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

my whole story. I need hide nothing from

you. I swear to you, Mr. Holmes, that there never was in this

world a man who loved a woman with a more wholehearted love than

I had for Frances. I was a wild youngster, I know—not worse

than others of my class. But her mind was pure as snow. She

could not bear a shadow of coarseness. So, when she came to hear

of things that I had done, she would have no more to say to me.

And yet she loved me—that is the wonder of it!—loved me well

enough to remain single all her sainted days just for my sake

alone. When the years had passed and I had made my money at

Barberton I thought perhaps I could seek her out and soften her.

I had heard that she was still unmarried, I found her at Lausanne

and tried all I knew. She weakened, I think, but her will was

strong, and when next I called she had left the town. I traced

her to Baden, and then after a time heard that her maid was here.

I’m a rough fellow, fresh from a rough life, and when Dr. Watson

spoke to me as he did I lost hold of myself for a moment. But

for God’s sake tell me what has become of the Lady Frances.”

 

“That is for us to find out,” said Sherlock Holmes with peculiar

gravity. “What is your London address, Mr. Green?”

 

“The Langham Hotel will find me.”

 

“Then may I recommend that you return there and be on hand in

case I should want you? I have no desire to encourage false

hopes, but you may rest assured that all that can be done will be

done for the safety of Lady Frances. I can say no more for the

instant. I will leave you this card so that you may be able to

keep in touch with us. Now, Watson, if you will pack your bag I

will cable to Mrs. Hudson to make one of her best efforts for two

hungry travellers at 7:30 tomorrow.”

 

A telegram was awaiting us when we reached our Baker Street

rooms, which Holmes read with an exclamation of interest and

threw across to me. “Jagged or torn,” was the message, and the

place of origin, Baden.

 

“What is this?” I asked.

 

“It is everything,” Holmes answered. “You may remember my

seemingly irrelevant question as to this clerical gentleman’s

left ear. You did not answer it.”

 

“I had left Baden and could not inquire.”

 

“Exactly. For this reason I sent a duplicate to the manager of

the Englischer Hof, whose answer lies here.”

 

“What does it show?”

 

“It shows, my dear Watson, that we are dealing with an

exceptionally astute and dangerous man. The Rev. Dr.

Shlessinger, missionary from South America, is none other than

Holy Peters, one of the most unscrupulous rascals that Australia

has ever evolved—and for a young country it has turned out some

very finished types. His particular specialty is the beguiling

of lonely ladies by playing upon their religious feelings, and

his so-called wife, an Englishwoman named Fraser, is a worthy

helpmate. The nature of his tactics suggested his identity to

me, and this physical peculiarity—he was badly bitten in a

saloon-fight at Adelaide in ‘89—confirmed my suspicion. This

poor lady is in the hands of a most infernal couple, who will

stick at nothing, Watson. That she is already dead is a very

likely supposition. If not, she is undoubtedly in some sort of

confinement and unable to write to Miss Dobney or her other

friends. It is always possible that she never reached London, or

that she has passed through it, but the former is improbable, as,

with their system of registration, it is not easy for foreigners

to play tricks with the Continental police; and the latter is

also unlikely, as these rouges could not hope to find any other

place where it would be as easy to keep a person under restraint.

All my instincts tell me that she is in London, but as we have at

present no possible means of telling where, we can only take the

obvious steps, eat our dinner, and possess our souls in patience.

Later in the evening I will stroll down and have a word with

friend Lestrade at Scotland Yard.”

 

But neither the official police nor Holmes’s own small but very

efficient organization sufficed to clear away the mystery. Amid

the crowded millions of London the three persons we sought were

as completely obliterated as if they had never lived.

Advertisements were tried, and failed. Clues were followed, and

led to nothing. Every criminal resort which Shlessinger might

frequent was drawn in vain. His old associates were watched, but

they kept clear of him. And then suddenly, after a week of

helpless suspense there came a flash of light. A silver-and-brilliant pendant of old Spanish design had been pawned at

Bovington’s, in Westminster Road. The pawner was a large, clean-shaven man of clerical appearance. His name and address were

demonstrably false. The ear had escaped notice, but the

description was surely that of Shlessinger.

 

Three times had our bearded friend from the Langham called for

news—the third time within an hour of this fresh development.

His clothes were getting looser on his great body. He seemed to

be wilting away in his anxiety. “If you will only give me

something to do!” was his constant wail. At last Holmes could

oblige him.

 

“He has begun to pawn the jewels. We should get him now.”

 

“But does this mean that any harm has befallen the Lady Frances?”

 

Holmes shook his head very gravely.

