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

Wagner night at Covent Garden! If we

hurry, we might be in time for the second act.”

 

The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans

 

In the third week of November, in the year 1895, a dense yellow

fog settled down upon London. From the Monday to the Thursday I

doubt whether it was ever possible from our windows in Baker

Street to see the loom of the opposite houses. The first day

Holmes had spent in cross-indexing his huge book of references.

The second and third had been patiently occupied upon a subject

which he hand recently made his hobby—the music of the Middle

Ages. But when, for the fourth time, after pushing back our

chairs from breakfast we saw the greasy, heavy brown swirl still

drifting past us and condensing in oily drops upon the window-panes, my comrade’s impatient and active nature could endure this

drab existence no longer. He paced restlessly about our sitting-room in a fever of suppressed energy, biting his nails, tapping

the furniture, and chafing against inaction.

 

“Nothing of interest in the paper, Watson?” he said.

 

I was aware that by anything of interest, Holmes meant anything

of criminal interest. There was the news of a revolution, of a

possible war, and of an impending change of government; but these

did not come within the horizon of my companion. I could see

nothing recorded in the shape of crime which was not commonplace

and futile. Holmes groaned and resumed his restless meanderings.

 

“The London criminal is certainly a dull fellow,” said he in the

querulous voice of the sportsman whose game has failed him.

“Look out this window, Watson. See how the figures loom up, are

dimly seen, and then blend once more into the cloud-bank. The

thief or the murderer could roam London on such a day as the

tiger does the jungle, unseen until he pounces, and then evident

only to his victim.”

 

“There have,” said I, “been numerous petty thefts.”

 

Holmes snorted his contempt.

 

“This great and sombre stage is set for something more worthy

than that,” said he. “It is fortunate for this community that I

am not a criminal.”

 

“It is, indeed!” said I heartily.

 

“Suppose that I were Brooks or Woodhouse, or any of the fifty men

who have good reason for taking my life, how long could I survive

against my own pursuit? A summons, a bogus appointment, and all

would be over. It is well they don’t have days of fog in the

Latin countries—the countries of assassination. By Jove! here

comes something at last to break our dead monotony.”

 

It was the maid with a telegram. Holmes tore it open and burst

out laughing.

 

“Well, well! What next?” said he. “Brother Mycroft is coming

round.”

 

“Why not?” I asked.

 

“Why not? It is as if you met a tram-car coming down a country

lane. Mycroft has his rails and he runs on them. His Pall Mall

lodgings, the Diogenes Club, Whitehall—that is his cycle. Once,

and only once, he has been here. What upheaval can possibly have

derailed him?”

 

“Does he not explain?”

 

Holmes handed me his brother’s telegram.

 

Must see you over Cadogen West. Coming at once.

 

Mycroft.

 

“Cadogen West? I have heard the name.”

 

“It recalls nothing to my mind. But that Mycroft should break

out in this erratic fashion! A planet might as well leave its

orbit. By the way, do you know what Mycroft is?”

 

I had some vague recollection of an explanation at the time of

the Adventure of the Greek Interpreter.

 

“You told me that he had some small office under the British

government.”

 

Holmes chuckled.

 

“I did not know you quite so well in those days. One has to be

discreet when one talks of high matters of state. You are right

in thinking that he under the British government. You would also

be right in a sense if you said that occasionally he IS the

British government.”

 

“My dear Holmes!”

 

“I thought I might surprise you. Mycroft draws four hundred and

fifty pounds a year, remains a subordinate, has no ambitions of

any kind, will receive neither honour nor title, but remains the

most indispensable man in the country.”

 

“But how?”

 

“Well, his position is unique. He has made it for himself.

There has never been anything like it before, nor will be again.

He has the tidiest and most orderly brain, with the greatest

capacity for storing facts, of any man living. The same great

powers which I have turned to the detection of crime he has used

for this particular business. The conclusions of every

department are passed to him, and he is the central exchange, the

clearinghouse, which makes out the balance. All other men are

specialists, but his specialism is omniscience. We will suppose

that a minister needs information as to a point which involves

the Navy, India, Canada and the bimetallic question; he could get

his separate advices from various departments upon each, but only

Mycroft can focus them all, and say offhand how each factor would

affect the other. They began by using him as a short-cut, a

convenience; now he has made himself an essential. In that great

brain of his everything is pigeon-holed and can be handed out in

an instant. Again and again his word has decided the national

policy. He lives in it. He thinks of nothing else save when, as

an intellectual exercise, he unbends if I call upon him and ask

him to advise me on one of my little problems. But Jupiter is

descending to-day. What on earth can it mean? Who is Cadogan

West, and what is he to Mycroft?”

 

“I have it,” I cried, and plunged among the litter of papers upon

the sofa. “Yes, yes, here he is, sure enough! Cadogen West was

the young man who was found dead on the Underground on Tuesday

morning.”

