The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

now faint, as the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls of

  the metal pipes. The most lay silent, but some muttered to

  themselves, and others talked together in a strange, low,

  monotonous voice, their conversation coming in gushes, and then

  suddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling out his own

  thoughts and paying little heed to the words of his neighbor. At

  the farther end was a small brazier of burning charcoal, beside

  which on a three-legged wooden stool there sat a tall, thin old

  man, with his jaw resting upon his two fists, and his elbows upon

  his knees, staring into the fire.

  As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe

  for me and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth.

  "Thank you. I have not come to stay," said I. "There is a friend

  of mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him."

  There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and

  peering through the gloom I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and

  unkempt, staring out at me.

  "My God! It's Watson," said he. He was in a pitiable state of

  reaction, with every nerve in a twitter. "I say, Watson, what

  o'clock is it?"

  "Nearly eleven."

  "Of what day?"

  "Of Friday, June 19th."

  "Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What

  d'you want to frighten the chap for?" He sank his face onto his

  arms and began to sob in a high treble key.

  "I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting

  this two days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!"

  "So I am. But you've got mixed, Watson, for I have only been here

  a few hours, three pipes, four pipes--I forget how many. But I'll

  go home with you. I wouldn't frighten Kate--poor little Kate.

  Give me your hand! Have you a cab?"

  "Yes, I have one waiting."

  "Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something. Find what I

  owe, Watson. I am all off color. I can do nothing for myself."

  I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of

  sleepers, holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying

  fumes of the drug, and looking about for the manager. As I passed

  the tall man who sat by the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at my

  skirt, and a low voice whispered, "Walk past me, and then look

  back at me." The words fell quite distinctly upon my ear. I

  glanced down. They could only have come from the old man at my

  side, and yet he sat now as absorbed as ever, very thin, very

  wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling down from between

  his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer lassitude from his

  fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back. It took all my

  self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a cry of

  astonishment. He had turned his back so that none could see him

  but I. His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull

  eyes had regained their fire, and there, sitting by the fire and

  grinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He

  made a slight motion to me to approach him, and instantly, as he

  turned his face half round to the company once more, subsided

  into a doddering, loose-lipped senility.

  "Holmes!" I whispered, "what on earth are you doing in this den?"

  "As low as you can," he answered; "I have excellent ears. If you

  would have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend

  of yours I should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with

  you."

  "I have a cab outside."

  "Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust him, for he

  appears to be too limp to get into any mischief. I should

  recommend you also to send a note by the cabman to your wife to

  say that you have thrown in your lot with me. If you will wait

  outside, I shall be with you in five minutes."

  It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes's requests, for

  they were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward with

  such a quiet air of mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitney

  was once confined in the cab my mission was practically

  accomplished; and for the rest, I could not wish anything better

  than to be associated with my friend in one of those singular

  adventures which were the normal condition of his existence. In a

  few minutes I had written my note, paid Whitney's bill, led him

  out to the cab, and seen him driven through the darkness. In a

  very short time a decrepit figure had emerged from the opium den,

  and I was walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes. For two

  streets he shuffled along with a bent back and an uncertain foot.

  Then, glancing quickly round, he straightened himself out and

  burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

  "I suppose, Watson," said he, "that you imagine that I have added

  opium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other little

  weaknesses on which you have favored me with your medical

  views."

  "I was certainly surprised to find you there."

  "But not more so than I to find you."

  "I came to find a friend."

  "And I to find an enemy."

  "An enemy?"

  "Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural

  prey. Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable

  inquiry, and I have hoped to find a clew in the incoherent

  ramblings of these sots, as I have done before now. Had I been

  recognized in that den my life would not have been worth an

  hour's purchase; for I have used it before now for my own

  purposes, and the rascally Lascar who runs it has sworn to have

  vengeance upon me. There is a trap-door at the back of that

  building, near the corner of Paul's Wharf, which could tell some

  strange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonless

  nights."

  "What! You do not mean bodies?"

  "Ay, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we had 1000 pounds

  for every poor devil who has been done to death in that den. It

  is the vilest murder-trap on the whole riverside, and I fear that

  Neville St. Clair has entered it never to leave it more. But our

  trap should be here." He put his two forefingers between his

  teeth and whistled shrilly--a signal which was answered by a

  similar whistle from the distance, followed shortly by the rattle

  of wheels and the clink of horses' hoofs.

  "Now, Watson," said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart dashed up through

  the gloom, throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light from

  its side lanterns. "You'll come with me, won't you?

  "If I can be of use."

  "Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use; and a chronicler still

  more so. My room at The Cedars is a double-bedded one."

  "The Cedars?"

  "Yes; that is Mr. St. Clair's house. I am staying there while I

  conduct the inquiry."

