CHAPTER V.
Our Advertisement Brings A Visitor
for my weak health, and I was tired out in the afternoon.
After Holmes’ departure for the concert,
I lay down upon the sofa and endeavoured to get
a couple of hours’ sleep. It was a useless attempt.
My mind had been too much excited by all that
had occurred, and the strangest fancies and surmises
crowded into it. Every time that I closed
my eyes I saw before me the distorted baboonlike
countenance of the murdered man. So sinister
was the impression which that face had produced
upon me that I found it difficult to feel anything
but gratitude for him who had removed its owner
from the world. If ever human features bespoke
vice of the most malignant type, they were certainly
those of Enoch J. Drebber, of Cleveland. Still
I recognized that justice must be done, and that
the depravity of the victim was no condonement
in the eyes of the law.
The more I thought of it the more extraordinary
did my companion’s hypothesis, that the man had
been poisoned, appear. I remembered how he had
sniffed his lips, and had no doubt that he had detected
something which had given rise to the idea.
Then, again, if not poison, what had caused the
man’s death, since there was neither wound nor
marks of strangulation? But, on the other hand,
whose blood was that which lay so thickly upon
the floor? There were no signs of a struggle, nor
had the victim any weapon with which he might
have wounded an antagonist. As long as all these
questions were unsolved, I felt that sleep would be
no easy matter, either for Holmes or myself. His
quiet self-confident manner convinced me that he
had already formed a theory which explained all
the facts, though what it was I could not for an
instant conjecture.
He was very late in returning—so late, that I
knew that the concert could not have detained him
all the time. Dinner was on the table before he appeared.
“It was magnificent,” he said, as he took his
seat. “Do you remember what Darwin says about
music? He claims that the power of producing and
appreciating it existed among the human race long
before the power of speech was arrived at. Perhaps
that is why we are so subtly influenced by it. There
are vague memories in our souls of those misty
centuries when the world was in its childhood.”
“That’s rather a broad idea,” I remarked.
“One’s ideas must be as broad as Nature if they
are to interpret Nature,” he answered. “What’s the
matter? You’re not looking quite yourself. This
Brixton Road affair has upset you.”
“To tell the truth, it has,” I said. “I ought to be
more case-hardened after my Afghan experiences.
I saw my own comrades hacked to pieces at Maiwand
without losing my nerve.”
“I can understand. There is a mystery about
this which stimulates the imagination; where there
is no imagination there is no horror. Have you seen
the evening paper?”
“No.”
“It gives a fairly good account of the affair. It
does not mention the fact that when the man was
raised up, a woman’s wedding ring fell upon the
floor. It is just as well it does not.”
“Why?”
“Look at this advertisement,” he answered. “I
had one sent to every paper this morning immediately
after the affair.”
He threw the paper across to me and I glanced
at the place indicated. It was the first announcement
in the “Found” column. “In Brixton Road,
this morning,” it ran, “a plain gold wedding ring,
found in the roadway between the ‘White Hart’
Tavern and Holland Grove. Apply Dr. Watson,
221b, Baker Street, between eight and nine this
evening.”
“Excuse my using your name,” he said. “If I
used my own some of these dunderheads would
recognize it, and want to meddle in the affair.”
“That is all right,” I answered. “But supposing
anyone applies, I have no ring.”
“Oh yes, you have,” said he, handing me one.
“This will do very well. It is almost a facsimile.”
“And who do you expect will answer this advertisement.”
“Why, the man in the brown coat—our florid
friend with the square toes. If he does not come
himself he will send an accomplice.”
“Would he not consider it as too dangerous?”
“Not at all. If my view of the case is correct,
and I have every reason to believe that it is, this
man would rather risk anything than lose the ring.
According to my notion he dropped it while stooping
over Drebber’s body, and did not miss it at
the time. After leaving the house he discovered
his loss and hurried back, but found the police already
in possession, owing to his own folly in leaving
the candle burning. He had to pretend to be
drunk in order to allay the suspicions which might
have been aroused by his appearance at the gate.
