A Study in Terror (7 page)

“Not so much as a scratch, Holmes,” I assured him.

“If you'd been hurt, I should never have forgiven myself.”

“Are
you
all right, old chap?”

“Except for a bruised shin.” Helping me to my feet, Holmes added grimly, “I am an idiot. An attack was the last thing I anticipated. The aspects of this case change swiftly.”

“Don't blame yourself. How could you possibly have known?”

“It is my business to know.”

“You were alert enough to beat them at their own game, when every advantage was on their side.”

But Holmes would not be comforted. “I am slow, slow, Watson,” said he. “Come, we shall find a hansom and get you home to that fire and a hot tea.”

A cab hove in sight and picked us up. When we were rattling back towards Baker Street, Holmes said, “It would be interesting to know who sent them.”

“Obviously, someone who wishes us dead,” was my retort.

“But our ill-wisher, whoever he is, appears to have used poor judgement in selecting his emissaries. He should have chosen cooler heads. Their enthusiasm for the job impaired their efficiency.”

“Our good fortune, Holmes.”

“They achieved one goal, at least. If there was any doubt before, they have wedded me irrevocably to this case.” Holmes's tone was grim indeed, and we rode the remainder of the journey in silence. It was not until we were seated before the fire with steaming cups of Mrs. Hudson's tea that he spoke again.

“After I left you yesterday, Watson, I corroborated a few small points. Did you know that a nude—a quite good work, by the way—by one Kenneth Osbourne, hangs in the National Gallery?”

“Kenneth Osbourne, did you say?” I exclaimed.

“The Duke of Shires.”

Ellery Succeeds

He had typed steadily through the night; dawn found him blinking, stubbled, and famished.

Ellery went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator and brought out a bottle of milk and the three sandwiches he had failed to eat the previous afternoon. He wolfed them down, drained what was left of the milk, wiped his mouth, yawned, stretched, and went to the phone.

“Morning, dad. Who won?”

“Who won what?” Inspector Queen asked querulously, from Bermuda.

“The horseshoe game.”

“Oh, that. They rang in some stacked shoes on me. How's the weather in New York? Lousy, I hope.”

“The weather?” Ellery glanced at the window, but the Venetian blinds were closed. “To tell you the truth, dad, I don't know. I worked all night.”

“And you sent me down here for a rest! Son, why don't you join me?”

“I can't. It's not only this book I've got to finish, but Grant Ames dropped in yesterday. He drank me dry and left a package.”

“Oh?” said the Inspector, coming to life. “What kind of package?”

Ellery told him.

The old man snorted. “Of all the baloney. Somebody's pulling a funny on you. Did you read it?”

“A few chapters. I must say it's pretty well done. Fascinating, in fact. But then—out of nowhere—lightning struck, and I got back to my typewriter. How do you plan to spend your day, dad?”

“Frying myself on that damned beach. Ellery, I'm so bored I'm beginning to chew my nails. Son,
won't
you let me come home?”

“Not a chance,” said Ellery. “You fry. Tell you what. How would you like to read an unpublished Sherlock Holmes?”

Inspector Queen's voice took on a cunning note. “Say, that's an idea. I'll call the airline and book a stray seat—I can be in New York in no time—”

“Nothing doing. I'll mail the manuscript down to you.”

“To hell with the manuscript!” howled his father.

“So long, daddy,” said Ellery. “Don't forget to wear your dark glasses on the beach. And you eat everything they put on your plate.”

He hung up hastily, not a second too soon.

He peered at the clock. It had the same bloodshot look as the typewriter.

He went into his bathroom, took a shower, and came back in his pyjamas. The first thing he did in his study was to yank the telephone jack out of the wall socket. The second thing he did was to seize Dr. Watson's journal.

It will put me to sleep, he said to himself cunningly.

CHAPTER V

THE DIOGENES CLUB

The following morning I awoke to find Holmes up and pacing. Making no reference whatever to the previous night's misadventure, he said, “Watson, I wonder if you would inscribe a few notes for me?”

“I should be happy to.”

