His Last Bow - Arthur Conan Doyle (classic books for 12 year olds txt) 📗

at conversation and sat, smoking endless

cigarettes, lost in his own thoughts, but he made no remark as to

the contents. About eleven I was glad to go to bed. Some time

later Garcia looked in at my door—the room was dark at the time-

-and asked me if I had rung. I said that I had not. He

apologized for having disturbed me so late, saying that it was

nearly one o’clock. I dropped off after this and slept soundly

all night.

 

“And now I come to the amazing part of my tale. When I woke it

was broad daylight. I glanced at my watch, and the time was

nearly nine. I had particularly asked to be called at eight, so

I was very much astonished at this forgetfulness. I sprang up

and rang for the servant. There was no response. I rang again

and again, with the same result. Then I came to the conclusion

that the bell was out of order. I huddled on my clothes and

hurried downstairs in an exceedingly bad temper to order some hot

water. You can imagine my surprise when I found that there was

no one there. I shouted in the hall. There was no answer. Then

I ran from room to room. All were deserted. My host had shown me

which was his bedroom the night before, so I knocked at the door.

No reply. I turned the handle and walked in. The room was

empty, and the bed had never been slept in. He had gone with the

rest. The foreign host, the foreign footman, the foreign cook,

all had vanished in the night! That was the end of my visit to

Wisteria Lodge.”

 

Sherlock Holmes was rubbing his hands and chuckling as he added

this bizarre incident to his collection of strange episodes.

 

“Your experience is, so far as I know, perfectly unique,” said

he. “May I ask, sir, what you did then?”

 

“I was furious. My first idea was that I had been the victim of

some absurd practical joke. I packed my things, banged the hall

door behind me, and set off for Esher, with my bag in my hand. I

called at Allan Brothers’, the chief land agents in the village,

and found that it was from this firm that the villa had been

rented. It struck me that the whole proceeding could hardly be

for the purpose of making a fool of me, and that the main objet

must be to get out of the rent. It is late in March, so quarter-day is at hand. But this theory would not work. The agent was

obliged to me for my warning, but told me that the rent had been

paid in advance. Then I made my way to town and called at the

Spanish embassy. The man was unknown there. After this I went

to see Melville, at whose house I had first met Garcia, but I

found that he really knew rather less about him than I did.

Finally when I got your reply to my wire I came out to you, since

I gather that you are a person who gives advice in difficult

cases. But now, Mr. Inspector, I understand, from what you said

when you entered the room, that you can carry the story on, and

that some tragedy had occurred. I can assure you that every word

I have said is the truth, and that, outside of what I have told

you, I know absolutely nothing about the fate of this man. My

only desire is to help the law in every possible way.”

 

“I am sure of it, Mr. Scott Eccles—I am sure of it,” said

Inspector Gregson in a very amiable tone. “I am bound to say

that everything which you have said agrees very closely with the

facts as they have come to our notice. For example, there was

that note which arrived during dinner. Did you chance to observe

what became of it?”

 

“Yes, I did. Garcia rolled it up and threw it into the fire.”

 

“What do you say to that, Mr. Baynes?”

 

The country detective was a stout, puffy, red man, whose face was

only redeemed from grossness by two extraordinarily bright eyes,

almost hidden behind the heavy creases of cheek and brow. With a

slow smile he drew a folded and discoloured scrap of paper from

his pocket.

 

“It was a dog-grate, Mr. Holmes, and he overpitched it. I picked

this out unburned from the back of it.”

 

Holmes smiled his appreciation.

 

“You must have examined the house very carefully to find a single

pellet of paper.”

 

“I did, Mr. Holmes. It’s my way. Shall I read it, Mr. Gregson?”

 

The Londoner nodded.

 

“The note is written upon ordinary cream-laid paper without

watermark. It is a quarter-sheet. The paper is cut off in two

snips with a short-bladed scissors. It has been folded over

three times and sealed with purple wax, put on hurriedly and

pressed down with some flat oval object. It is addressed to Mr.

Garcia, Wisteria Lodge. It says:

 

“Our own colours, green and white. Green open, white shut. Main

stair, first corridor, seventh right, green baize. Godspeed. D.

 

“It is a woman’s writing, done with a sharp-pointed pen, but the

address is either done with another pen or by someone else. It

is thicker and bolder, as you see.”

 

“A very remarkable note,” said Holmes, glancing it over. “I must

compliment you, Mr. Baynes, upon your attention to detail in your

examination of it. A few trifling points might perhaps be added.

The oval seal is undoubtedly a plain sleeve-link—what else is of

such a shape? The scissors were bent nail scissors. Short as

the two snips are, you can distinctly see the same slight curve

in each.”

 

The country detective chuckled.

