The Red-Headed League
I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, one day in the autumn of
last year and found him in deep conversation
with a very stout, florid-faced, elderly
gentleman with fiery red hair. With an apology
for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw
when Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room
and closed the door behind me.
“You could not possibly have come at a better
time, my dear Watson,” he said cordially.
“I was afraid that you were engaged.”
“So I am. Very much so.”
“Then I can wait in the next room.”
“Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson,
has
been my partner and helper in many of my most
successful cases, and I have no doubt that
he will
be of the utmost use to me in yours also.”
The stout gentleman half rose from his chair
and gave a bob of greeting, with a quick little
questioning
glance from his small fat-encircled eyes.
“Try the settee,” said Holmes, relapsing
into his
armchair and putting his fingertips together,
as was
his custom when in judicial moods. “I know,
my
dear Watson, that you share my love of all
that is
bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum
routine of everyday life. You have shown your
relish
for it by the enthusiasm which has prompted
you to chronicle, and, if you will excuse
my saying
so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own
little adventures.”
“Your cases have indeed been of the greatest
interest to me,” I observed.
“You will remember that I remarked the other
day, just before we went into the very simple
problem
presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that for
strange effects and extraordinary combinations
we
must go to life itself, which is always far
more
daring than any effort of the imagination.”
“A proposition which I took the liberty
of doubting.”
“You did, Doctor, but none the less you
must
come round to my view, for otherwise I shall
keep
on piling fact upon fact on you until your
reason
breaks down under them and acknowledges me
to be right. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has
been
good enough to call upon me this morning,
and
to begin a narrative which promises to be
one of
the most singular which I have listened to
for some
time. You have heard me remark that the strangest
and most unique things are very often connected
not with the larger but with the smaller crimes,
and
occasionally, indeed, where there is room
for doubt
whether any positive crime has been committed.
As far as I have heard it is impossible for
me to say
whether the present case is an instance of
crime or
not, but the course of events is certainly
among the
most singular that I have ever listened to.
Perhaps,
Mr. Wilson, you would have the great kindness
to
recommence your narrative. I ask you not merely
because my friend Dr. Watson has not heard
the
opening part but also because the peculiar
nature
of the story makes me anxious to have every
possible
detail from your lips. As a rule, when I have
heard some slight indication of the course
of events,
I am able to guide myself by the thousands
of other
similar cases which occur to my memory. In
the
present instance I am forced to admit that
the facts
are, to the best of my belief, unique.”
The portly client puffed out his chest with
an
appearance of some little pride and pulled
a dirty
and wrinkled newspaper from the inside pocket
of
his greatcoat. As he glanced down the advertisement
column, with his head thrust forward and the
paper flattened out upon his knee, I took
a good
look at the man and endeavoured, after the
fashion
of my companion, to read the indications which
might be presented by his dress or appearance.
I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection.
Our visitor bore every mark of being
an average commonplace British tradesman,
obese,
pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy grey
shepherd’s check trousers, a not over-clean
black
frock-coat, unbuttoned in the front, and a
drab
waistcoat with a heavy brassy Albert chain,
and a
square pierced bit of metal dangling down
as an
ornament. A frayed top-hat and a faded brown
overcoat with a wrinkled velvet collar lay
upon a
chair beside him. Altogether, look as I would,
there
was nothing remarkable about the man save
his
blazing red head, and the expression of extreme
chagrin and discontent upon his features.
Sherlock Holmes’ quick eye took in my occupation,
and he shook his head with a smile as he
noticed my questioning glances. “Beyond
the obvious
facts that he has at some time done manual
labour, that he takes snuff, that he is a
Freemason,
that he has been in China, and that he has
done a
considerable amount of writing lately, I can
deduce
nothing else.”
Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair,
with
his forefinger upon the paper, but his eyes
upon
my companion.
“How, in the name of good-fortune, did you
know all that, Mr. Holmes?” he asked. “How
did
you know, for example, that I did manual labour.
It’s as true as gospel, for I began as a
ship’s carpenter.”
“Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand
is
quite a size larger than your left. You have
worked
with it, and the muscles are more developed.”
“Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?”
“I won’t insult your intelligence by telling
you
how I read that, especially as, rather against
the
strict rules of your order, you use an arc-andcompass
breastpin.”
“Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?”
“What else can be indicated by that right
cuff
so very shiny for five inches, and the left
one with
the smooth patch near the elbow where you
rest it
upon the desk?”
“Well, but China?”
“The fish that you have tattooed immediately
above your right wrist could only have been
done
in China. I have made a small study of tattoo
marks
and have even contributed to the literature
of the
subject. That trick of staining the fishes’
scales of a
delicate pink is quite peculiar to China.
When, in
addition, I see a Chinese coin hanging from
your
watch-chain, the matter becomes even more
simple.”
Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. “Well,
I
never!” said he. “I thought at first that
you had
done something clever, but I see that there
was
nothing in it, after all.”
“I begin to think, Watson,” said Holmes,
“that I
make a mistake in explaining. ‘Omne ignotum
pro
magnifico,’ you know, and my poor little
reputation,
such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I
am so candid.
Can you not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?”
“Yes, I have got it now,” he answered
with his
thick red finger planted halfway down the
column.
“Here it is. This is what began it all.
You just read
it for yourself, sir.”
I took the paper from him and read as follows:
“To the Red-headed League: On account
of the bequest of the late Ezekiah
Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U.
