His Last Bow by Arthur Conan Doyle (good books to read in english .txt) 📕
"Very simply, sir," Inspector Baynes answered. "The only document found in the pocket of the deceased was a letter from you saying that you would be with him on the night of his death. It was the envelope of this letter which gave us the dead man's name and address. It was after nine this morning when we reached his house and found neither you nor anyone else inside it. I wired to Mr. Gregson to run you down in London while I examined Wisteria Lodge. Then I came into town, joined Mr. Gregson, and here we are."
"I think now," said Gregson, rising, "we had best put this matter into an official shape. You will come round with us to the station, Mr. Scott Eccles, and let us have your statement in writing."
"Certainly, I w
Read free book «His Last Bow by Arthur Conan Doyle (good books to read in english .txt) 📕» - read online or download for free at americanlibrarybooks.com
- Author: Arthur Conan Doyle
- Performer: -
Read book online «His Last Bow by Arthur Conan Doyle (good books to read in english .txt) 📕». Author - Arthur Conan Doyle
“But how come you into this matter, Miss Burnet?” asked Holmes.
“How can an English lady join in such a murderous affair?”
“I join in it because there is no other way in the world by which
justice can be gained. What does the law of England care for the
rivers of blood shed years ago in San Pedro, or for the shipload
of treasure which this man has stolen? To you they are like
crimes committed in some other planet. But WE know. We have
learned the truth in sorrow and in suffering. To us there is no
fiend in hell like Juan Murillo, and no peace in life while his
victims still cry for vengeance.”
“No doubt,” said Holmes, “he was as you say. I have heard that he
was atrocious. But how are you affected?”
“I will tell you it all. This villain’s policy was to murder, on
one pretext or another, every man who showed such promise that he
might in time come to be a dangerous rival. My husband—yes, my
real name is Signora Victor Durando—was the San Pedro minister
in London. He met me and married me there. A nobler man never
lived upon earth. Unhappily, Murillo heard of his excellence,
recalled him on some pretext, and had him shot. With a
premonition of his fate he had refused to take me with him. His
estates were confiscated, and I was left with a pittance and a
broken heart.
“Then came the downfall of the tyrant. He escaped as you have
just described. But the many whose lives he had ruined, whose
nearest and dearest had suffered torture and death at his hands,
would not let the matter rest. They banded themselves into a
society which should never be dissolved until the work was done.
It was my part after we had discovered in the transformed
Henderson the fallen despot, to attach myself to his household
and keep the others in touch with his movements. This I was able
to do by securing the position of governess in his family. He
little knew that the woman who faced him at every meal was the
woman whose husband he had hurried at an hour’s notice into
eternity. I smiled on him, did my duty to his children, and
bided my time. An attempt was made in Paris and failed. We zig-zagged swiftly here and there over Europe to throw off the
pursuers and finally returned to this house, which he had taken
upon his first arrival in England.
“But here also the ministers of justice were waiting. Knowing
that he would return there, Garcia, who is the son of the former
highest dignitary in San Pedro, was waiting with two trusty
companions of humble station, all three fired with the same
reasons for revenge. He could do little during the day, for
Murillo took every precaution and never went out save with his
satellite Lucas, or Lopez as he was known in the days of his
greatness. At night, however, he slept alone, and the avenger
might find him. On a certain evening, which had been
prearranged, I sent my friend final instructions, for the man was
forever on the alert and continually changed his room. I was to
see that the doors were open and the signal of a green or white
light in a window which faced the drive was to give notice if all
was safe or if the attempt had better be postponed.
“But everything went wrong with us. In some way I had excited
the suspicion of Lopez, the secretary. He crept up behind me and
sprang upon me just as I had finished the note. He and his
master dragged me to my room and held judgment upon me as a
convicted traitress. Then and there they would have plunged
their knives into me could they have seen how to escape the
consequences of the deed. Finally, after much debate, they
concluded that my murder was too dangerous. But they determined
to get rid forever of Garcia. They had gagged me, and Murillo
twisted my arm round until I gave him the address. I swear that
he might have twisted it off had I understood what it would mean
to Garcia. Lopez addressed the note which I had written, sealed
it with his sleeve-link, and sent it by the hand of the servant,
Jose. How they murdered him I do not know, save that it was
Murillo’s hand who struck him down, for Lopez had remained to
guard me. I believe he must have waited among the gorse bushes
through which the path winds and struck him down as he passed.
At first they were of a mind to let him enter the house and to
kill him as a detected burglar; but they argued that if they were
mixed up in an inquiry their own identity would at once be
publicly disclosed and they would be open to further attacks.
With the death of Garcia, the pursuit might cease, since such a
death might frighten others from the task.