Now put yourself in that man’s place. On thinking
the matter over, it must have occurred to him
that it was possible that he had lost the ring in the
road after leaving the house. What would he do,
then? He would eagerly look out for the evening
papers in the hope of seeing it among the articles
found. His eye, of course, would light upon
this. He would be overjoyed. Why should he fear
a trap? There would be no reason in his eyes why
the finding of the ring should be connected with
the murder. He would come. He will come. You
shall see him within an hour.”
“And then?” I asked.
“Oh, you can leave me to deal with him then.
Have you any arms?”
“I have my old service revolver and a few cartridges.”
“You had better clean it and load it. He will
be a desperate man, and though I shall take him
unawares, it is as well to be ready for anything.”
I went to my bedroom and followed his advice.
When I returned with the pistol the table had been
cleared, and Holmes was engaged in his favourite
occupation of scraping upon his violin.
“The plot thickens,” he said, as I entered; “I
have just had an answer to my American telegram.
My view of the case is the correct one.”
“And that is?” I asked eagerly.
“My fiddle would be the better for new
strings,” he remarked. “Put your pistol in your
pocket. When the fellow comes speak to him in an
ordinary way. Leave the rest to me. Don’t frighten
him by looking at him too hard.”
“It is eight o’clock now,” I said, glancing at my
watch.
“Yes. He will probably be here in a few minutes.
Open the door slightly. That will do. Now
put the key on the inside. Thank you! This is a
queer old book I picked up at a stall yesterday—De
Jure inter Gentes—published in Latin at Liege in the
Lowlands, in 1642. Charles’ head was still firm on
his shoulders when this little brown-backed volume
was struck off.”
“Who is the printer?”
“Philippe de Croy, whoever he may have been.
On the fly-leaf, in very faded ink, is written ‘Ex
libris Guliolmi Whyte.’ I wonder who William
Whyte was. Some pragmatical seventeenth century
lawyer, I suppose. His writing has a legal
twist about it. Here comes our man, I think.”
As he spoke there was a sharp ring at the bell.
Sherlock Holmes rose softly and moved his chair
in the direction of the door. We heard the servant
pass along the hall, and the sharp click of the latch
as she opened it.
“Does Dr. Watson live here?” asked a clear but
rather harsh voice. We could not hear the servant’s
reply, but the door closed, and some one began to
ascend the stairs. The footfall was an uncertain
and shuffling one. A look of surprise passed over
the face of my companion as he listened to it. It
came slowly along the passage, and there was a
feeble tap at the door.
“Come in,” I cried.
At my summons, instead of the man of violence
whom we expected, a very old and wrinkled
woman hobbled into the apartment. She appeared
to be dazzled by the sudden blaze of light, and
after dropping a curtsey, she stood blinking at us
with her bleared eyes and fumbling in her pocket
with nervous, shaky fingers. I glanced at my companion,
and his face had assumed such a disconsolate
expression that it was all I could do to keep
my countenance.
The old crone drew out an evening paper, and
pointed at our advertisement. “It’s this as has
brought me, good gentlemen,” she said, dropping
another curtsey; “a gold wedding ring in the Brixton
Road. It belongs to my girl Sally, as was married
only this time twelvemonth, which her husband
is steward aboard a Union boat, and what
he’d say if he comes ’ome and found her without
her ring is more than I can think, he being short
enough at the best o’ times, but more especially
when he has the drink. If it please you, she went
to the circus last night along with—”
“Is that her ring?” I asked.
“The Lord be thanked!” cried the old woman;
“Sally will be a glad woman this night. That’s the
ring.”
“And what may your address be?” I inquired,
taking up a pencil.
“13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch. A weary
way from here.”
“The Brixton Road does not lie between any
circus and Houndsditch,” said Sherlock Holmes
sharply.
The old woman faced round and looked keenly
at him from her little red-rimmed eyes. “The gentleman
asked me for my address,” she said. “Sally
lives in lodgings at 3, Mayfield Place, Peckham.”
“And your name is—?”
