MISCELLANY No 56
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE: THE RED-HEADED
LEAGUE PART 2
“I make nothing of it,” I answered frankly.
“It is a most mysterious business.”
“As
a rule,” said Holmes, “the more bizarre a thing is the less mysterious it
proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless crimes which are really
puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the most difficult to identify. But I
must be prompt over this matter.”
“What
are you going to do, then?” I asked.
“To
smoke,” he answered. “It is quite a three pipe problem, and I beg that you
won’t speak to me for fifty minutes.” He curled himself up in his chair, with
his thin knees drawn up to his hawk-like nose, and there he sat with his eyes
closed and his black clay pipe thrusting out like the bill of some strange
bird. I had come to the conclusion that he had dropped asleep, and indeed was
nodding myself, when he suddenly sprang out of his chair with the gesture of a
man who has made up his mind and put his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.
“Sarasate
plays at the St. James’s Hall this afternoon,” he remarked. “What do you think,
Watson? Could your patients spare you for a few hours?”
“I
have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very absorbing.”
“Then
put on your hat and come. I am going through the City first, and we can have
some lunch on the way. I observe that there is a good deal of German music on
the programme, which is rather more to my taste than Italian or French. It is
introspective, and I want to introspect. Come along!”
We
travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short walk took us to
Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the singular story which we had listened to in
the morning. It was a poky, little, shabby-genteel place, where four lines of
dingy two-storied brick houses looked out into a small railed-in enclosure,
where a lawn of weedy grass and a few clumps of faded laurel bushes made a hard
fight against a smoke-laden and uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls and a
brown board with “JABEZ WILSON” in white letters, upon a corner house,
announced the place where our red-headed client carried on his business.
Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on one side and looked it
all over, with his eyes shining brightly between puckered lids. Then he walked
slowly up the street, and then down again to the corner, still looking keenly
at the houses. Finally he returned to the pawnbroker’s, and, having thumped
vigorously upon the pavement with his stick two or three times, he went up to
the door and knocked. It was instantly opened by a bright-looking, clean-shaven
young fellow, who asked him to step in.
“Thank
you,” said Holmes, “I only wished to ask you how you would go from here to the
Strand.”
“Third
right, fourth left,” answered the assistant promptly, closing the door.
“Smart
fellow, that,” observed Holmes as we walked away. “He is, in my judgment, the
fourth smartest man in London, and for daring I am not sure that he has not a
claim to be third. I have known something of him before.”
“Evidently,”
said I, “Mr. Wilson’s assistant counts for a good deal in this mystery of the
Red-headed League. I am sure that you inquired your way merely in order that
you might see him.”
“Not
him.”
“What
then?”
“The
knees of his trousers.”
“And
what did you see?”
“What
I expected to see.”
“Why
did you beat the pavement?”
“My
dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We are spies in an
enemy’s country. We know something of Saxe-Coburg Square. Let us now explore
the parts which lie behind it.”
The
road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the corner from the retired
Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a contrast to it as the front of a
picture does to the back. It was one of the main arteries which conveyed the
traffic of the City to the north and west. The roadway was blocked with the
immense stream of commerce flowing in a double tide inward and outward, while
the footpaths were black with the hurrying swarm of pedestrians. It was
difficult to realise as we looked at the line of fine shops and stately
business premises that they really abutted on the other side upon the faded and
stagnant square which we had just quitted.
“Let
me see,” said Holmes, standing at the corner and glancing along the line, “I
should like just to remember the order of the houses here. It is a hobby of
mine to have an exact knowledge of London. There is Mortimer’s, the
tobacconist, the little newspaper shop, the Coburg branch of the City and
Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant, and McFarlane’s carriage-building
depot. That carries us right on to the other block. And now, Doctor, we’ve done
our work, so it’s time we had some play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and
then off to violin-land, where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and
there are no red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums.”
My
friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only a very capable
performer but a composer of no ordinary merit. All the afternoon he sat in the
stalls wrapped in the most perfect happiness, gently waving his long, thin
fingers in time to the music, while his gently smiling face and his languid,
dreamy eyes were as unlike those of Holmes the sleuth-hound, Holmes the
relentless, keen-witted, ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible to
conceive. In his singular character the dual nature alternately asserted
itself, and his extreme exactness and astuteness represented, as I have often
thought, the reaction against the poetic and contemplative mood which
occasionally predominated in him. The swing of his nature took him from extreme
languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was never so truly
formidable as when, for days on end, he had been lounging in his armchair amid
his improvisations and his black-letter editions. Then it was that the lust of
the chase would suddenly come upon him, and that his brilliant reasoning power
would rise to the level of intuition, until those who were unacquainted with
his methods would look askance at him as on a man whose knowledge was not that
of other mortals. When I saw him that afternoon so enwrapped in the music at
St. James’s Hall I felt that an evil time might be coming upon those whom he
had set himself to hunt down.
