Complete Sherlock Holmes, Volume II (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (106 page)

“Because the faculties become refined when you starve them. Why, surely, as a doctor, my dear Watson, you must admit that what your digestion gains in the way of blood supply is so much lost to the brain. I am a brain, Watson. The rest of me is a mere appendix. Therefore, it is the brain I must consider.”

“But this danger, Holmes?”

“Ah, yes, in case it should come off, it would perhaps be as well that you should burden your memory with the name and address of the murderer. You can give it to Scotland Yard, with my love and a parting blessing. Sylvius is the name—Count Negretto Sylvius.
¹⁸
Write it down, man, write it down! 136 Moorside Gardens, N.W. Got it?”

Watson’s honest face was twitching with anxiety. He knew only too well the immense risks taken by Holmes and was well aware that what he said was more likely to be under-statement than exaggeration. Watson was always the man of action, and he rose to the occasion.

“Count me in, Holmes. I have nothing to do for a day or two.”

“Your morals don’t improve, Watson. You have added fibbing to your other vices. You bear every sign of the busy medical man, with calls on him every hour.”

“Not such important ones. But can’t you have this fellow arrested?”

“Yes, Watson, I could. That’s what worries him so.”

“But why don’t you?”

“Because I don’t know where the diamond is.”

“Ah! Billy told me—the missing Crown jewel!”

“Yes, the great yellow Mazarin stone.
^dz
I’ve cast my net and I have my fish. But I have not got the stone. What is the use of taking them? We can make the world a better place by laying them by the heels. But that is not what I am out for. It’s the stone I want.”

“And is this Count Sylvius one of your fish?”

“Yes, and he’s a shark. He bites. The other is Sam Merton, the boxer. Not a bad fellow, Sam, but the Count has used him. Sam’s not a shark. He is a great big silly bull-headed gudgeon. But he is flopping about in my net all the same.”

“Where is this Count Sylvius?”

“I’ve been at his very elbow all the morning. You’ve seen me as an old lady, Watson. I was never more convincing. He actually picked up my parasol for me once. ‘By your leave, madame,’ said he—half-Italian, you know, and with the Southern graces of manner when in the mood, but a devil incarnate in the other mood. Life is full of whimsical happenings, Watson.”

“It might have been tragedy.”

“Well, perhaps it might. I followed him to old Straubenzee’s workshop in the Minories. Straubenzee made the air-gun—a very pretty bit of work, as I understand, and I rather fancy it is in the opposite window at the present moment. Have you seen the dummy? Of course, Billy showed it to you. Well, it may get a bullet through its beautiful head at any moment. Ah, Billy, what is it?“

The boy had reappeared in the room with a card upon a tray. Holmes glanced at it with raised eyebrows and an amused smile.

“The man himself. I had hardly expected this. Grasp the nettle, Watson! A man of nerve. Possibly you have heard of his reputation as a shooter of big game. It would indeed be a triumphant ending to his excellent sporting record if he added me to his bag. This is a proof that he feels my toe very close behind his heel.”

“Send for the police.”

“I probably shall. But not just yet. Would you glance carefully out of the window, Watson, and see if anyone is hanging about in the street?”

Watson looked warily round the edge of the curtain.

“Yes, there is one rough fellow near the door.”

“That will be Sam Merton—the faithful but rather fatuous Sam. Where is this gentleman, Billy?”

“In the waiting-room, sir.”
^ea

“Show him up when I ring.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If I am not in the room, show him in all the same.”

“Yes, sir.”

Watson waited until the door was closed, and then he turned earnestly to his companion.

“Look here, Holmes, this is simply impossible. This is a desperate man, who sticks at nothing. He may have come to murder you.”

“I should not be surprised.”

“I insist upon staying with you.”

“You would be horribly in the way.”

“In his way?”

“No, my dear fellow—in my way.”

“Well, I can’t possibly leave you.”

