A Study in Terror (11 page)

“How did you proceed, if I may ask?”

Lord Carfax shrugged his shoulders. “The hostel seemed as good a place as any for him. So that part of the problem was solved.”

Miss Sally Young had been sitting in amazed silence, her eyes never leaving his Lordship's face. Lord Carfax took cognizance of this. With a sad smile, he said, “I trust you will forgive me, my dear, for not setting the case before you earlier. But it seemed unnecessary—indeed imprudent. I wished Michael to remain here; and, in truth, I was not eager to confess his identity to you and your uncle.”

“I understand,” said the girl, quietly. “You were entitled to keep your secret my lord, if for no other reason than your support of the hostel has been so generous.”

The nobleman seemed embarrassed. “I should have contributed to the maintenance of the hostel in any event, my dear. However, I do not deny that Michael's refuge here enhanced my interest. So perhaps my motives have been as selfish as they have been eleemosynary.”

Holmes had been studying Lord Carfax keenly as the story unfolded.

“You made no further efforts in your brother's behalf?”

“One,” replied his Lordship. “I communicated with the Paris police, as well as with Scotland Yard, inquiring if their records bore any report of an attack such as my brother had suffered. Their records did not reveal one.”

“So you left it there?”

“Yes!” cried the harassed nobleman. “And why not?”

“The felons might have been brought to justice.”

“By what method? Michael had become a hopeless idiot. I doubt if he would have been able to recognise his assailants. Even could he have done so, his testimony in a criminal proceeding would have been valueless.”

“I see,” said Holmes, gravely; but I perceived that he was far from satisfied. “And as to his wife, Angela Osbourne?”

“I never found her.”

“Did you not suspect that she wrote the anonymous note?”

“I assumed that she did.”

Holmes came to his feet. “I wish to thank your Lordship for being so candid under the difficult circumstances.”

This brought a bleak smile. “I assure you, sir, that it has not been through choice. I have no doubt that you would have come by the information through other channels. Now, perhaps, you can let the matter rest.”

“Hardly, I fear.”

Lord Carfax's face became intense. “I tell you, upon my honour, sir, that Michael has had nothing to do with the horrible murders that have convulsed London!”

“You reassure me,” replied Holmes, “and I promise your Lordship that I will do my utmost to spare you further suffering.”

Lord Carfax bowed, and said nothing more.

With that, we took our leave. But as we went out of the hostel, I could see only Michael Osbourne, crouched in that filthy abattoir, enchanted by the blood.

Ellery's Legman Reports

Grant Ames III lay on Ellery's sofa balancing the glass on his chest, exhausted. “I went forth an eager beaver. I return a wreck.”

“From only two interviews?”

“A party is one thing—you can escape behind a patio plant. But alone, trapped inside four walls …”

Ellery, still in pyjamas, crouched over his typewriter and scratched the foundations of a magnificent beard. He typed four more words and stopped.

“The interviews bore no fruit?”

“Two gardensful, one decked in spring green, the other in autumnal purple. But with price tags on the goodies.”

“Marriage might be your salvation.”

The idler shuddered, “If masochism is one of your vices, old buddy, we'll discuss it. But later, when I get my strength back.”

“You're sure neither put the journal in your car?”

“Madge Short thinks Sherlock is some kind of new hair-do. And Katherine Lambert—Kat's not a bad kitten from the neck down. She paints, you know. Redid a loft in the Village. Very intense. The coiled-spring type. You sit there waiting to get the broken end in your eye.”

“They may have put you on,” Ellery said brutally. “You wouldn't be hard to fool.”

“I satisfied myself,” Grant said with dignity. “I asked subtle questions. Deep. Searching.”

“Such as?”

“Such as, ‘Kat, did you put a manuscript addressed to Ellery Queen into the seat of my car at Lita's bash the other day?'”

“And she replied?”

Grant shrugged. “It came in the form of a counter-question—‘Who's Ellery Queen?'”

“Have I asked you to leave lately?”

“Let's be kind to each other, friend.” Grant paused to drink deeply. “I'm not reporting total failure. I've merely cut the field in half. I shall go doggedly forward. Beyond the Bronx lies New Rochelle.”

