That cunning dog has covered his tracks, he said

That cunning dog has covered his tracks, he said

He has left nothing to incriminate himself. His dangerous correspondence has been destroyed or carried away. This is our last chance.”

It was a small tin safe on the desk. Holmes broke it open with his chisel. There were several rolls of paper written on it, full of figures and calculations, without any reference to what they belonged to. The recurring words “water pressure” and “pressure per square inch” referred, perhaps, to something underwater. Holmes threw them all aside impatiently. All that remained was a wrapper containing some small newspaper clippings. He shook them out on the desk, and suddenly I saw in his eager face that he had a spark of hope.

“What is this, Watson? Huh? What is this? A list of notices in the advertisements of a newspaper. A column of miscellaneous notices of the Daily Telegraph, according to the edition and paper. No date — but the information arranges itself. This must be the first:

I hoped to hear from you sooner. Terms agreed to. Write in full at the address given on the card. — Pierrot.’

»Then follows: ‘Too confusing to describe. Must get a complete account. The goods await you as soon as the objects are delivered. — Pierrot.’

“Then comes: ‘The matter is urgent. The offer must be withdrawn unless the contract is fulfilled in full. Make a written agreement. I will confirm by notification. — Pierrot.’

»Finally, Monday evening after nine o’clock. Two knocks. Only us. Don’t be so suspicious.s — Pierrot.’

“A perfect proof indeed, Watson. If only we could get hold of the man at the other end!” He sat lost in thought, tapping his fingers on the table. At last, he sprang to his feet.

“Well, perhaps it is not so difficult after all. There is nothing more to do here, Watson. I think we can drive to the Daily Telegraph office and finish a good day’s work.”

Mycroft Holmes and Lestrade had come to us at the appointed time after breakfast the next day, and Sherlock Holmes had told them of the previous day’s proceedings. The professional policeman shook his head when we confessed to the burglary.

“We cannot do these things in the police department, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “No wonder you achieve greater results than we do. But these days you will go too far and find yourself and your friends in trouble.”

“For England, for home, and beauty — eh, Watson? Martyrs on the altar of the fatherland. But what do you think of that, Mycroft?”

“Excellent, Sherlock! Admirable! But how are you going to proceed?”

Holmes picked up the Daily Telegraph, which was on the table.

“Have you seen Pierrot’s announcement today?”

“What? New?”

“Yes, here it is: ‘Tonight. Same time. Same place. Two knocks. Extremely important. Your safety is at risk. — Pierrot.”

“By Yrjänä!” Letsrade exclaimed. “If he answers that, we’ve caught him!”

“That’s what I thought when I put in the notice. I think if you two could arrange to come to Caulfield Gardens around eight o’clock, we might get a little closer to a solution.”

One of Sherlock Holmes’s most striking qualities was his ability to stop his brain from working and divert his thoughts to lighter matters, just when he had become convinced that he could no longer work to make progress. I remember that he was absorbed in writing about Lassus’ polyphonic motets for the whole of that memorable day.

I, for my part, had no such power of detachment, and the day seemed interminably long. The great national importance of the task, the excitement in high circles, the whole nature of the experiment we were undertaking — all combined to affect my nerves. It felt liberating when, at last, after a light dinner, we set out on our excursion. Lestrade and Mycroft met us at Gloucester Road station, as arranged. The door leading into the courtyard of Oberstein’s house had been left open the night before, and I was obliged, when Mycroft Holmes, with a decided and indignant refusal to climb over the fence, went in and opened the door of the front room. At nine o’clock, we were all sitting in the study, waiting patiently for our husbands.

An hour passed, and another. When the clock struck eleven, the precise toll of the great church bell seemed to ring out the funeral dirge of our hopes. Lestrade and Mycroft shifted in their seats, glancing at their clocks twice a minute. Holmes sat still and calm, his eyelids half closed, but every sense sensitive. He raised his head with a sudden jerk.

“He is coming,” he said.

There had been a creaking sound behind the door. Now they returned. We heard a fumbling sound outside, and then two sharp taps on the doorknob. Holmes rose, motioning us to remain seated. The gas in the hall was but a small point of light. He opened the outer door, and then, as the dark creature crept past him, he closed and locked it. “This way,” we heard him say, and a moment later our man stood before us. Holmes had followed close behind him, and as the man turned with a cry of astonishment and fright, Holmes seized him by the collar and hurled him back into the room. Before our prisoner had regained his balance, the door was closed, and Holmes was standing with his back to it. The man stared around, stumbled, and fell unconscious on the floor. In the impact, his wide-brimmed hat flew off his head, his scarf flew off his lips, revealing Colonel Valentine Walter’s long, blond beard and soft, delicate features.

Holmes whistled in surprise.

“This time you may write me as a donkey, Watson,” said he. “This was not the bird I was looking for.”

“Who is he?” Mycroft asked eagerly.

“Younger brother of Mr. James Walter, head of the underwater service. Yes, yes, I see what the cards are like. He is recovering. I think it is best if you leave this investigation to me.”

We had carried the body lying on the ground to the sofa. Now our prisoner sat up, looked around him with a horrified expression, and wiped his forehead with his hand, like a person who cannot believe his senses.

“What is this?” he asked. “I came here to greet Mr. Oberstein.”

“Everything is known, Colonel Walter,” said Holmes. “How an English gentleman can behave in such a way is beyond me. But your correspondence with Oberstein and your relations with him are all known to us. So are the circumstances surrounding the death of young Cadogan West. Allow me to advise you to gain for yourselves at least that little confidence which repentance and confession can engender, for there are still a few details which we can only learn from your lips.”

The man groaned and buried his face in his hands. We waited, but he remained silent.

“I can assure you,” said Holmes, “that the most important facts are already known. We know that you were short of money; that you made a copy of the keys in your brother’s possession; and that you entered into correspondence with Oberstein, who answered your letters in the classified column of the Daily Telegraph. We know that you went to the office in the fog on Monday evening, but that young Cadogan West saw you and followed you, Cadogan West, who probably had some reason to suspect you already. He saw your theft, but could not raise the alarm, because you might have taken the papers to London for your brother. Leaving all his private affairs, like the good citizen that he was, he followed you closely in the fog and kept you on your heels until you arrived at this very house. “Then he got involved, and then you, Colonel Walter, added to the fraud a more heinous crime, namely murder.”

“I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it! I swear before God I didn’t do it!” cried our poor prisoner.

“So tell us how Cadogan West lost his life before you placed him on the roof of the train car.”

“I want to tell you. I swear I will tell you. I did everything else. I confess it. It happened just as you say. The stock exchange — a debt had to be paid. I needed the money badly. Oberstein offered me five thousand. It was to save myself from ruin. But I am as innocent of murder as you are.”

“Then what happened?”