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

possible

that you were taking the papers to your brother in London.

Leaving all his private concerns, like the good citizen that he

was, he followed you closely in the fog and kept at your heels

until you reached this very house. There he intervened, and then

it was, Colonel Walter, that to treason you added the more

terrible crime of murder.”

 

“I did not! I did not! Before God I swear that I did not!”

cried our wretched prisoner.

 

“Tell us, then, how Cadogan West met his end before you laid him

upon the roof of a railway carriage.”

 

“I will. I swear to you that I will. I did the rest. I confess

it. It was just as you say. A Stock Exchange debt had to be

paid. I needed the money badly. Oberstein offered me five

thousand. It was to save myself from ruin. But as to murder, I

am as innocent as you.”

 

“What happened, then?”

 

“He had his suspicions before, and he followed me as you

describe. I never knew it until I was at the very door. It was

thick fog, and one could not see three yards. I had given two

taps and Oberstein had come to the door. The young man rushed up

and demanded to know what we were about to do with the papers.

Oberstein had a short life-preserver. He always carried it with

him. As West forced his way after us into the house Oberstein

struck him on the head. The blow was a fatal one. He was dead

within five minutes. There he lay in the hall, and we were at

our wit’s end what to do. Then Oberstein had this idea about the

trains which halted under his back window. But first he examined

the papers which I had brought. He said that three of them were

essential, and that he must keep them. ‘You cannot keep them,’

said I. ‘There will be a dreadful row at Woolwich if they are

not returned.’ ‘I must keep them,’ said he, ‘for they are so

technical that it is impossible in the time to make copies.’

‘Then they must all go back together to-night,’ said I. He

thought for a little, and then he cried out that he had it.

‘Three I will keep,’ said he. ‘The others we will stuff into the

pocket of this young man. When he is found the whole business

will assuredly be put to his account.’ I could see no other way

out of it, so we did as he suggested. We waited half an hour at

the window before a train stopped. It was so thick that nothing

could be seen, and we had no difficulty in lowering West’s body

on to the train. That was the end of the matter so far as I was

concerned.”

 

“And your brother?”

 

“He said nothing, but he had caught me once with his keys, and I

think that he suspected. I read in his eyes that he suspected.

As you know, he never held up his head again.”

 

There was silence in the room. It was broken by Mycroft Holmes.

 

“Can you not make reparation? It would ease your conscience, and

possibly your punishment.”

 

“What reparation can I make?”

 

“Where is Oberstein with the papers?”

 

“I do not know.”

 

“Did he give you no address?”

 

“He said that letters to the Hotel du Louvre, Paris, would

eventually reach him.”

 

“Then reparation is still within your power,” said Sherlock

Holmes.

 

“I will do anything I can. I owe this fellow no particular good-will. He has been my ruin and my downfall.”

 

“Here are paper and pen. Sit at this desk and write to my

dictation. Direct the envelope to the address given. That is

right. Now the letter:

 

“Dear Sir:

 

“With regard to our transaction, you will no doubt have observed

by now that one essential detail is missing. I have a tracing

which will make it complete. This has involved me in extra

trouble, however, and I must ask you for a further advance of

five hundred pounds. I will not trust it to the post, nor will I

take anything but gold or notes. I would come to you abroad, but

it would excite remark if I left the country at present.

Therefore I shall expect to meet you in the smoking-room of the

Charing Cross Hotel at noon on Saturday. Remember that only

English notes, or gold, will be taken.

 

“That will do very well. I shall be very much surprised if it

does not fetch our man.”

 

And it did! It is a matter of history—that secret history of a

nation which is often so much more intimate and interesting than

its public chronicles—that Oberstein, eager to complete the coup

of his lifetime, came to the lure and was safely engulfed for

fifteen years in a British prison. In his trunk were found the

invaluable Bruce-Partington plans, which he had put up for

auction in all the naval centres of Europe.

 

Colonel Walter died in prison towards the end of the second year

of his sentence. As to Holmes, he returned refreshed to his

monograph upon the Polyphonic Motets of Lassus, which has since

been printed for private circulation, and is said by experts to

be the last word upon the subject. Some weeks afterwards I

learned incidentally that my friend spent a day at Windsor,

whence he returned with a remarkably fine emerald tie-pin. When

I asked him if he had bought it, he answered that it was a

present from a certain gracious lady in whose interests he had

once been fortunate enough to carry out a small commission. He

said no more; but I fancy that I could guess at that lady’s

august name, and I have little doubt that the emerald pin will

forever recall to my friend’s memory the adventure of the Bruce-Partington plans.

