His Last Bow - Arthur Conan Doyle (classic books for 12 year olds txt) 📗
- Author: Arthur Conan Doyle
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singular of them all. I managed to see him on a plausible
pretext, but I seemed to read in his dark, deepset, brooding eyes
that he was perfectly aware of my true business. He is a man of
fifty, strong, active, with iron-gray hair, great bunched black
eyebrows, the step of a deer and the air of an emperor—a fierce,
masterful man, with a red-hot spirit behind his parchment face.
He is either a foreigner or has lived long in the tropics, for he
is yellow and sapless, but tough as whipcord. His friend and
secretary, Mr. Lucas, is undoubtedly a foreigner, chocolate
brown, wily, suave, and catlike, with a poisonous gentleness of
speech. You see, Watson, we have come already upon two sets of
foreigners—one at Wisteria Lodge and one at High Gable—so our
gaps are beginning to close.
“These two men, close and confidential friends, are the centre of
the household; but there is one other person who for our
immediate purpose may be even more important. Henderson has two
children—girls of eleven and thirteen. Their governess is a
Miss Burnet, an Englishwoman of forty or thereabouts. There is
also one confidential manservant. This little group forms the
real family, for their travel about together, and Henderson is a
great traveller, always on the move. It is only within the last
weeks that he has returned, after a year’s absence, to High
Gable. I may add that he is enormously rich, and whatever his
whims may be he can very easily satisfy them. For the rest, his
house is full of butlers, footmen, maidservants, and the usual
overfed, underworked staff of a large English country house.
“So much I learned partly from village gossip and partly from my
own observation. There are no better instruments than discharged
servants with a grievance, and I was lucky enough to find one. I
call it luck, but it would not have come my way had I not been
looking out for it. As Baynes remarks, we all have our systems.
It was my system which enabled me to find John Warner, late
gardener of High Gable, sacked in a moment of temper by his
imperious employer. He in turn had friends among the indoor
servants who unite in their fear and dislike of their master. So
I had my key to the secrets of the establishment.
“Curious people, Watson! I don’t pretend to understand it all
yet, but very curious people anyway. It’s a double-winged house,
and the servants live on one side, the family on the other.
There’s no link between the two save for Henderson’s own servant,
who serves the family’s meals. Everything is carried to a
certain door, which forms the one connection. Governess and
children hardly go out at all, except into the garden. Henderson
never by any chance walks alone. His dark secretary is like his
shadow. The gossip among the servants is that their master is
terribly afraid of something. ‘Sold his soul to the devil in
exchange for money,’ says Warner, ‘and expects his creditor to
come up and claim his own.’ Where they came from, or who they
are, nobody has an idea. They are very violent. Twice Henderson
has lashed at folk with his dog-whip, and only his long purse and
heavy compensation have kept him out of the courts.
“Well, now, Watson, let us judge the situation by this new
information. We may take it that the letter came out of this
strange household and was an invitation to Garcia to carry out
some attempt which had already been planned. Who wrote the note?
It was someone within the citadel, and it was a woman. Who then
but Miss Burnet, the governess? All our reasoning seems to point
that way. At any rate, we may take it asa hypothesis and see
what consequences it would entail. I may add that Miss Burnet’s
age and character make it certain that my first idea that there
might be a love interest in our story is out of the question.
“If she wrote the note she was presumably the friend and
confederate of Garcia. What, then, might she be expected to do
if she heard of his death? If he met it in some nefarious
enterprise her lips might be sealed. Still, in her heart, she
must retain bitterness and hatred against those who had killed
him and would presumably help so far as she could to have revenge
upon them. Could we see her, then and try to use her? That was
my first thought. But now we come to a sinister fact. Miss
Burnet has not been seen by any human eye since the night of the
murder. From that evening she has utterly vanished. Is she
alive? Has she perhaps met her end on the same night as the
friend whom she had summoned? Or is she merely a prisoner?
There is the point which we still have to decide.
“You will appreciate the difficulty of the situation, Watson.
There is nothing upon which we can apply for a warrant. Our
whole scheme might seem fantastic if laid before a magistrate.
The woman’s disappearance counts for nothing, since in that
extraordinary household any member of it might be invisible for a
week. And yet she may at the present moment be in danger of her
life. All I can do is to watch the house and leave my agent,
Warner, on guard at the gates. We can’t let such a situation
continue. If the law can do nothing we must take the risk
ourselves.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I know which is her room. It is accessible from the top of an
outhouse. My suggestion is that you and I go to-night and see if
we can strike at the very heart of the mystery.”