“Yes, you can, Watson. And you will, for you have never failed to play the game. I am sure you will play it to the end. This man has come for his own purpose, but he may stay for mine.” Holmes took out his notebook and scribbled a few lines. “Take a cab to Scotland Yard and give this to Youghal of the C. I. D. Come back with the police. The fellow’s arrest will follow.”

“I’ll do that with joy.”

“Before you return I may have just time enough to find out where the stone is.” He touched the bell. “I think we will go out through the bedroom. This second exit is exceedingly useful. I rather want to see my shark without his seeing me, and I have, as you will remember, my own way of doing it.“

It was, therefore, an empty room into which Billy, a minute later, ushered Count Sylvius. The famous game-shot, sportsman, and man-about-town was a big, swarthy fellow, with a formidable dark moustache shading a cruel, thin-lipped mouth, and surmounted by a long, curved nose like the beak of an eagle. He was well dressed, but his brilliant necktie, shining pin, and glittering rings were flamboyant in their effect. As the door closed behind him he looked round him with fierce, startled eyes, like one who suspects a trap at every turn. Then he gave a violent start as he saw the impassive head and the collar of the dressing-gown which projected above the armchair in the window. At first his expression was one of pure amazement. Then the light of a horrible hope gleamed in his dark, murderous eyes. He took one more glance round to see that there were no witnesses, and then, on tiptoe, his thick stick half raised, he approached the silent figure. He was crouching for his final spring and blow when a cool, sardonic voice greeted him from the open bedroom door:

“Don’t break it, Count! Don’t break it!”

The assassin staggered back, amazement in his convulsed face. For an instant he half raised his loaded cane once more, as if he would turn his violence from the effigy to the original; but there was something in that steady gray eye and mocking smile which caused his hand to sink to his side.

“It’s a pretty little thing,” said Holmes, advancing towards the image. “Tavernier, the French modeller, made it. He is as good at waxworks as your friend Straubenzee is at air-guns.”

“Air-guns, sir! What do you mean?”

“Put your hat and stick on the side-table. Thank you! Pray take a seat. Would you care to put your revolver out also? Oh, very good, if you prefer to sit upon it. Your visit is really most opportune, for I wanted badly to have a few minutes’ chat with you.”

The Count scowled, with heavy, threatening eyebrows.

“I, too, wished to have some words with you, Holmes. That is why I am here. I won’t deny that I intended to assault you just now.”

Holmes swung his leg on the edge of the table.

“I rather gathered that you had some idea of the sort in your head,” said he. “But why these personal attentions?”

“Because you have gone out of your way to annoy me. Because you have put your creatures upon my track.”

“My creatures! I assure you no!”

“Nonsense! I have had them followed. Two can play at that game, Holmes.”

“It is a small point, Count Sylvius, but perhaps you would kindly give me my prefix when you address me. You can understand that, with my routine of work, I should find myself on familiar terms with half the rogues’ gallery, and you will agree that exceptions are invidious.”

“Well,
Mr.
Holmes, then.”

“Excellent! But I assure you you are mistaken about my alleged agents.”

Count Sylvius laughed contemptuously.

“Other people can observe as well as you. Yesterday there was an old sporting man. To-day it was an elderly woman. They held me in view all day.”

“Really, sir, you compliment me. Old Baron Dowson said the night before he was hanged that in my case what the law had gained the stage had lost. And now you give my little impersonations your kindly praise?”

“It was you—you yourself?”

Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “You can see in the corner the parasol which you so politely handed to me in the Minories before you began to suspect.”

“If I had known, you might never—”

“Have seen this humble home again. I was well aware of it. We all have neglected opportunities to deplore. As it happens, you did not know, so here we are!”

The Count’s knotted brows gathered more heavily over his menacing eyes. “What you say only makes the matter worse. It was not your agents but your play-acting, busybody self! You admit that you have dogged me. Why?”

“Come now, Count. You used to shoot lions in Algeria.”

“Well?”

“But why?”

“Why? The sport—the excitement—the danger!”

“And, no doubt, to free the country from a pest?”

“Exactly!”

“My reasons in a nutshell!”