S. A., there is now another vacancy open
which entitles a member of the League
to a salary of £4 a week for purely nominal
services. All red-headed men who
are sound in body and mind and above
the age of twenty-one years, are eligible.
Apply in person on Monday, at
eleven o’clock, to Duncan Ross, at the
offices of the League, 7 Pope’s Court,
Fleet Street.”
“What on earth does this mean?” I ejaculated
after I had twice read over the extraordinary
announcement.
Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair,
as
was his habit when in high spirits. “It
is a little off
the beaten track, isn’t it?” said he.
“And now, Mr.
Wilson, off you go at scratch and tell us
all about
yourself, your household, and the effect which
this
advertisement had upon your fortunes. You
will
first make a note, Doctor, of the paper and
the
date.”
“It is The Morning Chronicle of April 27,
1890.
Just two months ago.”
“Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?”
“Well, it is just as I have been telling
you, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes,” said Jabez Wilson, mopping
his
forehead; “I have a small pawnbroker’s
business at
Coburg Square, near the City. It’s not a
very large
affair, and of late years it has not done
more than
just give me a living. I used to be able to
keep two
assistants, but now I only keep one; and I
would
have a job to pay him but that he is willing
to come
for half wages so as to learn the business.”
“What is the name of this obliging youth?”
asked Sherlock Holmes.
“His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he’s
not
such a youth, either. It’s hard to say his
age. I
should not wish a smarter assistant, Mr. Holmes;
and I know very well that he could better
himself
and earn twice what I am able to give him.
But,
after all, if he is satisfied, why should
I put ideas
in his head?”
“Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in
having
an employee who comes under the full market
price. It is not a common experience among
employers
in this age. I don’t know that your assistant
is not as remarkable as your advertisement.”
“Oh, he has his faults, too,” said Mr.
Wilson.
“Never was such a fellow for photography.
Snapping
away with a camera when he ought to be
improving his mind, and then diving down into
the cellar like a rabbit into its hole to
develop his
pictures. That is his main fault, but on the
whole
he’s a good worker. There’s no vice in
him.”
“He is still with you, I presume?”
“Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who
does a bit of simple cooking and keeps the
place
clean—that’s all I have in the house,
for I am a
widower and never had any family. We live
very
quietly, sir, the three of us; and we keep
a roof
over our heads and pay our debts, if we do
nothing
more.
“The first thing that put us out was that
advertisement.
Spaulding, he came down into the office
just this day eight weeks, with this very
paper in
his hand, and he says:
“ ‘I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that
I was a
red-headed man.’
“ ‘Why that?’ I asks.
“ ‘Why,’ says he, ‘here’s another
vacancy on the
League of the Red-headed Men. It’s worth
quite
a little fortune to any man who gets it, and
I understand
that there are more vacancies than there
are men, so that the trustees are at their
wits’ end
what to do with the money. If my hair would
only
change colour, here’s a nice little crib
all ready for
me to step into.’
“ ‘Why, what is it, then?’ I asked.
You see, Mr.
Holmes, I am a very stay-at-home man, and
as my
business came to me instead of my having to
go
to it, I was often weeks on end without putting
my foot over the door-mat. In that way I didn’t
know much of what was going on outside, and
I
was always glad of a bit of news.
“ ‘Have you never heard of the League
of the
Red-headed Men?’ he asked with his eyes
open.
“ ‘Never.’
“ ‘Why, I wonder at that, for you are
eligible
yourself for one of the vacancies.’
“ ‘And what are they worth?’ I asked.
“ ‘Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year,
but
the work is slight, and it need not interfere
very
much with one’s other occupations.’
“Well, you can easily think that that made
me
prick up my ears, for the business has not
been
over-good for some years, and an extra couple
of
hundred would have been very handy.
“ ‘Tell me all about it,’ said I.
“ ‘Well,’ said he, showing me the advertisement,
‘you can see for yourself that the League
has a vacancy,
and there is the address where you should
apply for particulars. As far as I can make
out, the
League was founded by an American millionaire,
Ezekiah Hopkins, who was very peculiar in
his
ways. He was himself red-headed, and he had
a
great sympathy for all red-headed men; so
when
he died it was found that he had left his
enormous
fortune in the hands of trustees, with instructions
to apply the interest to the providing of
easy berths
to men whose hair is of that colour. From
all I hear
it is splendid pay and very little to do.’
“ ‘But,’ said I, ‘there would be millions
of redheaded
men who would apply.’
“ ‘Not so many as you might think,’
he answered.
‘You see it is really confined to Londoners,
and to grown men. This American had started
from
London when he was young, and he wanted to
do
the old town a good turn. Then, again, I have
heard
it is no use your applying if your hair is
light red, or
dark red, or anything but real bright, blazing,
fiery
red. Now, if you cared to apply, Mr. Wilson,
you
would just walk in; but perhaps it would hardly
be
worth your while to put yourself out of the
way for
the sake of a few hundred pounds.’
“Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may
see
for yourselves, that my hair is of a very
full and
rich tint, so that it seemed to me that if
there was
to be any competition in the matter I stood
as good
a chance as any man that I had ever met. Vincent
Spaulding seemed to know so much about it
that
I thought he might prove useful, so I just
ordered
him to put up the shutters for the day and
to come
right away with me. He was very willing to
have a
holiday, so we shut the business up and started
off
for the address that was given us in the advertisement.