“Who lives there?”

“Rachel Hager. Third on my list. And then there's Pagan Kelly, a Bennington chick whom you can find in almost any picket line whose protest is silly.”

“Two suspects,” Ellery said. “But don't rush into it. Go off somewhere and ponder your attack.”

“You mean you want me to dawdle?”

“Isn't that what you do best? But not in my apartment. I've got to get this story finished.”

“Did you finish the journal?” the playboy asked, not stirring.

“I'm busy with my own mystery.”

“Have you gone far enough to spot the killer?”

“Brother,” Ellery said, “I haven't spotted the murderer in my own story yet.”

“Then I'll leave you to your labors. Oh. Suppose we never will find out who sent you the manuscript?”

“I think I'd manage to survive.”

“Where did you get your reputation?” the young man asked nastily. He left.

Ellery's brain dangled, like a foot that has fallen asleep. The typewriter keys looked a thousand yards away. Vagrant thoughts began to creep into the vacuum. How was dad getting along in Bermuda? What were the latest sales figures on his last book? He did not have to ask himself who had sent the manuscript by way of Grant Ames III. He already knew the answer to that. So, by a natural process, he began to wonder about the identity of Sherlock Holmes's visitor from Paris (he had peeked ahead).

After a short battle, which he lost, he went into the bedroom. He plucked Dr. Watson's journal from the floor, where he had left it, and stretched out on his bed to read on.

CHAPTER VIII

A VISITOR FROM PARIS

The ensuing days were most trying. In all our association, I had never seen Holmes so restless, and so difficult to get along with.

After our interview with Lord Carfax, Holmes ceased to communicate with me. My overtures were ignored. It then occurred to me that I had intruded further into this case than into any of the investigations I had shared with him. In the light of the chaos I had managed to create, my chastisement seemed just. So I retreated into my customary role of bystander, and awaited developments.

They were slow in coming. Holmes had turned, like the Ripper, into a creature of the night. He vanished from Baker Street each evening, to return at dawn and spend the day in brooding silence. I kept to my own room, knowing that solitude was essential to him at such times. His violin wailed at intervals. When I could stand its scratching no longer, I took myself off into the welcome hubbub of London's streets.

On the third morning, however, I was appalled at his appearance.

“Holmes! In God's name!” I cried. “What has happened to you?”

There was an ugly purple contusion below his right temple. The sleeve of his jacket had been ripped away, and a gashed wrist had no doubt bled copiously. He walked with a limp, and he was as begrimed as any of the street Arabs he so often sent on mysterious missions.

“A dispute in a dark by-way, Watson.”

“Let me attend to those wounds!”

I snatched my satchel from my room and returned. Grimly he displayed the bloody knuckles of his right fist. “I attempted to lure our enemy into the open, Watson. I succeeded.” Pressing Holmes into a chair, I begin my examination. “I succeeded, but I failed.”

“You take perilous risks.”

“The assassins, two of them, rose to my bait.”

“The same ones who attacked us?”

“Yes. My purpose was to lay one of them by the heels, but my revolver jammed—of all the accursed luck!—and both got away.”

“Pray relax, Holmes. Lie back. Close your eyes. Perhaps I should give you a sedative.”

He made an impatient gesture. “These scratches are nothing. It is my failure that pains me. So near and yet so far. Had I been able to hold one of those scoundrels, I should have got the name of his employer soon enough, I warrant you.”

“Is it your feeling that these brutes are perpetrating the butcheries?”

“Good heavens, no! They are wholesome, healthy bruisers beside the depraved creature we seek.” Holmes stirred nervously. “Another, Watson, a bloodthirsty tiger loose in the jungle of London.”

The dread name came into my head. “Professor Moriarty?”

“Moriarty is not involved in this. I have checked his activities, and his whereabouts. He is occupied elsewhere. No, it is not the Professor. I am certain our man is one of four.”

“To which four do you refer?”

Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “What does it matter so long as I am unable to put my hands upon him?”

