THE ADVENTURE OF THE EMPTY HOUSE
It was in the spring of the year 1894 that
all London was interested, and the fashionable
world dismayed, by the murder of the Honourable
Ronald Adair under most unusual and inexplicable
circumstances. The public has already learned
those particulars of the crime which came
out in the police investigation, but a good
deal was suppressed upon that occasion, since
the case for the prosecution was so overwhelmingly
strong that it was not necessary to bring
forward all the facts. Only now, at the end
of nearly ten years, am I allowed to supply
those missing links which make up the whole
of that remarkable chain. The crime was of
interest in itself, but that interest was
as nothing to me compared to the inconceivable
sequel, which afforded me the greatest shock
and surprise of any event in my adventurous
life. Even now, after this long interval,
I find myself thrilling as I think of it,
and feeling once more that sudden flood of
joy, amazement, and incredulity which utterly
submerged my mind. Let me say to that public,
which has shown some interest in those glimpses
which I have occasionally given them of the
thoughts and actions of a very remarkable
man, that they are not to blame me if I have
not shared my knowledge with them, for I should
have considered it my first duty to do so,
had I not been barred by a positive prohibition
from his own lips, which was only withdrawn
upon the third of last month.
It can be imagined that my close intimacy
with Sherlock Holmes had interested me deeply
in crime, and that after his disappearance
I never failed to read with care the various
problems which came before the public. And
I even attempted, more than once, for my own
private satisfaction, to employ his methods
in their solution, though with indifferent
success. There was none, however, which appealed
to me like this tragedy of Ronald Adair. As
I read the evidence at the inquest, which
led up to a verdict of willful murder against
some person or persons unknown, I realized
more clearly than I had ever done the loss
which the community had sustained by the death
of Sherlock Holmes. There were points about
this strange business which would, I was sure,
have specially appealed to him, and the efforts
of the police would have been supplemented,
or more probably anticipated, by the trained
observation and the alert mind of the first
criminal agent in Europe. All day, as I drove
upon my round, I turned over the case in my
mind and found no explanation which appeared
to me to be adequate. At the risk of telling
a twice-told tale, I will recapitulate the
facts as they were known to the public at
the conclusion of the inquest.
The Honourable Ronald Adair was the second
son of the Earl of Maynooth, at that time
governor of one of the Australian colonies.
Adair's mother had returned from Australia
to undergo the operation for cataract, and
she, her son Ronald, and her daughter Hilda
were living together at 427 Park Lane. The
youth moved in the best societyóhad, so far
as was known, no enemies and no particular
vices. He had been engaged to Miss Edith Woodley,
of Carstairs, but the engagement had been
broken off by mutual consent some months before,
and there was no sign that it had left any
very profound feeling behind it. For the rest
{sic} the man's life moved in a narrow and
conventional circle, for his habits were quiet
and his nature unemotional. Yet it was upon
this easy-going young aristocrat that death
came, in most strange and unexpected form,
between the hours of ten and eleven-twenty
on the night of March 30, 1894.
Ronald Adair was fond of cardsóplaying continually,
but never for such stakes as would hurt him.
He was a member of the Baldwin, the Cavendish,
and the Bagatelle card clubs. It was shown
that, after dinner on the day of his death,
he had played a rubber of whist at the latter
club. He had also played there in the afternoon.
The evidence of those who had played with
himóMr. Murray, Sir John Hardy, and Colonel
Moranóshowed that the game was whist, and
that there was a fairly equal fall of the
cards. Adair might have lost five pounds,
but not more. His fortune was a considerable
one, and such a loss could not in any way
affect him. He had played nearly every day
at one club or other, but he was a cautious
player, and usually rose a winner. It came
out in evidence that, in partnership with
Colonel Moran, he had actually won as much
as four hundred and twenty pounds in a sitting,
some weeks before, from Godfrey Milner and
Lord Balmoral. So much for his recent history
as it came out at the inquest.
On the evening of the crime, he returned from
the club exactly at ten. His mother and sister
were out spending the evening with a relation.
The servant deposed that she heard him enter
the front room on the second floor, generally
used as his sitting-room. She had lit a fire
there, and as it smoked she had opened the
window. No sound was heard from the room until
eleven-twenty, the hour of the return of Lady
Maynooth and her daughter. Desiring to say
good-night, she attempted to enter her son's
room. The door was locked on the inside, and
no answer could be got to their cries and
knocking. Help was obtained, and the door
forced. The unfortunate young man was found
lying near the table. His head had been horribly
mutilated by an expanding revolver bullet,
but no weapon of any sort was to be found
in the room. On the table lay two banknotes
for ten pounds each and seventeen pounds ten
in silver and gold, the money arranged in
little piles of varying amount. There were
some figures also upon a sheet of paper, with
the names of some club friends opposite to
them, from which it was conjectured that before
his death he was endeavouring to make out
his losses or winnings at cards.
A minute examination of the circumstances
served only to make the case more complex.
