The Triumphs of Eugène Valmont, Robert Barr [autobiographies to read txt] 📗

away,' answered the servant, with that glib mastery of fiction which unconsciously comes to those who are members, even in a humble capacity, of a household devoted to the production of imaginative art.

'Nonsense, I say again,' came the strident voice. 'It is true that the tracks of an automobile are on the ground in front of your door, but if you will notice the markings of the puncture-proof belt, you will see that the automobile is returning and not departing. It went to the station before the last shower to bring back a visitor, and since its arrival there has been no rain. That suit of armour in the hall spattered with mud shows it to be the casing the visitor wore. The blazonry upon it of a pair of scissors above an open book resting upon a printing press, indicates that the wearer is first of all an editor; second, a publisher; and third, a printer. The only baronet in England whose occupation corresponds with this heraldic device is Sir George Newnes.'

'You forget Sir Alfred Harmsworth,' said the servant, whose hand held a copy of Answers.

If the insistent visitor was taken aback by this unlooked-for rejoinder, his manner showed no trace of embarrassment, and he went on unabashed.

'As the last shower began at ten minutes to six, Sir George must have arrived at Haslemere station on the 6.19 from Waterloo. He has had dinner, and at this moment is sitting comfortably with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, doubtless in the front room, which I see is so brilliantly lighted. Now if you will kindly take in my card--'

'But I tell you,' persisted the perplexed servant, 'that the master left in his motor car for the county ball at the Royal--'

'Oh, I know, I know. There stands his suit of armour, too, newly blackleaded, whose coat of arms is a couchant typewriter on an automobile rampant.'

'Great heavens!' cried Sir George, his eyes brightening with the light of unholy desire, 'you have material enough there, Doyle, for a story in our January number. What do you say?'

A deep frown marred the smoothness of the novelist's brow.

'I say,' he replied sternly, 'that this man has been sending threatening letters to me. I have had enough of his menaces.'

'Then triply bolt the door,' advised Newnes, with a sigh of disappointment, leaning back in his chair.

'Do you take me for a man who bolts when his enemy appears?' asked Doyle fiercely, rising to his feet. 'No, I will unbolt. He shall meet the Douglas in his hall!'

'Better have him in the drawing-room, where it's warm,' suggested Sir George, with a smile, diplomatically desiring to pour oil on the troubled waters.

The novelist, without reply, spread a copy of that evening's Westminster Gazette over the pile of gold, strode to the door, threw it open, and said coldly:--

'Show the gentleman in, please.'

There entered to them a tall, self-possessed, calm man, with clean-shaven face, eagle eye, and inquisitive nose.

Although the visit was most embarrassing at that particular juncture, the natural courtesy of the novelist restrained him from giving utterance to his resentment of the intrusion, and he proceeded to introduce the bidden to the unbidden guest as if each were equally welcome.

'Mr. Sherlock Holmes, permit me to present to you Sir George--'

'It is quite superfluous,' said the newcomer, in an even voice of exasperating tenor, 'for I perceive at once that one who wears a green waistcoat must be a Liberal of strong Home Rule opinions, or the editor of several publications wearing covers of emerald hue. The shamrock necktie, in addition to the waistcoat, indicates that the gentleman before me is both, and so I take it for granted that this is Sir George Newnes. How is your circulation, Sir George?'

'Rapidly rising,' replied the editor.

'I am glad of that,' asserted the intruder, suavely, 'and can assure you that the temperature outside is as rapidly falling.'

The great detective spread his hands before the glowing electric fire, and rubbed them vigorously together.

'I perceive through that evening paper the sum of six thousand pounds in gold.'

Doyle interrupted him with some impatience.

'You didn't see it through the paper; you saw it in the paper. Goodness knows, it's been mentioned in enough of the sheets.'

'As I was about to remark,' went on Sherlock Holmes imperturbably, 'I am amazed that a man whose time is so valuable should waste it in counting the money. You are surely aware that a golden sovereign weighs 123.44 grains, therefore, if I were you, I should have up the kitchen scales, dump in the metal, and figure out the amount with a lead pencil. You brought the gold in two canvas bags, did you not, Sir George?'

'In the name of all that's wonderful, how do you know that?' asked the astonished publisher.

Sherlock Holmes, with a superior smile, casually waved his hand toward the two bags which still lay on the polished table.

'Oh, I'm tired of this sort of thing,' said Doyle wearily, sitting down in the first chair that presented itself. 'Can't you be honest, even on Christmas Eve? You know the oracles of old did not try it on with each other.'