“You
want to go home, no doubt, Doctor,” he remarked as we emerged.
“Yes,
it would be as well.”
“And
I have some business to do which will take some hours. This business at Coburg
Square is serious.”
“Why
serious?”
“A
considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason to believe that we
shall be in time to stop it. But to-day being Saturday rather complicates
matters. I shall want your help to-night.”
“At
what time?”
“Ten
will be early enough.”
“I
shall be at Baker Street at ten.”
“Very
well. And, I say, Doctor, there may be some little danger, so kindly put your
army revolver in your pocket.” He waved his hand, turned on his heel, and
disappeared in an instant among the crowd.
I
trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours, but I was always oppressed
with a sense of my own stupidity in my dealings with Sherlock Holmes. Here I
had heard what he had heard, I had seen what he had seen, and yet from his
words it was evident that he saw clearly not only what had happened but what
was about to happen, while to me the whole business was still confused and
grotesque. As I drove home to my house in Kensington I thought over it all,
from the extraordinary story of the red-headed copier of the Encyclopaedia
down to the visit to Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous words with which he
had parted from me. What was this nocturnal expedition, and why should I go
armed? Where were we going, and what were we to do? I had the hint from Holmes
that this smooth-faced pawnbroker’s assistant was a formidable man—a man who
might play a deep game. I tried to puzzle it out, but gave it up in despair and
set the matter aside until night should bring an explanation.
It
was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made my way across the
Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two hansoms were standing
at the door, and as I entered the passage I heard the sound of voices from
above. On entering his room, I found Holmes in animated conversation with two
men, one of whom I recognised as Peter Jones, the official police agent, while
the other was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and
oppressively respectable frock-coat.
“Ha!
Our party is complete,” said Holmes, buttoning up his pea-jacket and taking his
heavy hunting crop from the rack. “Watson, I think you know Mr. Jones, of
Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our
companion in to-night’s adventure.”
“We’re
hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see,” said Jones in his consequential
way. “Our friend here is a wonderful man for starting a chase. All he wants is
an old dog to help him to do the running down.”
“I
hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase,” observed Mr.
Merryweather gloomily.
“You
may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir,” said the police agent
loftily. “He has his own little methods, which are, if he won’t mind my saying
so, just a little too theoretical and fantastic, but he has the makings of a
detective in him. It is not too much to say that once or twice, as in that
business of the Sholto murder and the Agra treasure, he has been more nearly
correct than the official force.”
“Oh,
if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right,” said the stranger with deference.
“Still, I confess that I miss my rubber. It is the first Saturday night for
seven-and-twenty years that I have not had my rubber.”
“I
think you will find,” said Sherlock Holmes, “that you will play for a higher
stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and that the play will be more
exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will be some £30,000; and
for you, Jones, it will be the man upon whom you wish to lay your hands.”
“John
Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He’s a young man, Mr.
Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession, and I would rather have
my bracelets on him than on any criminal in London. He’s a remarkable man, is
young John Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke, and he himself has been to
Eton and Oxford. His brain is as cunning as his fingers, and though we meet
signs of him at every turn, we never know where to find the man himself. He’ll
crack a crib in Scotland one week, and be raising money to build an orphanage
in Cornwall the next. I’ve been on his track for years and have never set eyes
on him yet.”
“I
hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night. I’ve had one or
two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree with you that he is at
the head of his profession. It is past ten, however, and quite time that we
started. If you two will take the first hansom, Watson and I will follow in the
second.”
Sherlock
Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive and lay back in the cab
humming the tunes which he had heard in the afternoon. We rattled through an
endless labyrinth of gas-lit streets until we emerged into Farrington Street.
“We
are close there now,” my friend remarked. “This fellow Merryweather is a bank
director, and personally interested in the matter. I thought it as well to have
Jones with us also. He is not a bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his
profession. He has one positive virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog and as
tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone. Here we are, and they
are waiting for us.”
We
had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had found ourselves in
the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and, following the guidance of Mr.
Merryweather, we passed down a narrow passage and through a side door, which he
opened for us. Within there was a small corridor, which ended in a very massive
iron gate. This also was opened, and led down a flight of winding stone steps,
which terminated at another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped to light
a lantern, and then conducted us down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and so,
after opening a third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which was piled all
round with crates and massive boxes.
“You
are not very vulnerable from above,” Holmes remarked as he held up the lantern
and gazed about him.
