Speaker 1: The Adventure of the Empty House. It was in the
spring of the year eighteen ninety four that all London
was interested and the fashionable world dismayed by the murder
of the Honorable Ronald Adair under most unusual and inexplicable circumstances.
The public has already learned those particulars of the crime
which came out in the police investigation, But a good
deal was suppressed upon that occasion, since the case for
the prosecution was so overwhelmingly strong that it was not
necessary to bring forward all the facts. Only now, at
the end of nearly ten years, am I allowed to
supply those missing links which make up the whole of
that remarkable chain. The crime was of interest in itself,
but that interest was as nothing to me compared to
the inconceivable sequel, which afforded me the greatest shock and
surprise of any event in my adventurer. Even now, after
this long interval, I find myself thrilling as I think
of it, and feeling once more that sudden flood of joy, amazement,
and incredulity which utterly submerged my mind. Let me say
to that public which has shown some interest in those
glimpses which I have occasionally given them of the thoughts
and actions of a very remarkable man, that they are
not to blame me if I have not shared my
knowledge with them, for I should have considered it my
first duty to do so, had I not been barred
by a positive prohibition from his own lips, which was
only withdrawn upon the third of last month. It can
be imagined that my close intimacy with Sherlock Holmes had
interested me deeply in crime, and that after his disappearance
I never failed to read with care the various problems
which came before the public, and I even attempted more
than once, for my own private satisfaction, to employ his
methods in their solution, though with indifferent success. There was none, however,
which appealed to me like this tragedy of Ronald Adair.
As I read the evidence at the inquest, which led
up to a verdict of wilful murder against some person
or persons unknown, I realized more clearly than I had
ever done, the loss which the community had sustained by
the death of Sherlock Holmes. There were points about this
strange business which would, I was sure, have specially appealed
to him, and the efforts of the police would have
been supplemented or more probably anticipated by the trained observation
and the alert mind of the first criminal agent in Europe.
All day, as I drove upon my round, I turned
over the case in my mind and found no explanation
which appeared to me to be adequate. At the risk
of telling a twice told tale, I will recapitulate the
fact says they were known to the public at the
conclusion of the inquest. The Honorable Ronald Adare was the
second son of the Earl of Maynooth, at that time
governor of one of the Australian colonies. Adair's mother had
returned from Australia to undergo the operation for cataract, and she,
her son Ronald, and her daughter Hilda were living together
at four twenty seven Park Lane. The youth moved in
the best society, had so far as was known, no
enemies and no particular vices. He had been engaged to
Miss Edith Woodley of Carstairs, but the engagement had been
broken off by mutual consent some months before, and there
was no sign that it had left any very profound
feeling behind it. For the rest sick. The man's life
moved in a narrow and conventional circle, for his habits
were quiet and his nature unemotional. Yet it was upon
this easy going young aristocrat that death came in most
strange and unexpected form between the hours of ten and
eleven twenty on the night of March thirtieth, eighteen ninety four.
Ronald Adare was fond of cards, playing continually, but never
for such stakes as would hurt him. He was a
member of the Baldwin, the Cavendish and the Bagatelle card clubs.
It was shown that after dinner on the day of
his death he had played a rubber of whist at
the latter club. He had also played there in the afternoon.
The evidence of those who had played with him, Mister Murray,
Sir John Hardy and Colonel Moran, showed that the game
was whist, and that there was a fairly equal fall
of the cards. A Dare might have lost five pounds,
but not more. His fortune was a considerable one, and
such a loss could not in any way affect him.
He had played nearly every day at one club or other,
but he was a cautious player and usually rose a winner.
It came out in evidence that in partnership with Colonel Moran,
he had actually won as much as four hundred and
twenty pounds in a sitting some weeks before from Godfrey
Milner and Lord Balmoral. So much for his recent history,
as it came out at the inquest. On the evening
of the crime, he returned from the club exactly at ten.
His mother and sister were out spending the evening with
a relation. The servant deposed that she heard him enter
the front room on the second floor, generally used as
his sitting room. She had lit a fire there, and
as it smoked, she had opened the window. No sound
was heard from the room until eleven twenty, the hour
of the return of Lady Maynooth and her daughter. Desiring
to say good night, she attempted to enter her son's room.
The door was locked on the inside and no answer
could be got to their cries and knocking, help was
obtained and the door forced. The unfortunate young man was
found lying near the table. His head had been horribly
mutilated by an expanding revolver bullet, but no weapon of
any sort was to be found in the room. On
the table lay two bank notes for ten pounds each,
and seventeen pounds ten in silver and gold, the money
arranged in little piles of varying amount. There were some
figures also upon a sheet of paper with the names
of some club friends opposite to them, from which it
was conjectured. But before his death he was endeavoring to
make out his losses or winnings at cards. A minute
examination of the circumstances served only to make the case
more complex. In the first place, no reason could be
given why the young man should have fastened the door
upon the inside. There was the possibility that the murderer
had done this and had afterwards escaped by the window.
