The Adventure of Bruce-Partington Plans (2 page)

"But you have recovered them?"

"No, Sherlock, no! That's the pinch. We have not. Ten papers were
taken from Woolwich. There were seven in the pocket of Cadogan West.
The three most essential are gone—stolen, vanished. You must drop
everything, Sherlock. Never mind your usual petty puzzles of the
police-court. It's a vital international problem that you have to
solve. Why did Cadogan West take the papers, where are the missing
ones, how did he die, how came his body where it was found, how can the
evil be set right? Find an answer to all these questions, and you will
have done good service for your country."

"Why do you not solve it yourself, Mycroft? You can see as far as I."

"Possibly, Sherlock. But it is a question of getting details. Give me
your details, and from an armchair I will return you an excellent
expert opinion. But to run here and run there, to cross-question
railway guards, and lie on my face with a lens to my eye—it is not my
metier. No, you are the one man who can clear the matter up. If you
have a fancy to see your name in the next honours list—"

My friend smiled and shook his head.

"I play the game for the game's own sake," said he. "But the problem
certainly presents some points of interest, and I shall be very pleased
to look into it. Some more facts, please."

"I have jotted down the more essential ones upon this sheet of paper,
together with a few addresses which you will find of service. The
actual official guardian of the papers is the famous government expert,
Sir James Walter, whose decorations and sub-titles fill two lines of a
book of reference. He has grown gray in the service, is a gentleman, a
favoured guest in the most exalted houses, and, above all, a man whose
patriotism is beyond suspicion. He is one of two who have a key of the
safe. I may add that the papers were undoubtedly in the office during
working hours on Monday, and that Sir James left for London about three
o'clock taking his key with him. He was at the house of Admiral
Sinclair at Barclay Square during the whole of the evening when this
incident occurred."

"Has the fact been verified?"

"Yes; his brother, Colonel Valentine Walter, has testified to his
departure from Woolwich, and Admiral Sinclair to his arrival in London;
so Sir James is no longer a direct factor in the problem."

"Who was the other man with a key?"

"The senior clerk and draughtsman, Mr. Sidney Johnson. He is a man of
forty, married, with five children. He is a silent, morose man, but he
has, on the whole, an excellent record in the public service. He is
unpopular with his colleagues, but a hard worker. According to his own
account, corroborated only by the word of his wife, he was at home the
whole of Monday evening after office hours, and his key has never left
the watch-chain upon which it hangs."

"Tell us about Cadogan West."

"He has been ten years in the service and has done good work. He has
the reputation of being hot-headed and imperious, but a straight,
honest man. We have nothing against him. He was next Sidney Johnson
in the office. His duties brought him into daily, personal contact
with the plans. No one else had the handling of them."

"Who locked up the plans that night?"

"Mr. Sidney Johnson, the senior clerk."

"Well, it is surely perfectly clear who took them away. They are
actually found upon the person of this junior clerk, Cadogan West.
That seems final, does it not?"

"It does, Sherlock, and yet it leaves so much unexplained. In the
first place, why did he take them?"

"I presume they were of value?"

"He could have got several thousands for them very easily."

"Can you suggest any possible motive for taking the papers to London
except to sell them?"

"No, I cannot."

"Then we must take that as our working hypothesis. Young West took the
papers. Now this could only be done by having a false key—"

"Several false keys. He had to open the building and the room."

"He had, then, several false keys. He took the papers to London to
sell the secret, intending, no doubt, to have the plans themselves back
in the safe next morning before they were missed. While in London on
this treasonable mission he met his end."

"How?"

"We will suppose that he was travelling back to Woolwich when he was
killed and thrown out of the compartment."

"Aldgate, where the body was found, is considerably past the station
London Bridge, which would be his route to Woolwich."

