A Study in Terror (12 page)

“You did not see him again?” murmured Holmes.

“I tried, and did see him briefly on two other occasions. Word of that sort of thing, of course, cannot be kept secret—a short time later, Michael was dropped from the Sorbonne. When I heard this, I made a point of seeking him out. I found him living in an unspeakable sty on the Left Bank. He was alone, but I presume his wife was living there with him. He was half-drunk, and received me with hostility—a different man by far from the one I had known. I could not even begin to reach him, so I placed some money upon the table and left. A fortnight later, I met him in the street, near the Sorbonne. His appearance cut me to the quick. It was as if a lost soul had returned to gaze wistfully upon the opportunities he had thrown away. His defiance remained, however. When I attempted to accost him, he snarled at me and slunk away.”

“I gather, then, that you have never laid eyes upon his wife?”

“No, but there were rumours concerning her. It was whispered about that the woman had a confederate, a man with whom she had consorted both before and after her marriage. I have no certain knowledge of that, however.” He paused, as though pondering the tragic fate of his friend. Then he raised his head and spoke with more spirit. “I believe that Michael was somehow put upon in that disastrous marriage, that in no way did he deliberately seek to bring shame upon his illustrious name.”

“And I believe,” said Holmes, “that I can reassure you on that point. Michael's kit of surgical instruments has recently come into my possession, and I discovered upon examining it that he had carefully covered the emblazoned coat of arms it bore with a piece of velvet cloth.”

Timothy Wentworth's eyes widened. “He was forced to dispose of his instruments?”

“The point I wish to make,” continued Holmes, “is that this very act of concealing the insignia indicates, not only shame, but an effort to protect the name he has been accused of seeking to disgrace.”

“It is intolerable that his father will not believe that. But now, sir, I have told you all I know, and I am eager to hear what you have to tell me.”

Holmes was markedly reluctant to reply. He arose from his chair and took a quick turn across the room. Then he stopped. “There is nothing you can do for Michael, sir,” said he.

Wentworth seemed ready to spring up. “But we made a bargain!”

“Michael, some time after you last saw him, suffered an accident. At present he is little more than mindless flesh, Mr. Wentworth. He remembers nothing of his past, and his memory will probably never return. But he is being well cared-for. As I have said, there is nothing you can do for him, and in suggesting that you do not see him I am attempting to spare you further distress.”

Timothy Wentworth turned his frown upon the floor, considering Holmes's advice. I was glad when he sighed, and said, “Very well, Mr. Holmes, then it is over.” Wentworth came to his feet and extended his hand. “But if there is anything I can ever do, sir, please get in touch with me.”

“You may depend upon it.”

After the young man left, Holmes stood in silence, gazing from the window at our departing visitor. When he spoke, it was in so low a voice that I could scarcely catch his words. “The more grievous our faults, Watson, the closer a true friend clings.”

“What was that, Holmes?”

“A passing thought.”

“Well, I must say that young Wentworth's account changes my opinion of Michael Osbourne.”

Holmes returned to the fire to stab a restless poker at the log. “But I am sure you realise that his hearsay was of far more significance than his fact.”

“I confess I do not follow you.”

“The rumour that the woman, Michael's wife, had a male accomplice throws additional light upon the problem. Now, who could this man be, Watson, other than our elusive missing link? Our tiger who set assassins upon us?”

“But how did he know?”

“Ah, yes. How did he discover that I was on his trail before I knew it myself? I think we shall make another call upon the Duke of Shires, at his town-house in Berkeley Square.”

We were not destined, however, to make that visit. At that moment the bell again rang downstairs, and we heard Mrs. Hudson again answer the door. A great clatter followed; the caller had rushed past our landlady and was taking the stairs two at a time. Our door burst open, and there he stood, a thin and pimple-faced youth with a great air of defiance about him. His manner was such that my hand moved automatically towards a fire-iron.

“W'ich o' you gents is Mr. Sherlock 'Olmes?”

“I, my lad,” answered Holmes; and the youth extended a parcel wrapped in brown paper. “This 'ere's to be given to yer, then.”