It was not, I must confess, a very alluring prospect. The old
house with its atmosphere of murder, the singular and formidable
inhabitants, the unknown dangers of the approach, and the fact
that we were putting ourselves legally in a false position all
combined to damp my ardour. But there was something in the ice-cold reasoning of Holmes which made it impossible to shrink from
any adventure which he might recommend. One knew that thus, and
only thus, could a solution be found. I clasped his hand in
silence, and the die was cast.
But it was not destined that our investigation should have so
adventurous an ending. It was about five o’clock, and the
shadows of the March evening were beginning to fall, when an
excited rustic rushed into our room.
“They’ve gone, Mr. Holmes. They went by the last train. The
lady broke away, and I’ve got her in a cab downstairs.”
“Excellent, Warner!” cried Holmes, springing to his feet.
“Watson, the gaps are closing rapidly.”
In the cab was a woman, half-collapsed from nervous exhaustion.
She bore upon her aquiline and emaciated face the traces of some
recent tragedy. Her head hung listlessly upon her breast, but as
she raised it and turned her dull eyes upon us I saw that her
pupils were dark dots in the centre of the broad gray iris. She
was drugged with opium.
“I watched at the gate, same as you advised, Mr. Holmes,” said
our emissary, the discharged gardener. “When the carriage came
out I followed it to the station. She was like one walking in
her sleep, but when they tried to get her into the train she came
to life and struggled. They pushed her into the carriage. She
fought her way out again. I took her part, got her into a cab,
and here we are. I shan’t forget the face at the carriage window
as I led her away. I’d have a short life if he had his way—the
black-eyed, scowling, yellow devil.”
We carried her upstairs, laid her on the sofa, and a couple of
cups of the strongest coffee soon cleared her brain from the
mists of the drug. Baynes had been summoned by Holmes, and the
situation rapidly explained to him.
“Why, sir, you’ve got me the very evidence I want,” said the
inspector warmly, shaking my friend by the hand. “I was on the
same scent as you from the first.”
“What! You were after Henderson?”
“Why, Mr. Holmes, when you were crawling in the shrubbery at High
Gable I was up one of the trees in the plantation and saw you
down below. It was just who would get his evidence first.”
“Then why did you arrest the mulatto?”
Baynes chuckled.
“I was sure Henderson, as he calls himself, felt that he was
suspected, and that he would lie low and make no move so long as
he thought he was in any danger. I arrested the wrong man to
make him believe that our eyes were off him. I knew he would be
likely to clear off then and give us a chance of getting at Miss
Burnet.”
Holmes laid his hand upon the inspector’s shoulder.
“You will rise high in your profession. You have instinct and
intuition,” said he.
Baynes flushed with pleasure.
“I’ve had a plain-clothes man waiting at the station all the
week. Wherever the High Gable folk go he will keep them in
sight. But he must have been hard put to it when Miss Burnet
broke away. However, your man picked her up, and it all ends
well. We can’t arrest without her evidence, that is clear, so
the sooner we get a statement the better.”
“Every minute she gets stronger,” said Holmes, glancing at the
governess. “But tell me, Baynes, who is this man Henderson?”
“Henderson,” the inspector answered, “is Don Murillo, once call
the Tiger of San Pedro.”
The Tiger of San Pedro! The whole history of the man came back
to me in a flash. He had made his name as the most lewd and
bloodthirsty tyrant that had ever governed any country with a
pretence to civilization. Strong, fearless, and energetic, he
had sufficient virtue to enable him to impose his odious vices
upon a cowering people for ten or twelve years. His name was a
terror through all Central America. At the end of that time
there was a universal rising against him. But he was as cunning
as he was cruel, and at the first whisper of coming trouble he
had secretly conveyed his treasures aboard a ship which was
manned by devoted adherents. It was an empty palace which was
stormed by the insurgents next day. The dictator, his two
children, his secretary, and his wealth had all escaped them.
>From that moment he had vanished from the world, and his identity
had been a frequent subject for comment in the European press.
“Yes, sir, Don Murillo, the Tiger of San Pedro,” said Baynes.
“If you look it up you will find that the San Pedro colours are
green and white, same as in the note, Mr. Holmes. Henderson he
called himself, but I traced him back, Paris and Rome and Madrid
to Barcelona, where his ship came in in ‘86. They’ve been
looking for him all the time for their revenge, but it is only
now that they have begun to find him out.”
“They discovered him a year ago,” said Miss Burnet, who had sat
up and was now intently following the conversation. “Once
already his life has been attempted, but some evil spirit
shielded him. Now, again, it is the noble, chivalrous Garcia who
has fallen, while the monster goes safe. But another will come,
and yet another, until some day justice will be done; that is as
certain as the rise of tomorrow’s sun.” Her thin hands
clenched, and her worn face blanched with the passion of her
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