The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories (75 page)

“Well, Mr. Holmes,” he remarked, “I don't suppose you learned very much from your probings?”

“The body's immersion has naturally robbed me of several suggestive facts, I concede,” replied my friend quietly. “However, I can say with assurance that my researches have not been entirely barren.”

“Then you did find out something about the man?” cried Patterson, making an effort to conceal his surprise.

“Only that he was a bachelor, inclined to be
vain of his personal appearance, did not smoke, and earned a precarious livelihood by playing the 'cello in some fashionable restaurant.” Holmes paused, then added slowly, “And was without any doubt the victim of foul play.”

Patterson started up, visibly shaken by this unexpected statement. “You mean the man was murdered?”

“I do.”

The Scotland Yarder struggled to regain his composure. Naturally stolid and not easily moved, he resented any unexpected revelation which forced him to depart from his usual reserve. A note of irritation was quite noticeable in his voice when he added, “What makes you so certain of this, Mr. Holmes?”

“Those peculiar stains, to begin with,” said my friend, “and the odd behavior of the watch, my dear Patterson.”

“I don't attach much significance to those stains,” said Patterson stubbornly. “If they are important, the medicos will tell us. But what has the watch to do with it?”

“According to the available data,” replied Holmes, “the man died around midnight, presumably from a fall into the Thames. Is it likely that the watch should have continued to run, for two and a half hours, after its immersion?”

The Inspector removed the cigar from his lips, surveyed it thoughtfully for a moment, then slowly nodded his large gray head. “I'm beginning to see what you mean, Mr. Holmes. The man could have been dead at least two hours before his watch stopped running.”

“Exactly.”

“Does it not also give us the exact moment when the body fell into the water?” I put in.

“I should be more inclined to believe that it was hurled into the river!” observed Holmes ominously.

“And we blindly assumed that the difference between the time of death and the time registered by that watch was of no importance!” groaned Patterson, He faced my friend. “Mr. Holmes,” he said, “if our investigations later confirm these deductions I shall swear you are a wizard!”

“And you would be wrong, Patterson. My inferences are based upon a series of facts, each one confirming the next. You are astonished by my conclusions because you are unfamiliar with the line of reasoning which I followed to reach them.”

“I'll grant you that,” said the Inspector. “Tell me. How did you conclude that he was a 'cellist? By his long hair? By the length of his fingers?”

“By no means,” replied Holmes, a frosty smile appearing on his lips for a fleeting moment. “I deduced it from the calluses on the fingers of the left hand—the nails of which, by the way, were cut much shorter than those on the right. I also noticed the frayed shirt-cuff which brushes against the body of the instrument when the player is reaching for the higher positions. I was at first inclined towards a violinist, but subsequent examination of the trouser-legs gave me my most corroborative facts.”

“In what way?” Patterson's steely gray eyes never left the detective's grave features as he put his question.

“The 'cellist,” replied my friend, demonstrating with quick gestures of hands and knees, “holds his instrument between his knees, in this way. Now, at a point just below the knee of the trousers, on the inside of the leg, I noticed a distinct curve worn into the nap of the fabric. Only a violoncello, gentlemen, could make such a mark!”

“Wonderful!” exclaimed the usually imperturbable Patterson. “Incredible!”

“I assure you, Inspector,” said Holmes deprecatingly, “that it is quite superficial.” Yet I could see that Patterson's sincere praise had pleased him. “Furthermore,” he resumed, “upon finding the rosin…”

“So that's what it was!” barked the Inspector, slapping his thigh indignantly. “And I thought it was glue!”

“You saw how easily it crumbled between my fingers. Glue—granting the possibility of its having resisted the action of water and retained its hardness—glue would never have done that. The rosin only confirmed my earlier suppositions. It gave me conclusive proof that the man was a string instrumentalist.”

“Who was employed in a restaurant, you said,” interposed the Inspector. “Why a restaurant? Why couldn't it have been a concert hall? Or a theatre?”

“Because of the floor-wax on the soles of the dead man's boots,” replied the detective after a moment's reflection. “There are no waxed floors in music-halls or theatres.”