Holmes took the parcel and opened it with no ceremony.

“The missing scalpel!” cried I.

Holmes had no chance to reply. The messenger had bolted, and Holmes whirled about. “Wait!” he shouted. “I must speak with you! You shall not be harmed!”

But the boy was gone. Holmes rushed from the room. I hastened to the window, and beheld the youth fleeing down the street as though all the devils of Hell were after him, Sherlock Holmes swiftly in his wake.

Ellery's Legman Legs It Again

“Rachel?”

She looked back over her shoulder. “Grant! Grant Ames!”

“Just thought I'd drop in,” said the playboy.

“So sweet of you!”

Rachel Hager wore a pair of blue jeans and a tight sweater. She had long legs and a slim body, but there were plenty of curves. Her mouth was full and wide, and her eyes were an odd off-brown, and her nose was pugged. She looked like a madonna who had run into a door.

This pleasing paradox did not escape Grant Ames III. She didn't look like this the other day, he thought, and pointed to what she had been doing in the backyard.

“I didn't know you grew roses.”

Her laugh revealed the most beautiful buck teeth. “I try. Heavens, how I try. But my thumb stays its natural color. What brings you into the wilds of New Rochelle?” She slipped off her gloves and lifted a strand of hair off her forehead. The shade was mouse brown, but Grant was sure that, bottled, it would have lined them up at the cosmetic counters.

“Just driving by. Hardly got a chance to say hello at Lita's the other day.”

“I was there by accident. I couldn't stay around.”

“I noticed you didn't swim.”

“Why, Grant! Such a nice compliment. Most girls are noticed when they do. How about the patio? I'll bring you a drink. Scotch, isn't it?”

“At times, but at the moment I could do with a frosty iced tea.”

“Really? I'll be right back.”

When she returned, Grant watched her cross her long legs in a lawn chair too low to be comfortable. For some reason he was stirred. “Lovely garden.”

That enchanting buck-toothed laugh again. “You should see it after the kids leave.”

“The kids?”

“From the orphanage. We bring a group over once a week, and it's
wild
. They do respect the roses, though. One little girl just sits and stares. Yesterday I gave her an ice-cream cone and it melted all over her hand. It was that Mammoth Tropicana over there. She tried to kiss it.”

“I didn't know you worked with children.” As a matter of cold fact, Grant had not had the least idea what Rachel did, and until now had not cared a whit.

“I'm sure I get more out of it than they do. I'm working on my Master's now, and I have time to spare. I was thinking of the Peace Corps. But there's so much to do right here in the U.S.—in town, in fact.”

“You're gorgeous,” Grant unbelievingly heard himself mutter.

The girl looked up quickly, not sure she had heard him right. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“I was trying to remember how many times I've seen you. The first was at Snow Mountain, wasn't it?”

“I think it was.”

“Jilly Hart introduced us.”

“I remember because I broke my ankle that trip. But how can
you
possibly remember? With your harem?”

“I'm not entirely irresponsible,” said Grant stuffily.

“I mean, why should you? Me? You've never shown—”

“Would you do me a favor, Rachel?”

“What?” asked Rachel suspiciously.

“Go back and do what you were doing when I got here. Dig at your roses. I want to sit here and look at you.”

“Is this your latest line?”

“It's very strange,” he mumbled.

“Grant. What did you come here for?”

“What?”

“I said, what did you come here for?”

“Damned if I can remember.”

“I'll bet you can,” the girl said, a little grimly. “Try.”

“Let me see. Oh! To ask if you'd put a brown manila envelope on the seat of my Jag at Lita's. But the hell with that. What kind of fertilizer do you use?”

Rachel squatted. Grant had visions of
Vogue
. “I have no formula. I just keep mixing. Grant, what's the matter with you?”

He looked down at the lovely brown hand on his arm.

My God! It's happened!

“If I come back at seven, will you have a frock on?” he asked.

She looked at him with a dawning light. “Of course, Grant,” she said softly.

“And you won't mind my showing you off here and there?”

The hand squeezed. “You darling.”

