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

expended in

acquiring a monopoly of the invention. Every effort has been

made to keep the secret. The plans, which are exceedingly

intricate, comprising some thirty separate patents, each

essential to the working of the whole, are kept in an elaborate

safe in a confidential office adjoining the arsenal, with

burglar-proof doors and windows. Under no conceivable

circumstances were the plans to be taken from the office. If the

chief constructor of the Navy desired to consult them, even he

was forced to go to the Woolwich office for the purpose. And yet

here we find them in the pocket of a dead junior clerk in the

heart of London. From an official point of view it’s simply

awful.”

 

“But you have recovered them?”

 

“No, Sherlock, no! That’s the pinch. We have not. Ten papers

were taken from Woolwich. There were seven in the pocket of

Cadogan West. The three most essential are gone—stolen,

vanished. You must drop everything, Sherlock. Never mind your

usual petty puzzles of the police-court. It’s a vital

international problem that you have to solve. Why did Cadogan

West take the papers, where are the missing ones, how did he die,

how came his body where it was found, how can the evil be set

right? Find an answer to all these questions, and you will have

done good service for your country.”

 

“Why do you not solve it yourself, Mycroft? You can see as far

as I.”

 

“Possibly, Sherlock. But it is a question of getting details.

Give me your details, and from an armchair I will return you an

excellent expert opinion. But to run here and run there, to

cross-question railway guards, and lie on my face with a lens to

my eye—it is not my metier. No, you are the one man who can

clear the matter up. If you have a fancy to see your name in the

next honours list—”

 

My friend smiled and shook his head.

 

“I play the game for the game’s own sake,” said he. “But the

problem certainly presents some points of interest, and I shall

be very pleased to look into it. Some more facts, please.”

 

“I have jotted down the more essential ones upon this sheet of

paper, together with a few addresses which you will find of

service. The actual official guardian of the papers is the

famous government expert, Sir James Walter, whose decorations and

sub-titles fill two lines of a book of reference. He has grown

gray in the service, is a gentleman, a favoured guest in the most

exalted houses, and, above all, a man whose patriotism is beyond

suspicion. He is one of two who have a key of the safe. I may

add that the papers were undoubtedly in the office during working

hours on Monday, and that Sir James left for London about three

o’clock taking his key with him. He was at the house of Admiral

Sinclair at Barclay Square during the whole of the evening when

this incident occurred.”

 

“Has the fact been verified?”

 

“Yes; his brother, Colonel Valentine Walter, has testified to his

departure from Woolwich, and Admiral Sinclair to his arrival in

London; so Sir James is no longer a direct factor in the

problem.”

 

“Who was the other man with a key?”

 

“The senior clerk and draughtsman, Mr. Sidney Johnson. He is a

man of forty, married, with five children. He is a silent,

morose man, but he has, on the whole, an excellent record in the

public service. He is unpopular with his colleagues, but a hard

worker. According to his own account, corroborated only by the

word of his wife, he was at home the whole of Monday evening

after office hours, and his key has never left the watch-chain

upon which it hangs.”

 

“Tell us about Cadogan West.”

 

“He has been ten years in the service and has done good work. He

has the reputation of being hot-headed and imperious, but a

straight, honest man. We have nothing against him. He was next

Sidney Johnson in the office. His duties brought him into daily,

personal contact with the plans. No one else had the handling of

them.”

 

“Who locked up the plans that night?”

 

“Mr. Sidney Johnson, the senior clerk.”

 

“Well, it is surely perfectly clear who took them away. They are

actually found upon the person of this junior clerk, Cadogan

West. That seems final, does it not?”

 

“It does, Sherlock, and yet it leaves so much unexplained. In

the first place, why did he take them?”

 

“I presume they were of value?”

 

“He could have got several thousands for them very easily.”

 

“Can you suggest any possible motive for taking the papers to

London except to sell them?”

 

“No, I cannot.”

 

“Then we must take that as our working hypothesis. Young West

took the papers. Now this could only be done by having a false

key—”

 

“Several false keys. He had to open the building and the room.”

 

“He had, then, several false keys. He took the papers to London

to sell the secret, intending, no doubt, to have the plans

themselves back in the safe next morning before they were missed.

While in London on this treasonable mission he met his end.”

 

“How?”

 

“We will suppose that he was travelling back to Woolwich when he

was killed and thrown out of the compartment.”

 

“Aldgate, where the body was found, is considerably past the

station London Bridge, which would be his route to Woolwich.”

 

“Many circumstances could be imagined under which he would pass

London Bridge. There was someone in the carriage, for example,

with whom he was having an absorbing interview. This interview

led to a violent scene in which he lost his life. Possibly he

tried to leave the carriage, fell out on the line, and so met his

end. The other closed the door. There was a thick fog, and

nothing could be seen.”