In the first place, no reason could be given
why the young man should have fastened the
door upon the inside. There was the possibility
that the murderer had done this, and had afterwards
escaped by the window. The drop was at least
twenty feet, however, and a bed of crocuses
in full bloom lay beneath. Neither the flowers
nor the earth showed any sign of having been
disturbed, nor were there any marks upon the
narrow strip of grass which separated the
house from the road. Apparently, therefore,
it was the young man himself who had fastened
the door. But how did he come by his death?
No one could have climbed up to the window
without leaving traces. Suppose a man had
fired through the window, he would indeed
be a remarkable shot who could with a revolver
inflict so deadly a wound. Again, Park Lane
is a frequented thoroughfare; there is a cab
stand within a hundred yards of the house.
No one had heard a shot. And yet there was
the dead man and there the revolver bullet,
which had mushroomed out, as soft-nosed bullets
will, and so inflicted a wound which must
have caused instantaneous death. Such were
the circumstances of the Park Lane Mystery,
which were further complicated by entire absence
of motive, since, as I have said, young Adair
was not known to have any enemy, and no attempt
had been made to remove the money or valuables
in the room.
All day I turned these facts over in my mind,
endeavouring to hit upon some theory which
could reconcile them all, and to find that
line of least resistance which my poor friend
had declared to be the starting-point of every
investigation. I confess that I made little
progress. In the evening I strolled across
the Park, and found myself about six o'clock
at the Oxford Street end of Park Lane. A group
of loafers upon the pavements, all staring
up at a particular window, directed me to
the house which I had come to see. A tall,
thin man with coloured glasses, whom I strongly
suspected of being a plain-clothes detective,
was pointing out some theory of his own, while
the others crowded round to listen to what
he said. I got as near him as I could, but
his observations seemed to me to be absurd,
so I withdrew again in some disgust. As I
did so I struck against an elderly, deformed
man, who had been behind me, and I knocked
down several books which he was carrying.
I remember that as I picked them up, I observed
the title of one of them, THE ORIGIN OF TREE
WORSHIP, and it struck me that the fellow
must be some poor bibliophile, who, either
as a trade or as a hobby, was a collector
of obscure volumes. I endeavoured to apologize
for the accident, but it was evident that
these books which I had so unfortunately maltreated
were very precious objects in the eyes of
their owner. With a snarl of contempt he turned
upon his heel, and I saw his curved back and
white side-whiskers disappear among the throng.
My observations of No. 427 Park Lane did little
to clear up the problem in which I was interested.
The house was separated from the street by
a low wall and railing, the whole not more
than five feet high. It was perfectly easy,
therefore, for anyone to get into the garden,
but the window was entirely inaccessible,
since there was no waterpipe or anything which
could help the most active man to climb it.
More puzzled than ever, I retraced my steps
to Kensington. I had not been in my study
five minutes when the maid entered to say
that a person desired to see me. To my astonishment
it was none other than my strange old book
collector, his sharp, wizened face peering
out from a frame of white hair, and his precious
volumes, a dozen of them at least, wedged
under his right arm.
"You're surprised to see me, sir," said he,
in a strange, croaking voice.
I acknowledged that I was.
"Well, I've a conscience, sir, and when I
chanced to see you go into this house, as
I came hobbling after you, I thought to myself,
I'll just step in and see that kind gentleman,
and tell him that if I was a bit gruff in
my manner there was not any harm meant, and
that I am much obliged to him for picking
up my books."
"You make too much of a trifle," said I. "May
I ask how you knew who I was?"
"Well, sir, if it isn't too great a liberty,
I am a neighbour of yours, for you'll find
my little bookshop at the corner of Church
Street, and very happy to see you, I am sure.
Maybe you collect yourself, sir. Here's BRITISH
BIRDS, and CATULLUS, and THE HOLY WARóa bargain,
every one of them. With five volumes you could
just fill that gap on that second shelf. It
looks untidy, does it not, sir?"
I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind
me. When I turned again, Sherlock Holmes was
standing smiling at me across my study table.
I rose to my feet, stared at him for some
seconds in utter amazement, and then it appears
that I must have fainted for the first and
the last time in my life. Certainly a gray
mist swirled before my eyes, and when it cleared
I found my collar-ends undone and the tingling
after-taste of brandy upon my lips. Holmes
was bending over my chair, his flask in his
hand.
"My dear Watson," said the well-remembered
voice, "I owe you a thousand apologies. I
had no idea that you would be so affected."
I gripped him by the arms.
"Holmes!" I cried. "Is it really you? Can
it indeed be that you are alive? Is it possible
that you succeeded in climbing out of that
awful abyss?"
"Wait a moment," said he. "Are you sure that
you are really fit to discuss things? I have
given you a serious shock by my unnecessarily
dramatic reappearance."
"I am all right, but indeed, Holmes, I can
hardly believe my eyes. Good heavens! to think
that youóyou of all menóshould be standing
in my study." Again I gripped him by the sleeve,
and felt the thin, sinewy arm beneath it.
"Well, you're not a spirit anyhow," said I.
"My dear chap, I'm overjoyed to see you. Sit
down, and tell me how you came alive out of
that dreadful chasm."
He sat opposite to me, and lit a cigarette
in his old, nonchalant manner. He was dressed
in the seedy frockcoat of the book merchant,
but the rest of that individual lay in a pile
of white hair and old books upon the table.