The drop was at least twenty feet, however, and a
bed of crocuses in full bloom lay beneath. Neither the
flowers nor the earth showed any sign of having been disturbed,
nor were there any marks upon the narrow strip of
grass which separated the house from the road. Apparently, therefore
it was the young man himself who had fastened the door.
But how did he come by his death? No one
could have climbed up to the window without leaving traces.
Suppose a man had fired through the window. He would
indeed be a remarkable shot, who could with a revolver
inflict so deadly a wound. Again, Park Lane is a
frequented thoroughfare. There's a cab stand within a hundred yards
of the house. No one had heard a shot, and
yet there was the dead man. And there the revolver
bullet which had mushroomed out as soft nosed bullets will,
and so inflicted a wound which must have caused instantaneous death.
Such were the circumstances of the Park Lane mystery, which
were further complicated by entire absence of motive, since, as
I have said, young Adare was not known to have
any enemy, and no attempt had been made to remove
the money or valuables in the room. All day I
turned these facts over in my mind, endeavoring to hit
upon some theory which could reconcile them all, and to
find that line of least resistance which my poor friend
had declared to be the starting point of every investigation.
I confess that I made little progress. In the evening,
I strolled across the park and found myself about six
o'clock at the Oxford Street end of Park Lane, a
group of loafers upon them pavements, all staring up at
a particular window directed me to the house which I
had come to see. A tall, thin man with colored glasses,
whom I strongly suspected of being a plain clothes detective,
was pointing out some theory of his own, while the
others crowded round to listen to what he said. I
got as near him as I could, but his observations
seemed to me to be absurd, so I withdrew again
in some disgust. As I did so, I struck against
an elderly deformed man who had been behind me, and
I knocked down several books which he was carrying. I
remember that as I picked them up, I observed the
title of one of them, the Origin of tree Worship,
and it struck me that the fellow must be some
poor bibliophile who, either as a trade or as a hobby,
was a collector of obscure volumes. I endeavored to apologize
for the accident, but it was evident that these books,
which I had so unfortunately maltreated, were very precious objects
in the eyes of their owner. With a snarl of contempt,
he turned upon his heel, and I saw his curved
back and white side whiskers disappear among the throng. My
observations of No. Four twenty seven Park Lane did little
to clear up the problem in which I was interested.
The house was separated from the street by a low
wall and railing, the hole not more than five feet high.
It was perfectly easy, therefore, for any one to get
into the garden, but the window was entirely inaccessible, since
there was no water pipe or anything which could help
the most active man to climb it. More puzzled than ever,
I retraced my steps to Kensington. I had not been
in my study five minutes when the maid entered to
say that a person desired to see me. To my astonishment,
it was none other than my strange old book collector,
his sharp, wizened face peering out from a frame of
white hair, and his precious volumes, a dozen of them
at least wedged under his right arm. You're surprised to
see me, sir, said he in a strange croaking voice.
I acknowledged that I was well. I have a conscience, sir,
And when I chanced to see you go into this house,
as I came hobbling after you, I thought to myself,
I'll just step in and see what kind gentleman and
tell him that I was a bit gruff in my manner,
that there was not any harm meant, and that I
am much obliged to him for picking up my books.
You make too much of a trifle, said I may
I ask how you knew who I was. Well, Sir,
it isn't too great a liberty. I am a neighbor
of yours before you'll find my little book shop at
the corner of Church Street, and very happy to see you.
I am sure. Maybe you collect yourself, sir, is British
birds and catalusts and the Holy war a bargain every
one of them with five volumes. You could just fill
that gap on that second shelf. It looks untidy, does it, not, Sir?
I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me.
When I turned again, Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at
me across my study table. I rose to my feet,
stared at him for some seconds in utter amazement. And
then it appears that I must have fainted for the
first and the last time in my life. Certainly, a
gray mist swirled before my eyes, and when it cleared,
I found my collar ends undone and the tingling after
taste of brandy upon my lips. Holmes was bending over
my chair, his flask in his hand. My dear Watson,
said the well remembered voice, I owe you a thousand apologies.
I had no idea that you would be so affected.
I gripped him by the arms. Holmes, I cried, is
it really you? Can it indeed be that you are alive?
Is it possible that you succeeded in climbing out of
that awful abyss? Wait a moment, said he Are you
sure that you're really fit to discuss things? I have
given you a serious shock by my unnecessarily dramatic reappearance.
I am all right, But indeed, Holmes, I can hardly
believe my eyes. Good Heavens to think that you, you,
of all men, should be standing in my study again.
I gripped him by the sleeve and felt the thin,
sinewy arm beneath it. Well, you're not a spirit, anyhow,
said I, my dear chap. I'm overjoyed to see you
sit down and tell me how you came alive out
of that dreadful chasm. He sat opposite to me and
lit a cigarette in his old, nonchalant manner. He was
dressed in the seedy frock coat of the book merchant,
but the rest of that individual lay in a pile
of white hair and old books upon the table. Holmes
looked even thinner and keener than of old. But there
was a dead white tinge in his aquiline face which
told me that his life recently had not been a
healthy one. I am glad to stretch myself, Watson said he.