“I never hope to see such a sight as that
again,
Mr. Holmes. From north, south, east, and west
every man who had a shade of red in his hair
had
tramped into the city to answer the advertisement.
Fleet Street was choked with red-headed folk,
and
Pope’s Court looked like a coster’s orange
barrow.
I should not have thought there were so many
in
the whole country as were brought together
by that
single advertisement. Every shade of colour
they
were—straw, lemon, orange, brick, Irish-setter,
liver,
clay; but, as Spaulding said, there were not
many
who had the real vivid flame-coloured tint.
When I
saw how many were waiting, I would have given
it
up in despair; but Spaulding would not hear
of it.
How he did it I could not imagine, but he
pushed
and pulled and butted until he got me through
the
crowd, and right up to the steps which led
to the
office. There was a double stream upon the
stair,
some going up in hope, and some coming back
dejected; but we wedged in as well as we could
and
soon found ourselves in the office.”
“Your experience has been a most entertaining
one,” remarked Holmes as his client paused
and
refreshed his memory with a huge pinch of
snuff.
“Pray continue your very interesting statement.”
“There was nothing in the office but a couple
of wooden chairs and a deal table, behind
which
sat a small man with a head that was even
redder
than mine. He said a few words to each candidate
as he came up, and then he always managed
to
find some fault in them which would disqualify
them. Getting a vacancy did not seem to be
such
a very easy matter, after all. However, when
our
turn came the little man was much more favourable
to me than to any of the others, and he closed
the
door as we entered, so that he might have
a private
word with us.
“ ‘This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,’ said my
assistant,
‘and he is willing to fill a vacancy in
the League.’
“ ‘And he is admirably suited for it,’
the other
answered. ‘He has every requirement. I cannot
recall when I have seen anything so fine.’
He took
a step backward, cocked his head on one side,
and
gazed at my hair until I felt quite bashful.
Then
suddenly he plunged forward, wrung my hand,
and congratulated me warmly on my success.
“ ‘It would be injustice to hesitate,’
said he. ‘You
will, however, I am sure, excuse me for taking
an
obvious precaution.’ With that he seized
my hair
in both his hands, and tugged until I yelled
with
the pain. ‘There is water in your eyes,’
said he as
he released me. ‘I perceive that all is
as it should
be. But we have to be careful, for we have
twice
been deceived by wigs and once by paint. I
could
tell you tales of cobbler’s wax which would
disgust
you with human nature.’ He stepped over
to the
window and shouted through it at the top of
his
voice that the vacancy was filled. A groan
of disappointment
came up from below, and the folk all
trooped away in different directions until
there was
not a red-head to be seen except my own and
that
of the manager.
“ ‘My name,’ said he, ‘is Mr. Duncan
Ross, and I
am myself one of the pensioners upon the fund
left
by our noble benefactor. Are you a married
man,
Mr. Wilson? Have you a family?’
“I answered that I had not.
“His face fell immediately.
“ ‘Dear me!’ he said gravely, ‘that
is very serious
indeed! I am sorry to hear you say that. The
fund
was, of course, for the propagation and spread
of
the red-heads as well as for their maintenance.
It
is exceedingly unfortunate that you should
be a
bachelor.’
“My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes,
for I
thought that I was not to have the vacancy
after all;
but after thinking it over for a few minutes
he said
that it would be all right.
“ ‘In the case of another,’ said he,
‘the objection
might be fatal, but we must stretch a point
in favour
of a man with such a head of hair as yours.
When
shall you be able to enter upon your new duties?’
“ ‘Well, it is a little awkward, for I
have a business
already,’ said I.
“ ‘Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!’
said
Vincent Spaulding. ‘I should be able to
look after
that for you.’
“ ‘What would be the hours?’ I asked.
“ ‘Ten to two.’
“Now a pawnbroker’s business is mostly
done
of an evening, Mr. Holmes, especially Thursday
and Friday evening, which is just before pay-day;
so it would suit me very well to earn a little
in the
mornings. Besides, I knew that my assistant
was a
good man, and that he would see to anything
that
turned up.
“ ‘That would suit me very well,’ said
I. ‘And
the pay?’
“ ‘Is £4 a week.’
“ ‘And the work?’
“ ‘Is purely nominal.’
“ ‘What do you call purely nominal?’
“ ‘Well, you have to be in the office,
or at least
in the building, the whole time. If you leave,
you
forfeit your whole position forever. The will
is very
clear upon that point. You don’t comply
with the
conditions if you budge from the office during
that
time.’
“ ‘It’s only four hours a day, and I
should not
think of leaving,’ said I.
“ ‘No excuse will avail,’ said Mr. Duncan
Ross;
‘neither sickness nor business nor anything
else.
There you must stay, or you lose your billet.’
“ ‘And the work?’
“ ‘Is to copy out the “Encyclopaedia
Britannica.”
There is the first volume of it in that press.
You
must find your own ink, pens, and blotting-paper,
but we provide this table and chair. Will
you be
ready to-morrow?’
“ ‘Certainly,’ I answered.
“ ‘Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and
let me
congratulate you once more on the important
position
which you have been fortunate enough to gain.’
He bowed me out of the room and I went home
with my assistant, hardly knowing what to
say or
do, I was so pleased at my own good fortune.