'That is true,' said Sherlock Holmes. 'The fact is, I followed Sir George Newnes into the Capital and Counties Bank this afternoon, where he demanded six thousand pounds in gold; but when he learned this would weigh ninety-six pounds seven ounces avoirdupois weight, and that even troy weight would make the sum no lighter, he took two small bags of gold and the rest in Bank of England notes. I came from London on the same train with him, but he was off in the automobile before I could make myself known, and so I had to walk up. I was further delayed by taking the wrong turning on the top and finding myself at that charming spot in the neighbourhood where a sailor was murdered by two ruffians a century or so ago.'

There was a note of warning in Doyle's voice when he said:--'Did that incident teach you no lesson? Did you not realise that you are in a dangerous locality?'

'And likely to fall in with two ruffians?' asked Holmes, slightly elevating his eyebrows, while the same sweet smile hovered round his thin lips. 'No; the remembrance of the incident encouraged me. It was the man who had the money that was murdered. I brought no coin with me, although I expect to bear many away.'

'Would you mind telling us, without further circumlocution, what brings you here so late at night?'

Sherlock Holmes heaved a sigh, and mournfully shook his head very slowly.

'After all the teaching I have bestowed upon you, Doyle, is it possible that you cannot deduct even so simple a thing as that? Why am I here? Because Sir George made a mistake about those bags. He was quite right in taking one of them to 'Undershaw', but he should have left the other at 221B, Baker Street. I call this little trip 'The Adventure of the Second Swag'. Here is the second swag on the table. The first swag you received long ago, and all I had for my share was some honeyed words of compliment in the stories you wrote. Now, it is truly said that soft words butter no parsnips, and, in this instance, they do not even turn away wrath. So far as the second swag is concerned, I have come to demand half of it.'

'I am not so poor at deduction as you seem to imagine,' said Doyle, apparently nettled at the other's slighting reference to his powers. 'I was well aware, when you came in, what your errand was. I deduced further that if you saw Sir George withdraw gold from the bank, you also followed him to Waterloo station.'

'Quite right.'

'When he purchased his ticket for Haslemere, you did the same.'

'I did.'

'When you arrived at Haslemere, you sent a telegram to your friend, Dr Watson, telling him of your whereabouts.'

'You are wrong there; I ran after the motor car.'

'You certainly sent a telegram from somewhere, to someone, or at least dropped a note in the post-box. There are signs, which I need not mention, that point irrevocably to such a conclusion.'

The doomed man, ruined by his own self-complacency, merely smiled in his superior manner, not noticing the eager look with which Doyle awaited his answer.

'Wrong entirely. I neither wrote any telegram, nor spoke any message, since I left London.'

'Ah, no,' cried Doyle. 'I see where I went astray. You merely inquired the way to my house.'

'I needed to make no inquiries. I followed the rear light of the automobile part way up the hill, and, when that disappeared, I turned to the right instead of the left, as there was no one out on such a night from whom I could make inquiry.'

'My deductions, then, are beside the mark,' said Doyle hoarsely, in an accent which sent cold chills up and down the spine of his invited guest, but conveyed no intimation of his fate to the self-satisfied later arrival.

'Of course they were,' said Holmes, with exasperating self-assurance.

'Am I also wrong in deducting that you have had nothing to eat since you left London?'

'No, you are quite right there.'

'Well, oblige me by pressing that electric button.'

Holmes did so with much eagerness, but, although the trio waited some minutes in silence, there was no response.

'I deduct from that,' said Doyle, 'that the servants have gone to bed. After I have quite satisfied all your claims in the way of hunger for food and gold, I shall take you back in my motor car, unless you prefer to stay here the night.'

'You are very kind,' said Sherlock Holmes.

'Not at all,' replied Doyle. 'Just take that chair, draw it up to the table and we will divide the second swag.'

The chair indicated differed from all others in the room. It was straight-backed, and its oaken arms were covered by two plates, apparently of German silver. When Holmes clutched it by the arms to drag it forward, he gave one half-articulate gasp, and plunged headlong to the floor, quivering. Sir George Newnes sprang up standing with a cry of alarm. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle remained seated, a seraphic smile of infinite satisfaction playing about his lips.

'Has he fainted?' cried Sir George.

'No, merely electrocuted. A simple device the Sheriff of New York taught me when I was over there last.'

'Merciful heavens! Cannot he be resuscitated?'

'My dear Newnes,' said Doyle, with the air of one from whose shoulders a great weight is lifted, 'a man may fall into the chasm at the foot of the Reichenbach Fall and escape to record his adventures later, but when two thousand volts pass through the human frame, the person who owns that frame is dead.'

'You don't mean to say you've murdered him?' asked Sir George, in an awed whisper.

'Well, the term you use is harsh, still it rather accurately sums up the situation. To speak candidly, Sir George, I don't think they can indite us for anything more than manslaughter. You see, this is a little invention for the reception of burglars. Every night before the servants go to bed, they switch on the current to this chair. That's why I asked Holmes to press the button. I place a small table beside