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

treat you for them.”

 

He looked at me with venomous eyes.

 

“If I am to have a doctor whether I will or not, let me at least

have someone in whom I have confidence,” said he.

 

“Then you have none in me?”

 

“In your friendship, certainly. But facts are facts, Watson,

and, after all, you are only a general practitioner with very

limited experience and mediocre qualifications. It is painful to

have to say these things, but you leave me no choice.”

 

I was bitterly hurt.

 

“Such a remark is unworthy of you, Holmes. It shows me very

clearly the state of your own nerves. But if you have no

confidence in me I would not intrude my services. Let me bring

Sir Jasper Meek or Penrose Fisher, or any of the best men in

London. But someone you MUST have, and that is final. If you

think that I am going to stand here and see you die without

either helping you myself or bringing anyone else to help you,

then you have mistaken your man.”

 

“You mean well, Watson,” said the sick man with something between

a sob and a groan. “Shall I demonstrate your own ignorance?

What do you know, pray, of Tapanuli fever? What do you know of

the black Formosa corruption?”

 

“I have never heard of either.”

 

“There are many problems of disease, many strange pathological

possibilities, in the East, Watson.” He paused after each

sentence to collect his failing strength. “I have learned so

much during some recent researches which have a medico-criminal

aspect. It was in the course of them that I contracted this

complaint. You can do nothing.”

 

“Possibly not. But I happen to know that Dr. Ainstree, the

greatest living authority upon tropical disease, is now in

London. All remonstrance is useless, Holmes, I am going this

instant to fetch him.” I turned resolutely to the door.

 

Never have I had such a shock! In an instant, with a tiger-spring, the dying man had intercepted me. I heard the sharp snap

of a twisted key. The next moment he had staggered back to his

bed, exhausted and panting after his one tremendous outflame of

energy.

 

“You won’t take the key from be by force, Watson, I’ve got you,

my friend. Here you are, and here you will stay until I will

otherwise. But I’ll humour you.” (All this in little gasps,

with terrible struggles for breath between.) “You’ve only my own

good at heart. Of course I know that very well. You shall have

your way, but give me time to get my strength. Not now, Watson,

not now. It’s four o’clock. At six you can go.”

 

“This is insanity, Holmes.”

 

“Only two hours, Watson. I promise you will go at six. Are you

content to wait?”

 

“I seem to have no choice.”

 

“None in the world, Watson. Thank you, I need no help in

arranging the clothes. You will please keep your distance. Now,

Watson, there is one other condition that I would make. You will

seek help, not from the man you mention, but from the one that I

choose.”

 

“By all means.”

 

“The first three sensible words that you have uttered since you

entered this room, Watson. You will find some books over there.

I am somewhat exhausted; I wonder how a battery feels when it

pours electricity into a non-conductor? At six, Watson, we

resume our conversation.”

 

But it was destined to be resumed long before that hour, and in

circumstances which gave me a shock hardly second to that caused

by his spring to the door. I had stood for some minutes looking

at the silent figure in the bed. His face was almost covered by

the clothes and he appeared to be asleep. Then, unable to settle

down to reading, I walked slowly round the room, examining the

pictures of celebrated criminals with which every wall was

adorned. Finally, in my aimless perambulation, I came to the

mantelpiece. A litter of pipes, tobacco-pouches, syringes,

penknives, revolver-cartridges, and other debris was scattered

over it. In the midst of these was a small black and white ivory

box with a sliding lid. It was a neat little thing, and I had

stretched out my hand to examine it more closely when

 

It was a dreadful cry that he gave—a yell which might have been

heard down the street. My skin went cold and my hair bristled at

that horrible scream. As I turned I caught a glimpse of a

convulsed face and frantic eyes. I stood paralyzed, with the

little box in my hand.

 

“Put it down! Down, this instant, Watson—this instant, I say!”

His head sank back upon the pillow and he gave a deep sigh of

relief as I replaced the box upon the mantelpiece. “I hate to

have my things touched, Watson. You know that I hate it. You

fidget me beyond endurance. You, a doctor—you are enough to

drive a patient into an asylum. Sit down, man, and let me have

my rest!”

 

The incident left a most unpleasant impression upon my mind. The

violent and causeless excitement, followed by this brutality of

speech, so far removed from his usual suavity, showed me how deep

was the disorganization of his mind. Of all ruins, that of a

noble mind is the most deplorable. I sat in silent dejection

until the stipulated time had passed. He seemed to have been

watching the clock as well as I, for it was hardly six before he

began to talk with the same feverish animation as before.

 

“Now, Watson,” said he. “Have you any change in your pocket?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Any silver?”

 

“A good deal.”

 

“How many half-crowns?”

 

“I have five.”

 

“Ah, too few! Too few! How very unfortunate, Watson! However,

such as they are you can put them in your watchpocket. And all

the rest of your money in your left trouser pocket. Thank you.

