His Last Bow: An Epilogue of Sherlock Holmes, Arthur Conan Doyle [big screen ebook reader .TXT] 📗

delivered his message I had pushed past him and was in the room.

With a shrill cry of anger a man rose from a reclining chair beside the fire. I saw a great yellow face, coarse-grained and greasy, with heavy, double-chin, and two sullen, menacing grey eyes which glared at me from under tufted and sandy brows. A high bald head had a small velvet smoking-cap poised coquettishly upon one side of its pink curve. The skull was of enormous capacity, and yet as I looked down I saw to my amazement that the figure of the man was small and frail, twisted in the shoulders and back like one who has suffered from rickets in his childhood.

“What’s this?” he cried in a high, screaming voice. “What is the meaning of this intrusion? Didn’t I send you word that I would see you to-morrow morning?”

“I am sorry,” said I, “but the matter cannot be delayed. Mr. Sherlock Holmes—”

The mention of my friend’s name had an extraordinary effect upon the little man. The look of anger passed in an instant from his face. His features became tense and alert.

“Have you come from Holmes?” he asked.

“I have just left him.”

“What about Holmes? How is he?”

“He is desperately ill. That is why I have come.”

The man motioned me to a chair, and turned to resume his own. As he did so I caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror over the mantelpiece. I could have sworn that it was set in a malicious and abominable smile. Yet I persuaded myself that it must have been some nervous contraction which I had surprised, for he turned to me an instant later with genuine concern upon his features.

“I am sorry to hear this,” said he. “I only know Mr. Holmes through some business dealings which we have had, but I have every respect for his talents and his character. He is an amateur of crime, as I am of disease. For him the villain, for me the microbe. There are my prisons,” he continued, pointing to a row of bottles and jars which stood upon a side table. “Among those gelatine cultivations some of the very worst offenders in the world are now doing time.”

“It was on account of your special knowledge that Mr. Holmes desired to see you. He has a high opinion of you and thought that you were the one man in London who could help him.”

The little man started, and the jaunty smoking-cap slid to the floor.

“Why?” he asked. “Why should Mr. Homes think that I could help him in his trouble?”

“Because of your knowledge of Eastern diseases.”

“But why should he think that this disease which he has contracted is Eastern?”

“Because, in some professional inquiry, he has been working among Chinese sailors down in the docks.”

Mr. Culverton Smith smiled pleasantly and picked up his smoking-cap.

“Oh, that’s it—is it?” said he. “I trust the matter is not so grave as you suppose. How long has he been ill?”

“About three days.”

“Is he delirious?”

“Occasionally.”

“Tut, tut! This sounds serious. It would be inhuman not to answer his call. I very much resent any interruption to my work, Dr. Watson, but this case is certainly exceptional. I will come with you at once.”

I remembered Holmes’s injunction.

“I have another appointment,” said I.

“Very good. I will go alone. I have a note of Mr. Holmes’s address. You can rely upon my being there within half an hour at most.”

It was with a sinking heart that I reentered Holmes’s bedroom. For all that I knew the worst might have happened in my absence. To my enormous relief, he had improved greatly in the interval. His appearance was as ghastly as ever, but all trace of delirium had left him and he spoke in a feeble voice, it is true, but with even more than his usual crispness and lucidity.

“Well, did you see him, Watson?”

“Yes; he is coming.”

“Admirable, Watson! Admirable! You are the best of messengers.”

“He wished to return with me.”

“That would never do, Watson. That would be obviously impossible. Did he ask what ailed me?”

“I told him about the Chinese in the East End.”

“Exactly! Well, Watson, you have done all that a good friend could. You can now disappear from the scene.”

“I must wait and hear his opinion, Holmes.”

“Of course you must. But I have reasons to suppose that this opinion would be very much more frank and valuable if he imagines that we are alone. There is just room behind the head of my bed, Watson.”

“My dear Holmes!”

“I fear there is no alternative, Watson. The room does not lend itself to concealment, which is as well, as it is the less likely to arouse suspicion. But just there, Watson, I fancy that it could be done.” Suddenly he sat up with a rigid intentness upon his haggard face. “There are the wheels, Watson. Quick, man, if you love me! And don’t budge, whatever happens—whatever happens, do you hear? Don’t speak! Don’t move! Just listen with all your ears.” Then in an instant his sudden access of strength departed, and his masterful, purposeful talk droned away into the low, vague murmurings of a semi-delirious man.

From the hiding-place into which I had been so swiftly hustled I heard the footfalls upon the stair, with the opening and the closing of the bedroom door. Then, to my surprise, there came a long silence, broken only by the heavy breathings and gaspings of the sick man. I could imagine that our visitor was standing by the bedside and looking down at the sufferer. At last that strange hush was broken.

“Holmes!” he cried. “Holmes!” in the insistent tone of one who awakens a sleeper. “Can’t you hear me, Holmes?” There was a rustling, as if he had shaken the sick man roughly by the shoulder.

“Is that you, Mr. Smith?” Holmes whispered. “I hardly dared hope that you would come.”

The other laughed.

“I should imagine not,” he said. “And yet, you see, I am here. Coals of fire, Holmes—coals of fire!”

“It is very good of you—very noble of you. I appreciate your special knowledge.”

Our visitor sniggered.

“You do. You are, fortunately, the only man in London who does. Do you know what is the matter with you?”

“The same,” said Holmes.