Holmes looked even thinner and keener than
of old, but there was a dead-white tinge in
his aquiline face which told me that his life
recently had not been a healthy one.
"I am glad to stretch myself, Watson," said
he. "It is no joke when a tall man has to
take a foot off his stature for several hours
on end. Now, my dear fellow, in the matter
of these explanations, we have, if I may ask
for your cooperation, a hard and dangerous
night's work in front of us. Perhaps it would
be better if I gave you an account of the
whole situation when that work is finished."
"I am full of curiosity. I should much prefer
to hear now."
"You'll come with me to-night?"
"When you like and where you like."
"This is, indeed, like the old days. We shall
have time for a mouthful of dinner before
we need go. Well, then, about that chasm.
I had no serious difficulty in getting out
of it, for the very simple reason that I never
was in it."
"You never were in it?"
"No, Watson, I never was in it. My note to
you was absolutely genuine. I had little doubt
that I had come to the end of my career when
I perceived the somewhat sinister figure of
the late Professor Moriarty standing upon
the narrow pathway which led to safety. I
read an inexorable purpose in his gray eyes.
I exchanged some remarks with him, therefore,
and obtained his courteous permission to write
the short note which you afterwards received.
I left it with my cigarette-box and my stick,
and I walked along the pathway, Moriarty still
at my heels. When I reached the end I stood
at bay. He drew no weapon, but he rushed at
me and threw his long arms around me. He knew
that his own game was up, and was only anxious
to revenge himself upon me. We tottered together
upon the brink of the fall. I have some knowledge,
however, of baritsu, or the Japanese system
of wrestling, which has more than once been
very useful to me. I slipped through his grip,
and he with a horrible scream kicked madly
for a few seconds, and clawed the air with
both his hands. But for all his efforts he
could not get his balance, and over he went.
With my face over the brink, I saw him fall
for a long way. Then he struck a rock, bounded
off, and splashed into the water."
I listened with amazement to this explanation,
which Holmes delivered between the puffs of
his cigarette.
"But the tracks!" I cried. "I saw, with my
own eyes, that two went down the path and
none returned."
"It came about in this way. The instant that
the Professor had disappeared, it struck me
what a really extraordinarily lucky chance
Fate had placed in my way. I knew that Moriarty
was not the only man who had sworn my death.
There were at least three others whose desire
for vengeance upon me would only be increased
by the death of their leader. They were all
most dangerous men. One or other would certainly
get me. On the other hand, if all the world
was convinced that I was dead they would take
liberties, these men, they would soon lay
themselves open, and sooner or later I could
destroy them. Then it would be time for me
to announce that I was still in the land of
the living. So rapidly does the brain act
that I believe I had thought this all out
before Professor Moriarty had reached the
bottom of the Reichenbach Fall.
"I stood up and examined the rocky wall behind
me. In your picturesque account of the matter,
which I read with great interest some months
later, you assert that the wall was sheer.
That was not literally true. A few small footholds
presented themselves, and there was some indication
of a ledge. The cliff is so high that to climb
it all was an obvious impossibility, and it
was equally impossible to make my way along
the wet path without leaving some tracks.
I might, it is true, have reversed my boots,
as I have done on similar occasions, but the
sight of three sets of tracks in one direction
would certainly have suggested a deception.
On the whole, then, it was best that I should
risk the climb. It was not a pleasant business,
Watson. The fall roared beneath me. I am not
a fanciful person, but I give you my word
that I seemed to hear Moriarty's voice screaming
at me out of the abyss. A mistake would have
been fatal. More than once, as tufts of grass
came out in my hand or my foot slipped in
the wet notches of the rock, I thought that
I was gone. But I struggled upward, and at
last I reached a ledge several feet deep and
covered with soft green moss, where I could
lie unseen, in the most perfect comfort. There
I was stretched, when you, my dear Watson,
and all your following were investigating
in the most sympathetic and inefficient manner
the circumstances of my death.
"At last, when you had all formed your inevitable
and totally erroneous conclusions, you departed
for the hotel, and I was left alone. I had
imagined that I had reached the end of my
adventures, but a very unexpected occurrence
showed me that there were surprises still
in store for me. A huge rock, falling from
above, boomed past me, struck the path, and
bounded over into the chasm. For an instant
I thought that it was an accident, but a moment
later, looking up, I saw a man's head against
the darkening sky, and another stone struck
the very ledge upon which I was stretched,
within a foot of my head. Of course, the meaning
of this was obvious. Moriarty had not been
alone. A confederateóand even that one glance
had told me how dangerous a man that confederate
wasóhad kept guard while the Professor had
attacked me. From a distance, unseen by me,
he had been a witness of his friend's death
and of my escape. He had waited, and then
making his way round to the top of the cliff,
he had endeavoured to succeed where his comrade
had failed.
"I did not take long to think about it, Watson.
Again I saw that grim face look over the cliff,
and I knew that it was the precursor of another
stone. I scrambled down on to the path. I
don't think I could have done it in cold blood.