It is no joke when a tall man has to
take a foot off his stature for several hours on end. Now,
my dear fellow, in the matter of these explanations we have,
if I may ask for your co operation a hard
and dangerous night's work in front of us, Perhaps it
would be better if I gave you an account of
the whole situation when that work is finished. I am
full of curiosity. I should much prefer to hear it. Now.
You will come with me to night when you like,
and where you like. This is indeed like the old days.
We shall have time for a mouthful of dinner before
we need go. Well, then, about that chasm, I had
no serious difficulty in getting out of it for the
very simple reason that I never was in it. You
never were in it, No, Watson, I never was in it.
My note to you was absolutely genuine. I had little
doubt that I had come to the end of my
career when I perceived the somewhat sinister figure of the
late Professor Moriarty standing upon the narrow pathway which led
to safety. I read an inexorable purpose in his gray eyes.
I exchanged some remarks with him therefore, and obtained his
courteous permission to write the short note, which you afterwards received.
I left it with my cigarette box and my stick,
and I walked along the pathway, Moriarty still at my heels.
When I reached the end, I stood at bay. He
drew no weapon, but he rushed at me and threw
his long arms around me. He knew that his own
game was up, and was only anxious to revenge himself
upon me. We tottered together upon the brink of the fall.
I have some knowledge, however, of baritsu, or the Japanese
system of wrestling, which has more than once been very
useful to me. I slipped through his grip, and he
with a horrible scream. Kicked madly for a few seconds
and clawed the air with both his hands, But for
all his efforts he could not get his balance, and
over he went, with my face over the brink. I
saw him fall for a long way. Then he struck
a rock, bounded off, and splashed into the water. I
listened with amazement to this explanation, which Holmes delivered between
the puffs of his cigarette. But the tracks, I re cried.
I saw with my own eyes that two went down
the path anone returned. It came about in this way
the instant that the Professor had disappeared. It struck me
what a really extraordinarily lucky chance fate had placed in
my way. I knew that Moriarty was not the only
man who had sworn my death. There were at least
three others whose desire for vengeance upon me would only
be increased by the death of their leader. They were
all most dangerous men. One or other would certainly get me.
On the other hand, if all the world was convinced
that I was dead, they would take liberties these men,
and they would soon lay themselves open, and sooner or
later I could destroy them. Then it would be time
for me to announce that I was still in the
land of the living. So rapidly does the brain act
that I believe I had thought this all out before
Professor Moriarty had reached the bottom of the Reichenbach Fall.
I stood up and examined the rocky wall behind me.
In your picturesque account of the matter, which I read
with great interest some months later, you assert that the
war was sheer. That was not little really true. A
few small footholes presented themselves, and there was some indication
of a ledge. The cliff is so high that to
climb it all was an obvious impossibility, and it was
equally impossible to make any way along the wet path
without leaving some tracks. I might, it is true, have
reversed my boots, as I have done on similar occasions,
but the sight of three sets of tracks in one
direction would certainly have suggested a deception on the whole.
Then it was best that I should risk the climb.
It was not a pleasant business, Watson, the fall roared
beneath me. I am not a fanciful person, but I
give you my word that I seemed to hear Moriarty's
voice screaming at me out of the abyss. A mistake
would have been fatal. More than once, as tufts of
grass came out in my hand or my foot slipped
in the wet notches of the rock, I thought that
I was gone, But I struggled upward, and at last
I reached a ledge several feet deep and covered with
soft green moss, where I could lie unseen in the
most perfect comfort. There I was stretched when you, my
dear Watson, and all your following, were investigating in the
most sympathetic and inefficient manner the circumstances of my death.
At last, when you had all formed your inevitable and
totally erroneous conclusions, you departed for the hotel, and I
was left alone. I had imagined that I had reached
the end of my adventures, but a very unexpected occurrence
showed me that there were surprises still in store for me.
A huge rock falling from above, boomed past me, struck
the path, and bounded over into the chasm. For an
instant I thought that it was an accident, but a
moment later, looking up, I saw a man's head against
the dark fucking sky, and another stone struck the very ledge,
upon which I was stretched within a foot of my head.
Of course, the meaning of this was obvious. Moriarty had
not been alone a confederate, and even that one glance
had told me how dangerous a man that confederate was.
Had kept guard while the Professor had attacked me from
a distance unseen by me. He had been a witness
of his friend's death and of my escape. He had waited,
and then, making his way round to the top of
the cliff, he had endeavored to succeed where his comrade
had failed. I did not take long to think about it.
Watson again. I saw that grim face look over the cliff,
and I knew that it was the precursor of another stone.