“Nor
from below,” said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon the flags which
lined the floor. “Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow!” he remarked, looking
up in surprise.
“I
must really ask you to be a little more quiet!” said Holmes severely. “You have
already imperilled the whole success of our expedition. Might I beg that you
would have the goodness to sit down upon one of those boxes, and not to
interfere?”
The
solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a very injured
expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his knees upon the floor and,
with the lantern and a magnifying lens, began to examine minutely the cracks
between the stones. A few seconds sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang to his
feet again and put his glass in his pocket.
“We
have at least an hour before us,” he remarked, “for they can hardly take any
steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed. Then they will not lose a
minute, for the sooner they do their work the longer time they will have for
their escape. We are at present, Doctor—as no doubt you have divined—in the
cellar of the City branch of one of the principal London banks. Mr.
Merryweather is the chairman of directors, and he will explain to you that
there are reasons why the more daring criminals of London should take a
considerable interest in this cellar at present.”
“It
is our French gold,” whispered the director. “We have had several warnings that
an attempt might be made upon it.”
“Your
French gold?”
“Yes.
We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our resources and borrowed for
that purpose 30,000 napoleons from the Bank of France. It has become known that
we have never had occasion to unpack the money, and that it is still lying in
our cellar. The crate upon which I sit contains 2,000 napoleons packed between
layers of lead foil. Our reserve of bullion is much larger at present than is
usually kept in a single branch office, and the directors have had misgivings
upon the subject.”
“Which
were very well justified,” observed Holmes. “And now it is time that we
arranged our little plans. I expect that within an hour matters will come to a
head. In the meantime Mr. Merryweather, we must put the screen over that dark
lantern.”
“And
sit in the dark?”
“I
am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket, and I thought that,
as we were a partie carrée, you might have your rubber after all. But I
see that the enemy’s preparations have gone so far that we cannot risk the
presence of a light. And, first of all, we must choose our positions. These are
daring men, and though we shall take them at a disadvantage, they may do us
some harm unless we are careful. I shall stand behind this crate, and do you
conceal yourselves behind those. Then, when I flash a light upon them, close in
swiftly. If they fire, Watson, have no compunction about shooting them down.”
I
placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden case behind which I
crouched. Holmes shot the slide across the front of his lantern and left us in
pitch darkness—such an absolute darkness as I have never before experienced.
The smell of hot metal remained to assure us that the light was still there,
ready to flash out at a moment’s notice. To me, with my nerves worked up to a
pitch of expectancy, there was something depressing and subduing in the sudden
gloom, and in the cold dank air of the vault.
“They
have but one retreat,” whispered Holmes. “That is back through the house into
Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you have done what I asked you, Jones?”
“I
have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door.”
“Then
we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be silent and wait.”
What
a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it was but an hour and a
quarter, yet it appeared to me that the night must have almost gone, and the
dawn be breaking above us. My limbs were weary and stiff, for I feared to
change my position; yet my nerves were worked up to the highest pitch of
tension, and my hearing was so acute that I could not only hear the gentle
breathing of my companions, but I could distinguish the deeper, heavier
in-breath of the bulky Jones from the thin, sighing note of the bank director.
From my position I could look over the case in the direction of the floor.
Suddenly my eyes caught the glint of a light.
At
first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then it lengthened out
until it became a yellow line, and then, without any warning or sound, a gash
seemed to open and a hand appeared, a white, almost womanly hand, which felt
about in the centre of the little area of light. For a minute or more the hand,
with its writhing fingers, protruded out of the floor. Then it was withdrawn as
suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark again save the single lurid spark which
marked a chink between the stones.
Its
disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a rending, tearing sound, one
of the broad, white stones turned over upon its side and left a square, gaping
hole, through which streamed the light of a lantern. Over the edge there peeped
a clean-cut, boyish face, which looked keenly about it, and then, with a hand
on either side of the aperture, drew itself shoulder-high and waist-high, until
one knee rested upon the edge. In another instant he stood at the side of the
hole and was hauling after him a companion, lithe and small like himself, with
a pale face and a shock of very red hair.
“It’s
all clear,” he whispered. “Have you the chisel and the bags? Great Scott! Jump,
Archie, jump, and I’ll swing for it!”
Sherlock
Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the collar. The other dived
down the hole, and I heard the sound of rending cloth as Jones clutched at his
skirts. The light flashed upon the barrel of a revolver, but Holmes’ hunting
crop came down on the man’s wrist, and the pistol clinked upon the stone floor.
“It’s
no use, John Clay,” said Holmes blandly. “You have no chance at all.”
