peering across. He wants to be sure that she is on the lookout. Now
he begins to flash. Take the message also, Watson, that we may check
each other. A single flash--that is A, surely. Now, then. How many
did you make it? Twenty. Do did In. That should mean T. AT--that's
intelligible enough. Another T. Surely this is the beginning of a
second word. Now, then--TENTA. Dead stop. That can't be all, Watson?
ATTENTA gives no sense. Nor is it any better as three words AT, TEN,
TA, unless T. A. are a person's initials. There it goes again! What's
that? ATTE--why, it is the same message over again. Curious, Watson,
very curious. Now he is off once more! AT--why he is repeating it for
the third time. ATTENTA three times! How often will he repeat it? No,
that seems to be the finish. He has withdrawn form the window. What
do you make of it, Watson?"
"A cipher message, Holmes."
My companion gave a sudden chuckle of comprehension. "And not a very
obscure cipher, Watson," said he. "Why, of course, it is Italian! The
A means that it is addressed to a woman. 'Beware! Beware! Beware!'
How's that, Watson?
"I believe you have hit it."
"Not a doubt of it. It is a very urgent message, thrice repeated to
make it more so. But beware of what? Wait a bit, he is coming to the
window once more."
Again we saw the dim silhouette of a crouching man and the whisk of
the small flame across the window as the signals were renewed. They
came more rapidly than before--so rapid that it was hard to follow
them.
"PERICOLO--pericolo--eh, what's that, Watson? 'Danger,' isn't it?
Yes, by Jove, it's a danger signal. There he goes again! PERI.
Halloa, what on earth--"
The light had suddenly gone out, the glimmering square of window had
disappeared, and the third floor formed a dark band round the lofty
building, with its tiers of shining casements. That last warning cry
had been suddenly cut short. How, and by whom? The same thought
occurred on the instant to us both. Holmes sprang up from where he
crouched by the window.
"This is serious, Watson," he cried. "There is some devilry going
forward! Why should such a message stop in such a way? I should put
Scotland Yard in touch with this business--and yet, it is too
pressing for us to leave."
"Shall I go for the police?"
"We must define the situation a little more clearly. It may bear some
more innocent interpretation. Come, Watson, let us go across
ourselves and see what we can make of it."
CHAPTER II
Two
As we walked rapidly down Howe Street I glanced back at the building
which we had left. There, dimly outlined at the top window, I could
see the shadow of a head, a woman's head, gazing tensely, rigidly,
out into the night, waiting with breathless suspense for the renewal
of that interrupted message. At the doorway of the Howe Street flats
a man, muffled in a cravat and greatcoat, was leaning against the
railing. He started as the hall-light fell upon our faces.
"Holmes!" he cried.
"Why, Gregson!" said my companion as he shook hands with the Scotland
Yard detective. "Journeys end with lovers' meetings. What brings you
here?"
"The same reasons that bring you, I expect," said Gregson. "How you
got on to it I can't imagine."
"Different threads, but leading up to the same tangle. I've been
taking the signals."
"Signals?"
"Yes, from that window. They broke off in the middle. We came over to
see the reason. But since it is safe in your hands I see no object in
continuing this business."
"Wait a bit!" cried Gregson eagerly. "I'll do you this justice, Mr.
Holmes, that I was never in a case yet that I didn't feel stronger
for having you on my side. There's only the one exit to these flats,
so we have him safe."
"Who is he?"
"Well, well, we score over you for once, Mr. Holmes. You must give us
best this time." He struck his stick sharply upon the ground, on
which a cabman, his whip in his hand, sauntered over from a
four-wheeler which stood on the far side of the street. "May I
introduce you to Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" he said to the cabman. "This
is Mr. Leverton, of Pinkerton's American Agency."
"The hero of the Long Island cave mystery?" said Holmes. "Sir, I am
pleased to meet you."
The American, a quiet, businesslike young man, with a clean-shaven,
hatchet face, flushed up at the words of commendation. "I am on the
trail of my life now, Mr. Holmes," said he. "If I can get Gorgiano--"
"What! Gorgiano of the Red Circle?"
"Oh, he has a European fame, has he? Well, we've learned all about
him in America. We know he is at the bottom of fifty murders, and yet
we have nothing positive we can take him on. I tracked him over from
New York, and I've been close to him for a week in London, waiting
some excuse to get my hand on his collar. Mr. Gregson and I ran him
to ground in that big tenement house, and there's only one door, so
he can't slip us. There's three folk come out since he went in, but
I'll swear he wasn't one of them."
"Mr. Holmes talks of signals," said Gregson. "I expect, as usual, he
knows a good deal that we don't."
In a few clear words Holmes explained the situation as it had
appeared to us. The American struck his hands together with vexation.
"He's on to us!" he cried.
"Why do you think so?"
"Well, it figures out that way, does it not? Here he is, sending out
messages to an accomplice--there are several of his gang in London.
Then suddenly, just as by your own account he was telling them that
there was danger, he broke short off. What could it mean except that
from the window he had suddenly either caught sight of us in the
street, or in some way come to understand how close the danger was,
and that he must act right away if he was to avoid it? What do you
suggest, Mr. Holmes?"
"That we go up at once and see for ourselves."
"But we have no warrant for his arrest."
"He is in unoccupied premises under suspicious circumstances," said
Gregson. "That is good enough for the moment. When we have him by the
heels we can see if New York can't help us to keep him. I'll take the
responsibility of arresting him now."
