The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes

'No, sir; never in general. The' even got old Charlie Peace there. He's with Marwood, too, the hangman what turned Charlie off not eleven years ago—but they're friendly like.' His voice went higher. 'But fair's fair, sir; and I don't like it a bit when those blessed wax figures begin to play a hand of cards!'

A drive of rain rattled against the windows. Holmes leaned forward.

'The wax figures, you say, have been playing at cards?'

'Yes, sir. Word of Sam Baxter!'

'Are all the wax figures engaged in this card game, or only some of them?'

'Only two, sir.'

'How do you know this, Mr. Baxter? Did you see them?'

'Lord, sir, I should hope not! But what am I to think, when one of 'em has discarded from his hand, or taken a trick, and the cards are all mucked up on the table? Maybe I ought to explain, sir?'

'Pray do,' invited Holmes, with some satisfaction.

'You see, sir, in the course of a night I make only one or two rounds down in the Room of Horrors. It's one big room, with dim lights. The reason I don't make more rounds is 'cos of my rheumatics. Folks don't know how cruel you can suffer from rheumatics! Double you up, they do.'

'Dear me!' murmured Holmes sympathetically, push­ing the tin of shag toward the old man.

'Anyway, sir! My Nellie there is a good girl, in spite of her eddication and the fine work she does. Whenever my rheumatics are bad, and they've been bad all this week, she gets up every blessed morning and comes to fetch me at seven o'clock—that's when I go off duty—so she can help me to a omnibus.

'Now tonight, being worried about me—which she oughtn't to be—well, Nellie turned up only an hour ago, with young Bob Parsnip. Bob took over my duty from me, so I said, 'I've read all about this Mr. Holmes, only a step away; let's go and tell him.' And that's why we're here.'

Holmes inclined his head.

'I see, Mr. Baxter. But you were speaking of last night?'

'Ah! Well, about the Room of Horrors. On one side there's a series of tabloos. Which I mean: there's separate compartments, each of 'em behind an iron railing so nobody can step in, and wax figures in each compartment. The tabloos tell a story that's called 'The History of a Crime.'

'This history of a crime is about a young gentleman—and a pleasant young gentleman he is, too, only weak —who falls into bad company. He gambles and loses his money; then he kills the wicked older man; and at last he's hanged as fast as Charlie Peace. It's meant to be a—a—'

'A moral lesson, yes. Take warning, Watson. Well, Mr. Baxter?'

'Well, sir! It's that wretched gambling tabloo. There's only two of 'em in it, the young gentleman and the wicked wrong 'un. They're sitting in a lovely room, at a table with gold coins on it; only not real gold, of course. It's not a-happening today, you see, but in old times when they had stockings and britches.'

'Eighteenth-century costume, perhaps?'

'That's it, sir. The young gentleman is sitting on the other side of the table, so he faces towards you straight. But the old wrong 'un is sitting with his back turned, hold­ing up his cards as if he was laughing, and you can see the cards in his hand.

'Now last night! When I say last night, sir, course I mean two nights ago, because it's towards morning now. I walked straight past that blessed tabloo without seeing nothing. Then, about a hour later, all of a sudden I thinks, 'What's wrong with that tabloo?' There wasn't much wrong, and I'm so used to it that I'm the only one who'd have noticed. 'What's wrong?' I thinks. So I goes down and has another look.

'Sir, so help me! The wicked older man—the one whose hand you can see—was holding less cards than he ought. He'd discarded, or played a trick maybe, and they'd been messing up the cards on the table.

'I've got no 'magination, I tell you. Don't want none. But when Nellie here came to fetch me at seven in the morning, I felt cruel, what with rheumatics and this too. I wouldn't tell her what was wrong—well, just in case I might-a seen things. Today I thought perhaps I dreamed it. But I didn't! It was there again tonight.

'Now, sir, I'm not daft. I see what I see! You might say, maybe, somebody did that for fun—changed the cards, and messed 'em up, and all. But nobody couldn't do it in the daytime, or they'd be seen. It might be done at night, 'cos there's one side door that won't lock properly. But it's not like one of the public's practical jokes, where they stick a false beard on Queen Anne or maybe a sun-bonnet on Napoleon's head. This is so little that nobody'd notice it. But if somebody's been playing a hand of cards for those two blessed dummies, then who did it and why?'

For some moments, Sherlock Holmes remained silent.

'Mr. Baxter,' he said gravely, and glanced at his own bandaged ankle, 'your patience shames me in my foolish petulance: I shall be happy to look into this matter.'

'But, Mr. Holmes,' cried Eleanor Baxter, in stark bewilderment, 'surely you cannot take the affair seri­ ously?'

'Forgive me, madam. Mr. Baxter, what particular game of cards are the two wax figures playing?'

'Dunno, sir. Used to wonder that myself, long ago when I was new to the place. Nap or whist, maybe? But I dunno.'

'You say that the figure with his back turned is hold­ing fewer cards than he should. How many cards have been played from his hand?'

'Sir?'

'You did not observe? Tcha, that is most unfortunate! Then I beg of you carefully to consider a vital question. Have these figures been gambling?'

'My dear Holmes—' I began, but my friend's look gave me a pause.

'You tell me, Mr. Baxter, that the cards upon the table have been moved or at least disturbed. Have the gold coins been moved as well?'

'Come to think of it,' replied Mr. Samuel Baxter, after a pause, 'no, sir, they haven't! Funny, too.'

Holmes's eyes were glittering, and he rubbed his hands together.

'I fancied as much,' said he. 'Well, fortunately I may devote my energies to the problem, since I have nothing on hand at the moment save a future dull matter which seems to concern Sir Gervase Darlington and possibly Lord Hove as well. Lord Hove—Dear me, Miss Baxter, is anything wrong?'

Eleanor Baxter, who had risen to her feet, now con­templated Holmes with startled eyes.

'Did you say Lord Hove?' asked she.

'Yes. How should the name be familiar to you, may I ask?'

'Merely that he is my employer.'

'Indeed?' said Holmes, raising his eyebrows. 'Ah, yes. You do type-writing, I perceive. The double line in the plush costume a little above your wrist, where the type­writist presses against the table, proclaims as much. You are acquainted with Lord Hove, then?'

'No, I have never so much as seen him, though I do much type-writing at his town house in Park Lane. So humble a person as I—!'

'Tcha, this is even more unfortunate! However, we must do what we can. Watson, have you any objection to going out into such a tempestuous night?'

'Not in the least,' said I, much astonished. 'But why?'

'This confounded sofa, my boy! Since I am confined to it as to a sick-bed, you must be my eyes. It troubles me to trespass upon your pain, Mr. Baxter, but would it be possible for you to escort Dr. Watson for a brief visit to the Room of Horrors? Thank you; excellent.'

'But what am I to do?' asked I.

'In the upper drawer of my desk, Watson, you will find some envelopes.'

'Well, Holmes?'

'Oblige me by counting the number of cards in the hand of each wax figure. Then, carefully keeping them in their present order from left to right, place each set in a separate envelope which you will mark accordingly. Do the same with the cards upon the table, and bring them back to me as quickly as you may accomplish it.'

'Sir—' began the ancient man in excitement.

'No, no, Mr. Baxter, I should prefer not to speak now. I have only a working hypothesis, and there seems one almost insuperable difficulty to it.' Holmes frowned. 'But it is of the first importance to discover, in all senses of the word, what game is being played at that wax ex­hibition.'