“So
I see,” the other answered with the utmost coolness. “I fancy that my pal is
all right, though I see you have got his coat-tails.”
“There
are three men waiting for him at the door,” said Holmes.
“Oh,
indeed! You seem to have done the thing very completely. I must compliment
you.”
“And
I you,” Holmes answered. “Your red-headed idea was very new and effective.”
“You’ll
see your pal again presently,” said Jones. “He’s quicker at climbing down holes
than I am. Just hold out while I fix the derbies.”
“I
beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands,” remarked our prisoner
as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists. “You may not be aware that I have
royal blood in my veins. Have the goodness, also, when you address me always to
say ‘sir’ and ‘please.’ ”
“All
right,” said Jones with a stare and a snigger. “Well, would you please, sir,
march upstairs, where we can get a cab to carry your Highness to the
police-station?”
“That
is better,” said John Clay serenely. He made a sweeping bow to the three of us
and walked quietly off in the custody of the detective.
“Really,
Mr. Holmes,” said Mr. Merryweather as we followed them from the cellar, “I do
not know how the bank can thank you or repay you. There is no doubt that you
have detected and defeated in the most complete manner one of the most
determined attempts at bank robbery that have ever come within my experience.”
“I
have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr. John Clay,” said
Holmes. “I have been at some small expense over this matter, which I shall
expect the bank to refund, but beyond that I am amply repaid by having had an
experience which is in many ways unique, and by hearing the very remarkable
narrative of the Red-headed League.”
“You
see, Watson,” he explained in the early hours of the morning as we sat over a
glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street, “it was perfectly obvious from the
first that the only possible object of this rather fantastic business of the
advertisement of the League, and the copying of the Encyclopaedia, must
be to get this not over-bright pawnbroker out of the way for a number of hours
every day. It was a curious way of managing it, but, really, it would be
difficult to suggest a better. The method was no doubt suggested to Clay’s
ingenious mind by the colour of his accomplice’s hair. The £4 a week was
a lure which must draw him, and what was it to them, who were playing for
thousands? They put in the advertisement, one rogue has the temporary office,
the other rogue incites the man to apply for it, and together they manage to
secure his absence every morning in the week. From the time that I heard of the
assistant having come for half wages, it was obvious to me that he had some
strong motive for securing the situation.”
“But
how could you guess what the motive was?”
“Had
there been women in the house, I should have suspected a mere vulgar intrigue.
That, however, was out of the question. The man’s business was a small one, and
there was nothing in his house which could account for such elaborate
preparations, and such an expenditure as they were at. It must, then, be
something out of the house. What could it be? I thought of the assistant’s
fondness for photography, and his trick of vanishing into the cellar. The
cellar! There was the end of this tangled clue. Then I made inquiries as to
this mysterious assistant and found that I had to deal with one of the coolest
and most daring criminals in London. He was doing something in the
cellar—something which took many hours a day for months on end. What could it
be, once more? I could think of nothing save that he was running a tunnel to
some other building.
“So
far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. I surprised you by
beating upon the pavement with my stick. I was ascertaining whether the cellar
stretched out in front or behind. It was not in front. Then I rang the bell,
and, as I hoped, the assistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we
had never set eyes upon each other before. I hardly looked at his face. His
knees were what I wished to see. You must yourself have remarked how worn,
wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of those hours of burrowing. The
only remaining point was what they were burrowing for. I walked round the
corner, saw the City and Suburban Bank abutted on our friend’s premises, and
felt that I had solved my problem. When you drove home after the concert I called
upon Scotland Yard and upon the chairman of the bank directors, with the result
that you have seen.”
“And
how could you tell that they would make their attempt to-night?” I asked.
“Well,
when they closed their League offices that was a sign that they cared no longer
about Mr. Jabez Wilson’s presence—in other words, that they had completed their
tunnel. But it was essential that they should use it soon, as it might be
discovered, or the bullion might be removed. Saturday would suit them better
than any other day, as it would give them two days for their escape. For all
these reasons I expected them to come to-night.”
“You
reasoned it out beautifully,” I exclaimed in unfeigned admiration. “It is so
long a chain, and yet every link rings true.”
“It
saved me from ennui,” he answered, yawning. “Alas! I already feel it closing in
upon me. My life is spent in one long effort to escape from the commonplaces of
existence. These little problems help me to do so.”
“And
you are a benefactor of the race,” said I.
He
shrugged his shoulders. “Well, perhaps, after all, it is of some little use,”
he remarked. “ ‘L’homme c’est rien—l’oeuvre c’est tout,’ as Gustave
Flaubert wrote to George Sand.”
How true...