  "Where is it, then?"

  "Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive before us."

  "But I am all in the dark."

  "Of course you are. You'll know all about it presently. Jump up

  here. All right, John; we shall not need you. Here's half a

  crown. Look out for me to-morro
w, about eleven. Give her her

  head. So long, then!"

  He flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away through

  the endless succession of sombre and deserted streets, which

  widened gradually, until we were flying across a broad

  balustraded bridge, with the murky river flowing sluggishly

  beneath us. Beyond lay another dull wilderness of bricks and

  mortar, its silence broken only by the heavy, regular footfall of

  the policeman, or the songs and shouts of some belated party of

  revellers. A dull wrack was drifting slowly across the sky, and a

  star or two twinkled dimly here and there through the rifts of

  the clouds. Holmes drove in silence, with his head sunk upon his

  breast, and the air of a man who is lost in thought, while I sat

  beside him, curious to learn what this new quest might be which

  seemed to tax his powers so sorely, and yet afraid to break in

  upon the current of his thoughts. We had driven several miles,

  and were beginning to get to the fringe of the belt of suburban

  villas, when he shook himself, shrugged his shoulders, and lit up

  his pipe with the air of a man who has satisfied himself that he

  is acting for the best.

  "You have a grand gift of silence, Watson," said he. "It makes

  you quite invaluable as a companion. 'Pon my word, it is a great

  thing for me to have someone to talk to, for my own thoughts are

  not over-pleasant. I was wondering what I should say to this dear

  little woman to-night when she meets me at the door."

  "You forget that I know nothing about it."

  "I shall just have time to tell you the facts of the case before

  we get to Lee. It seems absurdly simple, and yet, somehow I can

  get nothing to go upon. There's plenty of thread, no doubt, but I

  can't get the end of it into my hand. Now, I'll state the case

  clearly and concisely to you, Watson, and maybe you can see a

  spark where all is dark to me."

  "Proceed, then."

  "Some years ago--to be definite, in May, 1884--there came to Lee

  a gentleman, Neville St. Clair by name, who appeared to have

  plenty of money. He took a large villa, laid out the grounds very

  nicely, and lived generally in good style. By degrees he made

  friends in the neighborhood, and in 1887 he married the daughter

  of a local brewer, by whom he now has two children. He had no

  occupation, but was interested in several companies and went into

  town as a rule in the morning, returning by the 5:14 from Cannon

  Street every night. Mr. St. Clair is now thirty-seven years of

  age, is a man of temperate habits, a good husband, a very

  affectionate father, and a man who is popular with all who know

  him. I may add that his whole debts at the present moment, as far

  as we have been able to ascertain amount to 88 pounds l0s., while

  he has 220 pounds standing to his credit in the Capital and

  Counties Bank. There is no reason, therefore, to think that money

  troubles have been weighing upon his mind.

  "Last Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into town rather earlier

  than usual, remarking before he started that he had two important

  commissions to perform, and that he would bring his little boy

  home a box of bricks. Now, by the merest chance, his wife

  received a telegram upon this same Monday, very shortly after his

  departure, to the effect that a small parcel of considerable

  value which she had been expecting was waiting for her at the

  offices of the Aberdeen Shipping Company. Now, if you are well up

  in your London, you will know that the office of the company is

  in Fresno Street, which branches out of Upper Swandam Lane, where

  you found me to-night. Mrs. St. Clair had her lunch, started for

  the City, did some shopping, proceeded to the company's office,

  got her packet, and found herself at exactly 4:35 walking through

  Swandam Lane on her way back to the station. Have you followed me

  so far?"

  "It is very clear."

  "If you remember, Monday was an exceedingly hot day, and Mrs. St.

  Clair walked slowly, glancing about in the hope of seeing a cab,

  as she did not like the neighborhood in which she found herself.

  While she was walking in this way down Swandam Lane, she suddenly

  heard an ejaculation or cry, and was struck cold to see her

  husband looking down at her and, as it seemed to her, beckoning

  to her from a second-floor window. The window was open, and she

  distinctly saw his face, which she describes as being terribly

  agitated. He waved his hands frantically to her, and then

  vanished from the window so suddenly that it seemed to her that

  he had been plucked back by some irresistible force from behind.

  One singular point which struck her quick feminine eye was that

  although he wore some dark coat, such as he had started to town

  in, he had on neither collar nor necktie.

