The Veiled Detective (18 page)

“‘There is no murder,’ I replied. ‘Who talks of murdering a diseased dog? What mercy had you upon my poor darling, when you dragged her from her slaughtered father and bore her away to your accursed and shameless harem?’

“‘It was not I who killed her father. It was Stangerson. He’s the one you want,’ he cried.

“‘But it was you who broke her innocent heart,’ I roared, thrusting the box of pills before him. ‘Let the high God judge between us. Choose and eat. There is death in one and life in the other. I shall take what you leave. Let us see if there is justice upon earth, or if we are indeed ruled by cruel chance.’

“He cowered away with wild cries and prayers for mercy, but I drew my knife and held it to his throat until he obeyed me. With trembling fingers he took one of the pills and swallowed it. I took the other and then we waited, facing each other in the dim light, to discover which one of us was to live and which one was to die. I shall never forget the look that came over his face when the first warning pangs told him that the poison was in his system. I smiled when I saw it. No, gentlemen, I
grinned
; grinned from ear to ear, and my heart sang. I held Lucy’s wedding-ring before his eyes. But the action of the alkaloid is rapid. A spasm of pain contorted his features; he threw his hands out in front of him, staggered, his body rippling with fear, and then, with a hoarse cry, he fell heavily on the floor. I turned him over with my foot and placed my hand upon his heart. There was no movement. He was dead!

“The blood had been streaming down my nose, but I had taken no notice of it. I don’t know what put it into my head to write upon the
wall with it. Perhaps it was some mischievous idea of setting the police upon the wrong track, for I felt light-hearted and cheerful. And I needed to buy myself sufficient time to deal with Stangerson. I remembered a German being found dead in a hotel bedroom in New York, with the word RACHE scrawled on the wall. The police reckoned it was the work of some secret society, and the murderer was never caught. I reckoned what puzzled the New York cops would puzzle the London crew as well, so I dipped my finger in my own blood and scratched out the word. Then I left. It was still a wild night, but I didn’t mind the wind and the rain; I was content. That was until I had driven some distance and I put my hand in my pocket and discovered that Lucy’s ring was missing.

“I was thunderstruck. You must realise that the ring was the only memento that I had of her. Thinking that I had dropped it when I stooped over Drebber’s body, I drove back and, leaving my cab in a side street, I went boldly up towards the house — for I was ready to dare anything rather than lose that ring. As Fate would have it, when I arrived there, I walked right into the arms of a police officer who was coming out, and only managed to disarm his suspicions by pretending to be hopelessly drunk.”

“And then you saw the advertisement in this evening’s paper,” said Holmes.

Hope nodded. “As I said, I was ready to dare anything to retrieve that ring, but I have to admit I never suspected a trap. The whole thing seemed innocent.”

“As I intended it to be.”

Suddenly Hope frowned as though some unpleasant thought had flashed across his mind. “I hope it is not in your mind to detain me now, gentlemen. Not when half my task has yet to be completed.”

“At Halliday’s Hotel?”

Hope nodded. “Not murder, you see. Merely justice — but I have to carry it out myself.”

“I am afraid I cannot allow that to happen,” said Holmes softly. “However much I may sympathise with your—”

That was as far as Holmes got before Hope leapt from his chair, his face ablaze with frustrated anger, and snatched the large metal poker from the hearth. With a snarl, he brought it down on Holmes’ wrist in an attempt at disarming him. Holmes gave a yelp of pain, but retained his grip on the revolver.

“Drop that poker, or I shoot,” I cried, aiming my pistol at Hope. He ignored my demand, and struck at Holmes again. This time my companion managed to dodge sideways in an effort to avoid the blow, but nevertheless the poker caught his arm, knocking it upwards. Holmes’ gun went off, the sound reverberating loudly in our sitting-room. Hope froze for a moment, his eyes glazing with shock, and then slowly he crumpled to the floor. I rushed to his side, but it did not take any of my medical skills to tell me that the man was dead.

“I didn’t mean to fire,” said Holmes breathlessly, as he knelt by my side, gazing at Hope’s immobile face. “The blow caused me to pull the trigger.”

“The bullet didn’t kill him,” I said. “See, it grazed his shoulder. I believe he died of a heart attack. From his complexion, I should say that such an event was merely a matter of time. The nosebleed was a warning.”

“The bullet may not have killed him, but I did, whichever way you look at it,” averred Holmes solemnly.

As I was about to respond, there came an urgent rapping at our door and I heard the raised voice of our landlady, Mrs Hudson.

“Mr Holmes? Doctor Watson? What is going on? Are you all right?”

Holmes grimaced. “Get rid of her, Watson. Say a firearm went off accidentally.”

I nodded and, stepping to the door, I opened it sufficiently to be seen, whilst at the same time blocking Mrs Hudson’s view of the room and of the dead body. With apologies for the disturbance, I explained away the gunshot as Holmes had directed. It was, I think, with some reluctance that she accepted my story, but at length she bade me goodnight and left.

When I returned to Holmes, he was extracting two small tins from Hope’s waistcoat. Slipping off the lids, he revealed the contents: two small white pills in each box.

“One is innocent, and one spells doom,” he said softly, closing the boxes and slipping them into his own waistcoat pocket.

“What now?” I asked.

“Well, we must inform Lestrade and Gregson that we have their murderer — or, at least, the dead body of their murderer. But I do not want to do that just yet.”

“Why wait?” I asked.

