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‘No doubt you are the gentleman whom he was expecting,’ they said.
‘Where is he now?’ I asked.
‘He is upstairs in bed.’
‘I will go up and see him at once,’ I said.
His room was on the second floor. From under the door there curled a little red ribbon of blood, which formed a little pool. The door was locked on the inside[45 - the door was locked on the inside – дверь была заперта изнутри], but we put our shoulders to it, and entered. The window of the room was open, and beside the window lay the body of a man in his nightdress. He was dead, his limbs were rigid and cold. When we turned him over, the men from the hotel recognized him at once. It was the gentleman who engaged the room under the name of Joseph Stangerson. The cause of death was a deep stab in the left side. And now comes the strangest part of the affair. What was above the murdered man?”
“The word RACHE, written in letters of blood,” said Holmes.
“That was it!” said Lestrade.
“A milk boy saw the murder,” continued Lestrade. “He was going to the dairy. He walked down the lane which leads from the mews at the back of the hotel. He noticed that a ladder was raised against one of the windows of the second floor, which was wide open. And he saw a man who was descending the ladder. The boy thought it was a carpenter. The man was tall, had a reddish face, and was dressed in a long, brownish coat. He stayed in the room some little time after the murder, for we found blood-stained water in the basin. We also found marks on the sheets where he wiped his knife.”
I glanced at Holmes.
“Did you find anything in the room which gave a clue to the murderer?” he asked.
“Nothing. Stangerson had Drebber’s purse in his pocket, but it was usual, as he paid. There was eighty pounds in it. So robbery is not the motives of these extraordinary crimes. There were no papers in the murdered man’s pocket, except a single telegram, dated from Cleveland about a month ago: ‘J. H. is in Europe’.”
“And there was nothing else?” Holmes asked.
“Nothing of any importance. The novel, which the man read, was lying upon the bed, and his pipe was on a chair beside him. There was a glass of water on the table, and on the window-sill a small chip ointment box containing a couple of pills.”
Sherlock Holmes sprang from his chair with an exclamation of delight.
“The last link!” he cried, exultantly.
The two detectives stared at him in amazement.
“Now I know everything,” my companion said, confidently, “What about those pills?”
“I have them,” said Lestrade. He showed us a small white box; “I took them and the purse and the telegram.”
“Give them here,” said Holmes. “Now, Doctor,” he turned to me, “are those ordinary pills?”
They certainly were not. They were of a pearly grey colour, small, round, and almost transparent.
“I think that they are soluble in water,” I remarked.
“Precisely so,” answered Holmes. “Now please go down and fetch that poor little terrier which the landlady wanted you to put out of its pain[46 - wanted you to put out of its pain – просила вас усыпить его, чтобы он больше не мучился]yesterday.”
I went downstairs and carried the dog upstairs in my arms. It was not far from its end. I placed the terrier upon a cushion on the rug.
“I will now cut one of these pills in two,” said Holmes. “One half we return into the box. The other half I will place in this glass, in which is a teaspoonful of water. You perceive that our friend, the Doctor, is right, and that it readily dissolves.”
“This may be very interesting,” said Lestrade, “I cannot see, however, how it is connected with the death of Mr. Joseph Stangerson.”
“Patience, my friend, patience! I shall now add a little milk and give this mixture to the dog.”
As he spoke he turned the contents of the glass into a saucer and placed it in front of the terrier, who speedily drank it. Nothing happened, however. The dog continued to lie and breathe.
An expression of the utmost chagrin and disappointment appeared upon Holmes’ face. He gnawed his lip, and showed symptoms of acute impatience. Two detectives smiled derisively.
“It can’t be a coincidence,” Holmes cried; “it is impossible. These pills which I suspected in the case of Drebber! They are here. And yet they are inert. What can it mean? It is impossible! Ah, I have it! I have it!”
With a perfect shriek of delight he rushed to the box, cut the other pill in two, dissolved it, added milk, and gave it to the terrier. The unfortunate dog drank the mixture again, gave a convulsive shiver, and lay lifeless.
Sherlock Holmes wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
“Of the two pills in that box one was of the most deadly poison,” he said; “and the other was entirely harmless.”
“Look here, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said Mr. Gregson, “we are all ready to acknowledge that you are a smart man, and that you have your own methods of working. It seems I was wrong. It appears that Lestrade was wrong too. But we have a right to ask you straight how much you do know of the business. Can you name the man who did it?”
“Yes, sir,” remarked Lestrade. “We both tried, and we both failed. But what is your opinion?”
“If you know the assassin, let’s arrest him,” I observed. “He may kill again.”
Holmes showed signs of irresolution.
“There will be no more murders,” he said at last. “You ask me if I know the name of the assassin. I do. But the question is to catch him. We deal with a shrewd and desperate man. And he has another one who is as clever as himself. If he has the slightest suspicion, he will change his name and vanish in an instant among the four million inhabitants of this great city. Gentlemen, I promise that I will communicate with you when I’m ready to catch him.”
Gregson and Lestrade were not satisfied. There was a tap at the door, and young Wiggins came in.
“Please, sir,” he said, “I have the cab downstairs.”
“Good boy,” said Holmes, blandly. He took a pair of steel handcuffs from a drawer. “See how they fasten in an instant.”
“The old handcuffs are good enough,” remarked Lestrade.
“Very good, very good,” said Holmes. “The cabman will help me with my boxes. Ask him to come, Wiggins.”