The physical strain had begun to wear on him. Holmes lay back in the chair and gazed, heavy-lidded, at the ceiling. But the fatigue did not extend to his mental faculties.

“This ‘tiger' you refer to,” said I. “What does it profit him to go about killing luckless prostitutes?”

“The affair is far more tangled than that, Watson. There are several dark threads that twist and turn in this maze.”

“That repulsive simpleton at the hostel,” I muttered.

Holmes's smile was humourless. “I fear, my dear Watson, that you have your finger upon the wrong thread.”

“I cannot believe that Michael Osbourne is in no way involved!”

“Involved, yes. But—”

He did not finish, because at that moment the bell sounded below. Mrs. Hudson was soon opening the door. Holmes said, “I have been expecting a visitor; he is prompt. Pray remain, Watson. My jacket, if you please. I must not look like a street-brawler who has dropped in for medical treatment.”

By the time he had got into the garment and lighted his pipe, Mrs. Hudson was ushering a tall, blond, good-looking chap into our parlour. I estimated him to be in his mid-thirties. He was assuredly a man of good breeding; except for a single startled glance, he made no reference to Holmes's battered appearance.

“Ah,” said Holmes. “Mr. Timothy Wentworth, I believe. You are welcome, sir. Take the seat by the fire. The air is damp and chill this morning. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson.”

Mr. Timothy Wentworth bowed acknowledgement, and took the proffered chair. “Your name is famous, sir,” said he, “as is that of Dr. Watson. I am honoured to make your acquaintance. But I have a busy schedule in Paris, and I tore myself away only because of my regard for a friend, Michael Osbourne. I have been utterly mystified by his unheralded disappearance from Paris. If I can do anything to help Michael, I shall consider the Channel crossing well worth the inconvenience.”

“A most admirable loyalty,” said Holmes. “Perhaps we can enlighten each other, Mr. Wentworth. If you will tell us what you know about Michael's sojourn in Paris, I shall pick up for you the end of his story.”

“Very well. I met Michael some two years ago, when we enrolled together at the Sorbonne. I think I was attracted to him because we were opposites. I am myself somewhat retiring; indeed, my friends consider me shy. On the other hand, Michael was possessed of a fiery spirit, sometimes gay, sometimes bordering upon the violent, when he felt that he had been put upon. He never left the least doubt as to his opinion on any subject; however, by making allowances for each other's short-comings, we got on well together. Michael was very good for me.”

“And you for him, sir, I've no doubt,” said Holmes. “But, tell me. What did you learn of his personal life?”

“We were candid with each other. I quickly learned that he was second son to a British nobleman.”

“Was he embittered by the misfortune of second birth?”

Mr. Timothy Wentworth frowned as he considered his answer. “I should have to say yes, and yet no. Michael had a tendency to break out, one might say, to go wild. His breeding and background forbade such behaviour, and caused a guilt to arise within him. He needed to palliate that guilt, and his position as second son was something against which to revolt, and thus justify his wildness.” Our young guest stopped self-consciously. “I'm putting it badly, I fear.”

“To the contrary,” Holmes assured him, “you express yourself with admirable clarity. And I may assume, may I not, that Michael harboured no bitterness against either his father or his elder brother?”

“I am sure he did not. But I can also understand the contrary opinion of the Duke of Shires. I see the Duke as a man of proud, even haughty, spirit, preoccupied with the honour of his name.”

“You see him exactly as he is. But pray go on.”

“Well, then there came Michael's alliance with that woman.” Timothy Wentworth's distaste was apparent in his tone. “Michael met her in some Pigalle rat's-nest. He told me about her the following day. I thought nothing of it, considering it a mere alliance. But now I see Michael's withdrawal from our friendship as dating from that time. It was slow when measured in hours and days, but swift enough as I look back upon it—from the time he told me of the meeting, to the morning he packed his clothes in our digs, and told me that he had married the woman.”

I interjected a comment. “You must have been shocked, sir.”

“Shocked is hardly the term. I was stunned. When I found words with which to remonstrate, he snarled at me to mind my own affairs, and left.” Here, a deep regret appeared in the young man's honest, blue eyes. “It was the termination of our friendship.”