It was a hundred times more difficult than
getting up. But I had no time to think of
the danger, for another stone sang past me
as I hung by my hands from the edge of the
ledge. Halfway down I slipped, but, by the
blessing of God, I landed, torn and bleeding,
upon the path. I took to my heels, did ten
miles over the mountains in the darkness,
and a week later I found myself in Florence,
with the certainty that no one in the world
knew what had become of me.
"I had only one confidantómy brother Mycroft.
I owe you many apologies, my dear Watson,
but it was all-important that it should be
thought I was dead, and it is quite certain
that you would not have written so convincing
an account of my unhappy end had you not yourself
thought that it was true. Several times during
the last three years I have taken up my pen
to write to you, but always I feared lest
your affectionate regard for me should tempt
you to some indiscretion which would betray
my secret. For that reason I turned away from
you this evening when you upset my books,
for I was in danger at the time, and any show
of surprise and emotion upon your part might
have drawn attention to my identity and led
to the most deplorable and irreparable results.
As to Mycroft, I had to confide in him in
order to obtain the money which I needed.
The course of events in London did not run
so well as I had hoped, for the trial of the
Moriarty gang left two of its most dangerous
members, my own most vindictive enemies, at
liberty. I travelled for two years in Tibet,
therefore, and amused myself by visiting Lhassa,
and spending some days with the head lama.
You may have read of the remarkable explorations
of a Norwegian named Sigerson, but I am sure
that it never occurred to you that you were
receiving news of your friend. I then passed
through Persia, looked in at Mecca, and paid
a short but interesting visit to the Khalifa
at Khartoum the results of which I have communicated
to the Foreign Office. Returning to France,
I spent some months in a research into the
coal-tar derivatives, which I conducted in
a laboratory at Montpellier, in the south
of France. Having concluded this to my satisfaction
and learning that only one of my enemies was
now left in London, I was about to return
when my movements were hastened by the news
of this very remarkable Park Lane Mystery,
which not only appealed to me by its own merits,
but which seemed to offer some most peculiar
personal opportunities. I came over at once
to London, called in my own person at Baker
Street, threw Mrs. Hudson into violent hysterics,
and found that Mycroft had preserved my rooms
and my papers exactly as they had always been.
So it was, my dear Watson, that at two o'clock
to-day I found myself in my old armchair in
my own old room, and only wishing that I could
have seen my old friend Watson in the other
chair which he has so often adorned."
Such was the remarkable narrative to which
I listened on that April eveningóa narrative
which would have been utterly incredible to
me had it not been confirmed by the actual
sight of the tall, spare figure and the keen,
eager face, which I had never thought to see
again. In some manner he had learned of my
own sad bereavement, and his sympathy was
shown in his manner rather than in his words.
"Work is the best antidote to sorrow, my dear
Watson," said he; "and I have a piece of work
for us both to-night which, if we can bring
it to a successful conclusion, will in itself
justify a man's life on this planet." In vain
I begged him to tell me more. "You will hear
and see enough before morning," he answered.
"We have three years of the past to discuss.
Let that suffice until half-past nine, when
we start upon the notable adventure of the
empty house."
It was indeed like old times when, at that
hour, I found myself seated beside him in
a hansom, my revolver in my pocket, and the
thrill of adventure in my heart. Holmes was
cold and stern and silent. As the gleam of
the street-lamps flashed upon his austere
features, I saw that his brows were drawn
down in thought and his thin lips compressed.
I knew not what wild beast we were about to
hunt down in the dark jungle of criminal London,
but I was well assured, from the bearing of
this master huntsman, that the adventure was
a most grave oneówhile the sardonic smile
which occasionally broke through his ascetic
gloom boded little good for the object of
our quest.
I had imagined that we were bound for Baker
Street, but Holmes stopped the cab at the
corner of Cavendish Square. I observed that
as he stepped out he gave a most searching
glance to right and left, and at every subsequent
street corner he took the utmost pains to
assure that he was not followed. Our route
was certainly a singular one. Holmes's knowledge
of the byways of London was extraordinary,
and on this occasion he passed rapidly and
with an assured step through a network of
mews and stables, the very existence of which
I had never known. We emerged at last into
a small road, lined with old, gloomy houses,
which led us into Manchester Street, and so
to Blandford Street. Here he turned swiftly
down a narrow passage, passed through a wooden
gate into a deserted yard, and then opened
with a key the back door of a house. We entered
together, and he closed it behind us.
The place was pitch dark, but it was evident
to me that it was an empty house. Our feet
creaked and crackled over the bare planking,
and my outstretched hand touched a wall from
which the paper was hanging in ribbons. Holmes's
cold, thin fingers closed round my wrist and
led me forward down a long hall, until I dimly
saw the murky fanlight over the door. Here
Holmes turned suddenly to the right and we
found ourselves in a large, square, empty
room, heavily shadowed in the corners, but
faintly lit in the centre from the lights
of the street beyond. There was no lamp near,
and the window was thick with dust, so that
we could only just discern each other's figures
within. My companion put his hand upon my
shoulder and his lips close to my ear.
"Do you know where we are?" he whispered.
"Surely that is Baker Street," I answered,
staring through the dim window.