 

Holmes sat up at attention, his pipe halfway to his lips.

 

“This must be serious, Watson. A death which has caused my

brother to alter his habits can be no ordinary one. What in the

world can he have to do with it? The case was featureless as I

remember it. The young man had apparently fallen out of the

train and killed himself. He had not been robbed, and there was

no particular reason to suspect violence. Is that not so?”

 

“There has been an inquest,” said I, “and a good many fresh facts

have come out. Looked at more closely, I should certainly say

that it was a curious case.”

 

“Judging by its effect upon my brother, I should think it must be

a most extraordinary one.” He snuggled down in his armchair.

“Now, Watson, let us have the facts.”

 

“The man’s name was Arthur Cadogan West. He was twenty-seven

years of age, unmarried, and a clerk at Woolwich Arsenal.”

 

“Government employ. Behold the link with Brother Mycroft!”

 

“He left Woolwich suddenly on Monday night. Was last seen by his

fiancee, Miss Violet Westbury, whom he left abruptly in the fog

about 7:30 that evening. There was no quarrel between them and

she can give no motive for his action. The next thing heard of

him was when his dead body was discovered by a plate-layer named

Mason, just outside Aldgate Station on the Underground system in

London.”

 

“When?”

 

“The body was found at six on Tuesday morning. It was lying wide

of the metals upon the left hand of the track as one goes

eastward, at a point close to the station, where the line emerges

from the tunnel in which it runs. The head was badly crushed—an

injury which might well have been caused by a fall from the

train. The body could only have come on the line in that way.

Had it been carried down from any neighbouring street, it must

have passed the station barriers, where a collector is always

standing. This point seems absolutely certain.”

 

“Very good. The case is definite enough. The man, dead or

alive, either fell or was precipitated from a train. So much is

clear to me. Continue.”

 

“The trains which traverse the lines of rail beside which the

body was found are those which run from west to east, some being

purely Metropolitan, and some from Willesden and outlying

junctions. It can be stated for certain that this young man,

when he met his death, was travelling in this direction at some

late hour of the night, but at what point he entered the train it

is impossible to state.”

 

“His ticket, of course, would show that.”

 

“There was no ticket in his pockets.”

 

“No ticket! Dear me, Watson, this is really very singular.

According to my experience it is not possible to reach the

platform of a Metropolitan train without exhibiting one’s ticket.

Presumably, then, the young man had one. Was it taken from him

in order to conceal the station from which he came? It is

possible. Or did he drop it in the carriage? That is also

possible. But the point is of curious interest. I understand

that there was no sign of robbery?”

 

“Apparently not. There is a list here of his possessions. His

purse contained two pounds fifteen. He had also a check-book on

the Woolwich branch of the Capital and Counties Bank. Through

this his identity was established. There were also two dress-circle tickets for the Woolwich Theatre, dated for that very

evening. Also a small packet of technical papers.”

 

Holmes gave an exclamation of satisfaction.

 

“There we have it at last, Watson! British government—Woolwich.

Arsenal—technical papers—Brother Mycroft, the chain is

complete. But here he comes, if I am not mistaken, to speak for

himself.”

 

A moment later the tall and portly form of Mycroft Holmes was

ushered into the room. Heavily built and massive, there was a

suggestion of uncouth physical inertia in the figure, but above

this unwieldy frame there was perched a head so masterful in its

brow, so alert in its steel-gray, deepset eyes, so firm in its

lips, and so subtle in its play of expression, that after the

first glance one forgot the gross body and remembered only the

dominant mind.

 

At his heels came our old friend Lestrade, of Scotland Yard—thin

and austere. The gravity of both their faces foretold some

weighty quest. The detective shook hands without a word.

Mycroft Holmes struggled out of his overcoat and subsided into an

armchair.

 

“A most annoying business, Sherlock,” said he. “I extremely

dislike altering my habits, but the powers that be would take no

denial. In the present state of Siam it is most awkward that I

should be away from the office. But it is a real crisis. I have

never seen the Prime Minister so upset. As to the Admiralty—it

is buzzing like an overturned bee-hive. Have you read up the

case?”

 

“We have just done so. What were the technical papers?”

 

“Ah, there’s the point! Fortunately, it has not come out. The

press would be furious if it did. The papers which this wretched

youth had in his pocket were the plans of the Bruce-Partington

submarine.”

 

Mycroft Holmes spoke with a solemnity which showed his sense of

the importance of the subject. His brother and I sat expectant.

 

“Surely you have heard of it? I thought everyone had heard of

it.”

 

“Only as a name.”

 

“Its importance can hardly be exaggerated. It has been the most

jealously guarded of all government secrets. You may take it

from me that naval warfare becomes impossible withing the radius

of a Bruce-Partington’s operation. Two years ago a very large

sum was smuggled through the Estimates and was