"Many circumstances could be imagined under which he would pass London
Bridge. There was someone in the carriage, for example, with whom he
was having an absorbing interview. This interview led to a violent
scene in which he lost his life. Possibly he tried to leave the
carriage, fell out on the line, and so met his end. The other closed
the door. There was a thick fog, and nothing could be seen."

"No better explanation can be given with our present knowledge; and yet
consider, Sherlock, how much you leave untouched. We will suppose, for
argument's sake, that young Cadogan West HAD determined to convey these
papers to London. He would naturally have made an appointment with the
foreign agent and kept his evening clear. Instead of that he took two
tickets for the theatre, escorted his fiancee halfway there, and then
suddenly disappeared."

"A blind," said Lestrade, who had sat listening with some impatience to
the conversation.

"A very singular one. That is objection No. 1. Objection No. 2: We
will suppose that he reaches London and sees the foreign agent. He
must bring back the papers before morning or the loss will be
discovered. He took away ten. Only seven were in his pocket. What
had become of the other three? He certainly would not leave them of
his own free will. Then, again, where is the price of his treason?
Once would have expected to find a large sum of money in his pocket."

"It seems to me perfectly clear," said Lestrade. "I have no doubt at
all as to what occurred. He took the papers to sell them. He saw the
agent. They could not agree as to price. He started home again, but
the agent went with him. In the train the agent murdered him, took the
more essential papers, and threw his body from the carriage. That
would account for everything, would it not?"

"Why had he no ticket?"

"The ticket would have shown which station was nearest the agent's
house. Therefore he took it from the murdered man's pocket."

"Good, Lestrade, very good," said Holmes. "Your theory holds together.
But if this is true, then the case is at an end. On the one hand, the
traitor is dead. On the other, the plans of the Bruce-Partington
submarine are presumably already on the Continent. What is there for
us to do?"

"To act, Sherlock—to act!" cried Mycroft, springing to his feet. "All
my instincts are against this explanation. Use your powers! Go to the
scene of the crime! See the people concerned! Leave no stone
unturned! In all your career you have never had so great a chance of
serving your country."

"Well, well!" said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. "Come, Watson!
And you, Lestrade, could you favour us with your company for an hour or
two? We will begin our investigation by a visit to Aldgate Station.
Good-bye, Mycroft. I shall let you have a report before evening, but I
warn you in advance that you have little to expect."

An hour later Holmes, Lestrade and I stood upon the Underground
railroad at the point where it emerges from the tunnel immediately
before Aldgate Station. A courteous red-faced old gentleman
represented the railway company.

"This is where the young man's body lay," said he, indicating a spot
about three feet from the metals. "It could not have fallen from
above, for these, as you see, are all blank walls. Therefore, it could
only have come from a train, and that train, so far as we can trace it,
must have passed about midnight on Monday."

"Have the carriages been examined for any sign of violence?"

"There are no such signs, and no ticket has been found."

"No record of a door being found open?"

"None."

"We have had some fresh evidence this morning," said Lestrade. "A
passenger who passed Aldgate in an ordinary Metropolitan train about
11:40 on Monday night declares that he heard a heavy thud, as of a body
striking the line, just before the train reached the station. There
was dense fog, however, and nothing could be seen. He made no report
of it at the time. Why, whatever is the matter with Mr. Holmes?"

My friend was standing with an expression of strained intensity upon
his face, staring at the railway metals where they curved out of the
tunnel. Aldgate is a junction, and there was a network of points. On
these his eager, questioning eyes were fixed, and I saw on his keen,
alert face that tightening of the lips, that quiver of the nostrils,
and concentration of the heavy, tufted brows which I knew so well.

"Points," he muttered; "the points."

"What of it? What do you mean?"

"I suppose there are no great number of points on a system such as
this?"

"No; they are very few."

"And a curve, too. Points, and a curve. By Jove! if it were only so."

"What is it, Mr. Holmes? Have you a clue?"

"An idea—an indication, no more. But the case certainly grows in
interest. Unique, perfectly unique, and yet why not? I do not see any
indications of bleeding on the line."