"Exactly. We are in Camden House, which stands
opposite to our own old quarters."
"But why are we here?"
"Because it commands so excellent a view of
that picturesque pile. Might I trouble you,
my dear Watson, to draw a little nearer to
the window, taking every precaution not to
show yourself, and then to look up at our
old roomsóthe starting-point of so many of
your little fairy-tales? We will see if my
three years of absence have entirely taken
away my power to surprise you."
I crept forward and looked across at the familiar
window. As my eyes fell upon it, I gave a
gasp and a cry of amazement. The blind was
down, and a strong light was burning in the
room. The shadow of a man who was seated in
a chair within was thrown in hard, black outline
upon the luminous screen of the window. There
was no mistaking the poise of the head, the
squareness of the shoulders, the sharpness
of the features. The face was turned half-round,
and the effect was that of one of those black
silhouettes which our grandparents loved to
frame. It was a perfect reproduction of Holmes.
So amazed was I that I threw out my hand to
make sure that the man himself was standing
beside me. He was quivering with silent laughter.
"Well?" said he.
"Good heavens!" I cried. "It is marvellous."
"I trust that age doth not wither nor custom
stale my infinite variety," said he, and I
recognized in his voice the joy and pride
which the artist takes in his own creation.
"It really is rather like me, is it not?"
"I should be prepared to swear that it was
you."
"The credit of the execution is due to Monsieur
Oscar Meunier, of Grenoble, who spent some
days in doing the moulding. It is a bust in
wax. The rest I arranged myself during my
visit to Baker Street this afternoon."
"But why?"
"Because, my dear Watson, I had the strongest
possible reason for wishing certain people
to think that I was there when I was really
elsewhere."
"And you thought the rooms were watched?"
"I KNEW that they were watched."
"By whom?"
"By my old enemies, Watson. By the charming
society whose leader lies in the Reichenbach
Fall. You must remember that they knew, and
only they knew, that I was still alive. Sooner
or later they believed that I should come
back to my rooms. They watched them continuously,
and this morning they saw me arrive."
"How do you know?"
"Because I recognized their sentinel when
I glanced out of my window. He is a harmless
enough fellow, Parker by name, a garroter
by trade, and a remarkable performer upon
the jew's-harp. I cared nothing for him. But
I cared a great deal for the much more formidable
person who was behind him, the bosom friend
of Moriarty, the man who dropped the rocks
over the cliff, the most cunning and dangerous
criminal in London. That is the man who is
after me to-night Watson, and that is the
man who is quite unaware that we are after
him."
My friend's plans were gradually revealing
themselves. From this convenient retreat,
the watchers were being watched and the trackers
tracked. That angular shadow up yonder was
the bait, and we were the hunters. In silence
we stood together in the darkness and watched
the hurrying figures who passed and repassed
in front of us. Holmes was silent and motionless;
but I could tell that he was keenly alert,
and that his eyes were fixed intently upon
the stream of passers-by. It was a bleak and
boisterous night and the wind whistled shrilly
down the long street. Many people were moving
to and fro, most of them muffled in their
coats and cravats. Once or twice it seemed
to me that I had seen the same figure before,
and I especially noticed two men who appeared
to be sheltering themselves from the wind
in the doorway of a house some distance up
the street. I tried to draw my companion's
attention to them; but he gave a little ejaculation
of impatience, and continued to stare into
the street. More than once he fidgeted with
his feet and tapped rapidly with his fingers
upon the wall. It was evident to me that he
was becoming uneasy, and that his plans were
not working out altogether as he had hoped.
At last, as midnight approached and the street
gradually cleared, he paced up and down the
room in uncontrollable agitation. I was about
to make some remark to him, when I raised
my eyes to the lighted window, and again experienced
almost as great a surprise as before. I clutched
Holmes's arm, and pointed upward.
"The shadow has moved!" I cried.
It was indeed no longer the profile, but the
back, which was turned towards us.
Three years had certainly not smoothed the
asperities of his temper or his impatience
with a less active intelligence than his own.
"Of course it has moved," said he. "Am I such
a farcical bungler, Watson, that I should
erect an obvious dummy, and expect that some
of the sharpest men in Europe would be deceived
by it? We have been in this room two hours,
and Mrs. Hudson has made some change in that
figure eight times, or once in every quarter
of an hour. She works it from the front, so
that her shadow may never be seen. Ah!" He
drew in his breath with a shrill, excited
intake. In the dim light I saw his head thrown
forward, his whole attitude rigid with attention.
Outside the street was absolutely deserted.
Those two men might still be crouching in
the doorway, but I could no longer see them.
All was still and dark, save only that brilliant
yellow screen in front of us with the black
figure outlined upon its centre. Again in
the utter silence I heard that thin, sibilant
note which spoke of intense suppressed excitement.
An instant later he pulled me back into the
blackest corner of the room, and I felt his
warning hand upon my lips. The fingers which
clutched me were quivering. Never had I known
my friend more moved, and yet the dark street
still stretched lonely and motionless before
us.
But suddenly I was aware of that which his
keener senses had already distinguished. A
low, stealthy sound came to my ears, not from
the direction of Baker Street, but from the
back of the very house in which we lay concealed.