“My name is Sawyer—her’s is Dennis, which
Tom Dennis married her—and a smart, clean
lad, too, as long as he’s at sea, and no steward
in the company more thought of; but when on
shore, what with the women and what with liquor
shops—”
“Here is your ring, Mrs. Sawyer,” I interrupted,
in obedience to a sign from my companion; “it
clearly belongs to your daughter, and I am glad
to be able to restore it to the rightful owner.”
With many mumbled blessings and protestations
of gratitude the old crone packed it away in
her pocket, and shuffled off down the stairs. Sherlock
Holmes sprang to his feet the moment that
she was gone and rushed into his room. He returned
in a few seconds enveloped in an ulster
and a cravat. “I’ll follow her,” he said, hurriedly;
“she must be an accomplice, and will lead me to
him. Wait up for me.” The hall door had hardly
slammed behind our visitor before Holmes had
descended the stair. Looking through the window
I could see her walking feebly along the other side,
while her pursuer dogged her some little distance
behind. “Either his whole theory is incorrect,” I
thought to myself, “or else he will be led now to
the heart of the mystery.” There was no need for
him to ask me to wait up for him, for I felt that
sleep was impossible until I heard the result of his
adventure.
It was close upon nine when he set out. I had
no idea how long he might be, but I sat stolidly
puffing at my pipe and skipping over the pages of
Henri Murger’s Vie de Boh`eme. Ten o’clock passed,
and I heard the footsteps of the maid as they pattered
off to bed. Eleven, and the more stately tread
of the landlady passed my door, bound for the
same destination. It was close upon twelve before I
heard the sharp sound of his latch-key. The instant
he entered I saw by his face that he had not been
successful. Amusement and chagrin seemed to be
struggling for the mastery, until the former suddenly
carried the day, and he burst into a hearty
laugh.
“I wouldn’t have the Scotland Yarders know it
for the world,” he cried, dropping into his chair; “I
have chaffed them so much that they would never
have let me hear the end of it. I can afford to laugh,
because I know that I will be even with them in the
long run.”
“What is it then?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t mind telling a story against myself.
That creature had gone a little way when she
began to limp and show every sign of being footsore.
Presently she came to a halt, and hailed a
four-wheeler which was passing. I managed to
be close to her so as to hear the address, but I
need not have been so anxious, for she sang it out
loud enough to be heard at the other side of the
street, ‘Drive to 13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch,’
she cried. This begins to look genuine, I thought,
and having seen her safely inside, I perched myself
behind. That’s an art which every detective should
be an expert at. Well, away we rattled, and never
drew rein until we reached the street in question.
I hopped off before we came to the door, and
strolled down the street in an easy, lounging way. I
saw the cab pull up. The driver jumped down, and
I saw him open the door and stand expectantly.
Nothing came out though. When I reached him
he was groping about frantically in the empty cab,
and giving vent to the finest assorted collection of
oaths that ever I listened to. There was no sign or
trace of his passenger, and I fear it will be some
time before he gets his fare. On inquiring at Number
13 we found that the house belonged to a respectable
paperhanger, named Keswick, and that
no one of the name either of Sawyer or Dennis had
ever been heard of there.”
“You don’t mean to say,” I cried, in amazement,
“that that tottering, feeble old woman was able to
get out of the cab while it was in motion, without
either you or the driver seeing her?”
“Old woman be damned!” said Sherlock
Holmes, sharply. “We were the old women to be
so taken in. It must have been a young man, and
an active one, too, besides being an incomparable
actor. The get-up was inimitable. He saw that he
was followed, no doubt, and used this means of
giving me the slip. It shows that the man we are
after is not as lonely as I imagined he was, but has
friends who are ready to risk something for him.
Now, Doctor, you are looking done-up. Take my
advice and turn in.”
I was certainly feeling very weary, so I obeyed
his injunction. I left Holmes seated in front of the
smouldering fire, and long into the watches of the
night I heard the low, melancholy wailings of his
violin, and knew that he was still pondering over
the strange problem which he had set himself to
unravel.
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