“Ah! You recognise the symptoms?”

“Only too well.”

“Well, I shouldn’t be surprised, Holmes. I shouldn’t be surprised if it were the same. A bad lookout for you if it is. Poor Victor was a dead man on the fourth day—a strong, hearty young fellow. It was certainly, as you said, very surprising that he should have contracted an out-of-the-way Asiatic disease in the heart of London—a disease, too, of which I had made such a very special study. Singular coincidence, Holmes. Very smart of you to notice it, but rather uncharitable to suggest that it was cause and effect.”

“I knew that you did it.”

“Oh, you did, did you? Well, you couldn’t prove it, anyhow. But what do you think of yourself spreading reports about me like that, and then crawling to me for help the moment you are in trouble? What sort of a game is that—eh?”

I heard the rasping, laboured breathing of the sick man. “Give me the water!” he gasped.

“You’re precious near your end, my friend, but I don’t want you to go till I have had a word with you. That’s why I give you water. There, don’t slop it about! That’s right. Can you understand what I say?”

Holmes groaned.

“Do what you can for me. Let bygones be bygones,” he whispered. “I’ll put the words out of my head—I swear I will. Only cure me, and I’ll forget it.”

“Forget what?”

“Well, about Victor Savage’s death. You as good as admitted just now that you had done it. I’ll forget it.”

“You can forget it or remember it, just as you like. I don’t see you in the witnessbox. Quite another shaped box, my good Holmes, I assure you. It matters nothing to me that you should know how my nephew died. It’s not him we are talking about. It’s you.”

“Yes, yes.”

“The fellow who came for me—I’ve forgotten his name—said that you contracted it down in the East End among the sailors.”

“I could only account for it so.”

“You are proud of your brains, Holmes, are you not? Think yourself smart, don’t you? You came across someone who was smarter this time. Now cast your mind back, Holmes. Can you think of no other way you could have got this thing?”

“I can’t think. My mind is gone. For heaven’s sake help me!”

“Yes, I will help you. I’ll help you to understand just where you are and how you got there. I’d like you to know before you die.”

“Give me something to ease my pain.”

“Painful, is it? Yes, the coolies used to do some squealing towards the end. Takes you as cramp, I fancy.”

“Yes, yes; it is cramp.”

“Well, you can hear what I say, anyhow. Listen now! Can you remember any unusual incident in your life just about the time your symptoms began?”

“No, no; nothing.”

“Think again.”

“I’m too ill to think.”

“Well, then, I’ll help you. Did anything come by post?”

“By post?”

“A box by chance?”

“I’m fainting—I’m gone!”

“Listen, Holmes!” There was a sound as if he was shaking the dying man, and it was all that I could do to hold myself quiet in my hiding-place. “You must hear me. You shall hear me. Do you remember a box—an ivory box? It came on Wednesday. You opened it—do you remember?”

“Yes, yes, I opened it. There was a sharp spring inside it. Some joke—”

“It was no joke, as you will find to your cost. You fool, you would have it and you have got it. Who asked you to cross my path? If you had left me alone I would not have hurt you.”

“I remember,” Holmes gasped. “The spring! It drew blood. This box—this on the table.”

“The very one, by George! And it may as well leave the room in my pocket. There goes your last shred of evidence. But you have the truth now, Holmes, and you can die with the knowledge that I killed you. You knew too much of the fate of Victor Savage, so I have sent you to share it. You are very near your end, Holmes. I will sit here and I will watch you die.”

Holmes’s voice had sunk to an almost inaudible whisper.

“What is that?” said Smith. “Turn up the gas? Ah, the shadows begin to fall, do they? Yes, I will turn it up, that I may see you the better.” He crossed the room and the light suddenly brightened. “Is there any other little service that I can do you, my friend?”

“A match and a cigarette.”

I nearly called out in my joy and my amazement. He was speaking in his natural voice—a little weak, perhaps, but the very voice I knew. There was a long pause, and I felt that Culverton Smith was standing in silent amazement looking down at his companion.

“What’s the meaning of this?” I heard him say at last in a dry, rasping tone.

“The best way of successfully acting a part is to be it,” said Holmes. “I give you my word that for three days I have tasted neither food nor drink until you were good enough to pour me out that glass of water. But it is the tobacco which I find most irksome. Ah, here are some cigarettes.” I heard the striking of a match. “That is very much better. Halloa! halloa! Do I hear the step of a friend?”

There were footfalls outside, the door opened, and Inspector Morton appeared.

“All is in order and this is your man,” said Holmes.

The officer gave the usual cautions.

“I arrest you on the charge of the murder of one Victor Savage,” he concluded.

“And you might add of the attempted murder of one Sherlock Holmes,” remarked my friend with a chuckle. “To save an invalid trouble, Inspector, Mr. Culverton Smith was good enough to give our signal by turning up the gas. By the way, the prisoner has a small box in the right-hand pocket of his coat which it would be as well to remove. Thank you. I would handle it gingerly if I were you. Put it down here. It may play its part in the trial.”

There was a sudden rush and a scuffle, followed by the clash of iron and a cry of pain.

“You’ll only get yourself hurt,” said the inspector. “Stand still, will you?” There was the click of the closing handcuffs.

“A nice trap!” cried the high, snarling voice. “It will bring you into the dock, Holmes, not me. He asked me to come here to cure him. I was sorry for him and I came. Now he will pretend, no doubt, that I have said anything which he may invent which will