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 finger tips 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 acknowledge 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
endeavored, 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 gray 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's 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 labor, 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 labor? 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 and compass 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 which you have tattooed immediately above your 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 ignotom 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, Pa., U. S. A., there is now another
vacancy open which entitles a member of the League to a salary of
four pounds 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 Saxe-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 redheaded 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 color 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 color. From all I hear
it is splendid pay, and very little to do.'
"'But,' said I, 'there would be millions of red-headed 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 of 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 color they were—straw,
lemon, orange, brick, Irish setter, liver, clay; but, as Spaulding
said, there were not many who had the real vivid flame-colored
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 favorable 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 favor 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 shall 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 evenings, 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 four pounds 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-by, 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 bed time 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 quill pen 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 Armor, and Architecture, and Attica, and hoped
with diligence that I might get on to the Bs 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 onto 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.
Oct. 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 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 knee-caps, 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
thirty pounds, 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 endeavor 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 gypsy 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
hawklike 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 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 traveled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short
walk took us to Saxe-Coburg 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 inclosure, 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 bright-looking, 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 Red-headed 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 Saxe-Coburg 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 convey 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 realize, 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 Saxe-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 to-
night."
"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 neighbors, 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
recognized 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 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 thirty thousand pounds; 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 gaslit
streets until we emerged into Farringdon 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 imperiled 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, thirty thousand 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 two thousand 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 yourself 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 inbreath 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 center 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's 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 red-headed 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 color of his accomplice's hair.
The four pounds 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 clew. 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 that 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 Georges Sands."