just possible that we may need something of the sort if we get
to their lair. Jonathan I shall leave to you, but if the other turns
nasty I shall shoot him dead.” He took out his revolver as he spoke,
and, having loaded two of the chambers, he put it back into the
right-hand pocket of his jacket.
We had during this time been following the guidance of Toby down the
half-rural villa-lined roads which lead to the metropolis. Now,
however, we were beginning to come among continuous streets, where
labourers and dockmen were already astir, and slatternly women were
taking down shutters and brushing door-steps. At the square-topped
corner public houses business was just beginning, and rough-looking men
were emerging, rubbing their sleeves across their beards after their
morning wet. Strange dogs sauntered up and stared wonderingly at us as
we passed, but our inimitable Toby looked neither to the right nor to
the left, but trotted onwards with his nose to the ground and an
occasional eager whine which spoke of a hot scent.
We had traversed Streatham, Brixton, Camberwell, and now found
ourselves in Kennington Lane, having borne away through the
side-streets to the east of the Oval. The men whom we pursued seemed to
have taken a curiously zigzag road, with the idea probably of escaping
observation. They had never kept to the main road if a parallel
side-street would serve their turn. At the foot of Kennington Lane they
had edged away to the left through Bond Street and Miles Street. Where
the latter street turns into Knight’s Place, Toby ceased to advance,
but began to run backwards and forwards with one ear cocked and the
other drooping, the very picture of canine indecision. Then he waddled
round in circles, looking up to us from time to time, as if to ask for
sympathy in his embarrassment.
“What the deuce is the matter with the dog?” growled Holmes. “They
surely would not take a cab, or go off in a balloon.”
“Perhaps they stood here for some time,” I suggested.
“Ah! it’s all right. He’s off again,” said my companion, in a tone of
relief.
He was indeed off, for after sniffing round again he suddenly made up
his mind, and darted away with an energy and determination such as he
had not yet shown. The scent appeared to be much hotter than before,
for he had not even to put his nose on the ground, but tugged at his
leash and tried to break into a run. I could see by the gleam in
Holmes’s eyes that he thought we were nearing the end of our journey.
Our course now ran down Nine Elms until we came to Broderick and
Nelson’s large timber-yard, just past the White Eagle tavern. Here the
dog, frantic with excitement, turned down through the side-gate into
the enclosure, where the sawyers were already at work. On the dog raced
through sawdust and shavings, down an alley, round a passage, between
two wood-piles, and finally, with a triumphant yelp, sprang upon a
large barrel which still stood upon the hand-trolley on which it had
been brought. With lolling tongue and blinking eyes, Toby stood upon
the cask, looking from one to the other of us for some sign of
appreciation. The staves of the barrel and the wheels of the trolley
were smeared with a dark liquid, and the whole air was heavy with the
smell of creasote.
Sherlock Holmes and I looked blankly at each other, and then burst
simultaneously into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.
Chapter VIII
The Baker Street Irregulars
“What now?” I asked. “Toby has lost his character for infallibility.”
“He acted according to his lights,” said Holmes, lifting him down from
the barrel and walking him out of the timber-yard. “If you consider how
much creasote is carted about London in one day, it is no great wonder
that our trail should have been crossed. It is much used now,
especially for the seasoning of wood. Poor Toby is not to blame.”
“We must get on the main scent again, I suppose.”
“Yes. And, fortunately, we have no distance to go. Evidently what
puzzled the dog at the corner of Knight’s Place was that there were two
different trails running in opposite directions. We took the wrong one.
It only remains to follow the other.”
There was no difficulty about this. On leading Toby to the place where
he had committed his fault, he cast about in a wide circle and finally
dashed off in a fresh direction.
“We must take care that he does not now bring us to the place where the
creasote-barrel came from,” I observed.
“I had thought of that. But you notice that he keeps on the pavement,
whereas the barrel passed down the roadway. No, we are on the true
scent now.”
It tended down towards the river-side, running through Belmont Place
and Prince’s Street. At the end of Broad Street it ran right down to
the water’s edge, where there was a small wooden wharf. Toby led us to
the very edge of this, and there stood whining, looking out on the dark
current beyond.
“We are out of luck,” said Holmes. “They have taken to a boat here.”
Several small punts and skiffs were lying about in the water and on the
edge of the wharf. We took Toby round to each in turn, but, though he
sniffed earnestly, he made no sign.
Close to the rude landing-stage was a small brick house, with a wooden
placard slung out through the second window. “Mordecai Smith” was
printed across it in large letters, and, underneath, “Boats to hire by
the hour or day.” A second inscription above the door informed us that
a steam launch was kept,—a statement which was confirmed by a great
pile of coke upon the jetty. Sherlock Holmes looked slowly round, and
his face assumed an ominous expression.
“This looks bad,” said he. “These fellows are sharper than I expected.
They seem to have covered their tracks. There has, I fear, been
preconcerted management here.”
He was approaching the door of the house, when it opened, and a little,
curly-headed lad of six came running out, followed by a stoutish,
red-faced woman with a large sponge in her hand.
“You come back and be washed, Jack,” she shouted. “Come back, you young
imp; for if your father comes home and finds you like that, he’ll let
us hear of it.”
“Dear little chap!” said Holmes, strategically. “What a rosy-cheeked
young rascal! Now, Jack, is there anything you would like?”
The youth pondered for a moment. “I’d like a shillin’,” said he.
“Nothing you would like better?”
“I’d like two shillin’ better,” the prodigy answered, after some
thought.
“Here you are, then! Catch!—A fine child, Mrs. Smith!”
“Lor’ bless you, sir, he is that, and forward. He gets a’most too much
for me to manage, ’specially when my man is away days at a time.”
“Away, is he?” said Holmes, in a disappointed voice. “I am sorry for
that, for I wanted to speak to Mr. Smith.”
“He’s been away since yesterday mornin’, sir, and, truth to tell, I am
beginnin’ to feel frightened about him. But if it was about a boat,
sir, maybe I could serve as well.”
“I wanted to hire his steam launch.”
“Why, bless you, sir, it is in the steam launch that he has gone.
That’s what puzzles me; for I know there ain’t more coals in her than
would take her to about Woolwich and back. If he’d been away in the
barge I’d ha’ thought nothin’; for many a time a job has taken him as
far as Gravesend, and then if there was much doin’ there he might ha’
stayed over. But what good is a steam launch without coals?”
“He might have bought some at a wharf down the river.”
“He might, sir, but it weren’t his way. Many a time I’ve heard him call
out at the prices they charge for a few odd bags. Besides, I don’t like
that wooden-legged man, wi’ his ugly face and outlandish talk. What did
he want always knockin’ about here for?”
“A wooden-legged man?” said Holmes, with bland surprise.
“Yes, sir, a brown, monkey-faced chap that’s called more’n once for my
old man. It was him that roused him up yesternight, and, what’s more,
my man knew he was comin’, for he had steam up in the launch. I tell
you straight, sir, I don’t feel easy in my mind about it.”
“But, my dear Mrs. Smith,” said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders, “You
are frightening yourself about nothing. How could you possibly tell
that it was the wooden-legged man who came in the night? I don’t quite
understand how you can be so sure.”
“His voice, sir. I knew his voice, which is kind o’ thick and foggy. He
tapped at the winder,—about three it would be. ‘Show a leg, matey,’
says he: ‘time to turn out guard.’ My old man woke up Jim,—that’s my
eldest,—and away they went, without so much as a word to me. I could
hear the wooden leg clackin’ on the stones.”
“And was this wooden-legged man alone?”
“Couldn’t say, I am sure, sir. I didn’t hear no one else.”