The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes (13 page)

him.

"Ha!" said he, placing his hand on the waist-high wall along the road. "Semi-circle of

carriage-drive, I see, entering the ground through a gate in the wall there," and he nodded

towards a point some distance ahead of us on the pavement. "The carriage-drive passes the

front door, with one narrow branch towards a tradesmen's entrance, and returns to the road

through a second gate in the wall —here beside us. Hullo, look there!"

"Is anything wrong?"

"Look ahead, Watson! There, by the far gate in the wall! That can't be Inspector

Lestrade? By Jove, it
is
Lestrade!"

A wiry little bulldog of a man, in a hard hat and a plaid greatcoat, was already

hurrying towards us along the pavement. Behind him I could see the helmets of at least two

police-constables, like twins with their blue bulk and heavy moustaches.

"Don't tell me, Lestrade," cried Holmes, "that Mrs. Cabpleasure also paid a visit to Scotland

Yard?"

"If she did, Mr. Holmes, she went to the right shop," said Lestrade, with much

complacence. "Hallo, Dr. Watson! It must be fifteen years and a bit since I first met you, but

Mr. Holmes here is still the theorist and I'm still the practical man."

"Quick, Lestrade!" said Holmes. "The lady must have told you much the same story as she

told us. When did she call upon you?"

"Yesterday morning. We're quick movers at Scotland Yard. We spent the rest of the day

investigating this Mr. James Cabpleasure."

"Indeed? What did you discover?"

"Well, everybody thinks highly of the gentleman, and seems to like him. Outside office hours

he is a hard reader, almost a bookworm, and his wife don't like that. But he's a great mimic,

they say, and got quite a sense of humour."

"Yes, I fancied he must have a sense of humor."

"You've met him, Mr. Holmes?"

"No, but I have met his wife."

"Anyway, I met him last night. Paid a visit to take his measure. Oh, only on a pretext!

Nothing to put him on his guard, of course."

"No, of course not," said Holmes, with a groan. "Tell me, Lestrade: have you not discovered

that this gentleman has a reputation for complete honesty?"

"Yes, that's what makes it so suspicious," said Lestrade, with a cunning look. "By George,

Mr. Holmes! I'm bound to admit I don't much like his lady, but she's got a very clear head. By

George! I'll clap the darbies on that gentleman before you can say Jack Robinson!"

"My dear Lestrade! You will clap the handcuffs on him for what offence?"

"Why, because—stop!" cried Lestrade. "Hallo! You, there! Stand where you are!"

We had advanced to meet Lestrade until we were all half-way between the two gates in

the low boundary wall. Now Lestrade had dashed past us towards the gate near which we

had been standing at the beginning. There, as though conjured from the raw morning

murk, was a portly and florid-faced gentleman, rather nervous-looking, in a grey top hat

and a handsome grey greatcoat.

"I must ask you, sir," cried Lestrade, with more dignity as he noted the newcomer's

costly dress, "to state your name, and give some account of yourself."

The portly newcomer, even more nervous, cleared his throat.

"Certainly," said he. "My name is Harold Mortimer Brown, and I am Mr. Cabpleasure's

partner in the firm of Cabpleasure & Brown. I dismissed my hansom a short way down

the road. I—er—live in South London."

"You live in South London," said Lestrade, "yet
you have come all the way to the

heights of North London? Why?"

"My dear Mr. Mortimer Brown," interposed Holmes, with a suavity which clearly

brought relief to the florid-faced man, "you must forgive a certain impulsiveness on the part

of my old friend Inspector Lestrade, who is from Scotland Yard. My name is Sherlock

Holmes, and I shall be deeply indebted to you if you will be good enough to answer only

one question. Did your partner really steal—"

"Stop!" Lestrade exclaimed again.

This time he whipped round to look at the far gate. A milk-wagon, its large and laden

cans of milk clanking to the clop of the horse's hoofs, went jolting through that gate and

up the curve of the gravelled drive towards the house in stucco Gothic.

Lestrade quivered like the little bulldog he was.

