a cold way I felt pretty furious myself, Watson, for there was
something indescribably annoying in the calm aloofness and supreme
self-complaisance of the woman whom we were trying to save. So now
once again you know exactly how we stand, and it is clear that I must
plan some fresh opening move, for this gambit won't work. I'll keep
in touch with you, Watson, for it is more than likely that you will
have your part to play, though it is just possible that the next move
may lie with them rather than with us."
And it did. Their blow fell--or his blow rather, for never could I
believe that the lady was privy to it. I think I could show you the
very paving-stone upon which I stood when my eyes fell upon the
placard, and a pang of horror passed through my very soul. It was
between the Grand Hotel and Charing Cross Station, where a one-legged
news-vender displayed his evening papers. The date was just two days
after the last conversation. There, black upon yellow, was the
terrible news-sheet:
Murderous Attack Upon Sherlock Holmes
I think I stood stunned for some moments. Then I have a confused
recollection of snatching at a paper, of the remonstrance of the man,
whom I had not paid, and, finally, of standing in the doorway of a
chemist's shop while I turned up the fateful paragraph. This was how
it ran:
We learn with regret that Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the well-known private
detective, was the victim this morning of a murderous assault which
has left him in a precarious position. There are no exact details to
hand, but the event seems to have occurred about twelve o'clock in
Regent Street, outside the Cafe Royal. The attack was made by two men
armed with sticks, and Mr. Holmes was beaten about the head and body,
receiving injuries which the doctors describe as most serious. He was
carried to Charing Cross Hospital and afterwards insisted upon being
taken to his rooms in Baker Street. The miscreants who attacked him
appear to have been respectably dressed men, who escaped from the
bystanders by passing through the Cafe Royal and out into Glasshouse
Street behind it. No doubt they belonged to that criminal fraternity
which has so often had occasion to bewail the activity and ingenuity
of the injured man.
I need not say that my eyes had hardly glanced over the paragraph
before I had sprung into a hansom and was on my way to Baker Street.
I found Sir Leslie Oakshott, the famous surgeon, in the hall and his
brougham waiting at the curb.
"No immediate danger," was his report. "Two lacerated scalp wounds
and some considerable bruises. Several stitches have been necessary.
Morphine has been injected and quiet is essential, but an interview
of a few minutes would not be absolutely forbidden."
With this permission I stole into the darkened room. The sufferer was
wide awake, and I heard my name in a hoarse whisper. The blind was
three-quarters down, but one ray of sunlight slanted through and
struck the bandaged head of the injured man. A crimson patch had
soaked through the white linen compress. I sat beside him and bent my
head.
"All right, Watson. Don't look so scared," he muttered in a very weak
voice. "It's not as bad as it seems."
"Thank God for that!"
"I'm a bit of a single-stick expert, as you know. I took most of them
on my guard. It was the second man that was too much for me."
"What can I do, Holmes? Of course, it was that damned fellow who set
them on. I'll go and thrash the hide off him if you give the word."
"Good old Watson! No, we can do nothing there unless the police lay
their hands on the men. But their get-away had been well prepared. We
may be sure of that. Wait a little. I have my plans. The first thing
is to exaggerate my injuries. They'll come to you for news. Put it on
thick, Watson. Lucky if I live the week
out--concussion--delirium--what you like! You can't overdo it."
"But Sir Leslie Oakshott?"
"Oh, he's all right. He shall see the worst side of me. I'll look
after that."
"Anything else?"
"Yes. Tell Shinwell Johnson to get that girl out of the way. Those
beauties will be after her now. They know, of course, that she was
with me in the case. If they dared to do me in it is not likely they
will neglect her. That is urgent. Do it to-night."
"I'll go now. Anything more?"
"Put my pipe on the table--and the tobacco-slipper. Right! Come in
each morning and we will plan our campaign."
I arranged with Johnson that evening to take Miss Winter to a quiet
suburb and see that she lay low until the danger was past.
For six days the public were under the impression that Holmes was at
the door of death. The bulletins were very grave and there were
sinister paragraphs in the papers. My continual visits assured me
that it was not so bad as that. His wiry constitution and his
determined will were working wonders. He was recovering fast, and I
had suspicions at times that he was really finding himself faster
than he pretended even to me. There was a curious secretive streak in
the man which led to many dramatic effects, but left even his closest
friend guessing as to what his exact plans might be. He pushed to an
extreme the axiom that the only safe plotter was he who plotted
alone. I was nearer him than anyone else, and yet I was always
conscious of the gap between.
On the seventh day the stitches were taken out, in spite of which
there was a report of erysipelas in the evening papers. The same
evening papers had an announcement which I was bound, sick or well,
to carry to my friend. It was simply that among the passengers on the
Cunard boat Ruritania, starting from Liverpool on Friday, was the
Baron Adelbert Gruner, who had some important financial business to
settle in the States before his impending wedding to Miss Violet de
Merville, only daughter of, etc., etc. Holmes listened to the news
with a cold, concentrated look upon his pale face, which told me that
it hit him hard.
"Friday!" he cried. "Only three clear days. I believe the rascal
wants to put himself out of danger's way. But he won't, Watson! By
the Lord Harry, he won't! Now, Watson, I want you to do something for
me."
"I am here to be used, Holmes."
"Well, then, spend the next twenty-four hours in an intensive study
of Chinese pottery."