“Well, I thought over the matter all day,
and by
evening I was in low spirits again; for I
had quite
persuaded myself that the whole affair must
be
some great hoax or fraud, though what its
object
might be I could not imagine. It seemed altogether
past belief that anyone could make such a
will, or
that they would pay such a sum for doing anything
so simple as copying out the ‘Encyclopaedia
Britannica.’ Vincent Spaulding did what
he could
to cheer me up, but by bedtime I had reasoned
myself out of the whole thing. However, in
the
morning I determined to have a look at it
anyhow,
so I bought a penny bottle of ink, and with
a quillpen,
and seven sheets of foolscap paper, I started
off for Pope’s Court.
“Well, to my surprise and delight, everything
was as right as possible. The table was set
out ready
for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross was there to see
that I
got fairly to work. He started me off upon
the letter
A, and then he left me; but he would drop
in from
time to time to see that all was right with
me. At
two o’clock he bade me good-day, complimented
me upon the amount that I had written, and
locked
the door of the office after me.
“This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes,
and
on Saturday the manager came in and planked
down four golden sovereigns for my week’s
work.
It was the same next week, and the same the
week
after. Every morning I was there at ten, and
every
afternoon I left at two. By degrees Mr. Duncan
Ross took to coming in only once of a morning,
and then, after a time, he did not come in
at all.
Still, of course, I never dared to leave the
room for
an instant, for I was not sure when he might
come,
and the billet was such a good one, and suited
me
so well, that I would not risk the loss of
it.
“Eight weeks passed away like this, and
I had
written about Abbots and Archery and Armour
and Architecture and Attica, and hoped with
diligence
that I might get on to the B’s before very
long. It cost me something in foolscap, and
I had
pretty nearly filled a shelf with my writings.
And
then suddenly the whole business came to an
end.”
“To an end?”
“Yes, sir. And no later than this morning.
I went
to my work as usual at ten o’clock, but
the door was
shut and locked, with a little square of cardboard
hammered on to the middle of the panel with
a
tack. Here it is, and you can read for yourself.”
He held up a piece of white cardboard about
the size of a sheet of note-paper. It read
in this
fashion:
The Red-headed League
is
Dissolved
October 9, 1890.
Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement
and the rueful face behind it, until the
comical side of the affair so completely overtopped
every other consideration that we both burst
out
into a roar of laughter.
“I cannot see that there is anything very
funny,”
cried our client, flushing up to the roots
of his flaming
head. “If you can do nothing better than
laugh
at me, I can go elsewhere.”
“No, no,” cried Holmes, shoving him back
into
the chair from which he had half risen. “I
really
wouldn’t miss your case for the world. It
is most refreshingly
unusual. But there is, if you will excuse
my saying so, something just a little funny
about it.
Pray what steps did you take when you found
the
card upon the door?”
“I was staggered, sir. I did not know what
to
do. Then I called at the offices round, but
none of
them seemed to know anything about it. Finally,
I
went to the landlord, who is an accountant
living
on the ground-floor, and I asked him if he
could tell
me what had become of the Red-headed League.
He said that he had never heard of any such
body.
Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan Ross was.
He
answered that the name was new to him.
“ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘the gentleman at
No. 4.’
“ ‘What, the red-headed man?’
“ ‘Yes.’
“ ‘Oh,’ said he, ‘his name was William
Morris.
He was a solicitor and was using my room as
a temporary
convenience until his new premises were
ready. He moved out yesterday.’
“ ‘Where could I find him?’
“ ‘Oh, at his new offices. He did tell
me the address.
Yes, 17 King Edward Street, near St. Paul’s.’
“I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got
to
that address it was a manufactory of artificial
kneecaps,
and no one in it had ever heard of either
Mr.
William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross.”
“And what did you do then?” asked Holmes.
“I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and
I took
the advice of my assistant. But he could not
help
me in any way. He could only say that if I
waited I
should hear by post. But that was not quite
good
enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose
such
a place without a struggle, so, as I had heard
that
you were good enough to give advice to poor
folk
who were in need of it, I came right away
to you.”
“And you did very wisely,” said Holmes.
“Your
case is an exceedingly remarkable one, and
I shall
be happy to look into it. From what you have
told
me I think that it is possible that graver
issues hang
from it than might at first sight appear.”
“Grave enough!” said Mr. Jabez Wilson.
“Why,
I have lost four pound a week.”
“As far as you are personally concerned,”
remarked
Holmes, “I do not see that you have any
grievance against this extraordinary league.
On the
contrary, you are, as I understand, richer
by some
£30, to say nothing of the minute knowledge
which
you have gained on every subject which comes
under
the letter A. You have lost nothing by them.”
“No, sir. But I want to find out about them,
and
who they are, and what their object was in
playing
this prank—if it was a prank—upon me.
It was a
pretty expensive joke for them, for it cost
them two
and thirty pounds.”
“We shall endeavour to clear up these points
for
you. And, first, one or two questions, Mr.
Wilson.
This assistant of yours who first called your
attention
to the advertisement—how long had he been
with you?”
“About a month then.”
“How did he come?”
“In answer to an advertisement.”
“Was he the only applicant?”
“No, I had a dozen.”
“Why did you pick him?”
“Because he was handy and would come
cheap.”
“At half-wages, in fact.”
“Yes.”
“What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?”
“Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways,
no
hair on his face, though he’s not short
of thirty. Has
a white splash of acid upon his forehead.”
Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable
excitement.
