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

>hatred.

 

“But how come you into this matter, Miss Burnet?” asked Holmes.

“How can an English lady join in such a murderous affair?”

 

“I join in it because there is no other way in the world by which

justice can be gained. What does the law of England care for the

rivers of blood shed years ago in San Pedro, or for the shipload

of treasure which this man has stolen? To you they are like

crimes committed in some other planet. But WE know. We have

learned the truth in sorrow and in suffering. To us there is no

fiend in hell like Juan Murillo, and no peace in life while his

victims still cry for vengeance.”

 

“No doubt,” said Holmes, “he was as you say. I have heard that he

was atrocious. But how are you affected?”

 

“I will tell you it all. This villain’s policy was to murder, on

one pretext or another, every man who showed such promise that he

might in time come to be a dangerous rival. My husband—yes, my

real name is Signora Victor Durando—was the San Pedro minister

in London. He met me and married me there. A nobler man never

lived upon earth. Unhappily, Murillo heard of his excellence,

recalled him on some pretext, and had him shot. With a

premonition of his fate he had refused to take me with him. His

estates were confiscated, and I was left with a pittance and a

broken heart.

 

“Then came the downfall of the tyrant. He escaped as you have

just described. But the many whose lives he had ruined, whose

nearest and dearest had suffered torture and death at his hands,

would not let the matter rest. They banded themselves into a

society which should never be dissolved until the work was done.

It was my part after we had discovered in the transformed

Henderson the fallen despot, to attach myself to his household

and keep the others in touch with his movements. This I was able

to do by securing the position of governess in his family. He

little knew that the woman who faced him at every meal was the

woman whose husband he had hurried at an hour’s notice into

eternity. I smiled on him, did my duty to his children, and

bided my time. An attempt was made in Paris and failed. We zig-zagged swiftly here and there over Europe to throw off the

pursuers and finally returned to this house, which he had taken

upon his first arrival in England.

 

“But here also the ministers of justice were waiting. Knowing

that he would return there, Garcia, who is the son of the former

highest dignitary in San Pedro, was waiting with two trusty

companions of humble station, all three fired with the same

reasons for revenge. He could do little during the day, for

Murillo took every precaution and never went out save with his

satellite Lucas, or Lopez as he was known in the days of his

greatness. At night, however, he slept alone, and the avenger

might find him. On a certain evening, which had been

prearranged, I sent my friend final instructions, for the man was

forever on the alert and continually changed his room. I was to

see that the doors were open and the signal of a green or white

light in a window which faced the drive was to give notice if all

was safe or if the attempt had better be postponed.

 

“But everything went wrong with us. In some way I had excited

the suspicion of Lopez, the secretary. He crept up behind me and

sprang upon me just as I had finished the note. He and his

master dragged me to my room and held judgment upon me as a

convicted traitress. Then and there they would have plunged

their knives into me could they have seen how to escape the

consequences of the deed. Finally, after much debate, they

concluded that my murder was too dangerous. But they determined

to get rid forever of Garcia. They had gagged me, and Murillo

twisted my arm round until I gave him the address. I swear that

he might have twisted it off had I understood what it would mean

to Garcia. Lopez addressed the note which I had written, sealed

it with his sleeve-link, and sent it by the hand of the servant,

Jose. How they murdered him I do not know, save that it was

Murillo’s hand who struck him down, for Lopez had remained to

guard me. I believe he must have waited among the gorse bushes

through which the path winds and struck him down as he passed.

At first they were of a mind to let him enter the house and to

kill him as a detected burglar; but they argued that if they were

mixed up in an inquiry their own identity would at once be

publicly disclosed and they would be open to further attacks.

With the death of Garcia, the pursuit might cease, since such a

death might frighten others from the task.

 

“All would now have been well for them had it not been for my

knowledge of what they had done. I have no doubt that there were

times when my life hung in the balance. I was confined to my

room, terrorized by the most horrible threats, cruelly illused

to break my spirit—see this stab on my shoulder and the bruises

from end to end of my arms—and a gag was thrust into my mouth on

the one occasion when I tried to call from the window. For five

days this cruel imprisonment continued, with hardly enough food

to hold body and soul together. This afternoon a good lunch was

brought me, but the moment after I took it I knew that I had been

drugged. In a sort of dream I remember being half-led, half-carried to the carriage; in the same state I was conveyed to the

train. Only then, when the wheels were almost moving, did I

suddenly realize that my liberty lay in my own hands. I sprang

out, they tried to drag me back, and had it not been for the help

of this good man, who led me to the cab, I should never had

broken away. Now, thank God, I am beyond their power forever.”

