Adventure Two of The Adventures of Sherlock
Holmes
This Librivox recording is in the public domain
and is read by Mark Smith of Simpsonville,
South Carolina
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, by Sir
Arthur Conan Doyle
Adventure Two THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE
I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, one day in the
autumn of last year and found him in deep
conversation with a
very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman
with fiery red hair.
With an apology for my intrusion, I was about
to withdraw when
Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room and
closed the door
behind me.
"You could not possibly have come at a better
time, my dear
Watson," he said cordially.
"I was afraid that you were engaged."
"So I am. Very much so."
"Then I can wait in the next room."
"Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has
been my partner and
helper in many of my most successful cases,
and I have no
doubt that he will be of the utmost use to
me in yours also."
The stout gentleman half rose from his chair
and gave a bob of
greeting, with a quick little questioning
glance from his small
fat-encircled eyes.
"Try the settee," said Holmes, relapsing into
his armchair and
putting his fingertips together, as was his
custom when in
judicial moods. "I know, my dear Watson, that
you share my love
of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions
and humdrum
routine of everyday life. You have shown your
relish for it by
the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle,
and, if you
will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish
so many of my own
little adventures."
"Your cases have indeed been of the greatest
interest to me," I
observed.
"You will remember that I remarked the other
day, just before we
went into the very simple problem presented
by Miss Mary
Sutherland, that for strange effects and extraordinary
combinations we must go to life itself, which
is always far more
daring than any effort of the imagination."
"A proposition which I took the liberty of
doubting."
"You did, Doctor, but none the less you must
come round to my
view, for otherwise I shall keep on piling
fact upon fact on you
until your reason breaks down under them and
acknowledges me to
be right. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been
good enough to call
upon me this morning, and to begin a narrative
which promises to
be one of the most singular which I have listened
to for some
time. You have heard me remark that the strangest
and most unique
things are very often connected not with the
larger but with the
smaller crimes, and occasionally, indeed,
where there is room for
doubt whether any positive crime has been
committed. As far as I
have heard it is impossible for me to say
whether the present
case is an instance of crime or not, but the
course of events is
certainly among the most singular that I have
ever listened to.
Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the great
kindness to
recommence your narrative. I ask you not merely
because my friend
Dr. Watson has not heard the opening part
but also because the
peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious
to have every
possible detail from your lips. As a rule,
when I have heard some
slight indication of the course of events,
I am able to guide
myself by the thousands of other similar cases
which occur to my
memory. In the present instance I am forced
to admit that the
facts are, to the best of my belief, unique."
The portly client puffed out his chest with
an appearance of some
little pride and pulled a dirty and wrinkled
newspaper from the
inside pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced
down the
advertisement column, with his head thrust
forward and the paper
flattened out upon his knee, I took a good
look at the man and
endeavoured, after the fashion of my companion,
to read the
indications which might be presented by his
dress or appearance.
I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection.
Our visitor
bore every mark of being an average commonplace
British
tradesman, obese, pompous, and slow. He wore
rather baggy grey
shepherd's check trousers, a not over-clean
black frock-coat,
unbuttoned in the front, and a drab waistcoat
with a heavy brassy
Albert chain, and a square pierced bit of
metal dangling down as
an ornament. A frayed top-hat and a faded
brown overcoat with a
wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair beside
him. Altogether,
look as I would, there was nothing remarkable
about the man save
his blazing red head, and the expression of
extreme chagrin and
discontent upon his features.
Sherlock Holmes' quick eye took in my occupation,
and he shook
his head with a smile as he noticed my questioning
glances.
"Beyond the obvious facts that he has at some
time done manual
labour, that he takes snuff, that he is a
Freemason, that he has
been in China, and that he has done a considerable
amount of
writing lately, I can deduce nothing else."
Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair,
with his forefinger
upon the paper, but his eyes upon my companion.
"How, in the name of good-fortune, did you
know all that, Mr.
Holmes?" he asked. "How did you know, for
example, that I did
manual labour. It's as true as gospel, for
I began as a ship's
carpenter."
"Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand
is quite a size larger
than your left. You have worked with it, and
the muscles are more
developed."
"Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?"
"I won't insult your intelligence by telling
you how I read that,
especially as, rather against the strict rules
of your order, you
use an arc-and-compass breastpin."
"Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?"
"What else can be indicated by that right
cuff so very shiny for
five inches, and the left one with the smooth
patch near the
elbow where you rest it upon the desk?"
"Well, but China?"
"The fish that you have tattooed immediately
above your right
wrist could only have been done in China.
I have made a small
study of tattoo marks and have even contributed
to the literature
of the subject. That trick of staining the
fishes' scales of a
delicate pink is quite peculiar to China.
When, in addition, I
see a Chinese coin hanging from your watch-chain,
the matter
becomes even more simple."
Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. "Well, I
never!" said he. "I
thought at first that you had done something
clever, but I see
that there was nothing in it, after all."
"I begin to think, Watson," said Holmes, "that
I make a mistake
in explaining. 'Omne ignotum pro magnifico,'
you know, and my
poor little reputation, such as it is, will
suffer shipwreck if I
am so candid. Can you not find the advertisement,
Mr. Wilson?"