He gave no explanations and I asked for none. By long experience I
had learned the wisdom of obedience. But when I had left his room I
walked down Baker Street, revolving in my head how on earth I was to
carry out so strange an order. Finally I drove to the London Library
in St. James's Square, put the matter to my friend Lomax, the
sublibrarian, and departed to my rooms with a goodly volume under my
arm.
It is said that the barrister who crams up a case with such care that
he can examine an expert witness upon the Monday has forgotten all
his forced knowledge before the Saturday. Certainly I should not like
now to pose as an authority upon ceramics. And yet all that evening,
and all that night with a short interval for rest, and all next
morning, I was sucking in knowledge and committing names to memory.
There I learned of the hall-marks of the great artist-decorators, of
the mystery of cyclical dates, the marks of the Hung-wu and the
beauties of the Yung-lo, the writings of Tang-ying, and the glories
of the primitive period of the Sung and the Yuan. I was charged with
all this information when I called upon Holmes next evening. He was
out of bed now, though you would not have guessed it from the
published reports, and he sat with his much-bandaged head resting
upon his hand in the depth of his favourite armchair.
"Why, Holmes," I said, "if one believed the papers, you are dying."
"That," said he, "is the very impression which I intended to convey.
And now, Watson, have you learned your lessons?"
"At least I have tried to."
"Good. You could keep up an intelligent conversation on the subject?"
"I believe I could."
"Then hand me that little box from the mantelpiece."
He opened the lid and took out a small object most carefully wrapped
in some fine Eastern silk. This he unfolded, and disclosed a delicate
little saucer of the most beautiful deep-blue colour.
"It needs careful handling, Watson. This is the real egg-shell
pottery of the Ming dynasty. No finer piece ever passed through
Christie's. A complete set of this would be worth a king's ransom--in
fact, it is doubtful if there is a complete set outside the imperial
palace of Peking. The sight of this would drive a real connoisseur
wild."
"What am I to do with it?"
Holmes handed me a card upon which was printed: "Dr. Hill Barton, 369
Half Moon Street."
"That is your name for the evening, Watson. You will call upon Baron
Gruner. I know something of his habits, and at half-past eight he
would probably be disengaged. A note will tell him in advance that
you are about to call, and you will say that you are bringing him a
specimen of an absolutely unique set of Ming china. You may as well
be a medical man, since that is a part which you can play without
duplicity. You are a collector, this set has come your way, you have
heard of the Baron's interest in the subject, and you are not averse
to selling at a price."
"What price?"
"Well asked, Watson. You would certainly fall down badly if you did
not know the value of your own wares. This saucer was got for me by
Sir James, and comes, I understand, from the collection of his
client. You will not exaggerate if you say that it could hardly be
matched in the world."
"I could perhaps suggest that the set should be valued by an expert."
"Excellent, Watson! You scintillate to-day. Suggest Christie or
Sotheby. Your delicacy prevents your putting a price for yourself."
"But if he won't see me?"
"Oh, yes, he will see you. He has the collection mania in its most
acute form--and especially on this subject, on which he is an
acknowledged authority. Sit down, Watson, and I will dictate the
letter. No answer needed. You will merely say that you are coming,
and why."
It was an admirable document, short, courteous, and stimulating to
the curiosity of the connoisseur. A district messenger was duly
dispatched with it. On the same evening, with the precious saucer in
my hand and the card of Dr. Hill Barton in my pocket, I set off on my
own adventure.
The beautiful house and grounds indicated that Baron Gruner was, as
Sir James had said, a man of considerable wealth. A long winding
drive, with banks of rare shrubs on either side, opened out into a
great gravelled square adorned with statues. The place had been built
by a South African gold king in the days of the great boom, and the
long, low house with the turrets at the corners, though an
architectural nightmare, was imposing in its size and solidity. A
butler, who would have adorned a bench of bishops, showed me in and
handed me over to a plush-clad footman, who ushered me into the
Baron's presence.
He was standing at the open front of a great case which stood between
the windows and which contained part of his Chinese collection. He
turned as I entered with a small brown vase in his hand.
"Pray sit down, Doctor," said he. "I was looking over my own
treasures and wondering whether I could really afford to add to them.
This little Tang specimen, which dates from the seventh century,
would probably interest you. I am sure you never saw finer
workmanship or a richer glaze. Have you the Ming saucer with you of
which you spoke?"
I carefully unpacked it and handed it to him. He seated himself at
his desk, pulled over the lamp, for it was growing dark, and set
himself to examine it. As he did so the yellow light beat upon his
own features, and I was able to study them at my ease.
He was certainly a remarkably handsome man. His European reputation
for beauty was fully deserved. In figure he was not more than of
middle size, but was built upon graceful and active lines. His face
was swarthy, almost Oriental, with large, dark, languorous eyes which
might easily hold an irresistible fascination for women. His hair and
moustache were raven black, the latter short, pointed, and carefully
waxed. His features were regular and pleasing, save only his
straight, thin-lipped mouth. If ever I saw a murderer's mouth it was
there--a cruel, hard gash in the face, compressed, inexorable, and
terrible. He was ill-advised to train his moustache away from it, for
it was Nature's danger-signal, set as a warning to his victims. His
voice was engaging and his manners perfect. In age I should have put
him at little over thirty, though his record afterwards showed that
he was forty-two.
"Very fine--very fine indeed!" he said at last. "And you say you have
