Lestrade at the Yard. There may be an occasional want of imaginative
intuition down there, but they lead the world for thoroughness and
method. I had an idea that we might get on the track of our American
friend in their records. Sure enough, I found his chubby face smiling
up at me from the rogues' portrait gallery. 'James Winter, alias
Morecroft, alias Killer Evans,' was the inscription below." Holmes
drew an envelope from his pocket. "I scribbled down a few points from
his dossier: Aged forty-four. Native of Chicago. Known to have shot
three men in the States. Escaped from penitentiary through political
influence. Came to London in 1893. Shot a man over cards in a
night-club in the Waterloo Road in January, 1895. Man died, but he
was shown to have been the aggressor in the row. Dead man was
identified as Rodger Prescott, famous as forger and coiner in
Chicago. Killer Evans released in 1901. Has been under police
supervision since, but so far as known has led an honest life. Very
dangerous man, usually carries arms and is prepared to use them. That
is our bird, Watson--a sporting bird, as you must admit."
"But what is his game?"
"Well, it begins to define itself. I have been to the house-agent's.
Our client, as he told us, has been there five years. It was unlet
for a year before then. The previous tenant was a gentleman at large
named Waldron. Waldron's appearance was well remembered at the
office. He had suddenly vanished and nothing more been heard of him.
He was a tall, bearded man with very dark features. Now, Prescott,
the man whom Killer Evans had shot, was, according to Scotland Yard,
a tall, dark man with a beard. As a working hypothesis, I think we
may take it that Prescott, the American criminal, used to live in the
very room which our innocent friend now devotes to his museum. So at
last we get a link, you see."
"And the next link?"
"Well, we must go now and look for that."
He took a revolver from the drawer and handed it to me.
"I have my old favourite with me. If our Wild West friend tries to
live up to his nickname, we must be ready for him. I'll give you an
hour for a siesta, Watson, and then I think it will be time for our
Ryder Street adventure."
It was just four o'clock when we reached the curious apartment of
Nathan Garrideb. Mrs. Saunders, the caretaker, was about to leave,
but she had no hesitation in admitting us, for the door shut with a
spring lock, and Holmes promised to see that all was safe before we
left. Shortly afterwards the outer door closed, her bonnet passed the
bow window, and we knew that we were alone in the lower floor of the
house. Holmes made a rapid examination of the premises. There was one
cupboard in a dark corner which stood out a little from the wall. It
was behind this that we eventually crouched while Holmes in a whisper
outlined his intentions.
"He wanted to get our amiable friend out of his room--that is very
clear, and, as the collector never went out, it took some planning to
do it. The whole of this Garrideb invention was apparently for no
other end. I must say, Watson, that there is a certain devilish
ingenuity about it, even if the queer name of the tenant did give him
an opening which he could hardly have expected. He wove his plot with
remarkable cunning."
"But what did he want?"
"Well, that is what we are here to find out. It has nothing whatever
to do with our client, so far as I can read the situation. It is
something connected with the man he murdered--the man who may have
been his confederate in crime. There is some guilty secret in the
room. That is how I read it. At first I thought our friend might have
something in his collection more valuable than he knew--something
worth the attention of a big criminal. But the fact that Rodger
Prescott of evil memory inhabited these rooms points to some deeper
reason. Well, Watson, we can but possess our souls in patience and
see what the hour may bring."
That hour was not long in striking. We crouched closer in the shadow
as we heard the outer door open and shut. Then came the sharp,
metallic snap of a key, and the American was in the room. He closed
the door softly behind him, took a sharp glance around him to see
that all was safe, threw off his overcoat, and walked up to the
central table with the brisk manner of one who knows exactly what he
has to do and how to do it. He pushed the table to one side, tore up
the square of carpet on which it rested, rolled it completely back,
and then, drawing a jemmy from his inside pocket, he knelt down and
worked vigorously upon the floor. Presently we heard the sound of
sliding boards, and an instant later a square had opened in the
planks. Killer Evans struck a match, lit a stump of candle, and
vanished from our view.
Clearly our moment had come. Holmes touched my wrist as a signal, and
together we stole across to the open trap-door. Gently as we moved,
however, the old floor must have creaked under our feet, for the head
of our American, peering anxiously round, emerged suddenly from the
open space. His face turned upon us with a glare of baffled rage,
which gradually softened into a rather shamefaced grin as he realized
that two pistols were pointed at his head.
"Well, well!" said he coolly as he scrambled to the surface. "I guess
you have been one too many for me, Mr. Holmes. Saw through my game, I
suppose, and played me for a sucker from the first. Well, sir, I hand
it to you; you have me beat and--"
In an instant he had whisked out a revolver from his breast and had
fired two shots. I felt a sudden hot sear as if a red-hot iron had
been pressed to my thigh. There was a crash as Holmes's pistol came
down on the man's head. I had a vision of him sprawling upon the
floor with blood running down his face while Holmes rummaged him for
weapons. Then my friend's wiry arms were round me, and he was leading
me to a chair.
"You're not hurt, Watson? For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!"
It was worth a wound--it was worth many wounds--to know the depth of
loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard
eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For
the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as
of a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service
culminated in that moment of revelation.
"It's nothing, Holmes. It's a mere scratch."
He had ripped up my trousers with his pocket-knife.