"Yes, I have got it now," he answered with
his thick red finger
planted halfway down the column. "Here it
is. This is what began
it all. You just read it for yourself, sir."
I took the paper from him and read as follows:
"TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE: On account of the
bequest of the late
Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pennsylvania,
U. S. A., there is now
another vacancy open which entitles a member
of the League to a
salary of 4 pounds a week for purely nominal
services. All
red-headed men who are sound in body and mind
and above the age
of twenty-one years, are eligible. Apply in
person on Monday, at
eleven o'clock, to Duncan Ross, at the offices
of the League, 7
Pope's Court, Fleet Street."
"What on earth does this mean?" I ejaculated
after I had twice
read over the extraordinary announcement.
Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair,
as was his habit when
in high spirits. "It is a little off the beaten
track, isn't it?"
said he. "And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go
at scratch and tell us
all about yourself, your household, and the
effect which this
advertisement had upon your fortunes. You
will first make a note,
Doctor, of the paper and the date."
"It is The Morning Chronicle of April 27,
1890. Just two months
ago."
"Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?"
"Well, it is just as I have been telling you,
Mr. Sherlock
Holmes," said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead;
"I have a small
pawnbroker's business at Coburg Square, near
the City. It's not a
very large affair, and of late years it has
not done more than
just give me a living. I used to be able to
keep two assistants,
but now I only keep one; and I would have
a job to pay him but
that he is willing to come for half wages
so as to learn the
business."
"What is the name of this obliging youth?"
asked Sherlock Holmes.
"His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he's not
such a youth,
either. It's hard to say his age. I should
not wish a smarter
assistant, Mr. Holmes; and I know very well
that he could better
himself and earn twice what I am able to give
him. But, after
all, if he is satisfied, why should I put
ideas in his head?"
"Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having
an employé who
comes under the full market price. It is not
a common experience
among employers in this age. I don't know
that your assistant is
not as remarkable as your advertisement."
"Oh, he has his faults, too," said Mr. Wilson.
"Never was such a
fellow for photography. Snapping away with
a camera when he ought
to be improving his mind, and then diving
down into the cellar
like a rabbit into its hole to develop his
pictures. That is his
main fault, but on the whole he's a good worker.
There's no vice
in him."
"He is still with you, I presume?"
"Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who
does a bit of simple
cooking and keeps the place clean--that's
all I have in the
house, for I am a widower and never had any
family. We live very
quietly, sir, the three of us; and we keep
a roof over our heads
and pay our debts, if we do nothing more.
"The first thing that put us out was that
advertisement.
Spaulding, he came down into the office just
this day eight
weeks, with this very paper in his hand, and
he says:
"'I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was
a red-headed man.'
"'Why that?' I asks.
"'Why,' says he, 'here's another vacancy on
the League of the
Red-headed Men. It's worth quite a little
fortune to any man who
gets it, and I understand that there are more
vacancies than
there are men, so that the trustees are at
their wits' end what
to do with the money. If my hair would only
change colour, here's
a nice little crib all ready for me to step
into.'
"'Why, what is it, then?' I asked. You see,
Mr. Holmes, I am a
very stay-at-home man, and as my business
came to me instead of
my having to go to it, I was often weeks on
end without putting
my foot over the door-mat. In that way I didn't
know much of what
was going on outside, and I was always glad
of a bit of news.
"'Have you never heard of the League of the
Red-headed Men?' he
asked with his eyes open.
"'Never.'
"'Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible
yourself for one
of the vacancies.'
"'And what are they worth?' I asked.
"'Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but
the work is slight,
and it need not interfere very much with one's
other
occupations.'
"Well, you can easily think that that made
me prick up my ears,
for the business has not been over-good for
some years, and an
extra couple of hundred would have been very
handy.
"'Tell me all about it,' said I.
"'Well,' said he, showing me the advertisement,
'you can see for
yourself that the League has a vacancy, and
there is the address
where you should apply for particulars. As
far as I can make out,
the League was founded by an American millionaire,
Ezekiah
Hopkins, who was very peculiar in his ways.
He was himself
red-headed, and he had a great sympathy for
all red-headed men;
so when he died it was found that he had left
his enormous
fortune in the hands of trustees, with instructions
to apply the
interest to the providing of easy berths to
men whose hair is of
that colour. From all I hear it is splendid
pay and very little to
do.'
"'But,' said I, 'there would be millions of
red-headed men who
would apply.'
"'Not so many as you might think,' he answered.
'You see it is
really confined to Londoners, and to grown
men. This American had
started from London when he was young, and
he wanted to do the
old town a good turn. Then, again, I have
heard it is no use your
applying if your hair is light red, or dark
red, or anything but
real bright, blazing, fiery red. Now, if you
cared to apply, Mr.
Wilson, you would just walk in; but perhaps
it would hardly be
worth your while to put yourself out of the
way for the sake of a
few hundred pounds.'
"Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may
see for yourselves,
that my hair is of a very full and rich tint,
so that it seemed
to me that if there was to be any competition
in the matter I
stood as good a chance as any man that I had
ever met. Vincent
Spaulding seemed to know so much about it
that I thought he might
prove useful, so I just ordered him to put
up the shutters for
the day and to come right away with me. He
was very willing to
have a holiday, so we shut the business up
and started off for
the address that was given us in the advertisement.