"There were hardly any."

"But I understand that there was a considerable wound."

"The bone was crushed, but there was no great external injury."

"And yet one would have expected some bleeding. Would it be possible
for me to inspect the train which contained the passenger who heard the
thud of a fall in the fog?"

"I fear not, Mr. Holmes. The train has been broken up before now, and
the carriages redistributed."

"I can assure you, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade, "that every carriage has
been carefully examined. I saw to it myself."

It was one of my friend's most obvious weaknesses that he was impatient
with less alert intelligences than his own.

"Very likely," said he, turning away. "As it happens, it was not the
carriages which I desired to examine. Watson, we have done all we can
here. We need not trouble you any further, Mr. Lestrade. I think our
investigations must now carry us to Woolwich."

At London Bridge, Holmes wrote a telegram to his brother, which he
handed to me before dispatching it. It ran thus:

See some light in the darkness, but it may possibly flicker out.
Meanwhile, please send by messenger, to await return at Baker Street, a
complete list of all foreign spies or international agents known to be
in England, with full address.

Sherlock.

"That should be helpful, Watson," he remarked as we took our seats in
the Woolwich train. "We certainly owe Brother Mycroft a debt for
having introduced us to what promises to be a really very remarkable
case."

His eager face still wore that expression of intense and high-strung
energy, which showed me that some novel and suggestive circumstance had
opened up a stimulating line of thought. See the foxhound with hanging
ears and drooping tail as it lolls about the kennels, and compare it
with the same hound as, with gleaming eyes and straining muscles, it
runs upon a breast-high scent—such was the change in Holmes since the
morning. He was a different man from the limp and lounging figure in
the mouse-coloured dressing-gown who had prowled so restlessly only a
few hours before round the fog-girt room.

"There is material here. There is scope," said he. "I am dull indeed
not to have understood its possibilities."

"Even now they are dark to me."

"The end is dark to me also, but I have hold of one idea which may lead
us far. The man met his death elsewhere, and his body was on the ROOF
of a carriage."

"On the roof!"

"Remarkable, is it not? But consider the facts. Is it a coincidence
that it is found at the very point where the train pitches and sways as
it comes round on the points? Is not that the place where an object
upon the roof might be expected to fall off? The points would affect
no object inside the train. Either the body fell from the roof, or a
very curious coincidence has occurred. But now consider the question
of the blood. Of course, there was no bleeding on the line if the body
had bled elsewhere. Each fact is suggestive in itself. Together they
have a cumulative force."

"And the ticket, too!" I cried.

"Exactly. We could not explain the absence of a ticket. This would
explain it. Everything fits together."

"But suppose it were so, we are still as far as ever from unravelling
the mystery of his death. Indeed, it becomes not simpler but stranger."

"Perhaps," said Holmes, thoughtfully, "perhaps." He relapsed into a
silent reverie, which lasted until the slow train drew up at last in
Woolwich Station. There he called a cab and drew Mycroft's paper from
his pocket.

"We have quite a little round of afternoon calls to make," said he. "I
think that Sir James Walter claims our first attention."

The house of the famous official was a fine villa with green lawns
stretching down to the Thames. As we reached it the fog was lifting,
and a thin, watery sunshine was breaking through. A butler answered
our ring.

"Sir James, sir!" said he with solemn face. "Sir James died this
morning."

"Good heavens!" cried Holmes in amazement. "How did he die?"

"Perhaps you would care to step in, sir, and see his brother, Colonel
Valentine?"

"Yes, we had best do so."

We were ushered into a dim-lit drawing-room, where an instant later we
were joined by a very tall, handsome, light-beared man of fifty, the
younger brother of the dead scientist. His wild eyes, stained cheeks,
and unkempt hair all spoke of the sudden blow which had fallen upon the
household. He was hardly articulate as he spoke of it.