“I thought as much,” said he. “Have
you ever observed that his ears are pierced
for earrings?”
“Yes, sir. He told me that a gipsy had done
it
for him when he was a lad.”
“Hum!” said Holmes, sinking back in deep
thought. “He is still with you?”
“Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him.”
“And has your business been attended to
in
your absence?”
“Nothing to complain of, sir. There’s
never very
much to do of a morning.”
“That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy
to
give you an opinion upon the subject in the
course
of a day or two. To-day is Saturday, and I
hope that
by Monday we may come to a conclusion.”
“Well, Watson,” said Holmes when our visitor
had left us, “what do you make of it all?”
“I make nothing of it,” I answered frankly.
“It
is a most mysterious business.”
“As a rule,” said Holmes, “the more
bizarre a
thing is the less mysterious it proves to
be. It is
your commonplace, featureless crimes which
are
really puzzling, just as a commonplace face
is the
most difficult to identify. But I must be
prompt
over this matter.”
“What are you going to do, then?” I asked.
“To smoke,” he answered. “It is quite
a three
pipe problem, and I beg that you won’t speak
to me
for fifty minutes.” He curled himself up
in his chair,
with his thin knees drawn up to his hawk-like
nose,
and there he sat with his eyes closed and
his black
clay pipe thrusting out like the bill of some
strange
bird. I had come to the conclusion that he
had
dropped asleep, and indeed was nodding myself,
when he suddenly sprang out of his chair with
the
gesture of a man who has made up his mind
and
put his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.
“Sarasate plays at the St. James’s Hall
this afternoon,”
he remarked. “What do you think, Watson?
Could your patients spare you for a few hours?”
“I have nothing to do to-day. My practice
is
never very absorbing.”
“Then put on your hat and come. I am going
through the City first, and we can have some
lunch
on the way. I observe that there is a good
deal of
German music on the programme, which is rather
more to my taste than Italian or French. It
is introspective,
and I want to introspect. Come along!”
We travelled by the Underground as far as
Aldersgate; and a short walk took us to SaxeCoburg
Square, the scene of the singular story
which we had listened to in the morning. It
was a
poky, little, shabby-genteel place, where
four lines
of dingy two-storied brick houses looked out
into
a small railed-in enclosure, where a lawn
of weedy
grass and a few clumps of faded laurel-bushes
made a hard fight against a smoke-laden and
uncongenial
atmosphere. Three gilt balls and a brown
board with “Jabez Wilson” in white letters,
upon
a corner house, announced the place where
our
red-headed client carried on his business.
Sherlock
Holmes stopped in front of it with his head
on one side and looked it all over, with his
eyes
shining brightly between puckered lids. Then
he
walked slowly up the street, and then down
again
to the corner, still looking keenly at the
houses. Finally
he returned to the pawnbroker’s, and, having
thumped vigorously upon the pavement with
his
stick two or three times, he went up to the
door
and knocked. It was instantly opened by a
brightlooking,
clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him
to step in.
“Thank you,” said Holmes, “I only wished
to ask you how you would go from here to the
Strand.”
“Third right, fourth left,” answered the
assistant
promptly, closing the door.
“Smart fellow, that,” observed Holmes
as we
walked away. “He is, in my judgment, the
fourth
smartest man in London, and for daring I am
not
sure that he has not a claim to be third.
I have
known something of him before.”
“Evidently,” said I, “Mr. Wilson’s
assistant
counts for a good deal in this mystery of
the Redheaded
League. I am sure that you inquired your
way merely in order that you might see him.”
“Not him.”
“What then?”
“The knees of his trousers.”
“And what did you see?”
“What I expected to see.”
“Why did you beat the pavement?”
“My dear doctor, this is a time for observation,
not for talk. We are spies in an enemy’s
country.
We know something of Saxe-Coburg Square. Let
us now explore the parts which lie behind
it.”
The road in which we found ourselves as we
turned round the corner from the retired SaxeCoburg
Square presented as great a contrast to
it as the front of a picture does to the back.
It was
one of the main arteries which conveyed the
traffic
of the City to the north and west. The roadway
was blocked with the immense stream of commerce
flowing in a double tide inward and outward,
while
the footpaths were black with the hurrying
swarm
of pedestrians. It was difficult to realise
as we
looked at the line of fine shops and stately
business
premises that they really abutted on the other
side
upon the faded and stagnant square which we
had
just quitted.
“Let me see,” said Holmes, standing at
the corner
and glancing along the line, “I should like
just
to remember the order of the houses here.
It is
a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge
of
London. There is Mortimer’s, the tobacconist,
the
little newspaper shop, the Coburg branch of
the
City and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant,
and McFarlane’s carriage-building depot.
That carries
us right on to the other block. And now, Doctor,
we’ve done our work, so it’s time we had
some play.
A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off
to
violin-land, where all is sweetness and delicacy
and
harmony, and there are no red-headed clients
to
vex us with their conundrums.”