The Count sprang to his feet, and his hand involuntarily moved back to his hip-pocket.

“Sit down, sir, sit down! There was another, more practical, reason. I want that yellow diamond!”

Count Sylvius lay back in his chair with an evil smile.

“Upon my word!” said he.

“You knew that I was after you for that. The real reason why you are here to-night is to find out how much I know about the matter and how far my removal is absolutely essential. Well, I should say that, from your point of view, it is absolutely essential, for I know all about it, save only one thing, which you are about to tell me.”

“Oh, indeed! And pray, what is this missing fact?”

“Where the Crown diamond now is.”

The Count looked sharply at his companion. “Oh, you want to know that, do you? How the devil should I be able to tell you where it is?”

“You can, and you will.”

“Indeed!”

“You can’t bluff me, Count Sylvius.” Holmes’s eyes, as he gazed at him, contracted and lightened until they were like two menacing points of steel. “You are absolute plate-glass. I see to the very back of your mind.”

“Then, of course, you see where the diamond is!”

Holmes clapped his hands with amusement, and then pointed a derisive finger. “Then you do know. You have admitted it!”

“I admit nothing.”

“Now, Count, if you will be reasonable we can do business. If not, you will get hurt.”

Count Sylvius threw up his eyes to the ceiling. “And you talk about bluff!” said he.

Holmes looked at him thoughtfully like a master chess-player who meditates his crowning move. Then he threw open the table drawer and drew out a squat notebook.

“Do you know what I keep in this book?”

“No, sir, I do not!”

“You!”

“Me!”

“Yes, sir,
you!
You are all here—every action of your vile and dangerous life.”

“Damn you, Holmes!” cried the Count with blazing eyes. “There are limits to my patience!”

“It’s all here, Count. The real facts as to the death of old Mrs. Harold, who left you the Blymer estate, which you so rapidly gambled away.”

“You are dreaming!”

“And the complete life history of Miss Minnie Warrender.”

“Tut! You will make nothing of that!”

“Plenty more here, Count. Here is the robbery in the train de-luxe to the Riviera on February 13, 1892. Here is the forged check in the same year on the Credit Lyonnais.”

“No; you’re wrong there.”

“Then I am right on the others! Now, Count, you are a card-player. When the other fellow has all the trumps, it saves time to throw down your hand.”

“What has all this talk to do with the jewel of which you spoke?”

“Gently, Count. Restrain that eager mind! Let me get to the points in my own humdrum fashion. I have all this against you; but, above all, I have a clear case against both you and your fighting bully in the case of the Crown diamond.”

“Indeed!”

“I have the cabman who took you to Whitehall and the cabman who brought you away. I have the commissionaire who saw you near the case. I have Ikey Sanders, who refused to cut it up for you. Ikey has peached,
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and the game is up.”

The veins stood out on the Count’s forehead. His dark, hairy hands were clenched in a convulsion of restrained emotion. He tried to speak, but the words would not shape themselves.

“That’s the hand I play from,” said Holmes. “I put it all upon the table. But one card is missing. It’s the king of diamonds. I don’t know where the stone is.”

“You never shall know.”

“No? Now, be reasonable, Count. Consider the situation. You are going to be locked up for twenty years. So is Sam Merton. What good are you going to get out of your diamond? None in the world. But if you hand it over—well, I’ll compound a felony. We don’t want you or Sam. We want the stone. Give that up, and so far as I am concerned you can go free so long as you behave yourself in the future. If you make another slip—well, it will be the last. But this time my commission is to get the stone, not you.”

“But if I refuse?”

“Why, then—alas!—it must be you and not the stone.”

Billy had appeared in answer to a ring.

“I think, Count, that it would be as well to have your friend Sam at this conference. After all, his interests should be represented. Billy, you will see a large and ugly gentleman outside the front door. Ask him to come up.”

“If he won’t come, sir?”

“No violence, Billy. Don’t be rough with him. If you tell him that Count Sylvius wants him he will certainly come.”

“What are you going to do now?” asked the Count as Billy disappeared.