"I never hope to see such a sight as that
again, Mr. Holmes. From
north, south, east, and west every man who
had a shade of red in
his hair had tramped into the city to answer
the advertisement.
Fleet Street was choked with red-headed folk,
and Pope's Court
looked like a coster's orange barrow. I should
not have thought
there were so many in the whole country as
were brought together
by that single advertisement. Every shade
of colour they
were--straw, lemon, orange, brick, Irish-setter,
liver, clay;
but, as Spaulding said, there were not many
who had the real
vivid flame-coloured tint. When I saw how
many were waiting, I
would have given it up in despair; but Spaulding
would not hear
of it. How he did it I could not imagine,
but he pushed and
pulled and butted until he got me through
the crowd, and right up
to the steps which led to the office. There
was a double stream
upon the stair, some going up in hope, and
some coming back
dejected; but we wedged in as well as we could
and soon found
ourselves in the office."
"Your experience has been a most entertaining
one," remarked
Holmes as his client paused and refreshed
his memory with a huge
pinch of snuff. "Pray continue your very interesting
statement."
"There was nothing in the office but a couple
of wooden chairs
and a deal table, behind which sat a small
man with a head that
was even redder than mine. He said a few words
to each candidate
as he came up, and then he always managed
to find some fault in
them which would disqualify them. Getting
a vacancy did not seem
to be such a very easy matter, after all.
However, when our turn
came the little man was much more favourable
to me than to any of
the others, and he closed the door as we entered,
so that he
might have a private word with us.
"'This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,' said my assistant,
'and he is
willing to fill a vacancy in the League.'
"'And he is admirably suited for it,' the
other answered. 'He has
every requirement. I cannot recall when I
have seen anything so
fine.' He took a step backward, cocked his
head on one side, and
gazed at my hair until I felt quite bashful.
Then suddenly he
plunged forward, wrung my hand, and congratulated
me warmly on my
success.
"'It would be injustice to hesitate,' said
he. 'You will,
however, I am sure, excuse me for taking an
obvious precaution.'
With that he seized my hair in both his hands,
and tugged until I
yelled with the pain. 'There is water in your
eyes,' said he as
he released me. 'I perceive that all is as
it should be. But we
have to be careful, for we have twice been
deceived by wigs and
once by paint. I could tell you tales of cobbler's
wax which
would disgust you with human nature.' He stepped
over to the
window and shouted through it at the top of
his voice that the
vacancy was filled. A groan of disappointment
came up from below,
and the folk all trooped away in different
directions until there
was not a red-head to be seen except my own
and that of the
manager.
"'My name,' said he, 'is Mr. Duncan Ross,
and I am myself one of
the pensioners upon the fund left by our noble
benefactor. Are
you a married man, Mr. Wilson? Have you a
family?'
"I answered that I had not.
"His face fell immediately.
"'Dear me!' he said gravely, 'that is very
serious indeed! I am
sorry to hear you say that. The fund was,
of course, for the
propagation and spread of the red-heads as
well as for their
maintenance. It is exceedingly unfortunate
that you should be a
bachelor.'
"My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for
I thought that I was
not to have the vacancy after all; but after
thinking it over for
a few minutes he said that it would be all
right.
"'In the case of another,' said he, 'the objection
might be
fatal, but we must stretch a point in favour
of a man with such a
head of hair as yours. When shall you be able
to enter upon your
new duties?'
"'Well, it is a little awkward, for I have
a business already,'
said I.
"'Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!'
said Vincent Spaulding.
'I should be able to look after that for you.'
"'What would be the hours?' I asked.
"'Ten to two.'
"Now a pawnbroker's business is mostly done
of an evening, Mr.
Holmes, especially Thursday and Friday evening,
which is just
before pay-day; so it would suit me very well
to earn a little in
the mornings. Besides, I knew that my assistant
was a good man,
and that he would see to anything that turned
up.
"'That would suit me very well,' said I. 'And
the pay?'
"'Is 4 pounds a week.'
"'And the work?'
"'Is purely nominal.'
"'What do you call purely nominal?'
"'Well, you have to be in the office, or at
least in the
building, the whole time. If you leave, you
forfeit your whole
position forever. The will is very clear upon
that point. You
don't comply with the conditions if you budge
from the office
during that time.'
"'It's only four hours a day, and I should
not think of leaving,'
said I.
"'No excuse will avail,' said Mr. Duncan Ross;
'neither sickness
nor business nor anything else. There you
must stay, or you lose
your billet.'
"'And the work?'
"'Is to copy out the "Encyclopaedia Britannica."
There is the first
volume of it in that press. You must find
your own ink, pens, and
blotting-paper, but we provide this table
and chair. Will you be
ready to-morrow?'
"'Certainly,' I answered.
"'Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let
me congratulate you
once more on the important position which
you have been fortunate
enough to gain.' He bowed me out of the room
and I went home with
my assistant, hardly knowing what to say or
do, I was so pleased
at my own good fortune.