My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being
himself not only a very capable performer
but a
composer of no ordinary merit. All the afternoon
he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect
happiness, gently waving his long, thin fingers
in
time to the music, while his gently smiling
face
and his languid, dreamy eyes were as unlike
those
of Holmes the sleuth-hound, Holmes the relentless,
keen-witted, ready-handed criminal agent,
as
it was possible to conceive. In his singular
character
the dual nature alternately asserted itself,
and
his extreme exactness and astuteness represented,
as I have often thought, the reaction against
the
poetic and contemplative mood which occasionally
predominated in him. The swing of his nature
took him from extreme languor to devouring
energy;
and, as I knew well, he was never so truly
formidable as when, for days on end, he had
been
lounging in his armchair amid his improvisations
and his black-letter editions. Then it was
that the
lust of the chase would suddenly come upon
him,
and that his brilliant reasoning power would
rise
to the level of intuition, until those who
were unacquainted
with his methods would look askance
at him as on a man whose knowledge was not
that
of other mortals. When I saw him that afternoon
so enwrapped in the music at St. James’s
Hall I
felt that an evil time might be coming upon
those
whom he had set himself to hunt down.
“You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor,”
he
remarked as we emerged.
“Yes, it would be as well.”
“And I have some business to do which will
take some hours. This business at Coburg Square
is serious.”
“Why serious?”
“A considerable crime is in contemplation.
I
have every reason to believe that we shall
be in
time to stop it. But to-day being Saturday
rather
complicates matters. I shall want your help
tonight.”
“At what time?”
“Ten will be early enough.”
“I shall be at Baker Street at ten.”
“Very well. And, I say, Doctor, there may
be
some little danger, so kindly put your army
revolver
in your pocket.” He waved his hand, turned
on his heel, and disappeared in an instant
among
the crowd.
I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours,
but I was always oppressed with a sense
of my own stupidity in my dealings with Sherlock
Holmes. Here I had heard what he had heard,
I had
seen what he had seen, and yet from his words
it
was evident that he saw clearly not only what
had
happened but what was about to happen, while
to me the whole business was still confused
and
grotesque. As I drove home to my house in
Kensington
I thought over it all, from the extraordinary
story of the red-headed copier of the “Encyclopaedia”
down to the visit to Saxe-Coburg Square, and
the ominous words with which he had parted
from
me. What was this nocturnal expedition, and
why
should I go armed? Where were we going, and
what were we to do? I had the hint from Holmes
that this smooth-faced pawnbroker’s assistant
was
a formidable man—a man who might play a
deep
game. I tried to puzzle it out, but gave it
up in
despair and set the matter aside until night
should
bring an explanation.
It was a quarter-past nine when I started
from
home and made my way across the Park, and
so
through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two
hansoms
were standing at the door, and as I entered
the
passage I heard the sound of voices from above.
On
entering his room I found Holmes in animated
conversation
with two men, one of whom I recognised
as Peter Jones, the official police agent,
while the
other was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with
a very
shiny hat and oppressively respectable frock-coat.
“Ha! Our party is complete,” said Holmes,
buttoning
up his pea-jacket and taking his heavy hunting
crop from the rack. “Watson, I think you
know
Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce
you
to Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our companion
in to-night’s adventure.”
“We’re hunting in couples again, Doctor,
you
see,” said Jones in his consequential way.
“Our
friend here is a wonderful man for starting
a chase.
All he wants is an old dog to help him to
do the
running down.”
“I hope a wild goose may not prove to be
the
end of our chase,” observed Mr. Merryweather
gloomily.
“You may place considerable confidence in
Mr.
Holmes, sir,” said the police agent loftily.
“He has
his own little methods, which are, if he won’t
mind
my saying so, just a little too theoretical
and fantastic,
but he has the makings of a detective in him.
It is not too much to say that once or twice,
as in
that business of the Sholto murder and the
Agra
treasure, he has been more nearly correct
than the
official force.”
“Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all
right,”
said the stranger with deference. “Still,
I confess
that I miss my rubber. It is the first Saturday
night
for seven-and-twenty years that I have not
had my
rubber.”
“I think you will find,” said Sherlock
Holmes,
“that you will play for a higher stake to-night
than
you have ever done yet, and that the play
will be
more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather,
the
stake will be some £30,000; and for you,
Jones, it
will be the man upon whom you wish to lay
your
hands.”
“John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher,
and
forger. He’s a young man, Mr. Merryweather,
but
he is at the head of his profession, and I
would
rather have my bracelets on him than on any
criminal
in London. He’s a remarkable man, is young
John Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke,
and
he himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His
brain
is as cunning as his fingers, and though we
meet
signs of him at every turn, we never know
where
to find the man himself. He’ll crack a crib
in Scotland
one week, and be raising money to build an
orphanage in Cornwall the next. I’ve been
on his
track for years and have never set eyes on
him yet.”
“I hope that I may have the pleasure of
introducing
you to-night. I’ve had one or two little
turns
also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree with
you that
he is at the head of his profession. It is
past ten,
however, and quite time that we started. If
you two
will take the first hansom, Watson and I will
follow
in the second.”
Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative
during the long drive and lay back in the
cab humming
the tunes which he had heard in the afternoon.
We rattled through an endless labyrinth of
gas-lit
streets until we emerged into Farrington Street.
“We are close there now,” my friend remarked.
“This fellow Merryweather is a bank director,
and
personally interested in the matter. I thought
it as
well to have Jones with us also. He is not
a bad
fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his
profession.
He has one positive virtue. He is as brave
as
a bulldog and as tenacious as a lobster if
he gets
his claws upon anyone. Here we are, and they
are
waiting for us.”
We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare
in which we had found ourselves in the morning.