 

“I thought I had squeezed all the juice out of it, but I see

there was a little over,” he said. “I’m bound to say that I make

nothing of the note except that there was something on hand, and

that a woman, as usual was at the bottom of it.”

 

Mr. Scott Eccles had fidgeted in his seat during this

conversation.

 

“I am glad you found the note, since it corroborates my story,”

said he. “But I beg to point out that I have not yet heard what

has happened to Mr. Garcia, nor what has become of his

household.”

 

“As to Garcia,” said Gregson, “that is easily answered. He was

found dead this morning upon Oxshott Common, nearly a mile from

his home. His head had been smashed to pulp by heavy blows of a

sandbag or some such instrument, which had crushed rather than

wounded. It is a lonely corner, and there is no house within a

quarter of a mile of the spot. He had apparently been struck

down first from behind, but his assailant had gone on beating him

long after he was dead. It was a most furious assault. There

are no footsteps nor any clue to the criminals.”

 

“Robbed?”

 

“No, there was no attempt at robbery.”

 

“This is very painful—very painful and terrible,” said Mr. Scott

Eccles in a querulous voice, “but it is really uncommonly hard on

me. I had nothing to do with my host going off upon a nocturnal

excursion and meeting so sad an end. How do I come to be mixed

up with the case?”

 

“Very simply, sir,” Inspector Baynes answered. “The only

document found in the pocket of the deceased was a letter from

you saying that you would be with him on the night of his death.

It was the envelope of this letter which gave us the dead man’s

name and address. It was after nine this morning when we reached

his house and found neither you nor anyone else inside it. I

wired to Mr. Gregson to run you down in London while I examined

Wisteria Lodge. Then I came into town, joined Mr. Gregson, and

here we are.”

 

“I think now,” said Gregson, rising, “we had best put this matter

into an official shape. You will come round with us to the

station, Mr. Scott Eccles, and let us have your statement in

writing.”

 

“Certainly, I will come at once. But I retain your services, Mr.

Holmes. I desire you to spare no expense and no pains to get at

the truth.”

 

My friend turned to the country inspector.

 

“I suppose that you have no objection to my collaborating with

you, Mr. Baynes?”

 

“Highly honoured, sir, I am sure.”

 

“You appear to have been very prompt and businesslike in all that

you have done. Was there any clue, may I ask, as to the exact

hour that the man met his death?”

 

“He had been there since one o’clock. There was rain about that

time, and his death had certainly been before the rain.”

 

“But that is perfectly impossible, Mr. Baynes,” cried our client.

“His voice is unmistakable. I could swear to it that it was he

who addressed me in my bedroom at that very hour.”

 

“Remarkable, but by no means impossible,” said Holmes, smiling.

 

“You have a clue?” asked Gregson.

 

“On the face of it the case is not a very complex one, though it

certainly presents some novel and interesting features. A

further knowledge of facts is necessary before I would venture to

give a final and definite opinion. By the way, Mr. Baynes, did

you find anything remarkable besides this note in your

examination of the house?”

 

The detective looked at my friend in a singular way.

 

“There were,” said he, “one or two VERY remarkable things.

Perhaps when I have finished at the police-station you would care

to come out and give me your opinion of them.”

 

In am entirely at your service,” said Sherlock Holmes, ringing

the bell. “You will show these gentlemen out, Mrs. Hudson, and

kindly send the boy with this telegram. He is to pay a five-shilling reply.”

 

We sat for some time in silence after our visitors had left.

Holmes smoked hard, with his browns drawn down over his keen

eyes, and his head thrust forward in the eager way characteristic

of the man.

 

“Well, Watson,” he asked, turning suddenly upon me, “what do you

make of it?”

 

“I can make nothing of this mystification of Scott Eccles.”

 

“But the crime?”

 

“Well, taken with the disappearance of the man’s companions, I

should say that they were in some way concerned in the murder and

had fled from justice.”

 

“That is certainly a possible point of view. On the face of it

you must admit, however, that it is very strange that his two

servants should have been in a conspiracy against him and should

have attacked him on the one night when he had a guest. They had

him alone at their mercy every other night in the week.”

 

“Then why did they fly?”

 

“Quite so. Why did they fly? There is a big fact. Another big

fact is the remarkable experience of our client, Scott Eccles.

Now, my dear Watson, is it beyond the limits of human ingenuity

to furnish an explanation which would cover both of these big

facts? If it were one which would also admit of the mysterious

note with its very curious phraseology, why, then it would be

worth accepting as a temporary hypothesis. If the fresh facts

which come to our knowledge all fit themselves into the scheme,

then our hypothesis may gradually become a solution.”

 

“But what is our hypothesis?”

 

Holmes leaned back in his chair with half-closed eyes.

 

“You must admit, my dear Watson, that the idea of a joke