I scrambled down on to the path. I don't think
I could have done it in cold blood. It was
a hundred times more difficult than getting up. But I
had no time to think of the danger, for another
stone sang past me as I hung by my hands
from the edge of the ledge. Half way down, I slipped,
but by the blessing of God, I landed, torn and
bleeding upon the path. I took to my heels did
ten miles over the mountains in the darkness, and a
week later I found myself in Florence, with the certainty
that no one in the world knew what had become
of me. I had only one confidant, my brother Microft.
I owe you many apologies, my dear Watson, but it
was all important that it should be thought I was dead,
and it is quite certain that you would not have
written so convincing an account of my unhappy end had
you not yourself thought that it was true. Several times
during the last three years I have taken up my
pen to write to you, but always I feared lest
your affectionate regard for me should tempt you to some
indiscretion which would betray my secret. For that reason, I
turned away from you this evening when you upset my books,
for I was in danger at the time, and any
show of surprise and emotion upon your part might have
drawn attention to my identity and led to the most
deplorable and irreparable results as to my craft. I had
to confide in him in order to obtain the money
which I needed. The course of events in London did
not run so well as I had hoped. For the
trial of the Moriarty gang left two of its most
dangerous members, my own most vindictive enemies. At liberty, I
traveled for two years INTI bet therefore, and amused myself
by visiting Lahsa and spending some days with the head Lama.
You may have read of the remarkable explorations of a
Norwegian named Cigosuen, but I am sure that it never
occurred to you that you were receiving news of your friend.
I then passed through Persia, looked in at Mecca, and
paid a short but interesting visit to the calipher at Khartoum,
the results of which I have communicated to the Foreign Office.
Returning to France, I spent some months in a research
into the coal tar derivatives, which I conducted in the
laboratory at Montpellier in the south of France. Having concluded
this to my satisfaction, and learning that only one of
my enemies was now left in London, I was about
to return when my movements were hastened by the news
of this very remarkable Park Lane mystery, which not only
appealed to me by its own merits, but which seemed
to offer some most peculiar personal opportunities. I came over
at once to London, called in my own person at
Baker Street, threw missus Hudson into violent hysterics, and found
that my croft had preserved my rooms and my papers
exactly as they had always been. So it was my
dear Watson, that at two o'clock to day, I found
myself in my old arm chair in my own old room,
and only wishing that I could have seen my old
friend Watson in the other chair which he had so
often adorned. Such was a remarkable narrative to which I
listened on that April evening, a narrative which would have
been utterly incredible to me had it not been confirmed
by the actual sight of the tall, spare figure and
the keen, eager face which I had never thought to
see again. In some manner, he had learned of my
own sad bereavement, and his sympathy was shown in his
manner rather than in his words. Work is the best
antidote to sorrow, my dear Watson said, he and I
have a piece of work for us both to night, which,
if we can bring it to a successful conclusion, will
in itself justify a man's life on this planet. In vain,
I begged him to tell me more. You will hear
and see enough before morning, he answered, we have three
years of the past to discuss. Let that suffice until
half past nine, when we start upon the notable adventure
of the Empty House. It was indeed like old times,
when at that hour I found myself seated beside him
in a hansom, my revolver in my pocket, and the
thrill of adventure in my heart. Holmes as cold and
stern and silent as the gleam of the street lamps
flashed upon his austere features. I saw that his brows
were drawn down in thought, and his thin lips compressed.
I knew not what wild beast we were about to
hunt down in the dark jungle of criminal London, but
I was well assured from the bearing of this master
huntsman that the adventure was a most grave one. While
the sardonic smile which occasionally broke through his acetic gloom,
boded little good for the object of our quest. I
had imagined that we were bound for Baker Street, but
Homes stopped the cab at the corner of Cavendish Square.
I observed that as he stepped out, he gave a
most searching glance to right and left, and at every
subsequent street corner he tucked the utmost panes to assure
that he was not followed. Our route was certainly a
singular one. Holmes's knowledge of the byways of London was extraordinary,
and on this occasion he passed rapidly and with an
assured step, through a network of mews and stables, the
very existence of which I had never known. We emerged
at last into a small road lined with old, gloomy houses,
which led us into Manchester Street, and so to Blanford Street.
Here he turned swiftly down a narrow passage, passed through
a wooden gate into a deserted yard, and then opened
with a key the back door of a house. We
entered together, and he closed it behind us. The place
was pitch dark, but it was evident to me that
it was an empty house. Our feet creaked and crackled
over the bare planking, and my outstretched hand touched a
wall from which the paper was hanging in ribbons. Holmes's cold,
thin fingers closed round my wrist and led me forward
down a long hall until I dimly saw the murky
fanlight over the door. Here, Holmes turned suddenly to the right,
and we found ourselves in a large, square, empty room,
heavily shadowed in the corners, but faintly lit in the
center from the lights of the street beyond. There was
no lamp near, and the window was thick with dust,
so that we could only just discern each other's figures within.
My companion put his hand upon my shore, and his
lips close to my ear. Do you know where we are?
