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

gentle flow of soothing explanation from the butler.

 

“Well, I won’t see him, Staples. I can’t have my work

interrupted like this. I am not at home. Say so. Tell him to

come in the morning if he really must see me.”

 

Again the gentle murmur.

 

“Well, well, give him that message. He can come in the morning,

or he can stay away. My work must not be hindered.”

 

I thought of Holmes tossing upon his bed of sickness and counting

the minutes, perhaps, until I could bring help to him. It was

not a time to stand upon ceremony. His life depended upon my

promptness. Before the apologetic butler had delivered his

message I had pushed past him and was in the room.

 

With a shrill cry of anger a man rose from a reclining chair

beside the fire. I saw a great yellow face, coarse-grained and

greasy, with heavy, double-chin, and two sullen, menacing gray

eyes which glared at me from under tufted and sandy brows. A

high bald head had a small velvet smoking-cap poised coquettishly

upon one side of its pink curve. The skull was of enormous

capacity, and yet as I looked down I saw to my amazement that the

figure of the man was small and frail, twisted in the shoulders

and back like one who has suffered from rickets in his childhood.

 

“What’s this?” he cried in a high, screaming voice. “What is the

meaning of this intrusion? Didn’t I send you word that I would

see you tomorrow morning?”

 

“I am sorry,” said I, “but the matter cannot be delayed. Mr.

Sherlock Holmes—”

 

The mention of my friend’s name had an extraordinary effect upon

the little man. The look of anger passed in an instant from his

face. His features became tense and alert.

 

“Have you come from Holmes?” he asked.

 

“I have just left him.”

 

“What about Holmes? How is he?”

 

“He is desperately ill. That is why I have come.”

 

The man motioned me to a chair, and turned to resume his own. As

he did so I caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror over the

mantelpiece. I could have sworn that it was set in a malicious

and abominable smile. Yet I persuaded myself that it must have

been some nervous contraction which I had surprised, for he

turned to me an instant later with genuine concern upon his

features.

 

“I am sorry to hear this,” said he. “I only know Mr. Holmes

through some business dealings which we have had, but I have

every respect for his talents and his character. He is an

amateur of crime, as I am of disease. For him the villain, for

me the microbe. There are my prisons,” he continued, pointing to

a row of bottles and jars which stood upon a side table. “Among

those gelatine cultivations some of the very worst offenders in

the world are now doing time.”

 

“It was on account of your special knowledge that Mr. Holmes

desired to see you. He has a high opinion of you and thought

that you were the one man in London who could help him.”

 

The little man started, and the jaunty smoking-cap slid to the

floor.

 

“Why?” he asked. “Why should Mr. Homes think that I could help

him in his trouble?”

 

“Because of your knowledge of Eastern diseases.”

 

“But why should he think that this disease which he has

contracted is Eastern?”

 

“Because, in some professional inquiry, he has been working among

Chinese sailors down in the docks.”

 

Mr. Culverton Smith smiled pleasantly and picked up his smoking-cap.

 

“Oh, that’s it—is it?” said he. “I trust the matter is not so

grave as you suppose. How long has he been ill?”

 

“About three days.”

 

“Is he delirious?”

 

“Occasionally.”

 

“Tut, tut! This sounds serious. It would be inhuman not to

answer his call. I very much resent any interruption to my work,

Dr. Watson, but this case is certainly exceptional. I will come

with you at once.”

 

I remembered Holmes’s injunction.

 

“I have another appointment,” said I.

 

“Very good. I will go alone. I have a note of Mr. Holmes’s

address. You can rely upon my being there within half an hour at

most.”

 

It was with a sinking heart that I reentered Holmes’s bedroom.

For all that I knew the worst might have happened in my absence.

To my enormous relief, he had improved greatly in the interval.

His appearance was as ghastly as ever, but all trace of delirium

had left him and he spoke in a feeble voice, it is true, but with

even more than his usual crispness and lucidity.

 

“Well, did you see him, Watson?”

 

“Yes; he is coming.”

 

“Admirable, Watson! Admirable! You are the best of messengers.”

 

“He wished to return with me.”

 

“That would never do, Watson. That would be obviously

impossible. Did he ask what ailed me?”

 

“I told him about the Chinese in the East End.”

 

“Exactly! Well, Watson, you have done all that a good friend

could. You can now disappear from the scene.”

 

“I must wait and hear his opinion, Holmes.”

 

“Of course you must. But I have reasons to suppose that this

opinion would be very much more frank and valuable if he imagines

that we are alone. There is just room behind the head of my bed,

Watson.”

 

“My dear Holmes!”

 

“I fear there is no alternative, Watson. The room does not lend

itself to concealment, which is as well, as it is the less likely

to arouse suspicion. But just there, Watson, I fancy that it

could be done.” Suddenly he sat up with a rigid intentness upon

his haggard face. “There are the wheels, Watson. Quick, man, if

you love me! And don’t budge, whatever happens—whatever

happens, do you hear? Don’t speak! Don’t move! Just listen

with all your ears.” Then in an instant his sudden access of

strength departed, and his masterful, purposeful talk droned away

into the low, vague murmurings of a semi-delirious man.

