The Greatest Christmas Murder Mysteries & Thrillers. Джером К. Джером
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when he said:—'Did that incident teach you no lesson? Did you not realise that you are in a dangerous locality?'
'And likely to fall in with two ruffians?' asked Holmes, slightly elevating his eyebrows, while the same sweet smile hovered round his thin lips. 'No; the remembrance of the incident encouraged me. It was the man who had the money that was murdered. I brought no coin with me, although I expect to bear many away.'
'Would you mind telling us, without further circumlocution, what brings you here so late at night?'
Sherlock Holmes heaved a sigh, and mournfully shook his head very slowly.
'After all the teaching I have bestowed upon you, Doyle, is it possible that you cannot deduct even so simple a thing as that? Why am I here? Because Sir George made a mistake about those bags. He was quite right in taking one of them to 'Undershaw', but he should have left the other at 221B, Baker Street. I call this little trip 'The Adventure of the Second Swag'. Here is the second swag on the table. The first swag you received long ago, and all I had for my share was some honeyed words of compliment in the stories you wrote. Now, it is truly said that soft words butter no parsnips, and, in this instance, they do not even turn away wrath. So far as the second swag is concerned, I have come to demand half of it.'
'I am not so poor at deduction as you seem to imagine,' said Doyle, apparently nettled at the other's slighting reference to his powers. 'I was well aware, when you came in, what your errand was. I deduced further that if you saw Sir George withdraw gold from the bank, you also followed him to Waterloo station.'
'Quite right.'
'When he purchased his ticket for Haslemere, you did the same.'
'I did.'
'When you arrived at Haslemere, you sent a telegram to your friend, Dr Watson, telling him of your whereabouts.'
'You are wrong there; I ran after the motor car.'
'You certainly sent a telegram from somewhere, to someone, or at least dropped a note in the post-box. There are signs, which I need not mention, that point irrevocably to such a conclusion.'
The doomed man, ruined by his own self-complacency, merely smiled in his superior manner, not noticing the eager look with which Doyle awaited his answer.
'Wrong entirely. I neither wrote any telegram, nor spoke any message, since I left London.'
'Ah, no,' cried Doyle. 'I see where I went astray. You merely inquired the way to my house.'
'I needed to make no inquiries. I followed the rear light of the automobile part way up the hill, and, when that disappeared, I turned to the right instead of the left, as there was no one out on such a night from whom I could make inquiry.'
'My deductions, then, are beside the mark,' said Doyle hoarsely, in an accent which sent cold chills up and down the spine of his invited guest, but conveyed no intimation of his fate to the self-satisfied later arrival.
'Of course they were,' said Holmes, with exasperating self-assurance.
'Am I also wrong in deducting that you have had nothing to eat since you left London?'
'No, you are quite right there.'
'Well, oblige me by pressing that electric button.'
Holmes did so with much eagerness, but, although the trio waited some minutes in silence, there was no response.
'I deduct from that,' said Doyle, 'that the servants have gone to bed. After I have quite satisfied all your claims in the way of hunger for food and gold, I shall take you back in my motor car, unless you prefer to stay here the night.'
'You are very kind,' said Sherlock Holmes.
'Not at all,' replied Doyle. 'Just take that chair, draw it up to the table and we will divide the second swag.'
The chair indicated differed from all others in the room. It was straight-backed, and its oaken arms were covered by two plates, apparently of German silver. When Holmes clutched it by the arms to drag it forward, he gave one half-articulate gasp, and plunged headlong to the floor, quivering. Sir George Newnes sprang up standing with a cry of alarm. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle remained seated, a seraphic smile of infinite satisfaction playing about his lips.
'Has he fainted?' cried Sir George.
'No, merely electrocuted. A simple device the Sheriff of New York taught me when I was over there last.'
'Merciful heavens! Cannot he be resuscitated?'
'My dear Newnes,' said Doyle, with the air of one from whose shoulders a great weight is lifted, 'a man may fall into the chasm at the foot of the Reichenbach Fall and escape to record his adventures later, but when two thousand volts pass through the human frame, the person who owns that frame is dead.'
'You don't mean to say you've murdered him?' asked Sir George, in an awed whisper.
'Well, the term you use is harsh, still it rather accurately sums up the situation. To speak candidly, Sir George, I don't think they can indite us for anything more than manslaughter. You see, this is a little invention for the reception of burglars. Every night before the servants go to bed, they switch on the current to this chair. That's why I asked Holmes to press the button. I place a small table beside the chair, and put on it a bottle of wine, whisky and soda, and cigars. Then, if any burglar comes in, he invariably sits down in the chair to enjoy himself, and so you see, that piece of furniture is an effective method of reducing crime. The number of burglars I have turned over to the parish to be buried will prove that this taking off of Holmes was not premeditated by me. This incident, strictly speaking, is not murder, but manslaughter. We shouldn't get more than fourteen years apiece, and probably that would be cut down to seven on the ground that we had performed an act for the public benefit.'
'Apiece!' cried Sir George. 'But what have I had to do with it?'
'Everything, my dear sir, everything. As that babbling fool talked, I saw in your eye the gleam which betokens avarice for copy. Indeed, I think you mentioned the January number. You were therefore accessory before the fact. I simply had to slaughter the poor wretch.'
Sir George sank back in his chair wellnigh breathless with horror. Publishers are humane men who rarely commit crimes; authors, however, are a hardened set who usually perpetrate a felony every time they issue a book. Doyle laughed easily.
'I'm used to this sort of thing,' he said. 'Remember how I killed off the people in "The White Company". Now, if you will help me to get rid of the body, all may yet be well. You see, I learned from the misguided simpleton himself that nobody knows where he is today. He often disappears for weeks at a time, so there really is slight danger of detection. Will you lend a hand?'
'I suppose I must,' cried the conscience-stricken man.
Doyle at once threw off the lassitude which the coming of Sherlock Holmes had caused, and acted now with an energy which was characteristic of him. Going to an outhouse, he brought the motor car to the front door, then, picking up Holmes and followed by his trembling guest, he went outside and flung the body into the tonneau behind. He then threw a spade and a pick into the car, and covered everything up with a water-proof spread. Lighting the lamps, he bade his silent guest get up beside him, and so they started on their fateful journey, taking the road past the spot where the sailor had been murdered, and dashing down the long hill at fearful speed toward London.
'Why do you take this direction?' asked Sir George. 'Wouldn't it be more advisable to go further into the country?'
Doyle laughed harshly.
'Haven't you a place on Wimbledon Common? Why not bury him in your garden?'
'Merciful motors!' cried the horrified man. 'How can you propose such a thing? Talking of gardens, why not have buried him in your own, which was infinitely safer than going forward at this pace.'
'Have no fear,' said Doyle reassuringly, 'we shall find him a suitable sepulchre without disturbing either of our gardens. I'll be in the centre of London within two hours.'
Sir George stared