He whispered, Surely that is Baker Street, I answered, staring
through the dim window. Exactly, we are in Camden House,
which stands opposite to our own old quarters. But why
are we here? Because it commands so excellent a view
of that picturesque pile. Might I trouble you, my dear Watson,
to draw a little nearer to the window, taking every
precaution not to show yourself, and then to look up
at our old rooms, the starting point of so many
of your little fairy tales. We will see if my
three years of absence have entirely taken away my power
to surprise you. I crept forward and looked across at
the familiar window. As my eyes fell upon it, I
gave a gasp and a cry of amazement. The blind
was down, and a strong light was burning in the room.
The shadow of a man, who was seated in a
chair within was thrown in hard black outline upon the
luminous screen of the window. There was no mistaking the
poise of the head, the squareness of the shoulders, the
sharpness of the features. The face was turned half rowned,
and the effect was that of one of those black
silhouettes which our grandparents loved to frame. It was a
perfect reproduction of Holmes. So amazed was I that I
threw out my hand to make sure that the man
himself was standing beside me. He was quivering with silent laughter.
Well said he, Good heavens, I cried, it is marvelous.
I trust that age does not wither nor custom stale.
My infinite variety, said he, And I recognized in his
voice the joy and pride which the artist takes in
his own creation. It really is rather like me, is
it not. I shall be prepared to swear that it
was you. The credit of the execution is due to
Monsieur Oscar Mounier of Grenoble, who spent some days in
doing the molding. It is a bust in wax the
rest I arranged myself during my visit to Baker Street
this afternoon. But why because, my dear Watson, I had
the strongest possible reason for wishing certain people to think
that I was there when I was really elsewhere. And
you thought the rooms were watched, I knew that they
were watched by whom, by my old enemies, Watson, by
the charming society whose leader lies in the Reichenbach Fall.
You must remember that they knew, and only they knew,
that I was still alive. Sooner or later they believed
that I should come back to my rooms. They watched
them continuously, and this morning they saw me arrive. How
do you know? Because I recognized their sentinel when I
glanced out of my window. He is a harmless enough
fellow Parker by name, a Garrotta by trade, and a
remarkable performer upon the Jew's harp. I cared nothing for him.
But I cared a great deal for the much more
formidable person who was behind him, the Bosom friend of Moriarty,
the man who dropped the rocks over the cliff, the
most cunning and dangerous criminal in London, that is, the
man who is after me to night, Watson, and that
is the man who is quite unaware that we are
after him. My friend's plans were gradually revealing themselves from
this convenient retreat. The watchers were being watched, and the
trackers tracked that angular shadow up beyond. There was the bait,
and we were the hunters. In silence, we stood together
in the darkness and watched the hurrying figures who passed
and repassed in front of us. Holmes was silent and motionless,
but I could tell that he was keenly alert, and
that his eyes were fixed intently upon the stream of
passers by. It was a bleak and boisterous night, and
the wind whistled shrilly down the long street. Many people
were moving to and fro, most of them muffled in
their coats and cravats. Once or twice, it seemed to
me that I had seen the same figure before, and
I especially noticed two men who appeared to be sheltering
themselves from the wind in the doorway of a house
some distance up the street. I tried to draw my
companion's attention to them, but he gave a little ejaculation
of impatience and continued to stare into the street more
than once. He fidgeted with his feet and tapped rapidly
with his fingers upon the wall. It was evident to
me that he was becoming uneasy, and that his plans
were not working out altogether as he had hoped. At last.
As midnight approached and the street gradually cleared, he paced
up and down the room in uncontrollable agitation. I was
about to make some remark to him when I raised
my eyes to the lighted window, and again experienced almost
as great a surprise as before. I clutched Holmes's arm
and pointed upwards. The shadows moved. I cried. It was
indeed no longer the profile, but the back which was
turned towards us three years had certainly not smoothed the
asperities of his temper or his impatience with a less
active intelligence than his own. Of course, it has moved,
said he am, I such a fascical bungler Watson, that
I should erect an obvious dummy and expect that some
of the sharpest men in Europe would be deceived by it.
We have been in this room two hours, and missus
Hudson has made some change in that figure. Eight times
or once in every quarter of an hour, she works
it from the front, so that her shadow may never
be seen. Ah. He drew in his breath with a shrill,
excited intake. In the dim light, I saw his head
thrown forward, his whole attitude rigid with attention. Outside the
street was absolutely deserted. Those two men might still be
crouching in the doorway, but I could no longer see them.
All was still and dark, save only that brilliant yellow
screen in front of us, with the black figure outlined
upon its center. Again, in the utter silence, I heard
that thin, sibilant note which spoke of intense suppressed excitement.
An instant later he pulled me back into the blackest
corner of the room, and I felt his warning hand
upon my lips. The fingers which clutched me were quivering.
Never had I known my friend more moved. And yet
the dark street still stretched lonely and motionless before us.