 

>From the hiding-place into which I had been so swiftly hustled I

heard the footfalls upon the stair, with the opening and the

closing of the bedroom door. Then, to my surprise, there came a

long silence, broken only by the heavy breathings and gaspings of

the sick man. I could imagine that our visitor was standing by

the bedside and looking down at the sufferer. At last that

strange hush was broken.

 

“Holmes!” he cried. “Holmes!” in the insistent tone of one who

awakens a sleeper. “Can’t you hear me, Holmes?” There was a

rustling, as if he had shaken the sick man roughly by the

shoulder.

 

“Is that you, Mr. Smith?” Holmes whispered. “I hardly dared

hope that you would come.”

 

The other laughed.

 

“I should imagine not,” he said. “And yet, you see, I am here.

Coals of fire, Holmes—coals of fire!”

 

“It is very good of you—very noble of you. I appreciate your

special knowledge.”

 

Our visitor sniggered.

 

“You do. You are, fortunately, the only man in London who does.

Do you know what is the matter with you?”

 

“The same,” said Holmes.

 

“Ah! You recognize the symptoms?”

 

“Only too well.”

 

“Well, I shouldn’t be surprised, Holmes. I shouldn’t be

surprised if it WERE the same. A bad lookout for you if it is.

Poor Victor was a dead man on the fourth day—a strong, hearty

young fellow. It was certainly, as you said, very surprising

that he should have contracted and out-of-the-way Asiatic disease

in the heart of London—a disease, too, of which I had made such

a very special study. Singular coincidence, Holmes. Very smart

of you to notice it, but rather uncharitable to suggest that it

was cause and effect.”

 

“I knew that you did it.”

 

“Oh, you did, did you? Well, you couldn’t prove it, anyhow. But

what do you think of yourself spreading reports about me like

that, and then crawling to me for help the moment you are in

trouble? What sort of a game is that—eh?”

 

I heard the rasping, laboured breathing of the sick man. “Give

me the water!” he gasped.

 

“You’re precious near your end, my friend, but I don’t want you

to go till I have had a word with you. That’s why I give you

water. There, don’t slop it about! That’s right. Can you

understand what I say?”

 

Holmes groaned.

 

“Do what you can for me. Let bygones be bygones,” he whispered.

“I’ll put the words out of my head—I swear I will. Only cure

me, and I’ll forget it.”

 

“Forget what?”

 

“Well, about Victor Savage’s death. You as good as admitted just

now that you had done it. I’ll forget it.”

 

“You can forget it or remember it, just as you like. I don’t see

you in the witnessbox. Quite another shaped box, my good Holmes,

I assure you. It matters nothing to me that you should know how

my nephew died. It’s not him we are talking about. It’s you.”

 

“Yes, yes.”

 

“The fellow who came for me—I’ve forgotten his name—said that

you contracted it down in the East End among the sailors.”

 

“I could only account for it so.”

 

“You are proud of your brains, Holmes, are you not? Think

yourself smart, don’t you? You came across someone who was

smarter this time. Now cast your mind back, Holmes. Can you

think of no other way you could have got this thing?”

 

“I can’t think. My mind is gone. For heaven’s sake help me!”

 

“Yes, I will help you. I’ll help you to understand just where

you are and how you got there. I’d like you to know before you

die.”

 

“Give me something to ease my pain.”

 

“Painful, is it? Yes, the coolies used to do some squealing

towards the end. Takes you as cramp, I fancy.”

 

“Yes, yes; it is cramp.”

 

“Well, you can hear what I say, anyhow. Listen now! Can you

remember any unusual incident in your life just about the time

your symptoms began?”

 

“No, no; nothing.”

 

“Think again.”

 

“I’m too ill to think.”

 

“Well, then, I’ll help you. Did anything come by post?”

 

“By post?”

 

“A box by chance?”

 

“I’m fainting—I’m gone!”

 

“Listen, Holmes!” There was a sound as if he was shaking the

dying man, and it was all that I could do to hold myself quiet in

my hiding-place. “You must hear me. You SHALL hear me. Do you

remember a box—an ivory box? It came on Wednesday. You opened

it—do you remember?”

 

“Yes, yes, I opened it. There was a sharp spring inside it.

Some joke—”

 

“It was no joke, as you will find to your cost. You fool, you

would have it and you have got it. Who asked you to cross my

path? If you had left me alone I would not have hurt you.”

 

“I remember,” Holmes gasped. “The spring! It drew blood. This

box—this on the table.”

 

“The very one, by George! And it may as well leave the room in

my pocket. There goes your last shred of evidence. But you have

the truth now, Holmes, and you can die with the knowledge that I

killed you. You knew too much of the fate of Victor Savage, so I

have sent you to share it. You are very near your end, Holmes.

I will sit here and I will watch you die.”

 

Holmes’s voice had sunk to an almost inaudible whisper.

 

“What is that?” said Smith.