"That milk-wagon will bear watching," cried he. "Anyway, let's hope it won't obstruct

our view of the front door."

Fortunately, it did not obstruct our view. The milkman, whistling merrily, jumped

down from the wagon and went into the entry to fill the small milk-jug which we later found

was waiting for him outside the front door. But, no sooner had he disappeared under the

Gothic arch of the entry, than all thought of the milk-wagon was driven from my mind.

"Mr. Holmes!" whispered Lestrade in a tense voice.

"There he is!"

Clearly we heard the slam of the front door. Distinguished-looking in glossy hat and heavy

greatcoat, there emerged into the drive a conspicuously moustached gentleman whom I deduced,

correctly enough, to be Mr. James Cabpleasure on the way to his office.

"Mr. Holmes!" repeated Lestrade. "He hasn't got his umbrella!"

It was as though Lestrade's very thought winged through the grey bleakness into Mr.

Cabpleasure's brain. Abruptly the diamond-broker halted in the drive. As though galvanized,

he looked up at the sky. Uttering a wordless cry which I confess struck a chill into my heart, he

rushed back into the house.

Again the front door slammed. A clearly astonished milkman, turning round to glance back,

said something inaudible before he climbed to the seat of the wagon.

"I see it all," declared Lestrade, snapping his fingers. "They think they can deceive me, but

they can't. Mr. Holmes, I must stop that milkman!"

"In heaven's name, why should you stop the milkman?"

"He and Mr. Cabpleasure were close to each other in that entry. I saw them! Mr.

Cabpleasure could have passed the stolen diamonds to his confederate, the milkman."

"But, my dear Lestrade—"

The man from Scotland Yard would not listen. As the milk-wagon rumbled towards the gate

by which we stood, he hurried forward and held up his hand in its path so that the driver,

with a curse, was obliged to rein in even that slow-moving horse.

"I've seen you before," said Lestrade, in his bullying voice. "Look sharp, now; I'm a

police-officer. Is your name not Hannibal Throgmorton, alias Felix Porteus?"

The milkman's long, clean-shaven face gaped in amazement.

"Me name's Alf Peters," he returned warmly, "and here's me roundsman card with me

photograph on it and the blinking manager's signature to prove it! Who do you think I am,

Governor—Cecil Rhodes?"

"You pull up your socks, my lad, or you'll find yourself in Queer Street. Get down from

the wagon! Yes, that's it; get down!" Here Lestrade turned to the two police-constables who

accompanied him. "Burton! Murdock! Search that milkman!"

Alf
.
Peters' howl of protest was strangled as the constables seized him. Though lanky and

only of middle height, Peters put up such a sporting fight that it was minutes before the

constables could complete their search. They found nothing.

"Then the diamonds must be in one of those five-gallon milk-cans! We've no time for

kid-glove methods. Pour out the milk on the ground!"

The language of the infuriated milkman, as this was done, cannot be called anything save

improper.

"What, nothing there either?" demanded Lestrade. "Well, he may have swallowed the

diamonds. Shall we take him to the nearest police-station?"

"Oh, crickey," screamed Alf Peters, "he ain't fit to be loose. He's off his blooming

chump! Why don't he take a blooming axe and smash the blooming wagon?"

It was Holmes's strident, authoritative voice which restored order.

"Lestrade! Have the kindness to let Peters go. In the first place, he is unlikely to have

swallowed twenty-six diamonds. In the second place, if Mr. Cabpleasure wished to give the

diamonds to a fellow-conspirator, why did he not do so late on Tuesday night, when he held a

secret conversation with someone at a ground-floor window? His whole behaviour, as

described by his wife, becomes as irrational as his conduct with the umbrella. Unless—"

Sherlock Holmes had been standing in moody doubt, his head forward and his arms

folded inside his cape. Now, glancing first towards the tradesmen's entrance and then towards

the front of the house, he raised his head. Even his cold, emotionless nature could not repress

the exclamation which rose to his lips. For a moment he remained motionless, his tall, lean

figure outlined against a lightening sky.