But suddenly I was aware of that which his keener
senses had already distinguished. A low, stealthy sound came to
my ears, not from the direction of Baker Street, but
from the back of the very house in which we lay,
concealed a door opened and shut. An instant later, steps
crept down the passage, steps which were meant to be silent,
but which reverberated harshly through the empty house. Holmes crouched
back against the wall, and I did the same, my
hand closing upon the handle of my revolver. Peering through
the gloom, I saw the vague outline of a man,
a shade blacker than the blackness of the open door.
He stood for an instant, and then he crept forward,
crouching menacing into the room. He was within three yards
of us, this sinister figure, and I had braced myself
to meet his spring before I realized that he had
no idea of our presence. He passed close beside us,
stole over to the window, and very softly and noiselessly
raised it for half a foot. As he sank to
the level of this opening, the light of the street,
no longer dimmed by the dusty glass, fell full upon
his face. The man seemed to be beside himself with excitement.
His two eyes shone like stars, and his features were
working convulsively. He was an elderly man, with a thin
projecting nose, a high bald forehead and a huge grizzled mustache.
An opera hat was pushed to the back of his head,
and an evening dress shirt front gleamed out through his
open overcoat. His face was gaunt and swarthy, scored with
deep savage lines. In his hand he carried what appeared
to be a stick, but as he laid it down
upon the floor, it gave a metallic clang. Then from
the pocket of his overcoat he drew a bulky object,
and he busied himself in some task, which ended with
a loud, sharp click, as if a spring or bolt
had fallen into its place. Still kneeling upon the floor,
he bent forward and threw all his weight and strength
upon some lever, with the result that there came a long, whirling,
grinding noise, ending once more in a powerful click. He
straightened himself then, and I saw that what he held
in his hand was a sort of gun with a
curiously misshapen butt. He opened it at the breach, put
something in, and snapped the breech lock. Then, crouching down,
he rested the end of the barrel upon the ledge
of the open window, and I saw his long mustache
droop over the stock and his eye gleam as it
peered along the sights. I heard a little sigh of
satisfaction as he cuddled the butt into his shoulder and
saw that amazing target, the black man on the yellow ground,
standing clear at the end of his foresight. For an
instant he was rigid and motionless. Then his finger tightened
on the trigger. There was a strange loud whiz and
a long, silvery tinkle of broken glass. At that instant,
Holmes sprang like a tiger onto the marksman's back and
hurled him flat upon his face. He was up again
in a moment, and with a convulsive strength he seized
Holmes by the throat. But I struck him on the
head with the butt of my revolver, and he dropped
again upon the floor. I fell upon him, and as
I held him, my comrade blew a shrill call upon
a whistle. There was the clatter of running feet upon
the pavement, and two policemen in uniform, with one plain
clothes detective, rushed through the front entrance and into the room.
That you, lestrade, said Holmes. Yes, mister Olmes, Oh, I
took the job myself. It's good to see you back.
In London, Sir, I think you want a little unofficial help.
Three undetected murders in one year won't do, Lestrade. But
you handled the Molesey mystery with less than your usual
That's to say you handled it fairly well. We had
all risen to our feet, our prisoner breathing hard, with
a stalwart constable on each side of him. Already a
few loiterers had begun to collect in the street. Holmes
stepped up to the window, closed it and dropped the blinds.
Lestrade had produced two candles, and the policemen had uncovered
their lanterns. I was able at last to have a
good look at our prisoner. It was a tremendously virile
and yet sinister face which was turned towards us, with
the brow of a philosopher above and and the jaw
of a sensualist below. The man must have started with
great capacities for good or for evil. But one could
not look upon his cruel blue eyes with their drooping
cynical lids, or upon the fierce, aggressive nose and the threatening,
deep lined brow without reading nature's plainest danger signals. He
took no heed of any of us, but his eyes
were fixed upon Holmes's face with an expression in which
hatred and amazement were equally blended. You fiend, he kept
on muttering. You clever fiend, clever fiend, Ah, Colonel, said Holmes,
arranging his rumpled collar. Journey's end in Lovers Meetings, as
the old play says, I don't think I have had
the pleasure of seeing you since you favored me with
those attentions. As I lay on the ledge above the
Reichenbach Fall, the Colonel still stared at my friend like
a man in a trance. You cunning, cunning fiend, was
all that he could say. I have not introduced you yet,
said Holmes. This gentleman is Colonel Sebastian Moran, once of
Her Majesty's Indian Army, and the best heavy game shot
that our Eastern Empire has ever produced. I believe I
am correct, Colonel, in saying that your bag of tigers
still remains unrivaled. The fierce old man said nothing, but
still glared at my companion with his savage eyes and
bristling mustache. He was wonderfully like a tiger himself. I
wonder that my very simple stratagem could deceive so old
a Shikhari, said Holmes. It must be very familiar to you.