"Well, I thought over the matter all day,
and by evening I was in
low spirits again; for I had quite persuaded
myself that the
whole affair must be some great hoax or fraud,
though what its
object might be I could not imagine. It seemed
altogether past
belief that anyone could make such a will,
or that they would pay
such a sum for doing anything so simple as
copying out the
'Encyclopaedia Britannica.' Vincent Spaulding
did what he could to
cheer me up, but by bedtime I had reasoned
myself out of the
whole thing. However, in the morning I determined
to have a look
at it anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle of
ink, and with a
quill-pen, and seven sheets of foolscap paper,
I started off for
Pope's Court.
"Well, to my surprise and delight, everything
was as right as
possible. The table was set out ready for
me, and Mr. Duncan Ross
was there to see that I got fairly to work.
He started me off
upon the letter A, and then he left me; but
he would drop in from
time to time to see that all was right with
me. At two o'clock he
bade me good-day, complimented me upon the
amount that I had
written, and locked the door of the office
after me.
"This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and
on Saturday the
manager came in and planked down four golden
sovereigns for my
week's work. It was the same next week, and
the same the week
after. Every morning I was there at ten, and
every afternoon I
left at two. By degrees Mr. Duncan Ross took
to coming in only
once of a morning, and then, after a time,
he did not come in at
all. Still, of course, I never dared to leave
the room for an
instant, for I was not sure when he might
come, and the billet
was such a good one, and suited me so well,
that I would not risk
the loss of it.
"Eight weeks passed away like this, and I
had written about
Abbots and Archery and Armour and Architecture
and Attica, and
hoped with diligence that I might get on to
the B's before very
long. It cost me something in foolscap, and
I had pretty nearly
filled a shelf with my writings. And then
suddenly the whole
business came to an end."
"To an end?"
"Yes, sir. And no later than this morning.
I went to my work as
usual at ten o'clock, but the door was shut
and locked, with a
little square of cardboard hammered on to
the middle of the
panel with a tack. Here it is, and you can
read for yourself."
He held up a piece of white cardboard about
the size of a sheet
of note-paper. It read in this fashion:
THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE
IS
DISSOLVED.
October 9, 1890.
Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement
and the
rueful face behind it, until the comical side
of the affair so
completely overtopped every other consideration
that we both
burst out into a roar of laughter.
"I cannot see that there is anything very
funny," cried our
client, flushing up to the roots of his flaming
head. "If you can
do nothing better than laugh at me, I can
go elsewhere."
"No, no," cried Holmes, shoving him back into
the chair from
which he had half risen. "I really wouldn't
miss your case for
the world. It is most refreshingly unusual.
But there is, if you
will excuse my saying so, something just a
little funny about it.
Pray what steps did you take when you found
the card upon the
door?"
"I was staggered, sir. I did not know what
to do. Then I called
at the offices round, but none of them seemed
to know anything
about it. Finally, I went to the landlord,
who is an accountant
living on the ground-floor, and I asked him
if he could tell me
what had become of the Red-headed League.
He said that he had
never heard of any such body. Then I asked
him who Mr. Duncan
Ross was. He answered that the name was new
to him.
"'Well,' said I, 'the gentleman at No. 4.'
"'What, the red-headed man?'
"'Yes.'
"'Oh,' said he, 'his name was William Morris.
He was a solicitor
and was using my room as a temporary convenience
until his new
premises were ready. He moved out yesterday.'
"'Where could I find him?'
"'Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the
address. Yes, 17
King Edward Street, near St. Paul's.'
"I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got
to that address it was
a manufactory of artificial knee-caps, and
no one in it had ever
heard of either Mr. William Morris or Mr.
Duncan Ross."
"And what did you do then?" asked Holmes.
"I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I
took the advice of my
assistant. But he could not help me in any
way. He could only say
that if I waited I should hear by post. But
that was not quite
good enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to
lose such a place
without a struggle, so, as I had heard that
you were good enough
to give advice to poor folk who were in need
of it, I came right
away to you."
"And you did very wisely," said Holmes. "Your
case is an
exceedingly remarkable one, and I shall be
happy to look into it.
From what you have told me I think that it
is possible that
graver issues hang from it than might at first
sight appear."
"Grave enough!" said Mr. Jabez Wilson. "Why,
I have lost four
pound a week."
"As far as you are personally concerned,"
remarked Holmes, "I do
not see that you have any grievance against
this extraordinary
league. On the contrary, you are, as I understand,
richer by some
30 pounds, to say nothing of the minute knowledge
which you have
gained on every subject which comes under
the letter A. You have
lost nothing by them."
"No, sir. But I want to find out about them,
and who they are,
and what their object was in playing this
prank--if it was a
prank--upon me. It was a pretty expensive
joke for them, for it
cost them two and thirty pounds."
"We shall endeavour to clear up these points
for you. And, first,
one or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant
of yours who
first called your attention to the advertisement--how
long had he
been with you?"
"About a month then."
"How did he come?"
"In answer to an advertisement."
"Was he the only applicant?"
"No, I had a dozen."
"Why did you pick him?"
"Because he was handy and would come cheap."
"At half-wages, in fact."
"Yes."
"What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?"
"Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways,
no hair on his face,
though he's not short of thirty. Has a white
splash of acid upon
his forehead."
Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable
excitement. "I thought
as much," said he. "Have you ever observed
that his ears are
pierced for earrings?"
"Yes, sir. He told me that a gipsy had done
it for him when he
was a lad."
"Hum!" said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought.
"He is still
with you?"
"Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him."
"And has your business been attended to in
your absence?"
"Nothing to complain of, sir. There's never
very much to do of a
morning."
"That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy
to give you an
opinion upon the subject in the course of
a day or two. To-day is
Saturday, and I hope that by Monday we may
come to a conclusion."
"Well, Watson," said Holmes when our visitor
had left us, "what
do you make of it all?"
"I make nothing of it," I answered frankly.
"It is a most
mysterious business."
"As a rule," said Holmes, "the more bizarre
a thing is the less
mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace,
featureless
crimes which are really puzzling, just as
a commonplace face is
the most difficult to identify. But I must
be prompt over this
matter."
"What are you going to do, then?" I asked.
"To smoke," he answered. "It is quite a three
pipe problem, and I
beg that you won't speak to me for fifty minutes."
He curled
himself up in his chair, with his thin knees
drawn up to his
hawk-like nose, and there he sat with his
eyes closed and his
black clay pipe thrusting out like the bill
of some strange bird.
I had come to the conclusion that he had dropped
asleep, and
indeed was nodding myself, when he suddenly
sprang out of his
chair with the gesture of a man who has made
up his mind and put
his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.
"Sarasate plays at the St. James's Hall this
afternoon," he
remarked. "What do you think, Watson? Could
your patients spare
you for a few hours?"
"I have nothing to do to-day. My practice
is never very
absorbing."
"Then put on your hat and come. I am going
through the City
first, and we can have some lunch on the way.
I observe that
there is a good deal of German music on the
programme, which is
rather more to my taste than Italian or French.
It is
introspective, and I want to introspect. Come
along!"
We travelled by the Underground as far as
Aldersgate; and a short
walk took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene
of the singular
story which we had listened to in the morning.
It was a poky,
little, shabby-genteel place, where four lines
of dingy
two-storied brick houses looked out into a
small railed-in
enclosure, where a lawn of weedy grass and
a few clumps of faded
laurel-bushes made a hard fight against a
smoke-laden and
uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls and
a brown board with
"JABEZ WILSON" in white letters, upon a corner
house, announced
the place where our red-headed client carried
on his business.
Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it with
his head on one side
and looked it all over, with his eyes shining
brightly between
puckered lids. Then he walked slowly up the
street, and then down
again to the corner, still looking keenly
at the houses. Finally
he returned to the pawnbroker's, and, having
thumped vigorously
upon the pavement with his stick two or three
times, he went up
to the door and knocked. It was instantly
opened by a
bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow,
who asked him to step
in.
"Thank you," said Holmes, "I only wished to
ask you how you would
go from here to the Strand."
"Third right, fourth left," answered the assistant
promptly,
closing the door.
"Smart fellow, that," observed Holmes as we
walked away. "He is,
in my judgment, the fourth smartest man in
London, and for daring
I am not sure that he has not a claim to be
third. I have known
something of him before."
"Evidently," said I, "Mr. Wilson's assistant
counts for a good
deal in this mystery of the Red-headed League.
I am sure that you
inquired your way merely in order that you
might see him."
"Not him."
"What then?"
"The knees of his trousers."
"And what did you see?"
"What I expected to see."
"Why did you beat the pavement?"
"My dear doctor, this is a time for observation,
not for talk. We
are spies in an enemy's country. We know something
of Saxe-Coburg
Square. Let us now explore the parts which
lie behind it."
The road in which we found ourselves as we
turned round the
corner from the retired Saxe-Coburg Square
presented as great a
contrast to it as the front of a picture does
to the back. It was
one of the main arteries which conveyed the
traffic of the City
to the north and west. The roadway was blocked
with the immense
stream of commerce flowing in a double tide
inward and outward,
while the footpaths were black with the hurrying
swarm of
pedestrians. It was difficult to realise as
we looked at the line
of fine shops and stately business premises
that they really
abutted on the other side upon the faded and
stagnant square
which we had just quitted.
"Let me see," said Holmes, standing at the
corner and glancing
along the line, "I should like just to remember
the order of the
houses here. It is a hobby of mine to have
an exact knowledge of
London. There is Mortimer's, the tobacconist,
the little
newspaper shop, the Coburg branch of the City
and Suburban Bank,
the Vegetarian Restaurant, and McFarlane's
carriage-building
depot. That carries us right on to the other
block. And now,
Doctor, we've done our work, so it's time
we had some play. A
sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off
to violin-land, where
all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony,
and there are no
red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums."
