“I fear I am none the wiser.”
“Ah, it is not part of your profession to carry about a portableNewgate Calendar in your memory. I have been down to seefriend Lestrade at the Yard. There may be an occasional wantof imaginative intuition down there, but they lead the world forthoroughness and method. I had an idea that we might get onthe track of our American friend in their records. Sure enough, Ifound his chubby face smiling up at me from the rogues’ portraitgallery. ‘James Winter, alias Morecroft, alias Killer Evans,’ was theinscription below.” Holmes drew an envelope from his pocket.
“I scribbled down a few points from his dossier: Aged forty-four.
Native of Chicago. Known to have shot three men in the States.
Escaped from penitentiary through political influence. Cameto London in 1893. Shot a man over cards in a night-club in theWaterloo Road in January, 1895. Man died, but he was shown tohave been the aggressor in the row. Dead man was identified asRodger Prescott, famous as forger and coiner in Chicago. KillerEvans released in 1901. Has been under police supervision since,but so far as known has led an honest life. Very dangerous man,usually carries arms and is prepared to use them. That is our bird,Watson—a sporting bird, as you must admit.”
“But what is his game?”
“Well, it begins to define itself. I have been to the houseagent’s.
Our client, as he told us, has been there five years. It was unlet fora year before then. The previous tenant was a gentleman at largenamed Waldron. Waldron’s appearance was well remembered atthe office. He had suddenly vanished and nothing more been heardof him. He was a tall, bearded man with very dark features. Now,Prescott, the man whom Killer Evans had shot, was, accordingto Scotland Yard, a tall, dark man with a beard. As a workinghypothesis, I think we may take it that Prescott, the Americancriminal, used to live in the very room which our innocent friendnow devotes to his museum. So at last we get a link, you see.”
“And the next link?”
“Well, we must go now and look for that.”
He took a revolver from the drawer and handed it to me.
“I have my old favourite with me. If our Wild West friend triesto live up to his nickname, we must be ready for him. I’ll give youan hour for a siesta, Watson, and then I think it will be time forour Ryder Street adventure.”
It was just four o’clock when we reached the curious apartmentof Nathan Garrideb. Mrs. Saunders, the caretaker, was aboutto leave, but she had no hesitation in admitting us, for the doorshut with a spring lock, and Holmes promised to see that all wassafe before we left. Shortly afterwards the outer door closed, herbonnet passed the bow window, and we knew that we were alonein the lower floor of the house. Holmes made a rapid examinationof the premises. There was one cupboard in a dark cornerwhich stood out a little from the wall. It was behind this thatwe eventually crouched while Holmes in a whisper outlined hisintentions.
“He wanted to get our amiable friend out of his room—thatis very clear, and, as the collector never went out, it took someplanning to do it. The whole of this Garrideb invention wasapparently for no other end. I must say, Watson, that there isa certain devilish ingenuity about it, even if the queer name ofthe tenant did give him an opening which he could hardly haveexpected. He wove his plot with remarkable cunning.’’
“But what did he want?”
“Well, that is what we are here to find out. It has nothingwhatever to do with our client, so far as I can read the situation.
It is something connected with the man he murdered—the manwho may have been his confederate in crime. There is some guiltysecret in the room. That is how I read it. At first I thought ourfriend might have something in his collection more valuable thanhe knew—something worth the attention of a big criminal. Butthe fact that Rodger Prescott of evil memory inhabited theserooms points to some deeper reason. Well, Watson, we can butpossess our souls in patience and see what the hour may bring.”
That hour was not long in striking. We crouched closer in theshadow as we heard the outer door open and shut. Then came thesharp, metallic snap of a key, and the American was in the room.
He closed the door softly behind him, took a sharp glance aroundhim to see that all was safe, threw off his overcoat, and walkedup to the central table with the brisk manner of one who knowsexactly what he has to do and how to do it. He pushed the tableto one side, tore up the square of carpet on which it rested, rolledit completely back, and then, drawing a jemmy from his insidepocket, he knelt down and worked vigorously upon the floor.
Presently we heard the sound of sliding boards, and an instantlater a square had opened in the planks. Killer Evans struck amatch, lit a stump of candle, and vanished from our view.
Clearly our moment had come. Holmes touched my wrist as asignal, and together we stole across to the open trap-door. Gentlyas we moved, however, the old floor must have creaked underour feet, for the head of our American, peering anxiously round,emerged suddenly from the open space. His face turned upon uswith a glare of baffled rage, which gradually softened into a rathershamefaced grin as he realized that two pistols were pointed at hishead.
“Well, well!” said he coolly as he scrambled to the surface. “Iguess you have been one too many for me, Mr. Holmes. Sawthrough my game, I suppose, and played me for a sucker from thefirst. Well, sir, I hand it to you; you have me beat and——”
In an instant he had whisked out a revolver from his breast andhad fired two shots. I felt a sudden hot sear as if a red-hot iron hadbeen pressed to my thigh. There was a crash as Holmes’s pistolcame down on the man’s head. I had a vision of him sprawlingupon the floor with blood running down his face while Holmesrummaged him for weapons. Then my friend’s wiry arms wereround me, and he was leading me to a chair.
“You’re not hurt, Watson? For God’s sake, say that you are nothurt!”