Have you not tether the young kid under a tree
lain above it with your rifle and waited for the
bait to bring up your tiger. This empty house is
my tree, and you are my tiger. You have possibly
had other guns in reserve in case there should be
several tigers, or in the un likely supposition of your
own aim failing you, these, he pointed around, are my
other guns. The parallel is exact. Colonel Moran sprang forward
with a snarl of rage, but the constables dragged him back.
The fury upon his face was terrible to look at.
I confess that you had one small surprise for me,
said Holmes. I did not anticipate that you would yourself
make use of this empty house and this convenient front window.
I had imagined you as operating from the street where
my friend Lestrade and his merry men were awaiting you.
With that exception, all has gone as I expected. Colonel
Moran turned to the official detective. You may or may
not have just caused for arresting me, said he. But
at least there can be no reason why I should
submit to the jibes of this person. If I am
in the hands of the law, let things be done
in a legal way. Well that's reasonable enough, said Lestrade.
Nothing further you have to say, mister Elmes. Before we go,
Holmes had picked up the powerful air gun from the
floor and was examining its mechanism. An admirable and unique weapon,
said he, noiseless and of tremendous power. I knew von Herder,
the blind German mechanic who constructed it to the order
of the late Professor Moriarty. For years. I've been aware
of its existence, though I have never before had the
opportunity of handling it. I commend it very specially to
your attention, Lestrade, and also the bullets which fit it.
You can trust us to look after that, mister Elmes,
said Lestrade, as the whole party moved toward the door,
anything further to sight only to ask what charge you
intend to prefer? What charge, sir, why, of course, the
attempted murderer of mister Sherlock Holmes. Not so, Lestrade. I
do not propose to appear in the matter at all.
To you, and to you only belongs the credit of
the remarkable arrest which you have effected. Yes, Lestrade, I
congratulate you with your usual happy mixture of cunning and audacity.
You have got him. Go him, Go, mister Holmes, the
man that the whole force has been seeking in vain.
Colonel Sebastian Moran, who shot the Honorable Ronald Adair with
an expanding bullet from an air gun through the open
window of the second floor front of number four twenty
seven Park Lane, upon the thirtieth of last month. That's
the charge, Lestrade. And now Watson, if you can endure
the draft from a broken window, I think that half
an hour in my study over a cigar may afford
you some profitable amusement. Our old chambers have been left
under changed through the supervision of Mycroft Homes and the
immediate care of Missus Hudson. As I entered, I saw,
it is true an unwonted tidiness, But the old landmarks
were all in their place. There were the chemical corner
and the acid stained deal topped table. There Upon a
shelf was the row of formidable scrap books and books
of reference, which many of our fellow citizens would have
been so glad to burn. The diagrams, the violin case,
and the pipe rack, even the Persian slipper which contained
the tobacco, all met my eyes as I glanced around me.
There were two occupants of the room, one Missus Hudson,
who beamed upon us both as we entered. The other
the strange dummy, which had played so important a part
in the evening's adventures. It was a wax colored model
of my friend, so admirably done that it was a
perfect facsimile. It stood on a small headstal table with
an old dressing gown of holmes Is so draped around
it that the illusion from the street was absolutely perfect.
I hope you observed all precautions, missus Hudson, said Holmes.
I went to it on my knee, sir, just as
you told me. Excellent. You carried the thing out very well.
Did you observe where the bullet went? Yes, sir, I'm
afraid asport your beautiful bust, for it passed right through
the head and flattened itself on the wall. I picked
it up from the carpet. Here it is. Holmes held
it out to me, a soft revolver bullet. As you perceive, Watson,
there's genius in that, for who would expect to find
such a thing fired from an air gun. All right,
missus Hudson, I am much obliged for your assistance. And now, Watson,
let me see you in your old seat once more,
for there are several points which I should like to
discuss with you. He had thrown off the seedy frock coat,
and now he was the homes of old in the
mouse colored dressing gown which he took from his effigy.
The old Shikhari's nerves have not lost their steadiness, nor
his eyes their keenness, said he with a laugh, as
he inspected the shattered forehead of his bust. Plumb in
the middle of the back of the head and smack
through the brain. He was the best shot in India,
and I expect that there are few better in London.
Have you heard the name? No? I have not? Well, well,
such is fame. But then, if I remember right, you
had not heard the name of Professor James Moriarty, who
had one of the great brains of the century. Just
give me down my index of biographies from the shelf.
He turned over the pages, lazily, leaning back in his
chair and blowing great clouds from his cigar. My collection
of ms is a fine one, said he. Moriarty himself
is enough to make any letter illustrious. And here is Morgan,
the poisoner, and Merridew of abominable memory, and Matthews who
knocked out my left canine in the waiting room at
charing Cross. And finally there is our friend tonight. He
handed over the book and I read Moran Sebastian colonel unemployed,
formerly first Bangalore Pioneers, born London eighteen forty, son of
Sir Augustus Moran c B. Once British Minister to Persia.