“Because,” he said, stepping to the coatrack and pulling on his overcoat, “I have an important errand to carry out first.”

“Errand?” I asked, completely puzzled.

“Yes. At Halliday’s Private Hotel.”

A
single gas mantle burned low in Stangerson’s room at Halliday’s Hotel. The man himself lay face downwards on the bed, in an alcohol-induced slumber. On his bedside table there was a bottle of bourbon containing less than a third of its contents. He had taken to drinking in the mid-afternoon when he finally accepted that Drebber was not coming back. Something must have happened to him. Something dreadful. It was what he had feared all these years. Without his overbearing companion to dictate and organise, Stangerson was like a rudderless boat. He feared leaving the womb-like safety of the hotel room in case whatever terrible fate had overtaken Drebber might befall him also. And so he escaped into the fragile safety of alcohol.

He stirred in reaction to the shifting pattern of the gaslight, caused by the cool draught of air from the opening door. However, he did not hear anyone enter, or perceive the dark shape moving towards the bed, and only became aware that he was no longer alone in the room when the gas mantle was turned up full. The shabby chamber was suddenly thrown into bright relief.

Shaking his head to dislodge the bourbon woolliness from his brain, he pulled himself up into a sitting position and found himself facing a tall, thin man, whose features were veiled in shadow.

“Hope?” he croaked, but as soon as the word had left his mouth, he knew that this stranger was not Jefferson Hope. He was too tall, too slender, and from what he could see of him, he appeared more youthful.

The stranger affirmed this impression. “No, I am not Jefferson Hope, merely his emissary.”

“Who are you?”

The stranger sat on the bed, his face now within the rim of light cast by the mantle. Stangerson observed gaunt, cadaverous features and bright piercing eyes peering from either side of a thin, hawk-like nose. The thin lips slid into a casual, mirthless smile.

“I am Sherlock Holmes.”

“I don’t know you...”

“No. But I know you, Joseph Stangerson. Or, to be more precise — and precision is a passion with me — I know all about you and the part you played in the death of Lucy Ferrier and her father.”

What colour there was left in Stangerson’s face drained away, and his mouth opened in a guttural gasp. Holmes could see that the man was too terrified to deny the accusation.

“I... I’ve got money,” Stangerson said at length, his voice trembling with fear.

“I am not interested in your money, Stangerson. What brings me here is justice. Mr Jefferson Hope, whom you wronged all those years ago, died tonight before he had a chance to administer the kind of justice you deserve. And so I have taken it upon myself to carry out his wishes.”

Stangerson’s eyes widened in terror and his hand flew to his mouth to stifle another groan. “You mean to kill me. To murder me!”

Holmes shook his head. “I do not intend to kill you. We shall let Fate
decide.” He withdrew a pill-box from his waistcoat pocket. “You shall have your chance, just as your confederate had his chance.”

“Drebber? Where is he now?”

“On a slab in the police mortuary.”

“No!” Stangerson attempted to move, but Holmes pressed him back against the bedhead with one firm hand. “You must stay and play the game. There is no escape.” He held the opened pill-box before Stangerson’s face. “One of these pills is poison; the other is harmless. The choice is yours.”

“I can’t... It isn’t right.”

“
It isn’t right?
” Holmes’ voice was like a guillotine, and his features darkened with anger. ‘What do you know of right, you who shot a defenceless old man in the back? What claims can a cold-blooded murderer have to right? Take one of these pills — for, if you refuse, I swear I will kill you myself with my bare hands.”

Stangerson was mesmerised by the fury of this stranger whose eyes flamed with a wild, righteous madness.

“Take one,” came the injunction again.

Stangerson’s trembling fingers hovered over the box, not daring to pick one pill in case it was the fatal one.

“
Take one!
”

Gingerly, he lifted one of the pills from the box.

“Now swallow it.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Stangerson placed the pill on his tongue and gulped it down.

“We shall know within a few minutes,” said Holmes quietly, his anger now dissipated.

And so they waited in silence. Stangerson lay back on the bed, his face awash with perspiration and his eyes screwed tight shut.

It was just over a minute before he felt the stabbing pain in his
stomach. With a cry, he fell from the bed on to the floor, curling up in a foetal position.

“No, God, no!” he moaned. “For pity’s sake, help me!”

“I have no pity for you. It has all been spent on Lucy and her father.”

Stangerson writhed for a further thirty seconds or so, his hands clutching his stomach, his utterances now faint and unintelligible, and then all movement ceased.

Sherlock Holmes knelt down and felt the man’s pulse. His mission was complete. Joseph Stangerson was dead.

A
fter Holmes had left, Icovered the body of Jefferson Hope with a sheet and waited by the fire for my friend’s return. Ireally had no idea what he intended to do at Halliday’s Hotel, but Iexpected that he would drag Stangerson back to our rooms for the police to take charge of him. Although Stangerson had committed no crime in this country that we knew of, Ifelt sure there was a possibility of transporting him back to America in order to face trial for the murder of Lucy Ferrier’s father. While Iwaited, the fire crackling in the grate and the wind rattling the windowpanes as though trying to gain entry, Iscribbled down details of the evening’s dramatic events.

Some two hours after Holmes’ sudden exit, Iheard his footstep upon the stair. The door opened and he stumbled into the room. Without removing his hat or coat, he sank into the empty chair opposite me. His face was ashen and the whites of his eyes were veined red as though he had been crying.