“A dance-hall, then?”

“Have you ever seen a 'cellist playing in a dance-hall, Inspector? Reed and percussion instruments, yes; possibly violins, but violoncellos seldom if ever.”

“I don't go to those places, so I wouldn't know,” rumbled Patterson, “but I'll take your word for it, Mr. Holmes.”

“Then start your enquiries for a missing musician among the better class cafes, where dancing is not only permitted but encouraged. These are not so numerous as you may think.”

Patterson finished jotting down in his large notebook before asking my friend how he had deduced that the man was a bachelor.

Sherlock Holmes tapped his pipe against a convenient ash tray. “Did you take note of his stocking?” he asked. “A bachelor is prone to neglect them. But no self-respecting wife would ever permit her musician-husband to appear in public with holes in his footwear, or with buttons missing from shirt and coat. I counted no less than three lacking in both garments.”

“Bachelor he was!” agreed the Inspector, duly noting the fact in his notebook. “And vain, too,” he added, “if that comb, and the hair oil he used are any indication. No need to tell us how you found out he was not a smoking man, Mr. Holmes. There wasn't a trace of tobacco anywhere on him. No pipe, no loose shreds to indicate he was an habitual user of the weed.” He closed his notebook before proceeding. “Now, as I see it—and this is only a tentative theory, mind you—the poor devil was waylaid in some dark street or alley, killed and then thrown into the river after the murderer had removed all identification from his pockets. In the darkness, he overlooked the watch….”

“The victim, meanwhile,” broke in Sherlock Holmes drily, “obligingly taking off his hat and coat to facilitate the murderer's work?”

“Well, I do admit there are some objections…”

“Several, in fact,” interrupted the other, with a shake of the head. “It is far more likely that the man was indoors when he met his end. This would account for the missing outer garments as well as the missing personal papers. As for the watch, I do not think it was overlooked.”

“You think it was left deliberately?”

“I do. The murderer might have thought to establish some sort of alibi in case the crime was laid at his door. However, it is still too early in the case to start theorizing.”

“One more question, Mr. Holmes. What do you think he died of?”

Holmes stopped in the process of refilling his pipe. His shaggy brows corrugated deeply, his thin lips pressed together for a second before replying. “The man died from the effects of an alkaloid, as yet unknown, which was injected into the blood stream. I should like to draw your attention again to those purple blotches, Inspector. They are of the utmost significance.” He rose to his feet as he finished his statement.

“Come, Watson,” he added. “Back to Baker Street for a pipe or two over this matter. There are several fields of conjecture and speculation opened to us, worth at least half an ounce of shag.”

Then turning to the Scotland Yarder he said, “Please keep me informed of further developments, will you, Inspector?”

As we jostled along in a cab through the rain-drenched streets, I refrained from asking my companion the many questions which lay on my tongue. As was his custom, he seldom discussed his cases until he held all his facts well in hand. Musing over the grim scene we had witnessed, I found myself formulating reasons and motives for such a crime. The untouched billfold, the silver watch, clearly indicated that it could not be robbery. Revenge was far more likely, but why so peculiar a means of causing death? Did not the murderer realize that its very strangeness might hold a clue to its solution? Did he actually think
that he could cover up his tracks simply by using a strange and unknown poison? A glance around at my friend changed the trend of my thoughts.

Holmes, plunged deep in his waterproof, pipe clenched between his teeth, his long legs stretched out before him, seemed to be dozing all the way to 221
B
. But I, who knew him better than any other man, knew that he was at work on the problem. Knew that his keen, incisive mind was already balancing alternate theories, fitting the known facts into a clear, concise pattern. We pulled up at last before the door.

“There's a gentleman by the name of Mr. Edward Morrison waiting to see you, Mr. Holmes,” cried the page as he admitted us. “Been waiting an 'alf hour, sir.”

Holmes gave me a swift meaning look. He disliked overlapping cases, and the thought of another at this time nettled him, I could see. We ascended rapidly.