I was surprised. Holmes was going to travel somewhere, and he did not say anything to me about it. There was a small portmanteau in the room. The cabman entered the room.
“Please help me with this buckle, cabman,” Holmes said.
The fellow came forward and put down his hands to assist. At that instant there was a sharp click, the jangling of metal, and Sherlock Holmes sprang to his feet again.
“Gentlemen,” he cried, “let me introduce you to Mr. Jefferson Hope, the murderer of Enoch Drebber and of Joseph Stangerson.”
For a second or two we were a group of statues. Then, with a roar of fury, the cabman hurled himself through the window. Gregson, Lestrade, and Holmes sprang upon him like staghounds. They dragged him back into the room. The man was very powerful and fierce. Finally Lestrade got his hand inside his neckcloth and half-strangled him. We pinioned his feet as well as his hands.
“We have his cab,” said Sherlock Holmes. “It will take him to Scotland Yard. And now, gentlemen,” he continued, with a pleasant smile, “we see the end of our little mystery. Welcome to put any questions, and I will answer them.”
Part II
Chapter I
On the Great Alkali Plain
In the central portion of the great North American Continent there lies an arid and repulsive desert. There are no inhabitants of this land of despair. Coyotes and grizzly bears are the sole dwellers in the wilderness.
One can see a pathway across the desert, which winds away and is lost in the extreme distance. There stood upon the fourth of May, eighteen hundred and forty-seven, a solitary traveller. It was difficult to say whether he was nearer to forty or to sixty. His face was lean and haggard; his long, brown hair and beard were white. His hand grasped his rifle. The man was dying-dying from hunger and from thirst.
He deposited upon the ground a large bundle, which he was carrying over his right shoulder. It was too heavy for his strength. Instantly a moaning cry broke from the grey parcel, and from it there protruded a small, scared face, with bright brown eyes.
“You hurt me!” said a childish voice reproachfully.
“I’m sorry,” the man answered penitently.
As he spoke he unwrapped the grey shawl and extricated a pretty little girl of about five years of age.
“How is it now?” he answered anxiously.
“Kiss it,” she said. “My mother did so. Where’s mother?”
“She went away. I think you’ll see her soon.”
“She didn’t say good-bye,” said the little girl. “I’m thirsty and hungry. Is there any water, or anything to eat?”
“No, nothing, dear. Be patient, and then you’ll be all right. What’s that?”
“Pretty things! Fine things!” cried the little girl enthusiastically. She held up two glittering fragments of mica. “When we come back home I’ll give them to brother Bob.”
“You’ll see prettier things soon,” said the man confidently. “Just wait a bit. Do you remember when we left the river?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Well, there was something wrong; compasses, or map, or something, you see. And we have no water.”
“And you can’t wash yourself,” interrupted his companion gravely.
“No, nor drink. And Mr. Bender was the first who dies, and then Indian Pete, and then Mrs. McGregor, and then Johnny Hones, and then, my dear, your mother.”
“Oh, mother is dead too!” cried the little girl.
“Yes, they all went except you and me. And there’s a small chance for us now!”
“Do you mean that we are going to die too?” asked the child.
“I think so.”
“Why didn’t you say so before?” she said. “So we’ll be with mother again.”
“Yes, you will, dear.”
“And you too. She will meet us at the door of Heaven with a big pitcher of water, and a lot
of buckwheat cakes. How long will we wait?”
“I don’t know-not very long.”
The man saw three large brown birds. They were buzzards, the vultures of the west, the forerunners of death.
“Cocks and hens,” cried the little girl gleefully. “Say, did God make this country?”
“In course He did,” said her companion.
“He made Illinois, and He made Missouri,” the little girl continued. “I guess somebody else made the country here. They forgot the water and the trees.”
“We can pray, can’t we?” the man said.
“Then kneel down,” the little girl said.
It was a strange sight. Side by side on the narrow shawl knelt the two wanderers, the little child and the reckless adventurer.
The prayer finished. They went to sleep.
Far away the tilts of waggons and the figures of armed horsemen began to show up. It was a great caravan upon its journey for the West.
At the head of the column there rode grave men. They held a short council among themselves.
“The wells are to the right, my brothers,” said a man with grizzly hair.
“To the right of the Sierra Blanco-so we shall reach the Rio Grande,” said another.
Suddenly they saw pink clothes.
“I shall go forward and see, Brother Stangerson,” said a horseman.
“And I,” “and I,” cried a dozen voices.
“Leave your horses below and we will await you here,” the Elder answered.
In a moment the horsemen dismounted, fastened their horses, and were ascending the slope. They advanced rapidly and noiselessly.
On the little plateau there stood a single giant boulder, and against this boulder there lay a tall man, he was asleep. Beside him lay a little child. On the ledge of rock above this strange couple there stood three buzzards, who, at the sight of the new comers flew sullenly away.
The cries of the birds awoke the two sleepers. The man staggered to his feet and looked around. “This is what they call delirium, I guess,” he muttered. The child stood beside him.
The newcomers convinced them that their appearance was no delusion. One of them seized the little girl, and hoisted her upon his shoulder, while two others assisted her gaunt companion towards the waggons.
“My name is John Ferrier,” the wanderer explained; “we were twenty-one people. The rest are all dead in the south.”
“Is she your child?” asked someone.
“Yes, she is,” the man answered, defiantly; “she’s mine because I saved her. No man will take her from me. She’s Lucy Ferrier. Who are you? I see many people here.”