My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being
himself not only a
very capable performer but a composer of no
ordinary merit. All
the afternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped
in the most perfect
happiness, gently waving his long, thin fingers
in time to the
music, while his gently smiling face and his
languid, dreamy eyes
were as unlike those of Holmes the sleuth-hound,
Holmes the
relentless, keen-witted, ready-handed criminal
agent, as it was
possible to conceive. In his singular character
the dual nature
alternately asserted itself, and his extreme
exactness and
astuteness represented, as I have often thought,
the reaction
against the poetic and contemplative mood
which occasionally
predominated in him. The swing of his nature
took him from
extreme languor to devouring energy; and,
as I knew well, he was
never so truly formidable as when, for days
on end, he had been
lounging in his armchair amid his improvisations
and his
black-letter editions. Then it was that the
lust of the chase
would suddenly come upon him, and that his
brilliant reasoning
power would rise to the level of intuition,
until those who were
unacquainted with his methods would look askance
at him as on a
man whose knowledge was not that of other
mortals. When I saw him
that afternoon so enwrapped in the music at
St. James's Hall I
felt that an evil time might be coming upon
those whom he had set
himself to hunt down.
"You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor," he
remarked as we
emerged.
"Yes, it would be as well."
"And I have some business to do which will
take some hours. This
business at Coburg Square is serious."
"Why serious?"
"A considerable crime is in contemplation.
I have every reason to
believe that we shall be in time to stop it.
But to-day being
Saturday rather complicates matters. I shall
want your help
to-night."
"At what time?"
"Ten will be early enough."
"I shall be at Baker Street at ten."
"Very well. And, I say, Doctor, there may
be some little danger,
so kindly put your army revolver in your pocket."
He waved his
hand, turned on his heel, and disappeared
in an instant among the
crowd.
I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours,
but I was
always oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity
in my dealings
with Sherlock Holmes. Here I had heard what
he had heard, I had
seen what he had seen, and yet from his words
it was evident that
he saw clearly not only what had happened
but what was about to
happen, while to me the whole business was
still confused and
grotesque. As I drove home to my house in
Kensington I thought
over it all, from the extraordinary story
of the red-headed
copier of the "Encyclopaedia" down to the
visit to Saxe-Coburg
Square, and the ominous words with which he
had parted from me.
What was this nocturnal expedition, and why
should I go armed?
Where were we going, and what were we to do?
I had the hint from
Holmes that this smooth-faced pawnbroker's
assistant was a
formidable man--a man who might play a deep
game. I tried to
puzzle it out, but gave it up in despair and
set the matter aside
until night should bring an explanation.
It was a quarter-past nine when I started
from home and made my
way across the Park, and so through Oxford
Street to Baker
Street. Two hansoms were standing at the door,
and as I entered
the passage I heard the sound of voices from
above. On entering
his room I found Holmes in animated conversation
with two men,
one of whom I recognised as Peter Jones, the
official police
agent, while the other was a long, thin, sad-faced
man, with a
very shiny hat and oppressively respectable
frock-coat.
"Ha! Our party is complete," said Holmes,
buttoning up his
pea-jacket and taking his heavy hunting crop
from the rack.
"Watson, I think you know Mr. Jones, of Scotland
Yard? Let me
introduce you to Mr. Merryweather, who is
to be our companion in
to-night's adventure."
"We're hunting in couples again, Doctor, you
see," said Jones in
his consequential way. "Our friend here is
a wonderful man for
starting a chase. All he wants is an old dog
to help him to do
the running down."
"I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the
end of our chase,"
observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily.
"You may place considerable confidence in
Mr. Holmes, sir," said
the police agent loftily. "He has his own
little methods, which
are, if he won't mind my saying so, just a
little too theoretical
and fantastic, but he has the makings of a
detective in him. It
is not too much to say that once or twice,
as in that business of
the Sholto murder and the Agra treasure, he
has been more nearly
correct than the official force."
"Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right,"
said the
stranger with deference. "Still, I confess
that I miss my rubber.
It is the first Saturday night for seven-and-twenty
years that I
have not had my rubber."
"I think you will find," said Sherlock Holmes,
"that you will
play for a higher stake to-night than you
have ever done yet, and
that the play will be more exciting. For you,
Mr. Merryweather,
the stake will be some 30,000 pounds; and
for you, Jones, it will
be the man upon whom you wish to lay your
hands."
"John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher,
and forger. He's a
young man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at
the head of his
profession, and I would rather have my bracelets
on him than on
any criminal in London. He's a remarkable
man, is young John
Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke, and
he himself has been
to Eton and Oxford. His brain is as cunning
as his fingers, and
though we meet signs of him at every turn,
we never know where to
find the man himself. He'll crack a crib in
Scotland one week,
and be raising money to build an orphanage
in Cornwall the next.
I've been on his track for years and have
never set eyes on him
yet."
"I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing
you to-night.
I've had one or two little turns also with
Mr. John Clay, and I
agree with you that he is at the head of his
profession. It is
past ten, however, and quite time that we
started. If you two
will take the first hansom, Watson and I will
follow in the
second."
Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative
during the long drive
and lay back in the cab humming the tunes
which he had heard in
the afternoon. We rattled through an endless
labyrinth of gas-lit
streets until we emerged into Farrington Street.
"We are close there now," my friend remarked.
"This fellow
Merryweather is a bank director, and personally
interested in the
matter. I thought it as well to have Jones
with us also. He is
not a bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile
in his profession.
He has one positive virtue. He is as brave
as a bulldog and as
tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws
upon anyone. Here we
are, and they are waiting for us."
