His Last Bow, Arthur Conan Doyle [love books to read TXT] 📗

thickened into one gray curtain, a dead

monotone of colour, broken only by the sharp yellow squares of

the windows and the blurred haloes of the gas-lamps. As we

peered from the darkened sitting-room of the lodging-house, one

more dim light glimmered high up through the obscurity.

 

“Someone is moving in that room,” said Holmes in a whisper, his

gaunt and eager face thrust forward to the window-pane. “Yes, I

can see his shadow. There he is again! He has a candle in his

hand. Now he is peering across. He wants to be sure that she is

on the lookout. Now he begins to flash. Take the message also,

Watson, that we may check each other. A single flash—that is A,

surely. Now, then. How many did you make it? Twenty. Do did

In. That should mean T. AT—that’s intelligible enough.

Another T. Surely this is the beginning of a second word. Now,

then—TENTA. Dead stop. That can’t be all, Watson? ATTENTA

gives no sense. Nor is it any better as three words AT, TEN, TA,

unless T. A. are a person’s initials. There it goes again!

What’s that? ATTE—why, it is the same message over again.

Curious, Watson, very curious. Now he is off once more! AT—why

he is repeating it for the third time. ATTENTA three times! How

often will he repeat it? No, that seems to be the finish. He

has withdrawn form the window. What do you make of it, Watson?”

 

“A cipher message, Holmes.”

 

My companion gave a sudden chuckle of comprehension. “And not a

very obscure cipher, Watson,” said he. “Why, of course, it is

Italian! The A means that it is addressed to a woman. ‘Beware!

Beware! Beware!’ How’s that, Watson?

 

“I believe you have hit it.”

 

“Not a doubt of it. It is a very urgent message, thrice repeated

to make it more so. But beware of what? Wait a bit, he is

coming to the window once more.”

 

Again we saw the dim silhouette of a crouching man and the whisk

of the small flame across the window as the signals were renewed.

They came mor rapidly than before—so rapid that it was hard to

follow them.

 

“PERICOLO—pericolo—eh, what’s that, Watson? ‘Danger,’ isn’t

it? Yes, by Jove, it’s a danger signal. There he goes again!

PERI. Halloa, what on earth—”

 

The light had suddenly gone out, the glimmering square of window

had disappeared, and the third floor formed a dark band round the

lofty building, with its tiers of shining casements. That last

warning cry had been suddenly cut short. How, and by whom? The

same thought occurred on the instant to us both. Holmes sprang

up from where he crouched by the window.

 

“This is serious, Watson,” he cried. “There is some devilry

going forward! Why should such a message stop in such a way? I

should put Scotland Yard in touch with this business—and yet, it

is too pressing for us to leave.”

 

“Shall I go for the police?”

 

“We must define the situation a little more clearly. It may bear

some more innocent interpretation. Come, Watson, let us go

across ourselves and see what we can make of it.”

 

Two

 

As we walked rapidly down Howe Street I glanced back at the

building which we had left. There, dimly outlined at the top

window, I could see the shadow of a head, a woman’s head, gazing

tensely, rigidly, out into the night, waiting with breathless

suspense for the renewal of that interrupted message. At the

doorway of the Howe Street flats a man, muffled in a cravat and

greatcoat, was leaning against the railing. He started as the

hall-light fell upon our faces.

 

“Holmes!” he cried.

 

“Why, Gregson!” said my companion as he shook hands with the

Scotland Yard detective. “Journeys end with lovers’ meetings.

What brings you here?”

 

“The same reasons that bring you, I expect,” said Gregson. “How

you got on to it I can’t imagine.”

 

“Different threads, but leading up to the same tangle. I’ve been

taking the signals.”

 

“Signals?”

 

“Yes, from that window. They broke off in the middle. We came

over to see the reason. But since it is safe in your hands I see

no object in continuing this business.”

 

“Wait a bit!” cried Gregson eagerly. “I’ll do you this justice,

Mr. Holmes, that I was never in a case yet that I didn’t feel

stronger for having you on my side. There’s only the one exit to

these flats, so we have him safe.”

 

“Who is he?”

 

“Well, well, we score over you for once, Mr. Holmes. You must

give us best this time.” He struck his stick sharply upon the

ground, on which a cabman, his whip in his hand, sauntered over

from a four-wheeler which stood on the far side of the street.

“May I introduce you to Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” he said to the

cabman. “This is Mr. Leverton, of Pinkerton’s American Agency.”

 

“The hero of the Long Island cave mystery?” said Holmes. “Sir, I

am pleased to meet you.”

 

The American, a quiet, businesslike young man, with a clean-shaven, hatchet face, flushed up at the words of commendation.

“I am on the trail of my life now, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “If I

can get Gorgiano—”

 

“What! Gorgiano of the Red Circle?”

 

“Oh, he has a European fame, has he? Well, we’ve learned all

about him in America. We KNOW he is at the bottom of fifty

murders, and yet we have nothing positive we can take him on. I

tracked him over from New York, and I’ve been close to him for a

week in London, waiting some excuse to get my hand on his collar.