It will balance you so much better like that.”

 

This was raving insanity. He shuddered, and again made a sound

between a cough and a sob.

 

“You will now light the gas, Watson, but you will be very careful

that not for one instant shall it be more than half on. I

implore you to be careful, Watson. Thank you, that is excellent.

No, you need not draw the blind. Now you will have the kindness

to place some letters and papers upon this table within my reach.

Thank you. Now some of that litter from the mantelpiece.

Excellent, Watson! There is a sugar-tongs there. Kindly raise

that small ivory box with its assistance. Place it here among

the papers. Good! You can now go and fetch Mr. Culverton Smith,

of 13 Lower Burke Street.”

 

To tell the truth, my desire to fetch a doctor had somewhat

weakened, for poor Holmes was so obviously delirious that it

seemed dangerous to leave him. However, he was as eager now to

consult the person named as he had been obstinate in refusing.

 

“I never heard the name,” said I.

 

“Possibly not, my good Watson. It may surprise you to know that

the man upon earth who is best versed in this disease is not a

medical man, but a planter. Mr. Culverton Smith is a well-known

resident of Sumatra, now visiting London. An outbreak of the

disease upon his plantation, which was distant from medical aid,

caused him to study it himself, with some rather far-reaching

consequences. He is a very methodical person, and I did not

desire you to start before six, because I was well aware that you

would not find him in his study. If you could persuade him to

come here and give us the benefit of his unique experience of

this disease, the investigation of which has been his dearest

hobby, I cannot doubt that he could help me.”

 

I gave Holmes’s remarks as a consecutive whole and will not

attempt to indicate how they were interrupted by gaspings for

breath and those clutchings of his hands which indicated the pain

from which he was suffering. His appearance had changed for the

worse during the few hours that I had been with him. Those

hectic spots were more pronounced, the eyes shone more brightly

out of darker hollows, and a cold sweat glimmered upon his brow.

He still retained, however, the jaunty gallantry of his speech.

To the last gasp he would always be the master.

 

“You will tell him exactly how you have left me,” said he. “You

will convey the very impression which is in your own mind—a

dying man—a dying and delirious man. Indeed, I cannot think why

the whole bed of the ocean is not one solid mass of oysters, so

prolific the creatures seem. Ah, I am wondering! Strange how

the brain controls the brain! What was I saying, Watson?”

 

“My directions for Mr. Culverton Smith.”

 

“Ah, yes, I remember. My life depends upon it. Plead with him,

Watson. There is no good feeling between us. His nephew,

Watson—I had suspicions of foul play and I allowed him to see

it. The boy died horribly. He has a grudge against me. You

will soften him, Watson. Beg him, pray him, get him here by any

means. He can save me—only he!”

 

“I will bring him in a cab, if I have to carry him down to it.”

 

“You will do nothing of the sort. You will persuade him to come.

And then you will return in front of him. Make any excuse so as

not to come with him. Don’t forget, Watson. You won’t fail me.

You never did fail me. No doubt there are natural enemies which

limit the increase of the creatures. You and I, Watson, we have

done our part. Shall the world, then, be overrun by oysters?

No, no; horrible! You’ll convey all that is in your mind.”

 

I left him full of the image of this magnificent intellect

babbling like a foolish child. He had handed me the key, and

with a happy thought I took it with me lest he should lock

himself in. Mrs. Hudson was waiting, trembling and weeping, in

the passage. Behind me as I passed from the flat I heard

Holmes’s high, thin voice in some delirious chant. Below, as I

stood whistling for a cab, a man came on me through the fog.

 

“How is Mr. Holmes, sir?” he asked.

 

It was an old acquaintance, Inspector Morton, of Scotland Yard,

dressed in unofficial tweeds.

 

“He is very ill,” I answered.

 

He looked at me in a most singular fashion. Had it not been too

fiendish, I could have imagined that the gleam of the fanlight

showed exultation in his face.

 

“I heard some rumour of it,” said he.

 

The cab had driven up, and I left him.

 

Lower Burke Street proved to be a line of fine houses lying in

the vague borderland between Notting Hill and Kensington. The

particular one at which my cabman pulled up had an air of smug

and demure respectability in its old-fashioned iron railings, its

massive folding-door, and its shining brasswork. All was in

keeping with a solemn butler who appeared framed in the pink

radiance of a tinted electrical light behind him.

 

“Yes, Mr. Culverton Smith is in. Dr. Watson! Very good, sir, I

will take up your card.”

 

My humble name and title did not appear to impress Mr. Culverton

Smith. Through the half-open door I heard a high, petulant,

penetrating voice.

 

“Who is this person? What does he want? Dear me, Staples, how

often have I said that I am not to be disturbed in my hours of

study?”

 

There came a