A door opened and shut. An instant later steps
crept down the passageósteps which were meant
to be silent, but which reverberated harshly
through the empty house. Holmes crouched back
against the wall, and I did the same, my hand
closing upon the handle of my revolver. Peering
through the gloom, I saw the vague outline
of a man, a shade blacker than the blackness
of the open door. He stood for an instant,
and then he crept forward, crouching, menacing,
into the room. He was within three yards of
us, this sinister figure, and I had braced
myself to meet his spring, before I realized
that he had no idea of our presence. He passed
close beside us, stole over to the window,
and very softly and noiselessly raised it
for half a foot. As he sank to the level of
this opening, the light of the street, no
longer dimmed by the dusty glass, fell full
upon his face. The man seemed to be beside
himself with excitement. His two eyes shone
like stars, and his features were working
convulsively. He was an elderly man, with
a thin, projecting nose, a high, bald forehead,
and a huge grizzled moustache. An opera hat
was pushed to the back of his head, and an
evening dress shirt-front gleamed out through
his open overcoat. His face was gaunt and
swarthy, scored with deep, savage lines. In
his hand he carried what appeared to be a
stick, but as he laid it down upon the floor
it gave a metallic clang. Then from the pocket
of his overcoat he drew a bulky object, and
he busied himself in some task which ended
with a loud, sharp click, as if a spring or
bolt had fallen into its place. Still kneeling
upon the floor he bent forward and threw all
his weight and strength upon some lever, with
the result that there came a long, whirling,
grinding noise, ending once more in a powerful
click. He straightened himself then, and I
saw that what he held in his hand was a sort
of gun, with a curiously misshapen butt. He
opened it at the breech, put something in,
and snapped the breech-lock. Then, crouching
down, he rested the end of the barrel upon
the ledge of the open window, and I saw his
long moustache droop over the stock and his
eye gleam as it peered along the sights. I
heard a little sigh of satisfaction as he
cuddled the butt into his shoulder; and saw
that amazing target, the black man on the
yellow ground, standing clear at the end of
his foresight. For an instant he was rigid
and motionless. Then his finger tightened
on the trigger. There was a strange, loud
whiz and a long, silvery tinkle of broken
glass. At that instant Holmes sprang like
a tiger on to the marksman's back, and hurled
him flat upon his face. He was up again in
a moment, and with convulsive strength he
seized Holmes by the throat, but I struck
him on the head with the butt of my revolver,
and he dropped again upon the floor. I fell
upon him, and as I held him my comrade blew
a shrill call upon a whistle. There was the
clatter of running feet upon the pavement,
and two policemen in uniform, with one plain-clothes
detective, rushed through the front entrance
and into the room.
"That you, Lestrade?" said Holmes.
"Yes, Mr. Holmes. I took the job myself. It's
good to see you back in London, sir."
"I think you want a little unofficial help.
Three undetected murders in one year won't
do, Lestrade. But you handled the Molesey
Mystery with less than your usualóthat's
to say, you handled it fairly well."
We had all risen to our feet, our prisoner
breathing hard, with a stalwart constable
on each side of him. Already a few loiterers
had begun to collect in the street. Holmes
stepped up to the window, closed it, and dropped
the blinds. Lestrade had produced two candles,
and the policemen had uncovered their lanterns.
I was able at last to have a good look at
our prisoner.
It was a tremendously virile and yet sinister
face which was turned towards us. With the
brow of a philosopher above and the jaw of
a sensualist below, the man must have started
with great capacities for good or for evil.
But one could not look upon his cruel blue
eyes, with their drooping, cynical lids, or
upon the fierce, aggressive nose and the threatening,
deep-lined brow, without reading Nature's
plainest danger-signals. He took no heed of
any of us, but his eyes were fixed upon Holmes's
face with an expression in which hatred and
amazement were equally blended. "You fiend!"
he kept on muttering. "You clever, clever
fiend!"
"Ah, Colonel!" said Holmes, arranging his
rumpled collar. "'Journeys end in lovers'
meetings,' as the old play says. I don't think
I have had the pleasure of seeing you since
you favoured me with those attentions as I
lay on the ledge above the Reichenbach Fall."
The colonel still stared at my friend like
a man in a trance. "You cunning, cunning fiend!"
was all that he could say.
"I have not introduced you yet," said Holmes.
"This, gentlemen, is Colonel Sebastian Moran,
once of Her Majesty's Indian Army, and the
best heavy-game shot that our Eastern Empire
has ever produced. I believe I am correct
Colonel, in saying that your bag of tigers
still remains unrivalled?"
The fierce old man said nothing, but still
glared at my companion. With his savage eyes
and bristling moustache he was wonderfully
like a tiger himself.
"I wonder that my very simple stratagem could
deceive so old a SHIKARI," said Holmes. "It
must be very familiar to you. Have you not
tethered a young kid under a tree, lain above
it with your rifle, and waited for the bait
to bring up your tiger? This empty house is
my tree, and you are my tiger. You have possibly
had other guns in reserve in case there should
be several tigers, or in the unlikely supposition
of your own aim failing you. These," he pointed
around, "are my other guns. The parallel is
exact."