Mr. Gregson and I ran him to ground in that big tenement house,

and there’s only one door, so he can’t slip us. There’s three

folk come out since he went in, but I’ll swear he wasn’t one of

them.”

 

“Mr. Holmes talks of signals,” said Gregson. “I expect, as

usual, he knows a good deal that we don’t.”

 

In a few clear words Holmes explained the situation as it had

appeared to us. The American struck his hands together with

vexation.

 

“He’s on to us!” he cried.

 

“Why do you think so?”

 

“Well, it figures out that way, does it not? Here he is, sending

out messages to an accomplice—there are several of his gang in

London. Then suddenly, just as by your own account he was

telling them that there was danger, he broke short off. What

could it mean except that from the window he had suddenly either

caught sight of us in the street, or in some way come to

understand how close the danger was, and that he must act right

away if he was to avoid it? What do you suggest, Mr. Holmes?”

 

“That we go up at once and see for ourselves.”

 

“But we have no warrant for his arrest.”

 

“He is in unoccupied premises under suspicious circumstances,”

said Gregson. “That is good enough for the moment. When we have

him by the heels we can see if New York can’t help us to keep

him. I’ll take the responsibility of arresting him now.”

 

Our official detectives may blunder in the matter of

intelligence, but never in that of courage. Gregson climbed the

stair to arrest this desperate murderer with the same absolutely

quiet and businesslike bearing with which he would have ascended

the official staircase of Scotland Yard. The Pinkerton man had

tried to push past him, but Gregson had firmly elbowed him back.

London dangers were the privilege of the London force.

 

The door of the left-hand flat upon the third landing was

standing ajar. Gregson pushed it open. Within all was absolute

silence and darkness. I struck a match and lit the detective’s

lantern. As I did so, and as the flicker steadied into a flame,

we all gave a gasp of surprise. On the deal boards of the

carpetless floor there was outlined a fresh track of blood. The

red steps pointed towards us and led away from an inner room, the

door of which was closed. Gregson flung it open and held his

light full blaze in front of him, while we all peered eagerly

over his shoulders.

 

In the middle of the floor of the empty room was huddled the

figure of an enormous man, his clean-shaven, swarthy face

grotesquely horrible in its contortion and his head encircled by

a ghastly crimson halo of blood, lying in a broad wet circle upon

the white woodwork. His knees were drawn up, his hands thrown

out in agony, and from the centre of his broad, brown, upturned

throat there projected the white haft of a knife driven blade-deep into his body. Giant as he was, the man must have gone down

like a pole-axed ox before that terrific blow. Beside his right

hand a most formidable horn-handled, two-edged dagger lay upon

the floor, and near it a black kid glove.

 

“By George! it’s Black Gorgiano himself!” cried the American

detective. “Someone has got ahead of us this time.”

 

“Here is the candle in the window, Mr. Holmes,” said Gregson.

“Why, whatever are you doing?”

 

Holmes had stepped across, had lit the candle, and was passing it

backward and forward across the window-panes. Then he peered

into the darkness, blew the candle out, and threw it on the

floor.

 

“I rather think that will be helpful,” said he. He came over and

stood in deep thought while the two professionals were examining

the body. “You say that three people came out form the flat while

you were waiting downstairs,” said he at last. “Did you observe

them closely?”

 

“Yes, I did.”

 

“Was there a fellow about thirty, black-bearded, dark, of middle

size?”

 

“Yes; he was the last to pass me.”

 

“That is your man, I fancy. I can give you his description, and

we have a very excellent outline of his footmark. That should be

enough for you.”

 

“Not much, Mr. Holmes, among the millions of London.”

 

“Perhaps not. That is why I thought it best to summon this lady

to your aid.”

 

We all turned round at the words. There, framed in the doorway,

was a tall and beautiful woman—the mysterious lodger of

Bloomsbury. Slowly she advanced, her face pale and drawn with a

frightful apprehension, her eyes fixed and staring, her terrified

gaze riveted upon the dark figure on the floor.

 

“You have killed him!” she muttered. “Oh, Dio mio, you have

killed him!” Then I heard a sudden sharp intake of her breath,

and she sprang into the air with a cry of joy. Round and round

the room she danced, her hands clapping, her dark eyes gleaming

with delighted wonder, and a thousand pretty Italian exclamations

pouring from her lips. It was terrible and amazing to see such a

woman so convulsed with joy at such a sight. Suddenly she

stopped and gazed at us all with a questioning stare.

 

“But you! You are police, are you not? You have killed Giuseppe

Gorgiano. Is it not so?”

 

“We are police, madam.”

 

She looked round into the shadows of the room.

 

“But where, then, is Gennaro?” she asked. “He is my husband,

Gennaro Lucca. I am Emilia Lucca, and we are both from New York.

Where is Gennaro? He called me this moment from this window, and

I ran with all my speed.”

 

“It was I who called,” said Holmes.

 

“You! How could you call?”

 

“Your cipher was not difficult, madam. Your presence here was

desirable. I knew that I had only to flash ‘Vieni’ and you would

surely