“I apologise for demeaning you to the role of amanuensis, but I have a special reason for wishing the details of this case to be put down in orderly fashion.”

“A special reason?”

“Very. If your time is free, we shall call this afternoon upon my brother Mycroft, at his club. A consultation may bear us fruit. In certain ways, you know, Mycroft's analytical talents are superior to mine.”

“I am aware of the high respect in which you hold him.”

“Of course, his is what you might call a sedentary ability, in that he detests moving about. If a street-chair were ever invented to transport one from office to home and back again, Mycroft would be its first purchaser.”

“I do recall that he is a man of rigid routine.”

“Thus, he tends to reduce all riddles, human or otherwise, to chess-board dimensions. This is far too restrictive for my taste, but his methods are often quite stimulating, in the broader analysis.”

Holmes rubbed his hands together. “And now, let us list our actors. Not necessarily in the order of their importance. We have, first, the Duke of Shires …”

Holmes re-capitulated for an hour, whilst I took notes. Then he prowled the rooms whilst I re-arranged my notes into some semblance of order. When I had finished, I handed him the following
résumé
. It contained information of which I had no previous knowledge, data that Holmes had gathered over-night:

The Duke of Shires
(Kenneth Osbourne)

Present holder of title and lands dating back to 1420. The twentieth descendant of the line. The Duke lives quietly, dividing his time between his estates and a townhouse on Berkeley Square, where he pursues a painter's career. He sired two sons by a wife now ten years deceased. He has never re-married.

Lord Carfax
(Richard Osbourne)

Elder son of Kenneth. Lineal inheritor of the dukedom. He sired one daughter, Deborah. But tragedy struck when his wife perished upon the delivery-table. The child is cared for by a governess at the Devonshire estate. The bond of affection between father and daughter is strong. Lord Carfax exhibits deep humanitarian tendencies. He gives generously of both his money and his time to the Montague Street Hostel in London, a sanctuary for indigents.

Michael Osbourne

Second son of Kenneth. A source of shame and sorrow to his father. Michael, according to testimony, bitterly resented his inferior position as a second son and non-inheritor, and embarked upon a profligate life. Bent, it is said, upon disgracing the title beyond his reach, he is also reported to have married a woman of the streets, apparently for no other reason than to further that misguided end. This reprehensible act is purported to have taken place while he was a medical student in Paris. He was expelled from the Sorbonne shortly thereafter. His fate thenceforward, and his present address, are unknown.

Joseph Beck

A pawn-broker with a shop on Great Heapton Street. Of doubtful importance, on the basis of data at hand.

Dr. Murray

A
dedicated M.D. who superintends the Montague Street morgue, and devotes himself to the adjoining hostel he himself created.

Sally Young
.

The niece of Dr. Murray. She gives her full-time to the hostel. A devoted nurse and social-worker, it was she who pledged the surgeon's-kit at Beck's pawn-shop. When questioned, she gave information freely, and appeared to hold nothing in reserve.

Pierre

A seemingly harmless imbecile taken in at the hostel, where he performs menial tasks. The surgeon's-case was found among his possessions, and pledged by Miss Young for his benefit. He appears to have come from France.

The Scar-faced Woman

Unidentified.

Holmes ran through the
résumé
with a dissatisfied frown. “If this accomplishes nothing else,” said he, “It shows us what a little way we have come, and how far we have still to go. It does not list the victims, who underscore our need for haste. There have been four known butcheries, and any delay on our part will no doubt add to the list. So if you will clothe yourself, Watson, we shall flag a hansom and be off to the Diogenes Club.”

Holmes sat deep in thought as we rattled over the cobble-stones, but I risked disturbing him for something that came suddenly to mind.

“Holmes,” said I, “as we were leaving the Duke of Shires's estate, you mentioned that Lord Carfax had failed on two counts. I think I have become aware of one of them.”

“Indeed?”

“It occurs to me that he made no inquiry as to how you had come by the surgical-case. It therefore seems logical that he already knew.”

“Excellent, Watson.”

