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Authors: G.S. Denning
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into a gallop.
At least we had it right that the killer was a cab driver.
The urge to collapse overcame me. I staggered across the room to the brandy decanter, then back to the chair before the fire. Here at last, I allowed my legs to buckle and I fell in a heap, interrupting my tremors, from time to time, to pour a healthy draught of brandy down my throat.
It was nearly an hour and a half before Warlock returned. By that time, I had already turned away two other callers. One was some sort of insane baked-goods collector. The other had just come from my bank and claimed to be a Nigerian prince, in spite of the fact that he was clearly of Chinese descent. His family fortune had been seized, he said, and if only I would deposit a thousand pounds in my own bank account (the number of which was written on a crumpled piece of paper, clutched in his right hand), this would somehow allow him access to his own monies, ten thousand pounds of which he would immediately pay to me. Exhausted and by no account sober, I told him I would. The instant he left, I made a note to open a new account at my earliest convenience.
At last, Warlock burst through the door, in high spirits. He clucked, “Hi-ho, Watson! I’ve just had a merry chase. I quite forgot: Grogsson was headed out to the theater this evening! I checked a few, but never found him. Any luck here?”
I nodded.
“Did you encounter the killer?”
Again, I nodded.
“Tell me all, Watson! Tell me all!”
I shook my head.
“Perhaps tomorrow, then. You look quite undone, I must say.”
He leapt into the other armchair and poured himself a snifter of brandy. He had no intention of drinking it, I knew, but would often pour himself one whenever anyone else had a glass, so he could pretend to be joining in. He settled back, smiling, but then jerked forward, his reverie interrupted by sudden remembrance. After rummaging through his coat for a few seconds, he withdrew a small metal curio and said, “By the by, Watson, I found this queer little device in my pocket. Have you any idea what it can be?”
I can hardly describe the wave of fury that washed over me. If I had not been in an alcoholic stupor, I think I would have leapt from my seat and throttled him. Yet, in my current state, there was nothing I could do but say, “That, Holmes, is the firing hammer of a Webley-Pryse .455 revolver.”
His face contorted in a mixture of amusement and wonder. “Is it?”
“I am fairly certain.”
8
I AWOKE MUCH LATER THAN USUAL THE NEXT MORNING —just before 10 a.m. I had not meant to sleep so long, yet the body is always master of the mind and my own physical form was still in feeble shape. Having wasted so badly since being wounded, it was in no condition to receive the quantity of stimulation the previous day had yielded, and not half the brandy. I had the impression that my slumber had been deep and profound and I realized I had no idea what had wakened me from it.
Mrs. Hudson’s next shriek reminded me. Danger! Screaming! That was it. I rolled from bed and stumbled for the door, still dressed in the crumpled remains of yesterday’s suit. By the time I reached our sitting room, Warlock was already at the door to the hall, shouting, “It’s quite all right, Mrs. Hudson, they are here by my invitation! Really, I hope in the future you will keep a more civil tongue in your head when you address my guests.”
In principal, I agreed. In practice, I had no time to voice an opinion on the matter before I began screaming myself. In through the door streamed a swarm of rats—probably a hundred of them. They swirled into our sitting room. They scuttled over our table and into our cupboards, quite devouring the last of my crumpets. You must not think less of me for screaming at the sight of them. I am a grown man and have certainly seen rats before, but none like these. Each was afflicted in some unique and horrifying way. One had eight legs. One was the size of a dog, yet
At least we had it right that the killer was a cab driver.
The urge to collapse overcame me. I staggered across the room to the brandy decanter, then back to the chair before the fire. Here at last, I allowed my legs to buckle and I fell in a heap, interrupting my tremors, from time to time, to pour a healthy draught of brandy down my throat.
It was nearly an hour and a half before Warlock returned. By that time, I had already turned away two other callers. One was some sort of insane baked-goods collector. The other had just come from my bank and claimed to be a Nigerian prince, in spite of the fact that he was clearly of Chinese descent. His family fortune had been seized, he said, and if only I would deposit a thousand pounds in my own bank account (the number of which was written on a crumpled piece of paper, clutched in his right hand), this would somehow allow him access to his own monies, ten thousand pounds of which he would immediately pay to me. Exhausted and by no account sober, I told him I would. The instant he left, I made a note to open a new account at my earliest convenience.
At last, Warlock burst through the door, in high spirits. He clucked, “Hi-ho, Watson! I’ve just had a merry chase. I quite forgot: Grogsson was headed out to the theater this evening! I checked a few, but never found him. Any luck here?”
I nodded.
“Did you encounter the killer?”
Again, I nodded.
“Tell me all, Watson! Tell me all!”
I shook my head.
“Perhaps tomorrow, then. You look quite undone, I must say.”
He leapt into the other armchair and poured himself a snifter of brandy. He had no intention of drinking it, I knew, but would often pour himself one whenever anyone else had a glass, so he could pretend to be joining in. He settled back, smiling, but then jerked forward, his reverie interrupted by sudden remembrance. After rummaging through his coat for a few seconds, he withdrew a small metal curio and said, “By the by, Watson, I found this queer little device in my pocket. Have you any idea what it can be?”
I can hardly describe the wave of fury that washed over me. If I had not been in an alcoholic stupor, I think I would have leapt from my seat and throttled him. Yet, in my current state, there was nothing I could do but say, “That, Holmes, is the firing hammer of a Webley-Pryse .455 revolver.”
His face contorted in a mixture of amusement and wonder. “Is it?”
“I am fairly certain.”
8
I AWOKE MUCH LATER THAN USUAL THE NEXT MORNING —just before 10 a.m. I had not meant to sleep so long, yet the body is always master of the mind and my own physical form was still in feeble shape. Having wasted so badly since being wounded, it was in no condition to receive the quantity of stimulation the previous day had yielded, and not half the brandy. I had the impression that my slumber had been deep and profound and I realized I had no idea what had wakened me from it.
Mrs. Hudson’s next shriek reminded me. Danger! Screaming! That was it. I rolled from bed and stumbled for the door, still dressed in the crumpled remains of yesterday’s suit. By the time I reached our sitting room, Warlock was already at the door to the hall, shouting, “It’s quite all right, Mrs. Hudson, they are here by my invitation! Really, I hope in the future you will keep a more civil tongue in your head when you address my guests.”
In principal, I agreed. In practice, I had no time to voice an opinion on the matter before I began screaming myself. In through the door streamed a swarm of rats—probably a hundred of them. They swirled into our sitting room. They scuttled over our table and into our cupboards, quite devouring the last of my crumpets. You must not think less of me for screaming at the sight of them. I am a grown man and have certainly seen rats before, but none like these. Each was afflicted in some unique and horrifying way. One had eight legs. One was the size of a dog, yet
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