Our visitor rose as we entered. Holmes immediately apologized for having been delayed, and vanished into his room. I removed my waterproof, trying to appraise the thin young man as I attempted to put him at his ease with a polite phrase or two. Light-haired, he appeared to be in his late twenties. The dark suit he wore seemed to accentuate the paleness of his skin. It was not the pallor of ill health, however, but of those who spend a great deal of their time indoors. He had a pleasant smile, yet the creases of worry were apparent around his light blue eyes. I was about to make some trite reference to the weather when Holmes returned, whipping his old robe about his lank and spare frame, his keen eyes studying him as he introduced himself.

“Tell me, Mr. Morrison,” he inquired, after we had taken our seats, “do you not find a wind instrument somewhat wearying to one who is evidently none too robust?”

Holmes seldom overlooked an opportunity to impress his clients with his powers of observation and deduction. He loved to astonish them by a display of his remarkable talents in making swift, analytical studies of their habits, traits or profession. In the present instance, though accustomed to my friend's extraordinary gifts, I confess to sharing Mr. Morrison's astonishment. Our new client could only stare in surprise before asking:

“How on earth did you guess that, Mr. Holmes? No one could have…”

Sherlock Holmes stopped him with a gesture. The quick smile of pleasure which had come to his lips vanished, and a frown creased his high forehead.

“Young man,” he said sternly, “I never guess! It is destructive to the inferential faculties, and abhorrent to the trained analytical reasoner. I base my inferences upon a chain of reasoning drawn from the appearance of things.” He stopped to apply a glowing coal to his pipe before resuming. “The links in my chain were forged, Mr. Morrison, by noticing your underlip and your right thumb. On your lip I observed the layer of protective skin left there by the reed; and when we shook hands I distinctly felt the horny ridge on the top knuckle of your thumb.”

Turning to me he explained further.

“Such markings are indicative of the clarinet player. Pressure on the lip gives us our first clue; and the callus on the thumb is caused by the weight of the instrument which rests upon it.”

His good humour returned as he watched with amused eyes our surprised faces and listened to our ejaculations of praise. He had now made himself quite comfortable in the depths of his favourite easy chair, and was puffing on his brier with contentment and abandon, his legs stretched out towards the blaze.

Musingly he added: “I have of late toyed with the idea of revising my monograph on ‘The Influence of a Trade' to include a paragraph on the indelible marks left by musical instruments upon the hands and fingers of their performers. But of course,” he put in quickly, “that need not be taken up at this time.”

He faced the young man.

“Mr. Morrison, this is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson. You may feel free to discuss your problem before him. In what way can I be of service to you?”

“By discreetly investigating the present whereabouts of a friend of mine,” replied the other, after a slight hesitation, wetting his lips nervously, and exhibiting other signs of discomfort and disquietude.

“Discreetly?” repeated Holmes with a frown.

“There is a woman involved, sir. A married woman.”

“But why come to me?” There was no mistaking the acerbity in my friend's tone, a bluntness which clearly spelled dislike for the kind of inquiry that Morrison's reply had evoked. “At present I am extremely occupied and cannot further burden myself with what may only be an illicit love affair. Why do you not go to the police? They are better equipped to undertake such cases.”

“The police are not discreet, sir.”

Sherlock Holmes stirred angrily in his chair.

“There are many detective agencies in the city who would be only too glad to delve into such unethical affairs. And with a discretion worthy of better things. I should suggest that you see one of them.”

But Edward Morrison, with a display of determination which surprised me, refused to accept Holmes's dismissal. Evidently behind that sensitive exterior lay a core of firmness, a will to be heard.

“You must forgive me, Mr. Holmes,” he said, “for insisting that you take this case. Perhaps I have not stated it very clearly. It is a delicate matter which, if improperly handled, might bring about the very disclosures I dread.” He passed his white, long-fingered hand over his brow, then went on doggedly. “Yet, anxious as I am to avoid a scandal and fearful of committing what may well be an unpardonable breach of loyalty to a friend, I cannot sit idly by without making some effort to discover what has become of him.”