“All would now have been well for them had it not been for my
knowledge of what they had done. I have no doubt that there were
times when my life hung in the balance. I was confined to my
room, terrorized by the most horrible threats, cruelly illused
to break my spirit—see this stab on my shoulder and the bruises
from end to end of my arms—and a gag was thrust into my mouth on
the one occasion when I tried to call from the window. For five
days this cruel imprisonment continued, with hardly enough food
to hold body and soul together. This afternoon a good lunch was
brought me, but the moment after I took it I knew that I had been
drugged. In a sort of dream I remember being half-led, half-carried to the carriage; in the same state I was conveyed to the
train. Only then, when the wheels were almost moving, did I
suddenly realize that my liberty lay in my own hands. I sprang
out, they tried to drag me back, and had it not been for the help
of this good man, who led me to the cab, I should never had
broken away. Now, thank God, I am beyond their power forever.”
We had all listened intently to this remarkable statement. It
was Holmes who broke the silence.
“Our difficulties are not over,” he remarked, shaking his head.
“Our police work ends, but our legal work begins.”
“Exactly,” said I. “A plausible lawyer could make it out as an
act of self-defence. There may be a hundred crimes in the
background, but it is only on this one that they can be tried.”
“Come, come,” said Baynes cheerily, “I think better of the law
than that. Self-defence is one thing. To entice a man in cold
blood with the object of murdering him is another, whatever
danger you may fear from him. No, no, we shall all be justified
when we see the tenants of High Gable at the next Guildford
Assizes.”
It is a matter of history, however, that a little time was still
to elapse before the Tiger of San Pedro should meet with his
deserts. Wily and bold, he and his companion threw their pursuer
off their track by entering a lodging-house in Edmonton Street
and leaving by the back-gate into Curzon Square. From that day
they were seen no more in England. Some six months afterwards
the Marquess of Montalva and Signor Rulli, his secretary, were
both murdered in their rooms at the Hotel Escurial at Madrid.
The crime was ascribed to Nihilism, and the murderers were never
arrested. Inspector Baynes visited us at Baker Street with a
printed description of the dark face of the secretary, and of the
masterful features, the magnetic black eyes, and the tufted brows
of his master. We could not doubt that justice, if belated, had
come at last.
“A chaotic case, my dear Watson,” said Holmes over an evening
pipe. “It will not be possible for you to present in that compact
form which is dear to your heart. It covers two continents,
concerns two groups of mysterious persons, and is further
complicated by the highly respectable presence of our friend,
Scott Eccles, whose inclusion shows me that the deceased Garcia
had a scheming mind and a well-developed instinct of self-preservation. It is remarkable only for the fact that amid a
perfect jungle of possibilities we, with our worthy collaborator,
the inspector, have kept our close hold on the essentials and so
been guided along the crooked and winding path. Is there any
point which is not quite clear to you?”
“The object of the mulatto cook’s return?”
“I think that the strange creature in the kitchen may account for
it. The man was a primitive savage from the backwoods of San
Pedro, and this was his fetish. When his companion and he had
fled to some prearranged retreat—already occupied, no doubt by a
confederate—the companion had persuaded him to leave so
compromising an article of furniture. But the mulatto’s heart
was with it, and he was driven back to it next day, when, on
reconnoitering through the window, he found policeman Walters in
possession. He waited three days longer, and then his piety or
his superstition drove him to try once more. Inspector Baynes,
who, with his usual astuteness, had minimized the incident before
me, had really recognized its importance and had left a trap into
which the creature walked. Any other point, Watson?”
“The torn bird, the pail of blood, the charred bones, all the
mystery of that weird kitchen?”
Holmes smiled as he turned up an entry in his notebook.
“I spent a morning in the British Museum reading up on that and
other points. Here is a quotation from Eckermann’s Voodooism and
the Negroid Religions:
“‘The true voodoo-worshipper attempts nothing of importance
without certain sacrifices which are intended to propitiate his
unclean gods. In extreme cases these rites take the form of
human sacrifices followed by cannibalism. The more usual victims
are a white cock, which is plucked in pieces alive, or a black
goat, whose throat is cut and body burned.’
“So you see our savage friend was very orthodox in his ritual.
It is grotesque, Watson,” Holmes added, as he slowly fastened his
notebook, “but, as I have had occasion to remark, there is but
one step from the grotesque to the horrible.”
The Adventure of the Cardboard Box
In choosing a few typical cases which illustrate the remarkable
mental qualities of my friend, Sherlock Holmes, I have
endeavoured, as far as possible, to select those which presented
the minimum of sensationalism, while offering a fair field for
his talents. It is, however, unfortunately impossible entirely
to separate the sensational from the criminal, and a chronicler
is left in the dilemma that he must either sacrifice details
which are essential to his statement and so give a false
impression of the problem, or he must use matter which chance,
and not choice, has provided him with. With this short preface I
shall turn to my notes of what proved to be a strange, though a
peculiarly terrible, chain of events.
It was a blazing hot day in August. Baker Street was like an
oven, and the glare of the sunlight upon the yellow brickwork of
the house across the road was painful to the eye. It was hard to
believe that these were the same walls which loomed so gloomily
through the fogs of winter. Our blinds were half-drawn, and
Holmes lay curled upon the sofa, reading and re-reading a letter
which he had received by the morning post. For myself, my term
of service in India had
Comments (0)