Our official detectives may blunder in the matter of intelligence,
but never in that of courage. Gregson climbed the stair to arrest
this desperate murderer with the same absolutely quiet and
businesslike bearing with which he would have ascended the official
staircase of Scotland Yard. The Pinkerton man had tried to push past
him, but Gregson had firmly elbowed him back. London dangers were the
privilege of the London force.
The door of the left-hand flat upon the third landing was standing
ajar. Gregson pushed it open. Within all was absolute silence and
darkness. I struck a match and lit the detective's lantern. As I did
so, and as the flicker steadied into a flame, we all gave a gasp of
surprise. On the deal boards of the carpetless floor there was
outlined a fresh track of blood. The red steps pointed towards us and
led away from an inner room, the door of which was closed. Gregson
flung it open and held his light full blaze in front of him, while we
all peered eagerly over his shoulders.
In the middle of the floor of the empty room was huddled the figure
of an enormous man, his clean-shaven, swarthy face grotesquely
horrible in its contortion and his head encircled by a ghastly
crimson halo of blood, lying in a broad wet circle upon the white
woodwork. His knees were drawn up, his hands thrown out in agony, and
from the centre of his broad, brown, upturned throat there projected
the white haft of a knife driven blade-deep into his body. Giant as
he was, the man must have gone down like a pole-axed ox before that
terrific blow. Beside his right hand a most formidable horn-handled,
two-edged dagger lay upon the floor, and near it a black kid glove.
"By George! it's Black Gorgiano himself!" cried the American
detective. "Someone has got ahead of us this time."
"Here is the candle in the window, Mr. Holmes," said Gregson. "Why,
whatever are you doing?"
Holmes had stepped across, had lit the candle, and was passing it
backward and forward across the window-panes. Then he peered into the
darkness, blew the candle out, and threw it on the floor.
"I rather think that will be helpful," said he. He came over and
stood in deep thought while the two professionals were examining the
body. "You say that three people came out form the flat while you
were waiting downstairs," said he at last. "Did you observe them
closely?"
"Yes, I did."
"Was there a fellow about thirty, black-bearded, dark, of middle
size?"
"Yes; he was the last to pass me."
"That is your man, I fancy. I can give you his description, and we
have a very excellent outline of his footmark. That should be enough
for you."
"Not much, Mr. Holmes, among the millions of London."
"Perhaps not. That is why I thought it best to summon this lady to
your aid."
We all turned round at the words. There, framed in the doorway, was a
tall and beautiful woman--the mysterious lodger of Bloomsbury. Slowly
she advanced, her face pale and drawn with a frightful apprehension,
her eyes fixed and staring, her terrified gaze riveted upon the dark
figure on the floor.
"You have killed him!" she muttered. "Oh, Dio mio, you have killed
him!" Then I heard a sudden sharp intake of her breath, and she
sprang into the air with a cry of joy. Round and round the room she
danced, her hands clapping, her dark eyes gleaming with delighted
wonder, and a thousand pretty Italian exclamations pouring from her
lips. It was terrible and amazing to see such a woman so convulsed
with joy at such a sight. Suddenly she stopped and gazed at us all
with a questioning stare.
"But you! You are police, are you not? You have killed Giuseppe
Gorgiano. Is it not so?"
"We are police, madam."
She looked round into the shadows of the room.
"But where, then, is Gennaro?" she asked. "He is my husband, Gennaro
Lucca. I am Emilia Lucca, and we are both from New York. Where is
Gennaro? He called me this moment from this window, and I ran with
all my speed."
"It was I who called," said Holmes.
"You! How could you call?"
"Your cipher was not difficult, madam. Your presence here was
desirable. I knew that I had only to flash 'Vieni' and you would
surely come."
The beautiful Italian looked with awe at my companion.
"I do not understand how you know these things," she said. "Giuseppe
Gorgiano--how did he--" She paused, and then suddenly her face lit up
with pride and delight. "Now I see it! My Gennaro! My splendid,
beautiful Gennaro, who has guarded me safe from all harm, he did it,
with his own strong hand he killed the monster! Oh, Gennaro, how
wonderful you are! What woman could every be worthy of such a man?"
"Well, Mrs. Lucca," said the prosaic Gregson, laying his hand upon
the lady's sleeve with as little sentiment as if she were a Notting
Hill hooligan, "I am not very clear yet who you are or what you are;
but you've said enough to make it very clear that we shall want you
at the Yard."
"One moment, Gregson," said Holmes. "I rather fancy that this lady
may be as anxious to give us information as we can be to get it. You
understand, madam, that your husband will be arrested and tried for
the death of the man who lies before us? What you say may be used in
evidence. But if you think that he has acted from motives which are
not criminal, and which he would wish to have known, then you cannot
serve him better than by telling us the whole story."
"Now that Gorgiano is dead we fear nothing," said the lady. "He was a
devil and a monster, and there can be no judge in the world who would
punish my husband for having killed him."
"In that case," said Holmes, "my suggestion is that we lock this
door, leave things as we found them, go with this lady to her room,
and form our opinion after we have heard what it is that she has to
say to us."
Half an hour later we were seated, all four, in the small
sitting-room of Signora Lucca, listening to her remarkable narrative
of those sinister events, the ending of which we had chanced to
witness. She spoke in rapid and fluent but very unconventional
English, which, for the sake of clearness, I will make grammatical.
"I was born in Posilippo, near Naples," said she, "and was the