Educated Eton and Oxford, served in Jiwacki campaign, Afghan campaign,
charasiab dispatches, Cherpour and Carbull, author of Heavy Game of
the Western Himalayas eighteen eighty one, Three Months in the
Jungle eighteen eighty four, Address Conduit Street Clubs, the Anglo Indian,
the Tankerville, the Bagatel Card Club. On the margin was
written in Holmes's precise hand, the second and most dangerous
man in London. This is astonishing, said I as I
handed back the volume. The man's career is that of
an honorable soldier. It is true, Holmes answered, up to
a certain point. He did well. He was always a
man of iron nerve, and the story is still told
in India how he crawled down a drain after a
wounded man eating tiger. There are some trees, Watson, which
grow to a certain height and then suddenly develop some
unsightly eccentricity. You will see it often in humans. I
have a theory that the individual represents in his development
the whole procession of his ancestors, and that such a
sudden turn to good or evil stands for some strong
influence which came into the line of his pedigree. The
person becomes, as it were, the epitome of the history
of his own family. It is surely rather fanciful. Well,
I don't insist upon it, whatever the cause. Colonel Moran
began to go wrong without any open scandal. He still
made India too hot to hold him. He retired, came
to London, and again acquired an evil name. It was
at this time that he was sought out by Professor Moriarty,
to whom for a time he was chief of the staff.
Moriarty supplied him liberally with money and used him only
in one or two very high class jobs, which no
ordinary criminal could have undertaken. You may have some recollection
of the death of Missus Stewart of Lauder in eighteen
eighty seven. Not well. I'm sure Moran was at the
bottom of it, but nothing could be proved. So cleverly
was the Colonel concealed that even when the Moriarty gang
was broken up, we could not incriminate him. You remember
at that date, when I called upon you in your rooms,
how I put up the shutters for fear of air guns.
No doubt you thought me fanciful. I knew exactly what
I was doing, for I knew of the existence of
this remarkable gun, and I knew also that one of
the best shots in the world would be behind it.
When we were in Switzerland, he followed us with Moriarty,
and it was undoubtedly he who gave me that evil
five minutes on the Reichenbach Ledge. You may think that
I read the papers with some attention during my sojourn
in France, on the lookout for any chance of laying
him by the heels. So long as he was free
in London, my life would really not have been worth
living night and day. The shadow would have been over me,
and sooner or later his chance must have come. What
could I do? I could not shoot him at sight,
or I should myself be in the dock. There was
no use appealing to a magistrate. They cannot interfere on
the strength of what would appear to them to be
a wild suspicion. So I could do nothing. But I
watched the criminal new, knowing that sooner or later I
should get him. Then came the death of this Ronald Adare.
My chance had come at last, knowing what I did.
Was it not certain that Colonel Moran had done it?
He had played cards with the lad he had followed
him home from the club. He had shot him through
the open window. There was not a doubt of it.
The bullets alone are enough to put this head in
a noose. I came over at once. I was seen
by the sentinel, who would I knew, direct the Colonel's
attention to my presence. He could not fail to connect
my sudden return with his crime, and to be terribly alarmed.
I was sure that he would make an attempt to
get me out of the way at once, and would
bring round his murderous weapon for that purpose. I left
him an excellent mark in the window, and having warned
the police that they might be needed. By the way, Watson,
you spotted their presence in that doorway with unerring accuracy.
I took up what seemed to me to be a
judicious post for observation, never dreaming that he would choose
the same spot for his attack. Now, my dear Watson,
does anything remain for me to explain? Yes, said I,
You've not made it clear what was Colonel Moran's motive
in murdering the Honorable Ronald Adare. Ah, My dear Watson,
There we come into those realms of conjecture where the
most logical mind may be at fault. Each may form
his own hypothesis upon the present evidence, and yours is
as likely to be correct as mine. You have formed one, then,
I think that it is not difficult to explain the facts.
It came out in evidence that Colonel Moran and young
Adare had between them won a considerable amount of money.
Now Miran undoubtedly played foul of that. I'm long been aware.
I believe that on the day of the murder, Adair
had discovered that Morn was cheating. Very likely he had
spoken to him privately and had threatened to expose him.
Unless he voluntarily resigned his membership of the club and
promised not to play cards again. It is unlikely that
a youngster like a Dare would at once make a
hideous scandal by exposing a well known man so much
older than himself. Probably he acted as I suggest. The
exclusion from his clubs would mean ruined to Moran, who
lived by his ill gotten card gains. He therefore murdered Adair,
who at the time was endeavoring to work out how
much money he should himself return since he could not
profit by his partner's foul play. He locked the door
lest the ladies should surprise him and insist upon knowing
what he was doing with these names and coins. Will
it pass? I have no doubt that you have hit
upon the truth. It will be verified or disproved at
the trial. Meanwhile, come what may, Colonel Moran will trouble
us no more. The famous heir gun of von Herder
will embellish the Scotland Yard Museum, and once again mister
Sherlock Holmes is free to devote his life to examining
those interesting little problems which the complex life of London
so plentifully presents. End of the empty house,