"You are right," he cried with an immense sigh of relief. "It is
quite superficial." His face set like flint as he glared at our
prisoner, who was sitting up with a dazed face. "By the Lord, it is
as well for you. If you had killed Watson, you would not have got out
of this room alive. Now, sir, what have you to say for yourself?"
He had nothing to say for himself. He only sat and scowled. I leaned
on Holmes's arm, and together we looked down into the small cellar
which had been disclosed by the secret flap. It was still illuminated
by the candle which Evans had taken down with him. Our eyes fell upon
a mass of rusted machinery, great rolls of paper, a litter of
bottles, and, neatly arranged upon a small table, a number of neat
little bundles.
"A printing press--a counterfeiter's outfit," said Holmes.
"Yes, sir," said our prisoner, staggering slowly to his feet and then
sinking into the chair. "The greatest counterfeiter London ever saw.
That's Prescott's machine, and those bundles on the table are two
thousand of Prescott's notes worth a hundred each and fit to pass
anywhere. Help yourselves, gentlemen. Call it a deal and let me beat
it."
Holmes laughed.
"We don't do things like that, Mr. Evans. There is no bolt-hole for
you in this country. You shot this man Prescott, did you not?"
"Yes, sir, and got five years for it, though it was he who pulled on
me. Five years--when I should have had a medal the size of a soup
plate. No living man could tell a Prescott from a Bank of England,
and if I hadn't put him out he would have flooded London with them. I
was the only one in the world who knew where he made them. Can you
wonder that I wanted to get to the place? And can you wonder that
when I found this crazy boob of a bug-hunter with the queer name
squatting right on the top of it, and never quitting his room, I had
to do the best I could to shift him? Maybe I would have been wiser if
I had put him away. It would have been easy enough, but I'm a
soft-hearted guy that can't begin shooting unless the other man has a
gun also. But say, Mr. Holmes, what have I done wrong, anyhow? I've
not used this plant. I've not hurt this old stiff. Where do you get
me?"
"Only attempted murder, so far as I can see," said Holmes. "But
that's not our job. They take that at the next stage. What we wanted
at present was just your sweet self. Please give the Yard a call,
Watson. It won't be entirely unexpected."
So those were the facts about Killer Evans and his remarkable
invention of the three Garridebs. We heard later that our poor old
friend never got over the shock of his dissipated dreams. When his
castle in the air fell down, it buried him beneath the ruins. He was
last heard of at a nursing-home in Brixton. It was a glad day at the
Yard when the Prescott outfit was discovered, for, though they knew
that it existed, they had never been able, after the death of the
man, to find out where it was. Evans had indeed done great service
and caused several worthy C. I. D. men to sleep the sounder, for the
counterfeiter stands in a class by himself as a public danger. They
would willingly have subscribed to that soup-plate medal of which the
criminal had spoken, but an unappreciative bench took a less
favourable view, and the Killer returned to those shades from which
he had just emerged.
THE PROBLEM OF THOR BRIDGE
Somewhere in the vaults of the bank of Cox and Co., at Charing Cross,
there is a travel-worn and battered tin dispatch-box with my name,
John H. Watson, M.D., Late Indian Army, painted upon the lid. It is
crammed with papers, nearly all of which are records of cases to
illustrate the curious problems which Mr. Sherlock Holmes had at
various times to examine. Some, and not the least interesting, were
complete failures, and as such will hardly bear narrating, since no
final explanation is forthcoming. A problem without a solution may
interest the student, but can hardly fail to annoy the casual reader.
Among these unfinished tales is that of Mr. James Phillimore, who,
stepping back into his own house to get his umbrella, was never more
seen in this world. No less remarkable is that of the cutter Alicia,
which sailed one spring morning into a small patch of mist from where
she never again emerged, nor was anything further ever heard of
herself and her crew. A third case worthy of note is that of Isadora
Persano, the well-known journalist and duellist, who was found stark
staring mad with a match box in front of him which contained a
remarkable worm said to be unknown to science. Apart from these
unfathomed cases, there are some which involve the secrets of private
families to an extent which would mean consternation in many exalted
quarters if it were thought possible that they might find their way
into print. I need not say that such a breach of confidence is
unthinkable, and that these records will be separated and destroyed
now that my friend has time to turn his energies to the matter. There
remain a considerable residue of cases of greater or less interest
which I might have edited before had I not feared to give the public
a surfeit which might react upon the reputation of the man whom above
all others I revere. In some I was myself concerned and can speak as
an eye-witness, while in others I was either not present or played so
small a part that they could only be told as by a third person. The
following narrative is drawn from my own experience.
It was a wild morning in October, and I observed as I was dressing
how the last remaining leaves were being whirled from the solitary
plane tree which graces the yard behind our house. I descended to
breakfast prepared to find my companion in depressed spirits, for,
like all great artists, he was easily impressed by his surroundings.
On the contrary, I found that he had nearly finished his meal, and
that his mood was particularly bright and joyous, with that somewhat
sinister cheerfulness which was characteristic of his lighter
moments.
"You have a case, Holmes?" I remarked.
"The faculty of deduction is certainly contagious, Watson," he
answered. "It has enabled you to probe my secret. Yes, I have a case.
After a month of trivialities and stagnation the wheels move once
more."
"Might I share it?"
"There is little to share, but we may discuss it when you have