Colonel Moran sprang forward with a snarl
of rage, but the constables dragged him back.
The fury upon his face was terrible to look
at.
"I confess that you had one small surprise
for me," said Holmes. "I did not anticipate
that you would yourself make use of this empty
house and this convenient front window. I
had imagined you as operating from the street,
where my friend, Lestrade and his merry men
were awaiting you. With that exception, all
has gone as I expected."
Colonel Moran turned to the official detective.
"You may or may not have just cause for arresting
me," said he, "but at least there can be no
reason why I should submit to the gibes of
this person. If I am in the hands of the law,
let things be done in a legal way."
"Well, that's reasonable enough," said Lestrade.
"Nothing further you have to say, Mr. Holmes,
before we go?"
Holmes had picked up the powerful air-gun
from the floor, and was examining its mechanism.
"An admirable and unique weapon," said he,
"noiseless and of tremendous power: I knew
Von Herder, the blind German mechanic, who
constructed it to the order of the late Professor
Moriarty. For years I have been aware of its
existence though I have never before had the
opportunity of handling it. I commend it very
specially to your attention, Lestrade and
also the bullets which fit it."
"You can trust us to look after that, Mr.
Holmes," said Lestrade, as the whole party
moved towards the door. "Anything further
to say?"
"Only to ask what charge you intend to prefer?"
"What charge, sir? Why, of course, the attempted
murder of Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
"Not so, Lestrade. I do not propose to appear
in the matter at all. To you, and to you only,
belongs the credit of the remarkable arrest
which you have effected. Yes, Lestrade, I
congratulate you! With your usual happy mixture
of cunning and audacity, you have got him."
"Got him! Got whom, Mr. Holmes?"
"The man that the whole force has been seeking
in vainóColonel Sebastian Moran, who shot
the Honourable Ronald Adair with an expanding
bullet from an air-gun through the open window
of the second-floor front of No. 427 Park
Lane, upon the thirtieth of last month. That's
the charge, Lestrade. And now, Watson, if
you can endure the draught from a broken window,
I think that half an hour in my study over
a cigar may afford you some profitable amusement."
Our old chambers had been left unchanged through
the supervision of Mycroft Holmes and the
immediate care of Mrs. Hudson. As I entered
I saw, it is true, an unwonted tidiness, but
the old landmarks were all in their place.
There were the chemical corner and the acid-stained,
deal-topped table. There upon a shelf was
the row of formidable scrap-books and books
of reference which many of our fellow-citizens
would have been so glad to burn. The diagrams,
the violin-case, and the pipe-rackóeven the
Persian slipper which contained the tobaccoóall
met my eyes as I glanced round me. There were
two occupants of the roomóone, Mrs. Hudson,
who beamed upon us both as we enteredóthe
other, the strange dummy which had played
so important a part in the evening's adventures.
It was a wax-coloured model of my friend,
so admirably done that it was a perfect facsimile.
It stood on a small pedestal table with an
old dressing-gown of Holmes's so draped round
it that the illusion from the street was absolutely
perfect.
"I hope you observed all precautions, Mrs.
Hudson?" said Holmes.
"I went to it on my knees, sir, just as you
told me."
"Excellent. You carried the thing out very
well. Did you observe where the bullet went?"
"Yes, sir. I'm afraid it has spoilt your beautiful
bust, for it passed right through the head
and flattened itself on the wall. I picked
it up from the carpet. Here it is!"
Holmes held it out to me. "A soft revolver
bullet, as you perceive, Watson. There's genius
in that, for who would expect to find such
a thing fired from an airgun? All right, Mrs.
Hudson. I am much obliged for your assistance.
And now, Watson, let me see you in your old
seat once more, for there are several points
which I should like to discuss with you."
He had thrown off the seedy frockcoat, and
now he was the Holmes of old in the mouse-coloured
dressing-gown which he took from his effigy.
"The old SHIKARI'S nerves have not lost their
steadiness, nor his eyes their keenness,"
said he, with a laugh, as he inspected the
shattered forehead of his bust.
"Plumb in the middle of the back of the head
and smack through the brain. He was the best
shot in India, and I expect that there are
few better in London. Have you heard the name?"
"No, I have not."
"Well, well, such is fame! But, then, if I
remember right, you had not heard the name
of Professor James Moriarty, who had one of
the great brains of the century. Just give
me down my index of biographies from the shelf."
He turned over the pages lazily, leaning back
in his chair and blowing great clouds from
his cigar.
"My collection of M's is a fine one," said
he. "Moriarty himself is enough to make any
letter illustrious, and here is Morgan the
poisoner, and Merridew of abominable memory,
and Mathews, who knocked out my left canine
in the waiting-room at Charing Cross, and,
finally, here is our friend of to-night."
He handed over the book, and I read:
MORAN, SEBASTIAN, COLONEL. Unemployed. Formerly
1st Bangalore Pioneers. Born London, 1840.
Son of Sir Augustus Moran, C. B., once British
Minister to Persia. Educated Eton and Oxford.
Served in Jowaki Campaign, Afghan Campaign,
Charasiab (despatches), Sherpur, and Cabul.