  "Convinced that something was amiss with him, she rushed down the

  steps--for the house was none other than the opium den in which

  you found me to-night--and running through the front room she

  attempted to ascend the stairs which led to the first floor. At

  the foot of the stairs, however, she met this Lascar scoundrel of

  whom I have spoken, who thrust her back and, aided by a Dane, who

  acts as assistant there, pushed her out into the street. Filled

  with the most maddening doubts and fears, she rushed down the

  lane and, by rare good-fortune, met in Fresno Street a number of

  constables with an inspector, all on their way to their beat. The

  inspector and two men accompanied her back, and in spite of the

  continued resistance of the proprietor, they made their way to

  the room in which Mr. St. Clair had last been seen. There was no

  sign of him there. In fact, in the whole of that floor there was

  no one to be found save a crippled wretch of hideous aspect, who,

  it seems, made his home there. Both he and the Lascar stoutly

  swore that no one else had been in the front room during the

  afternoon. So determined was their denial that the inspector was

  staggered, and had almost come to believe that Mrs. St. Clair had

  been deluded when, with a cry, she sprang at a small deal box

  which lay upon the table and tore the lid from it. Out there fell

  a cascade of children's bricks. It was the toy which he had

  promised to bring home.

  "This discovery, and the evident confusion which the cripple

  showed, made the inspector realize that the matter was serious.

  The rooms were carefully examined, and results all pointed to an

  abominable crime. The front room was plainly furnished as a

  sitting-room and led into a small bedroom, which looked out upon

  the back of one of the wharves. Between the wharf and the bedroom

  window is a narrow strip, which is dry at low tide but is covered

  at high tide with at least four and a half feet of water. The

  bedroom window was a broad one and opened from below. On

  examination traces of blood were to be seen upon the windowsill,

  and several scattered drops were visible upon the wooden floor of

  the bedroom. Thrust away behind a curtain in the fro
nt room were

  all the clothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair, with the exception of

  his coat. His boots, his socks, his hat, and his watch--all were

  there. There were no signs of violence upon any of these

  garments, and there were no other traces of Mr. Neville St.

  Clair. Out of the window he must apparently have gone for no

  other exit could be discovered, and the ominous bloodstains upon

  the sill gave little promise that he could save himself by

  swimming, for the tide was at its very highest at the moment of

  the tragedy.

  "And now as to the villains who seemed to be immedlately

  implicated in the matter. The Lascar was known to be a man of the

  vilest antecedents, but as, by Mrs. St. Clair's story, he was

  known to have been at the foot of the stair within a very few

  seconds of her husband's appearance at the window, he could

  hardly have been more than an accessory to the crime. His defense

  was one of absolute ignorance, and he protested that he had no

  knowledge as to the doings of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and that he

  could not account in any way for the presence of the missing

  gentleman's clothes.

  "So much for the Lascar manager. Now for the sinister cripple who

  lives upon the second floor of the opium den, and who was

  certainly the last human being whose eyes rested upon Neville St.

  Clair. His name is Hugh Boone, and his hideous face is one which

  is familiar to every man who goes much to the City. He is a

  professional beggar, though in order to avoid the police

  regulations he pretends to a small trade in wax vestas. Some

  little distance down Threadneedle Street, upon the left-hand

  side, there is, as you may have remarked, a small angle in the

  wall. Here it is that this creature takes his daily seat,

  cross-legged with his tiny stock of matches on his lap, and as he

  is a piteous spectacle a small rain of charity descends into the

  greasy leather cap which lies upon the pavement beside him. I

  have watched the fellow more than once before ever I thought of

  making his professional acquaintance, and I have been surprised

  at the harvest which he has reaped in a short time. His

  appearance, you see, is so remarkable that no one can pass him

  without observing him. A shock of orange hair, a pale face

  disfigured by a horrible scar, which, by its contraction, has

  turned up the outer edge of his upper lip, a bulldog chin, and a

  pair of very penetrating dark eyes, which present a singular

  contrast to the color of his hair, all mark him out from amid

  the common crowd of mendicants and so, too, does his wit, for he

  is ever ready with a reply to any piece of chaff which may be

  thrown at him by the passers-by. This is the man whom we now

  learn to have been the lodger at the opium den, and to have been

  the last man to see the gentleman of whom we are in quest."

  "But a cripple!" said I. "What could he have done single-handed

  against a man in the prime of life?"

  "He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp; but in

  other respects he appears to be a powerful and well-nurtured man.

  Surely your medical experience would tell you, Watson, that

  weakness in one limb is often compensated for by exceptional

  strength in the others."

  "Pray continue your narrative."

  "Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon the

  window, and she was escorted home in a cab by the police, as her

  presence could be of no help to them in their investigations.

  Inspector Barton, who had charge of the case, made a very careful

  examination of the premises, but without finding anything which

  threw any light upon the matter. One mistake had been made in not

  arresting Boone instantly, as he was allowed some few minutes

  during which he might have communicated with his friend the

  Lascar, but this fault was soon remedied, and he was seized and

  searched, without anything being found which could incriminate

  him. There were, it is true, some blood-stains upon his right