 

“Supposing that they have held her prisoner up to now, it is

clear that they cannot let her loose without their own

destruction. We must prepare for the worst.”

 

“What can I do?”

 

“These people do not know you by sight?”

 

“No.”

 

“It is possible that he will go to some other pawnbroker in the

future. in that case, we must begin again. On the other hand,

he has had a fair price and no questions asked, so if he is in

need of ready-money he will probably come back to Bovington’s. I

will give you a note to them, and they will let you wait in the

shop. If the fellow comes you will follow him home. But no

indiscretion, and, above all, no violence. I put you on your

honour that you will take no step without my knowledge and

consent.”

 

For two days the Hon. Philip Green (he was, I may mention, the

son of the famous admiral of that name who commanded the Sea of

Azof fleet in the Crimean War) brought us no news. On the

evening of the third he rushed into our sitting-room, pale,

trembling, with every muscle of his powerful frame quivering with

excitement.

 

“We have him! We have him!” he cried.

 

He was incoherent in his agitation. Holmes soothed him with a

few words and thrust him into an armchair.

 

“Come, now, give us the order of events,” said he.

 

“She came only an hour ago. It was the wife, this time, but the

pendant she brought was the fellow of the other. She is a tall,

pale woman, with ferret eyes.”

 

“That is the lady,” said Holmes.

 

“She left the office and I followed her. She walked up the

Kennington Road, and I kept behind her. Presently she went into

a shop. Mr. Holmes, it was an undertaker’s.”

 

My companion started. “Well?” he asked in that vibrant voice

which told of the fiery soul behind the cold gray face.

 

“She was talking to the woman behind the counter. I entered as

well. ‘It is late,’ I heard her say, or words to that effect.

The woman was excusing herself. ‘It should be there before now,’

she answered. ‘It took longer, being out of the ordinary.’ They

both stopped and looked at me, so I asked some questions and then

left the shop.”

 

“You did excellently well. What happened next?”

 

“The woman came out, but I had hid myself in a doorway. Her

suspicions had been aroused, I think, for she looked round her.

Then she called a cab and got in. I was lucky enough to get

another and so to follow her. She got down at last at No. 36,

Poultney Square, Brixton. I drove past, left my cab at the

corner of the square, and watched the house.”

 

“Did you see anyone?”

 

“The windows were all in darkness save one on the lower floor.

The blind was down, and I could not see in. I was standing

there, wondering what I should do next, when a covered van drove

up with two men in it. They descended, took something out of the

van, and carried it up the steps to the hall door. Mr. Holmes,

it was a coffin.”

 

“Ah!”

 

“For an instant I was on the point of rushing in. The door had

been opened to admit the men and their burden. It was the woman

who had opened it. But as I stood there she caught a glimpse of

me, and I think that she recognized me. I saw her start, and she

hastily closed the door. I remembered my promise to you, and here

I am.”

 

“You have done excellent work,” said Holmes, scribbling a few

words upon a half-sheet of paper. “We can do nothing legal

without a warrant, and you can serve the cause best by taking

this note down to the authorities and getting one. There may be

some difficulty, but I should think that the sale of the

jewellery should be sufficient. Lestrade will see to all

details.”

 

“But they may murder her in the meanwhile. What could the coffin

mean, and for whom could it be but for her?”

 

“We will do all that can be done, Mr. Green. Not a moment will

be lost. Leave it in our hands. Now Watson,” he added as our

client hurried away, “he will set the regular forces on the move.

We are, as usual, the irregulars, and we must take our own line

of action. The situation strikes me as so desperate that the

most extreme measures are justified. Not a moment is to be lost

in getting to Poultney Square.

 

“Let us try to reconstruct the situation,” said he as we drove

swiftly past the Houses of Parliament and over Westminster

Bridge. “These villains have coaxed this unhappy lady to London,

after first alienating her from her faithful maid. If she has

written any letters they have been intercepted. Through some

confederate they have engaged a furnished house. Once inside it,

they have made her a prisoner, and they have become possessed of

the valuable jewellery which has been their object from the

first. Already they have begun to sell part of it, which seems

safe enough to them, since they have no reason to think that

anyone is interested in the lady’s fate. When she is released

she will, of course, denounce them. Therefore, she must not be

released. But they cannot keep her under lock and key forever.

So murder is their only solution.”

 

“That seems very clear.”

 

“Now we will take another line of reasoning. When you follow two

deparate chains of thought, Watson, you will find some point of

intersection which should approximate to the truth. We will

start now, not from the lady but from the coffin and argue

backward. That incident proves, I fear, beyond all doubt that

the lady is dead. It points also to an orthodox burial with

proper accompaniment of medical certificate and official

sanction. Had the