Author of HEAVY GAME OF THE WESTERN HIMALAYAS
(1881); THREE MONTHS IN THE JUNGLE (1884).
Address: Conduit Street. Clubs: The Anglo-Indian,
the Tankerville, the Bagatelle Card Club.
On the margin was written, in Holmes's precise
hand:
The second most dangerous man in London.
"This is astonishing," said I, as I handed
back the volume. "The man's career is that
of an honourable soldier."
"It is true," Holmes answered. "Up to a certain
point he did well. He was always a man of
iron nerve, and the story is still told in
India how he crawled down a drain after a
wounded man-eating tiger. There are some trees,
Watson, which grow to a certain height, and
then suddenly develop some unsightly eccentricity.
You will see it often in humans. I have a
theory that the individual represents in his
development the whole procession of his ancestors,
and that such a sudden turn to good or evil
stands for some strong influence which came
into the line of his pedigree. The person
becomes, as it were, the epitome of the history
of his own family."
"It is surely rather fanciful."
"Well, I don't insist upon it. Whatever the
cause, Colonel Moran began to go wrong. Without
any open scandal, he still made India too
hot to hold him. He retired, came to London,
and again acquired an evil name. It was at
this time that he was sought out by Professor
Moriarty, to whom for a time he was chief
of the staff. Moriarty supplied him liberally
with money, and used him only in one or two
very high-class jobs, which no ordinary criminal
could have undertaken. You may have some recollection
of the death of Mrs. Stewart, of Lauder, in
1887. Not? Well, I am sure Moran was at the
bottom of it, but nothing could be proved.
So cleverly was the colonel concealed that,
even when the Moriarty gang was broken up,
we could not incriminate him. You remember
at that date, when I called upon you in your
rooms, how I put up the shutters for fear
of air-guns? No doubt you thought me fanciful.
I knew exactly what I was doing, for I knew
of the existence of this remarkable gun, and
I knew also that one of the best shots in
the world would be behind it. When we were
in Switzerland he followed us with Moriarty,
and it was undoubtedly he who gave me that
evil five minutes on the Reichenbach ledge.
"You may think that I read the papers with
some attention during my sojourn in France,
on the look-out for any chance of laying him
by the heels. So long as he was free in London,
my life would really not have been worth living.
Night and day the shadow would have been over
me, and sooner or later his chance must have
come. What could I do? I could not shoot him
at sight, or I should myself be in the dock.
There was no use appealing to a magistrate.
They cannot interfere on the strength of what
would appear to them to be a wild suspicion.
So I could do nothing. But I watched the criminal
news, knowing that sooner or later I should
get him. Then came the death of this Ronald
Adair. My chance had come at last. Knowing
what I did, was it not certain that Colonel
Moran had done it? He had played cards with
the lad, he had followed him home from the
club, he had shot him through the open window.
There was not a doubt of it. The bullets alone
are enough to put his head in a noose. I came
over at once. I was seen by the sentinel,
who would, I knew, direct the colonel's attention
to my presence. He could not fail to connect
my sudden return with his crime, and to be
terribly alarmed. I was sure that he would
make an attempt to get me out of the way AT
once, and would bring round his murderous
weapon for that purpose. I left him an excellent
mark in the window, and, having warned the
police that they might be neededóby the way,
Watson, you spotted their presence in that
doorway with unerring accuracyóI took up
what seemed to me to be a judicious post for
observation, never dreaming that he would
choose the same spot for his attack. Now,
my dear Watson, does anything remain for me
to explain?"
"Yes," said I. "You have not made it clear
what was Colonel Moran's motive in murdering
the Honourable Ronald Adair?"
"Ah! my dear Watson, there we come into those
realms of conjecture, where the most logical
mind may be at fault. Each may form his own
hypothesis upon the present evidence, and
yours is as likely to be correct as mine."
"You have formed one, then?"
"I think that it is not difficult to explain
the facts. It came out in evidence that Colonel
Moran and young Adair had, between them, won
a considerable amount of money. Now, undoubtedly
played foulóof that I have long been aware.
I believe that on the day of the murder Adair
had discovered that Moran was cheating. Very
likely he had spoken to him privately, and
had threatened to expose him unless he voluntarily
resigned his membership of the club, and promised
not to play cards again. It is unlikely that
a youngster like Adair would at once make
a hideous scandal by exposing a well known
man so much older than himself. Probably he
acted as I suggest. The exclusion from his
clubs would mean ruin to Moran, who lived
by his ill-gotten card-gains. He therefore
murdered Adair, who at the time was endeavouring
to work out how much money he should himself
return, since he could not profit by his partner's
foul play. He locked the door lest the ladies
should surprise him and insist upon knowing
what he was doing with these names and coins.
Will it pass?"
"I have no doubt that you have hit upon the
truth."
"It will be verified or disproved at the trial.
Meanwhile, come what may, Colonel Moran will
trouble us no more. The famous air-gun of
Von Herder will embellish the Scotland Yard
Museum, and once again Mr. Sherlock Holmes
is free to devote his life to examining those
interesting little problems which the complex
life of London so plentifully presents."