 

We had all listened intently to this remarkable statement. It

was Holmes who broke the silence.

 

“Our difficulties are not over,” he remarked, shaking his head.

“Our police work ends, but our legal work begins.”

 

“Exactly,” said I. “A plausible lawyer could make it out as an

act of self-defence. There may be a hundred crimes in the

background, but it is only on this one that they can be tried.”

 

“Come, come,” said Baynes cheerily, “I think better of the law

than that. Self-defence is one thing. To entice a man in cold

blood with the object of murdering him is another, whatever

danger you may fear from him. No, no, we shall all be justified

when we see the tenants of High Gable at the next Guildford

Assizes.”

 

It is a matter of history, however, that a little time was still

to elapse before the Tiger of San Pedro should meet with his

deserts. Wily and bold, he and his companion threw their pursuer

off their track by entering a lodging-house in Edmonton Street

and leaving by the back-gate into Curzon Square. From that day

they were seen no more in England. Some six months afterwards

the Marquess of Montalva and Signor Rulli, his secretary, were

both murdered in their rooms at the Hotel Escurial at Madrid.

The crime was ascribed to Nihilism, and the murderers were never

arrested. Inspector Baynes visited us at Baker Street with a

printed description of the dark face of the secretary, and of the

masterful features, the magnetic black eyes, and the tufted brows

of his master. We could not doubt that justice, if belated, had

come at last.

 

“A chaotic case, my dear Watson,” said Holmes over an evening

pipe. “It will not be possible for you to present in that compact

form which is dear to your heart. It covers two continents,

concerns two groups of mysterious persons, and is further

complicated by the highly respectable presence of our friend,

Scott Eccles, whose inclusion shows me that the deceased Garcia

had a scheming mind and a well-developed instinct of self-preservation. It is remarkable only for the fact that amid a

perfect jungle of possibilities we, with our worthy collaborator,

the inspector, have kept our close hold on the essentials and so

been guided along the crooked and winding path. Is there any

point which is not quite clear to you?”

 

“The object of the mulatto cook’s return?”

 

“I think that the strange creature in the kitchen may account for

it. The man was a primitive savage from the backwoods of San

Pedro, and this was his fetish. When his companion and he had

fled to some prearranged retreat—already occupied, no doubt by a

confederate—the companion had persuaded him to leave so

compromising an article of furniture. But the mulatto’s heart

was with it, and he was driven back to it next day, when, on

reconnoitering through the window, he found policeman Walters in

possession. He waited three days longer, and then his piety or

his superstition drove him to try once more. Inspector Baynes,

who, with his usual astuteness, had minimized the incident before

me, had really recognized its importance and had left a trap into

which the creature walked. Any other point, Watson?”

 

“The torn bird, the pail of blood, the charred bones, all the

mystery of that weird kitchen?”

 

Holmes smiled as he turned up an entry in his notebook.

 

“I spent a morning in the British Museum reading up on that and

other points. Here is a quotation from Eckermann’s Voodooism and

the Negroid Religions:

 

“‘The true voodoo-worshipper attempts nothing of importance

without certain sacrifices which are intended to propitiate his

unclean gods. In extreme cases these rites take the form of

human sacrifices followed by cannibalism. The more usual victims

are a white cock, which is plucked in pieces alive, or a black

goat, whose throat is cut and body burned.’

 

“So you see our savage friend was very orthodox in his ritual.

It is grotesque, Watson,” Holmes added, as he slowly fastened his

notebook, “but, as I have had occasion to remark, there is but

one step from the grotesque to the horrible.”

 

The Adventure of the Cardboard Box

 

In choosing a few typical cases which illustrate the remarkable

mental qualities of my friend, Sherlock Holmes, I have

endeavoured, as far as possible, to select those which presented

the minimum of sensationalism, while offering a fair field for

his talents. It is, however, unfortunately impossible entirely

to separate the sensational from the criminal, and a chronicler

is left in the dilemma that he must either sacrifice details

which are essential to his statement and so give a false

impression of the problem, or he must use matter which chance,

and not choice, has provided him with. With this short preface I

shall turn to my notes of what proved to be a strange, though a

peculiarly terrible, chain of events.

 

It was a blazing hot day in August. Baker Street was like an

oven, and the glare of the sunlight upon the yellow brickwork of

the house across the road was painful to the eye. It was hard to

believe that these were the same walls which loomed so gloomily

through the fogs of winter. Our blinds were half-drawn, and

Holmes lay curled upon the sofa, reading and re-reading a letter

which he had received by the morning post. For myself, my term

of service in India had