“In the light of the omission, we are justified in assuming that it was he who sent it to you?”

“We have at least a right to suspect that he knows who did.”

“Then perhaps Lord Carfax is our key to the identity of the scar-faced woman.”

“Entirely possible, Watson. However, recognising a key as such, and turning it, can be two different matters entirely.”

“I must confess that his Lordship's second lapse has escaped me.”

“You will recall that, in Lord Carfax's presence, I dropped the case and spilled its contents onto the floor? And that he courteously picked up the instruments?”

“Yes?”

“But perhaps you failed to note the practised skill with which he replaced them, each to its proper niche, with no hesitation whatever.”

“Why, of course!”

“And, now that you recall this, what additional information does it give you concerning his Lordship?”

“That, even though he professes no surgical knowledge or experience, he is quite familiar with the tools of surgery.”

“Precisely. A fact that we must place in our mental file for future reference. But here we are, Watson, and Mycroft awaits us.”

The Diogenes Club! I remembered it well, even though I had entered its hushed precincts but once. That had been upon the occasion when Mycroft had shifted to his more active brother's shoulders the curious affair of the Greek Interpreter, which case I had the honour and satisfaction of recording for the pleasure of Holmes's not inconsiderable body of admirers.

The Diogenes Club was formed by, and for the benefit of, men who chose to seek solitude in the heart of the clamorous city. It is a luxurious place, with easy-chairs, excellent food, and all the other appurtenances of creature-comfort. The rules are geared to the Club's basic purpose, and are strictly enforced; rules devised to discourage, nay, to forbid, all sociability. Talking, save in the Stranger's Room—into which we were soundlessly ushered—is forbidden. In fact, it is forbidden for any member to take the slightest notice of any other. A tale is told—apocryphal, I am sure—of a member succumbing to a heart-attack in his chair and being found to have expired only when a fellow-member noticed that the
Times
propped before the poor man was three days old.

Mycroft Holmes awaited us in the Stranger's Room, having taken time off, I was later informed, from his government post, around the corner in Whitehall. This, I might add, was an unheard-of interruption of his fixed habits.

Still, neither of the brothers, upon meeting, seemed in any haste to get to the business at hand. Mycroft, a large, comfortable man with thick grey hair and heavy features, bore little resemblance to his younger brother. He extended his hand, and exclaimed, “Sherlock! You're looking fit. Bouncing all over England and the Continent appears to agree with you.” Shifting the meaty hand to me, Mycroft said, “Dr. Watson. I had heard that you escaped from Sherlock's clutch into matrimony. Surely Sherlock has not re-captured you?”

“I am most happily married,” I assured him. “My wife is visiting an aunt at the moment.”

“And Sherlock's long arm reaches out instantly!”

Mycroft's smile was warm. For an unsocial man, he had a curious talent for making one feel at ease. He had met us at the door, and now he moved towards the bow-window looking out upon one of London's busiest streets. We followed, and the brothers stood side by side, surveying the passing scene.

“Sherlock,” said Mycroft, “I have not been in this room since your last visit, but the faces outside never change. From the look of that street, it could have been yesterday.”

“Yet,” murmured Sherlock, “it has changed. Old intrigues have died, new ones have been born.”

Mycroft pointed. “Those two fellows at the kerb. Are they involved in some dire plot?”

“Do you mean the lamp-lighter and the book-keeper?”

“The very men.”

“I'd say not. The lamp-lighter is consoling the book-keeper for being recently sacked.”

“I agree. The book-keeper will no doubt find a berth, but he will lose it speedily and find himself again on the street.”

I was compelled to interrupt. “Come, come,” said I, and heard myself repeating my old objections. “This is too much!”

“Watson, Watson,” chided Mycroft, “after all those years with Sherlock, I should not expect such myopia from you. Even from this distance, surely you observe the smears of ink, both black and red, upon the first man's fingers? Just as surely, the occupational mark of the book-keeper?”

“Observe also,” added Holmes the younger, “the ink-blot upon his collar, where he touched pen to linen, and the unpressed condition of his otherwise quite respectable suit.”