We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare
in which we had
found ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were
dismissed, and,
following the guidance of Mr. Merryweather,
we passed down a
narrow passage and through a side door, which
he opened for us.
Within there was a small corridor, which ended
in a very massive
iron gate. This also was opened, and led down
a flight of winding
stone steps, which terminated at another formidable
gate. Mr.
Merryweather stopped to light a lantern, and
then conducted us
down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and so,
after opening a
third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which
was piled all
round with crates and massive boxes.
"You are not very vulnerable from above,"
Holmes remarked as he
held up the lantern and gazed about him.
"Nor from below," said Mr. Merryweather, striking
his stick upon
the flags which lined the floor. "Why, dear
me, it sounds quite
hollow!" he remarked, looking up in surprise.
"I must really ask you to be a little more
quiet!" said Holmes
severely. "You have already imperilled the
whole success of our
expedition. Might I beg that you would have
the goodness to sit
down upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?"
The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself
upon a crate, with a
very injured expression upon his face, while
Holmes fell upon his
knees upon the floor and, with the lantern
and a magnifying lens,
began to examine minutely the cracks between
the stones. A few
seconds sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang
to his feet again
and put his glass in his pocket.
"We have at least an hour before us," he remarked,
"for they can
hardly take any steps until the good pawnbroker
is safely in bed.
Then they will not lose a minute, for the
sooner they do their
work the longer time they will have for their
escape. We are at
present, Doctor--as no doubt you have divined--in
the cellar of
the City branch of one of the principal London
banks. Mr.
Merryweather is the chairman of directors,
and he will explain to
you that there are reasons why the more daring
criminals of
London should take a considerable interest
in this cellar at
present."
"It is our French gold," whispered the director.
"We have had
several warnings that an attempt might be
made upon it."
"Your French gold?"
"Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen
our resources
and borrowed for that purpose 30,000 napoleons
from the Bank of
France. It has become known that we have never
had occasion to
unpack the money, and that it is still lying
in our cellar. The
crate upon which I sit contains 2,000 napoleons
packed between
layers of lead foil. Our reserve of bullion
is much larger at
present than is usually kept in a single branch
office, and the
directors have had misgivings upon the subject."
"Which were very well justified," observed
Holmes. "And now it is
time that we arranged our little plans. I
expect that within an
hour matters will come to a head. In the meantime
Mr.
Merryweather, we must put the screen over
that dark lantern."
"And sit in the dark?"
"I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards
in my pocket, and
I thought that, as we were a partie carrée,
you might have your
rubber after all. But I see that the enemy's
preparations have
gone so far that we cannot risk the presence
of a light. And,
first of all, we must choose our positions.
These are daring men,
and though we shall take them at a disadvantage,
they may do us
some harm unless we are careful. I shall stand
behind this crate,
and do you conceal yourselves behind those.
Then, when I flash a
light upon them, close in swiftly. If they
fire, Watson, have no
compunction about shooting them down."
I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top
of the wooden case
behind which I crouched. Holmes shot the slide
across the front
of his lantern and left us in pitch darkness--such
an absolute
darkness as I have never before experienced.
The smell of hot
metal remained to assure us that the light
was still there, ready
to flash out at a moment's notice. To me,
with my nerves worked
up to a pitch of expectancy, there was something
depressing and
subduing in the sudden gloom, and in the cold
dank air of the
vault.
"They have but one retreat," whispered Holmes.
"That is back
through the house into Saxe-Coburg Square.
I hope that you have
done what I asked you, Jones?"
"I have an inspector and two officers waiting
at the front door."
"Then we have stopped all the holes. And now
we must be silent
and wait."
What a time it seemed! From comparing notes
afterwards it was but
an hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to
me that the night must
have almost gone and the dawn be breaking
above us. My limbs
were weary and stiff, for I feared to change
my position; yet my
nerves were worked up to the highest pitch
of tension, and my
hearing was so acute that I could not only
hear the gentle
breathing of my companions, but I could distinguish
the deeper,
heavier in-breath of the bulky Jones from
the thin, sighing note
of the bank director. From my position I could
look over the case
in the direction of the floor. Suddenly my
eyes caught the glint
of a light.
At first it was but a lurid spark upon the
stone pavement. Then
it lengthened out until it became a yellow
line, and then,
without any warning or sound, a gash seemed
to open and a hand
appeared, a white, almost womanly hand, which
felt about in the
centre of the little area of light. For a
minute or more the
hand, with its writhing fingers, protruded
out of the floor. Then
it was withdrawn as suddenly as it appeared,
and all was dark
again save the single lurid spark which marked
a chink between
the stones.
Its disappearance, however, was but momentary.
With a rending,
tearing sound, one of the broad, white stones
turned over upon
its side and left a square, gaping hole, through
which streamed
the light of a lantern. Over the edge there
peeped a clean-cut,
boyish face, which looked keenly about it,
and then, with a hand
on either side of the aperture, drew itself
shoulder-high and
waist-high, until one knee rested upon the
edge. In another
instant he stood at the side of the hole and
was hauling after
him a companion, lithe and small like himself,
with a pale face
and a shock of very red hair.
"It's all clear," he whispered. "Have you
the chisel and the
bags? Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and
I'll swing for it!"
Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized
the intruder by the
collar. The other dived down the hole, and
I heard the sound of
rending cloth as Jones clutched at his skirts.
The light flashed
upon the barrel of a revolver, but Holmes'
hunting crop came
down on the man's wrist, and the pistol clinked
upon the stone
floor.
"It's no use, John Clay," said Holmes blandly.
"You have no
chance at all."
"So I see," the other answered with the utmost
coolness. "I fancy
that my pal is all right, though I see you
have got his
coat-tails."
"There are three men waiting for him at the
door," said Holmes.
"Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing
very completely. I
must compliment you."
"And I you," Holmes answered. "Your red-headed
idea was very new
and effective."
"You'll see your pal again presently," said
Jones. "He's quicker
at climbing down holes than I am. Just hold
out while I fix the
derbies."
"I beg that you will not touch me with your
filthy hands,"
remarked our prisoner as the handcuffs clattered
upon his wrists.
"You may not be aware that I have royal blood
in my veins. Have
the goodness, also, when you address me always
to say 'sir' and
'please.'"
"All right," said Jones with a stare and a
snigger. "Well, would
you please, sir, march upstairs, where we
can get a cab to carry
your Highness to the police-station?"
"That is better," said John Clay serenely.
He made a sweeping bow
to the three of us and walked quietly off
in the custody of the
detective.
"Really, Mr. Holmes," said Mr. Merryweather
as we followed them
from the cellar, "I do not know how the bank
can thank you or
repay you. There is no doubt that you have
detected and defeated
in the most complete manner one of the most
determined attempts
at bank robbery that have ever come within
my experience."
"I have had one or two little scores of my
own to settle with Mr.
John Clay," said Holmes. "I have been at some
small expense over
this matter, which I shall expect the bank
to refund, but beyond
that I am amply repaid by having had an experience
which is in
many ways unique, and by hearing the very
remarkable narrative of
the Red-headed League."
"You see, Watson," he explained in the early
hours of the morning
as we sat over a glass of whisky and soda
in Baker Street, "it
was perfectly obvious from the first that
the only possible
object of this rather fantastic business of
the advertisement of
the League, and the copying of the 'Encyclopaedia,'
must be to get
this not over-bright pawnbroker out of the
way for a number of
hours every day. It was a curious way of managing
it, but,
really, it would be difficult to suggest a
better. The method was
no doubt suggested to Clay's ingenious mind
by the colour of his
accomplice's hair. The 4 pounds a week was
a lure which must draw
him, and what was it to them, who were playing
for thousands?
They put in the advertisement, one rogue has
the temporary
office, the other rogue incites the man to
apply for it, and
together they manage to secure his absence
every morning in the
week. From the time that I heard of the assistant
having come for
half wages, it was obvious to me that he had
some strong motive
for securing the situation."
"But how could you guess what the motive was?"
"Had there been women in the house, I should
have suspected a
mere vulgar intrigue. That, however, was out
of the question. The
man's business was a small one, and there
was nothing in his
house which could account for such elaborate
preparations, and
such an expenditure as they were at. It must,
then, be something
out of the house. What could it be? I thought
of the assistant's
fondness for photography, and his trick of
vanishing into the
cellar. The cellar! There was the end of this
tangled clue. Then
I made inquiries as to this mysterious assistant
and found that I
had to deal with one of the coolest and most
daring criminals in
London. He was doing something in the cellar--something
which
took many hours a day for months on end. What
could it be, once
more? I could think of nothing save that he
was running a tunnel
to some other building.
"So far I had got when we went to visit the
scene of action. I
surprised you by beating upon the pavement
with my stick. I was
ascertaining whether the cellar stretched
out in front or behind.
It was not in front. Then I rang the bell,
and, as I hoped, the
assistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes,
but we had
never set eyes upon each other before. I hardly
looked at his
face. His knees were what I wished to see.
You must yourself have
remarked how worn, wrinkled, and stained they
were. They spoke of
those hours of burrowing. The only remaining
point was what they
were burrowing for. I walked round the corner,
saw the City and
Suburban Bank abutted on our friend's premises,
and felt that I
had solved my problem. When you drove home
after the concert I
called upon Scotland Yard and upon the chairman
of the bank
directors, with the result that you have seen."
"And how could you tell that they would make
their attempt
to-night?" I asked.
"Well, when they closed their League offices
that was a sign that
they cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson's
presence--in other
words, that they had completed their tunnel.
But it was essential
that they should use it soon, as it might
be discovered, or the
bullion might be removed. Saturday would suit
them better than
any other day, as it would give them two days
for their escape.
For all these reasons I expected them to come
to-night."
"You reasoned it out beautifully," I exclaimed
in unfeigned
admiration. "It is so long a chain, and yet
every link rings
true."
"It saved me from ennui," he answered, yawning.
"Alas! I already
feel it closing in upon me. My life is spent
in one long effort
to escape from the common places of existence.
These little
problems help me to do so."
"And you are a benefactor of the race," said
I.
He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, perhaps,
after all, it is of
some little use," he remarked. "'L'homme c'est
rien--l'oeuvre
c'est tout,' as Gustave Flaubert wrote to
George Sand."
End of Adventure Two