“Ellery, I've found her, I've found her!” Grant Ames III babbled over the telephone.

“Found whom?”

“T
he
Woman!”

“Who put the envelope in your car?” Ellery said in a peculiar voice.

“Who put what?” said Grant.

“The envelope. The journal.”

“Oh.” There was a silence. “You know what, Ellery?”

“No. What?”

“I didn't find out.”

Ellery went back to Dr. Watson, shrugging.

CHAPTER IX

THE LAIR OF THE RIPPER

I could do nothing but wait. Infected by Holmes's fever of impatience, trying to occupy the hours, I assessed the situation, endeavouring to apply the methods I had so long witnessed Holmes employ.

His identification of the Ripper as one of four men came in for its share of my ponderings, you may be sure, but I was confused by other elements of the puzzle—Mycroft's assertion that, as yet, his brother did not have all the pieces, and Holmes's yearning to come to grips with the “tiger” prowling London's by-ways. If the Ripper was one of four persons whom Holmes had already met, where did the “tiger” fit in? And why was it necessary to locate him before the Ripper could be brought to book?

Elation would have been mine, had I known that at that moment I myself held the key. But I was blind to both the key and its significance; and, when this knowledge did come to me, it brought only humiliation.

Thus I fretted away the hours with but a single break in the monotony. This occurred when a note was delivered to Baker Street by a smartly-uniformed page-boy. “Sir, a message from Mr. Mycroft Holmes to Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Mr. Holmes is absent at the moment,” said I. “You may leave the note.”

After I had dismissed the page, I examined the note. It was in a sealed envelope, from the Foreign Office. The Foreign Office was where Mycroft had his being.

My fingers were itching to tear the flap, but of course I did not. I pocketed the missive and went on with my pacing. The hours passed, with no sign of Holmes. At times, I went to the window and watched the fog that was settling in over London. As twilight fell, I remarked to myself what a fortuitous night this would be for the Ripper.

This had evidently occurred to the maniac also. Quite dramatically, upon the heels of my thought, there came a message from Holmes, delivered by an urchin. I tore it open with trembling fingers as the boy waited.

My dear Watson:

You will give this boy a half-crown for his trouble, and meet me post-haste at the Montague Street morgue
.

Sherlock Holmes

The urchin, a bright-faced lad, had never before received such a handsome
pourboire
, I am certain. In my relief, I gave him a crown.

In no time at all I was in a hansom, urging the cabman on through the thickening pea-soup that be-fogged the streets. Fortunately, the Jehu had the instincts of a homing-pigeon. In a remarkably short time he said, “The right-'and door, guv'ner. Walk strite on and watch yer nose, or yer'll bang into the ruddy gite.”

I found the gate with some groping, went in, and through the court, and found Holmes by the raised table in the mortuary.

“Still another, Watson,” was his portentous greeting.

Dr. Murray and the imbecile were also present. Murray stood silently by the table, but Michael-Pierre cringed by the wall, naked fear upon his face.

As Murray remained motionless, Holmes frowned. Said he, sharply, “Dr. Murray, you do not question Dr. Watson's stomach for it?”

“No, no,” replied Murray, and drew back the sheet.

But my stomach was tested, nonetheless. It was the most incredible job of butchery on a human body that the sane mind could conceive. With demented skill the Ripper had gone berserk. In decency, I refrain from setting down the details, save for my gasp, “The missing breast, Holmes!”

“This time,” responded Holmes, grimly, “our madman took away a trophy.”

I could endure it no longer; I stepped down from the platform. Holmes followed. “In God's name, Holmes,” cried I, “the beast must be stopped!”

“You are in good company with that prayer, Watson.”

“Has Scotland Yard been of any aid to you?”

“Rather, Watson,” replied he, sombrely, “have I been of any aid to Scotland Yard? Very little, I fear.”

We took our leave of Murray and the imbecile. In the swirling fog of the street, I shuddered. “That wreck who was once Michael Osbourne … Is it my fancy, Holmes, or did he crouch there for all the world like Murray's faithful hound, expecting a kick for some transgression?”