 

“No better explanation can be given with our present knowledge;

and yet consider, Sherlock, how much you leave untouched. We

will suppose, for argument’s sake, that young Cadogan West HAD

determined to convey these papers to London. He would naturally

have made an appointment with the foreign agent and kept his

evening clear. Instead of that he took two tickets for the

theatre, escorted his fiancee halfway there, and then suddenly

disappeared.”

 

“A blind,” said Lestrade, who had sat listening with some

impatience to the conversation.

 

“A very singular one. That is objection No. 1. Objection No. 2:

We will suppose that he reaches London and sees the foreign

agent. He must bring back the papers before morning or the loss

will be discovered. He took away ten. Only seven were in his

pocket. What had become of the other three? He certainly would

not leave them of his own free will. Then, again, where is the

price of his treason? Once would have expected to find a large

sum of money in his pocket.”

 

“It seems to me perfectly clear,” said Lestrade. “I have no

doubt at all as to what occurred. He took the papers to sell

them. He saw the agent. They could not agree as to price. He

started home again, but the agent went with him. In the train

the agent murdered him, took the more essential papers, and threw

his body from the carriage. That would account for everything,

would it not?”

 

“Why had he no ticket?”

 

“The ticket would have shown which station was nearest the

agent’s house. Therefore he took it from the murdered man’s

pocket.”

 

“Good, Lestrade, very good,” said Holmes. “Your theory holds

together. But if this is true, then the case is at an end. On

the one hand, the traitor is dead. On the other, the plans of

the Bruce-Partington submarine are presumably already on the

Continent. What is there for us to do?”

 

“To act, Sherlock—to act!” cried Mycroft, springing to his feet.

“All my instincts are against this explanation. Use your powers!

Go to the scene of the crime! See the people concerned! Leave

no stone unturned! In all your career you have never had so

great a chance of serving your country.”

 

“Well, well!” said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. “Come,

Watson! And you, Lestrade, could you favour us with your company

for an hour or two? We will begin our investigation by a visit

to Aldgate Station. Good-bye, Mycroft. I shall let you have a

report before evening, but I warn you in advance that you have

little to expect.”

 

An hour later Holmes, Lestrade and I stood upon the Underground

railroad at the point where it emerges from the tunnel

immediately before Aldgate Station. A courteous red-faced old

gentleman represented the railway company.

 

“This is where the young man’s body lay,” said he, indicating a

spot about three feet from the metals. “It could not have fallen

from above, for these, as you see, are all blank walls.

Therefore, it could only have come from a train, and that train,

so far as we can trace it, must have passed about midnight on

Monday.”

 

“Have the carriages been examined for any sign of violence?”

 

“There are no such signs, and no ticket has been found.”

 

“No record of a door being found open?”

 

“None.”

 

“We have had some fresh evidence this morning,” said Lestrade.

“A passenger who passed Aldgate in an ordinary Metropolitan train

about 11:40 on Monday night declares that he heard a heavy thud,

as of a body striking the line, just before the train reached the

station. There was dense fog, however, and nothing could be

seen. He made no report of it at the time. Why, whatever is the

matter with Mr. Holmes?”

 

My friend was standing with an expression of strained intensity

upon his face, staring at the railway metals where they curved

out of the tunnel. Aldgate is a junction, and there was a

network of points. On these his eager, questioning eyes were

fixed, and I saw on his keen, alert face that tightening of the

lips, that quiver of the nostrils, and concentration of the

heavy, tufted brows which I knew so well.

 

“Points,” he muttered; “the points.”

 

“What of it? What do you mean?”

 

“I suppose there are no great number of points on a system such

as this?”

 

“No; they are very few.”

 

“And a curve, too. Points, and a curve. By Jove! if it were

only so.”

 

“What is it, Mr. Holmes? Have you a clue?”

 

“An idea—an indication, no more. But the case certainly grows

in interest. Unique, perfectly unique, and yet why not? I do

not see any indications of bleeding on the line.”

 

“There were hardly any.”

 

“But I understand that there was a considerable wound.”

 

“The bone was crushed, but there was no great external injury.”

 

“And yet one would have expected some bleeding. Would it be

possible for me to inspect the train which contained the

passenger who heard the thud of a fall in the fog?”

 

“I fear not, Mr. Holmes. The train has been broken up before

now, and the carriages redistributed.”

 

“I can assure you, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade, “that every

carriage has been carefully examined. I saw to it myself.”

 

It was one of my friend’s most obvious weaknesses that he was

impatient with less alert intelligences than his own.

 

“Very likely,” said he, turning away. “As it happens, it was not

the carriages which I desired to examine. Watson, we have done

all we can here. We need not trouble you any further, Mr.

Lestrade. I think our investigations must now carry us