"By Jove, Lestrade!" said he. "Mr. James Cabpleasure is rather a long time in returning

with his umbrella."

"What's that, Mr. Holmes?"

"I might venture to utter a trifling prophecy. I might venture to say Mr. Cabpleasure has

gone; that he has already vanished from the house."

"But he can't possibly have vanished from the house!" cried Lestrade.

"May I ask why not?"

"Because I stationed police-constables all round the house, in case he tried to give us the

slip. Every door and window is watched! Not so much as a rat could have got out of that house

without being seen, and can't get out now."

"Nevertheless, Lestrade, I must repeat my little prophecy. If you search the house, I think

you will find that Mr. Cabpleasure has disappeared like a soapbubble."

Pausing only to put a police-whistle to his lips, Lestrade plunged towards the house. Alf

Peters, the milkman, improved this opportunity to whip up his horse and clatter frantically

away as though from the presence of a dangerous lunatic. Even Mr. Mortimer Brown, despite

his venerable portliness and florid face, ran down the road with his hat clutched to his head,

and without having answered whatever query my friend had wished to ask him.

"Hold your peace, Watson," said Holmes, in his imperious fashion. "No, no, I am not joking

in what I say. You will find the matter extremely simple when you perceive the significance of

one point."

"And what point is that?"

"The true reason why Mr. Cabpleasure cherishes his umbrella," said Sherlock Holmes.

Slowly the sky strengthened to such wintry brightness that the two gas-lit windows, which I

have mentioned as glowing from an upper floor, were paled by the sun.

Ceaselessly the search went on, with far more police-constables than seemed necessary.

At the end of a full hour, during which Holmes had not moved, Lestrade rushed out of

the house. His face wore a look of horror which I know was reflected in my own.

"It's true, Mr. Holmes! His hat, his greatcoat and his umbrella are lying just inside the front

door. But—"

"Yes?"

"I'll take my oath that the villain's not hidden in the house, and yet they all swear he never

left it either!"

"Who is in the house now?"

"Only his wife. Last night, after I spoke with him, it seems he gave the servants a night off.

Almost drove 'em out of the house, his wife says, without a word of warning. They didn't

much like it, some of 'em wondering where they should go, but they had no choice."

Holmes whistled.

"The wife!" said he. "By the way, how is it that through all this tumult we have neither

seen nor heard Mrs. Gloria Cabpleasure? Is it possible that last night she was drugged? That

she found herself growing irresistibly drowsy, and has only recently awakened?"

Lestrade fell back a step as though from the eye of a sorcerer.

"Mr.Holmes, why do you think itwasthat?"

"Because it could have been nothing else."

"Well, it's gospel truth. The lady is accustomed to drink a cup of hot meat-juice an hour

before going to bed. That meat-juice last night was so doused with powdered opium that

there are still traces in the cup." Lestrade's face darkened. "But the less I see of that lady, by

George, the better I shall like it."

"At least she has made a good recovery, for I perceive her now at the window."

"Never mind her," said Lestrade. "Just tell me how that thieving diamond-broker

vanished slap under our eyes!"

"Holmes," said I, "surely there is only one explanation.

Mr. Cabpleasure departed by some secret way or passage."

"There's no such thing," shouted Lestrade.

"I quite agree," said Holmes. "That is a modern house, Watson, or at least one built within

the last twenty-odd years. Present-day builders, unlike their ancestors, seldom include a secret

passage. But I cannot see, Lestrade, that there is any more I can do here."

"You can't leave now!"

"Not leave?"

"No! You may be a theorist and not practical, but I can't deny you've given me a bit of

help once or twice in the past. If you can guess how a man vanished by a miracle, it's your

duty as a citizen to tell me." Holmes hesitated.

"Very well," said he. "There are reasons why I should prefer to be silent for the time

being. But perhaps I may give you a hint. Had you thought of disguise?"

For a time Lestrade gripped his hat with both hands. Abruptly he turned round and looked

up at the window where Mrs. Cabpleasure contemplated nothingness with a haughty