 

The Adventure of the Dying Detective

 

Mrs. Hudson, the landlady of Sherlock Holmes, was a long-suffering woman. Not only was her first-floor flat invaded at

all hours by throngs of singular and often undesirable characters

but her remarkable lodger showed an eccentricity and irregularity

in his life which must have sorely tried her patience. His

incredible untidiness, his addiction to music at strange hours,

his occasional revolver practice within doors, his weird and

often malodorous scientific experiments, and the atmosphere of

violence and danger which hung around him made him the very worst

tenant in London. On the other hand, his payments were princely.

I have no doubt that the house might have been purchased at the

price which Holmes paid for his rooms during the years that I was

with him.

 

The landlady stood in the deepest awe of him and never dared to

interfere with him, however outrageous his proceedings might

seem. She was fond of him, too, for he had a remarkable

gentleness and courtesy in his dealings with women. He disliked

and distrusted the sex, but he was always a chivalrous opponent.

Knowing how genuine was her regard for him, I listened earnestly

to her story when she came to my rooms in the second year of my

married life and told me of the sad condition to which my poor

friend was reduced.

 

“He’s dying, Dr. Watson,” said she. “For three days he has been

sinking, and I doubt if he will last the day. He would not let

me get a doctor. This morning when I saw his bones sticking out

of his face and his great bright eyes looking at me I could stand

no more of it. ‘With your leave or without it, Mr. Holmes, I am

going for a doctor this very hour,’ said I. ‘Let it be Watson,

then,’ said he. I wouldn’t waste an hour in coming to him, sir,

or you may not see him alive.”

 

I was horrified for I had heard nothing of his illness. I need

not say that I rushed for my coat and my hat. As we drove back I

asked for the details.

 

“There is little I can tell you, sir. He has been working at a

case down at Rotherhithe, in an alley near the river, and he has

brought this illness back with him. He took to his bed on

Wednesday afternoon and has never moved since. For these three

days neither food nor drink has passed his lips.”

 

“Good God! Why did you not call in a doctor?”

 

“He wouldn’t have it, sir. You know how masterful he is. I

didn’t dare to disobey him. But he’s not long for this world, as

you’ll see for yourself the moment that you set eyes on him.”

 

He was indeed a deplorable spectacle. In the dim light of a

foggy November day the sick room was a gloomy spot, but it was

that gaunt, wasted face staring at me from the bed which sent a

chill to my heart. His eyes had the brightness of fever, there

was a hectic flush upon either cheek, and dark crusts clung to

his lips; the thin hands upon the coverlet twitched incessantly,

his voice was croaking and spasmodic. He lay listlessly as I

entered the room, but the sight of me brought a gleam of

recognition to his eyes.

 

“Well, Watson, we seem to have fallen upon evil days,” said he in

a feeble voice, but with something of his old carelessness of

manner.

 

“My dear fellow!” I cried, approaching him.

 

“Stand back! Stand right back!” said he with the sharp

imperiousness which I had associated only with moments of crisis.

“If you approach me, Watson, I shall order you out of the house.”

 

“But why?”

 

“Because it is my desire. Is that not enough?”

 

Yes, Mrs. Hudson was right. He was more masterful than ever. It

was pitiful, however, to see his exhaustion.

 

“I only wished to help,” I explained.

 

“Exactly! You will help best by doing what you are told.”

 

“Certainly, Holmes.”

 

He relaxed the austerity of his manner.

 

“You are not angry?” he asked, gasping for breath.

 

Poor devil, how could I be angry when I saw him lying in such a

plight before me?

 

“It’s for your own sake, Watson,” he croaked.

 

“For MY sake?”

 

“I know what is the matter with me. It is a coolie disease from

Sumatra—a thing that the Dutch know more about than we, though

they have made little of it up to date. One thing only is

certain. It is infallibly deadly, and it is horribly

contagious.”

 

He spoke now with a feverish energy, the long hands twitching and

jerking as he motioned me away.

 

“Contagious by touch, Watson—that’s it, by touch. Keep your

distance and all is well.”

 

“Good heavens, Holmes! Do you suppose that such a consideration

weighs with me of an instant? It would not affect me in the case

of a stranger. Do you imagine it would prevent me from doing my

duty to so old a friend?”

 

Again I advanced, but he repulsed me with a look of furious

anger.

 

“If you will stand there I will talk. If you do not you must

leave the room.”

 

I have so deep a respect for the extraordinary qualities of

Holmes that I have always deferred to his wishes, even when I

least understood them. But now all my professional instincts

were aroused. Let him be my master elsewhere, I at least was his

in a sick room.

 

“Holmes,” said I, “you are not yourself. A sick man is but a

child, and so I will treat you. Whether you like it or not, I

will examine your symptoms and