Our cabs were dismissed, and, following the
guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down
a
narrow passage and through a side door, which
he
opened for us. Within there was a small corridor,
which ended in a very massive iron gate. This
also
was opened, and led down a flight of winding
stone
steps, which terminated at another formidable
gate.
Mr. Merryweather stopped to light a lantern,
and
then conducted us down a dark, earth-smelling
passage, and so, after opening a third door,
into
a huge vault or cellar, which was piled all
round
with crates and massive boxes.
“You are not very vulnerable from above,”
Holmes remarked as he held up the lantern
and
gazed about him.
“Nor from below,” said Mr. Merryweather,
striking
his stick upon the flags which lined the floor.
“Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow!”
he remarked,
looking up in surprise.
“I must really ask you to be a little more
quiet!”
said Holmes severely. “You have already
imperilled
the whole success of our expedition. Might
I beg
that you would have the goodness to sit down
upon
one of those boxes, and not to interfere?”
The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself
upon a crate, with a very injured expression
upon
his face, while Holmes fell upon his knees
upon the
floor and, with the lantern and a magnifying
lens,
began to examine minutely the cracks between
the
stones. A few seconds sufficed to satisfy
him, for
he sprang to his feet again and put his glass
in his
pocket.
“We have at least an hour before us,”
he remarked,
“for they can hardly take any steps until
the good pawnbroker is safely in bed. Then
they
will not lose a minute, for the sooner they
do their
work the longer time they will have for their
escape.
We are at present, Doctor—as no doubt you
have
divined—in the cellar of the City branch
of one of
the principal London banks. Mr. Merryweather
is
the chairman of directors, and he will explain
to
you that there are reasons why the more daring
criminals of London should take a considerable
interest in this cellar at present.”
“It is our French gold,” whispered the
director.
“We have had several warnings that an attempt
might be made upon it.”
“Your French gold?”
“Yes. We had occasion some months ago to
strengthen our resources and borrowed for
that
purpose 30,000 napoleons from the Bank of
France.
It has become known that we have never had
occasion
to unpack the money, and that it is still
lying in
our cellar. The crate upon which I sit contains
2,000
napoleons packed between layers of lead foil.
Our
reserve of bullion is much larger at present
than
is usually kept in a single branch office,
and the
directors have had misgivings upon the subject.”
“Which were very well justified,” observed
Holmes. “And now it is time that we arranged
our little plans. I expect that within an
hour matters
will come to a head. In the meantime Mr.
Merryweather, we must put the screen over
that
dark lantern.”
“And sit in the dark?”
“I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of
cards in
my pocket, and I thought that, as we were
a partie
carree´ , you might have your rubber after
all. But I
see that the enemy’s preparations have gone
so far
that we cannot risk the presence of a light.
And,
first of all, we must choose our positions.
These are
daring men, and though we shall take them
at a disadvantage,
they may do us some harm unless we
are careful. I shall stand behind this crate,
and do
you conceal yourselves behind those. Then,
when
I flash a light upon them, close in swiftly.
If they
fire, Watson, have no compunction about shooting
them down.”
I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top
of
the wooden case behind which I crouched. Holmes
shot the slide across the front of his lantern
and left
us in pitch darkness—such an absolute darkness
as I have never before experienced. The smell
of
hot metal remained to assure us that the light
was
still there, ready to flash out at a moment’s
notice.
To me, with my nerves worked up to a pitch
of
expectancy, there was something depressing
and
subduing in the sudden gloom, and in the cold
dank air of the vault.
“They have but one retreat,” whispered
Holmes.
“That is back through the house into Saxe-Coburg
Square. I hope that you have done what I asked
you, Jones?”
“I have an inspector and two officers waiting
at
the front door.”
“Then we have stopped all the holes. And
now
we must be silent and wait.”
What a time it seemed! From comparing notes
afterwards it was but an hour and a quarter,
yet it
appeared to me that the night must have almost
gone and the dawn be breaking above us. My
limbs
were weary and stiff, for I feared to change
my position;
yet my nerves were worked up to the highest
pitch of tension, and my hearing was so acute
that
I could not only hear the gentle breathing
of my
companions, but I could distinguish the deeper,
heavier in-breath of the bulky Jones from
the thin,
sighing note of the bank director. From my
position
I could look over the case in the direction
of the
floor. Suddenly my eyes caught the glint of
a light.
At first it was but a lurid spark upon the
stone
pavement. Then it lengthened out until it
became
a yellow line, and then, without any warning
or
sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand appeared,
a white, almost womanly hand, which felt about
in
the centre of the little area of light. For
a minute
or more the hand, with its writhing fingers,
protruded
out of the floor. Then it was withdrawn as
suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark
again
save the single lurid spark which marked a
chink
between the stones.
Its disappearance, however, was but momentary.
With a rending, tearing sound, one of the
broad,
white stones turned over upon its side and
left a
square, gaping hole, through which streamed
the
light of a lantern. Over the edge there peeped
a
clean-cut, boyish face, which looked keenly
about it,
and then, with a hand on either side of the
aperture,
drew itself shoulder-high and waist-high,
until one
knee rested upon the edge. In another instant
he
stood at the side of the hole and was hauling
after
him a companion, lithe and small like himself,
with
a pale face and a shock of very red hair.
“It’s all clear,” he whispered. “Have
you the
chisel and the bags? Great Scott! Jump, Archie,
jump, and I’ll swing for it!”
Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized
the intruder by the collar. The other dived
down
the hole, and I heard the sound of rending
cloth
as Jones clutched at his skirts. The light
flashed
upon the barrel of a revolver, but Holmes’
hunting
crop came down on the man’s wrist, and the
pistol
clinked upon the stone floor.
“It’s no use, John Clay,” said Holmes
blandly.
“You have no chance at all.”
“So I see,” the other answered with the
utmost
coolness. “I fancy that my pal is all right,
though I
see you have got his coat-tails.”
“There are three men waiting for him at
the
door,” said Holmes.
“Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing
very completely. I must compliment you.”
“And I you,” Holmes answered. “Your
redheaded
idea was very new and effective.”
“You’ll see your pal again presently,”
said Jones.
“He’s quicker at climbing down holes than
I am.
Just hold out while I fix the derbies.”
“I beg that you will not touch me with your
filthy hands,” remarked our prisoner as
the handcuffs
clattered upon his wrists. “You may not
be
aware that I have royal blood in my veins.
Have
the goodness, also, when you address me always
to say ‘sir’ and ‘please.’ ”
“All right,” said Jones with a stare and
a snigger.
“Well, would you please, sir, march upstairs,
where we can get a cab to carry your Highness
to
the police-station?”
“That is better,” said John Clay serenely.
He
made a sweeping bow to the three of us and
walked
quietly off in the custody of the detective.
“Really, Mr. Holmes,” said Mr. Merryweather
as
we followed them from the cellar, “I do
not know
how the bank can thank you or repay you. There
is no doubt that you have detected and defeated
in the most complete manner one of the most
determined
attempts at bank robbery that have ever
come within my experience.”
“I have had one or two little scores of
my own
to settle with Mr. John Clay,” said Holmes.
“I have
been at some small expense over this matter,
which
I shall expect the bank to refund, but beyond
that
I am amply repaid by having had an experience
which is in many ways unique, and by hearing
the very remarkable narrative of the Red-headed
League.”
“You see, Watson,” he explained in the
early
hours of the morning as we sat over a glass
of
whisky and soda in Baker Street, “it was
perfectly
obvious from the first that the only possible
object
of this rather fantastic business of the advertisement
of the League, and the copying of the ‘Encyclopaedia,’
must be to get this not over-bright pawnbroker
out of the way for a number of hours every
day.
It was a curious way of managing it, but,
really, it
would be difficult to suggest a better. The
method
was no doubt suggested to Clay’s ingenious
mind
by the colour of his accomplice’s hair.
The £4 a
week was a lure which must draw him, and what
was it to them, who were playing for thousands?
They put in the advertisement, one rogue has
the
temporary office, the other rogue incites
the man
to apply for it, and together they manage
to secure
his absence every morning in the week. From
the
time that I heard of the assistant having
come for
half wages, it was obvious to me that he had
some
strong motive for securing the situation.”
“But how could you guess what the motive
was?”
“Had there been women in the house, I should
have suspected a mere vulgar intrigue. That,
however,
was out of the question. The man’s business
was a small one, and there was nothing in
his house
which could account for such elaborate preparations,
and such an expenditure as they were at. It
must, then, be something out of the house.
What
could it be? I thought of the assistant’s
fondness
for photography, and his trick of vanishing
into the
cellar. The cellar! There was the end of this
tangled
clue. Then I made inquiries as to this mysterious
assistant and found that I had to deal with
one of
the coolest and most daring criminals in London.
He was doing something in the cellar—something
which took many hours a day for months on
end.
What could it be, once more? I could think
of nothing
save that he was running a tunnel to some
other
building.
“So far I had got when we went to visit
the
scene of action. I surprised you by beating
upon
the pavement with my stick. I was ascertaining
whether the cellar stretched out in front
or behind.
It was not in front. Then I rang the bell,
and, as
I hoped, the assistant answered it. We have
had
some skirmishes, but we had never set eyes
upon
each other before. I hardly looked at his
face. His
knees were what I wished to see. You must
yourself
have remarked how worn, wrinkled, and stained
they were. They spoke of those hours of burrowing.
The only remaining point was what they were
burrowing for. I walked round the corner,
saw the
City and Suburban Bank abutted on our friend’s
premises, and felt that I had solved my problem.
When you drove home after the concert I called
upon Scotland Yard and upon the chairman of
the
bank directors, with the result that you have
seen.”
“And how could you tell that they would
make
their attempt to-night?” I asked.
“Well, when they closed their League offices
that was a sign that they cared no longer
about Mr.
Jabez Wilson’s presence—in other words,
that they
had completed their tunnel. But it was essential
that they should use it soon, as it might
be discovered,
or the bullion might be removed. Saturday
would suit them better than any other day,
as it
would give them two days for their escape.
For all
these reasons I expected them to come to-night.”
“You reasoned it out beautifully,” I exclaimed
in unfeigned admiration. “It is so long
a chain, and
yet every link rings true.”
“It saved me from ennui,” he answered,
yawning.
“Alas! I already feel it closing in upon
me. My
life is spent in one long effort to escape
from the
commonplaces of existence. These little problems
help me to do so.”
“And you are a benefactor of the race,”
said I.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, perhaps,
after all, it is of some little use,” he
remarked.
“ ‘L’homme c’est rien—l’oeuvre
c’est tout,’ as Gustave
Flaubert wrote to George Sand.”
