Holmes was to perform with annoying regularity through our association together. It was appropriate that he referred to himself as a conjuror, for certainly there was a strong streak of the theatrical artiste running through his vain personality. He wished always to be centre-stage, to be in charge, and to mystify and astound. I gradually learned to tolerate his performance.
“However, I will tell you one more thing,” he added, warming to his act of titillation, “the word RACHE is simply a blind intended to put the police upon the wrong track, by suggesting Socialism and secret societies. It was not done by a German. The ‘A’, if you noticed, was printed somewhat after the German fashion, but a real German invariably prints in the Latin character. Therefore, I suggest that we can safely say that this was written by a clumsy imitator as a ruse to divert inquiry into a wrong channel. No doubt he has been successful with Lestrade and Gregson.”
Joseph Stangerson was frightened. When Drebber failed to turn up at the station, he had not been surprised or unduly worried. It would be a woman. It always was with Drebber. Wherever they went, he couldn’t keep his eyes or his hands off a pretty woman. Stangerson had lost count of the number of scrapes they’d landed themselves in because of Drebber’s sexual urges. It was his unwanted attentions towards Mrs Charpentier’s daughter that had caused them to be evicted from their last place of residence. The brother of the girl had threatened to kill Drebber if he ever set eyes on him again.
No doubt, he mused, Drebber had found some tart in a drinking-saloon somewhere and was indulging in the pleasures of the flesh once again. But when his partner failed to turn up as dawn broke, the chill hand of fear started to take hold of Stangerson. In his coward’s heart he always knew that some day retribution would catch up with them for their rash deeds out on that blazing hot desert twenty years ago — when they had shot old man Ferrier in the back and dragged Lucy back to Salt Lake City. He couldn’t block the guilt out with alcohol as Drebber could. They never spoke of that time to each other, but they both knew that the cursed memories of those events were never far from their thoughts.
Stangerson always seemed conscious that someone was following them. They could never rest for long for fear that the avenging force caught up with them. And now Drebber had disappeared.
Stangerson pulled back the lace curtain of his room in Halliday’s Private Hotel and looked out on the grey street. It was empty, save for a lone hansom cab some ten yards away from the entrance. There was no sign of his companion. He knew that he had to wait. Wait for another day at least, sitting in his room, hoping and praying that Drebber would turn up with an innocent explanation for his delay. If only his faith had not left him, he could have prayed. But even in this desperate state he knew that it would be a futile gesture. Hugging himself for comfort, he threw himself down on the bed and stared blankly at the ceiling.
Outside in the street, Jefferson Hope sat hunched up in the driver’s seat of his cab, watching the hotel, a thin cruel smile fixed upon his features. After all these years he was now very close to avenging the death of his beloved. One of the bastards was dead. Now there was just Stangerson. He knew the coward would not dare leave the hotel during the daylight hours. Stangerson would wait to see if his partner returned and then attempt his escape under the cover of darkness.
Hope threw the butt of his cigarette into the street, and with a gentle slap of the reins he set the cab in motion. He would come back at dusk to complete his task.
FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN WALKER
On leaving Lauriston Gardens, we first called at the nearest telegraph office, where Holmes despatched a long telegram. We then continued our journey to Audley Court to interview John Rance, the constable who had discovered the body.
“I doubt if we’ll learn anything from this cove,” Holmes said, as we alighted from the cab. “The intelligence of the average man on the beat is not terribly high.”
Audley Court was not an attractive locality. The narrow passage led us into a quadrangle paved with flags and lined with sordid dwellings. We picked our way among groups of dirty children, and through lines of grey and discoloured linen, until we came to Number 46, the door of which was decorated with a small tarnished slip of brass engraved with the name of Rance. From a small, emaciated-looking woman, whom Iassumed was Rance’s wife, we learned that the constable was still in bed, and we were shown into a cramped and dowdy front parlour while she went off to rouse him.
He appeared presently, looking a little irritable at having been disturbed in his slumbers.
“I made my report at the office,” he said sharply, as though that were the end of the matter.
Holmes took a half-sovereign from his pocket and played with it pensively.
“We thought that we should like to hear it from your own lips,” he said, flipping the coin in the air.
For a moment an avaricious light flamed in the disgruntled constable’s eyes. “I shall be most happy to tell you anything I can,” he said.
“Just let us hear it all in your own way, as it occurred.”
Rance sat on the horsehair sofa, and knitted his brows, as though determined not to omit any detail in his narrative.
“I’ll tell it ye from the beginning,” he said, with enthusiasm.
He was as good as his word; for some five minutes he took us through the course of his evening, from when he came on duty at around ten o’clock. He even rambled on about clearing some roughs away from outside a pawnshop and helping to deal with a fight at The White Hart.
Holmes waited patiently through this irrelevant recital until he reached the part of his narrative we had come to hear: “It had come on to rain just after two, and I thought I’d take a look round and see that all was right down the Brixton Road. It was precious dirty and lonely. Not a soul did I meet all the way down, though a cab or two went past me. I was wet and miserable, gents, and as I was strollin’, between ourselves, I was thinkin’ how uncommon handy a four of gin-hot would be, when suddenly the glint of a light caught my eye in the window of that same house. Now, I knows that those dwellings in Lauriston Gardens are empty, on account of him that owns them won’t have the drains seen to, though the last tenant died of typhoid fever. I was knocked all in a heap, therefore, at seeing a light in the window, and I suspected something was wrong.”
“There was no one else in the street at the time?”
“Not a soul, sir, nor as much as a dog.”
“Pray continue.”
“I went up the path and pushed the door open. I can tell you, my heart was fair bumpin’ inside my uniform. All seemed quiet inside, so I went into the room where the light was a-burnin’. There was a candle flickering on the mantelpiece — a red wax one — and by its light I saw...”
“Yes, yes, I know what you saw. You walked round the room several times, and you knelt by the body, and then you walked through and tried the kitchen door and then—”
John Rance shifted uneasily. “Where was you hid to see all this? It seems you know a great deal more of this matter than you should!”
Holmes smiled. “I am a detective, assisting Mr Gregson and Mr Lestrade. I am one of the hounds, not the fox.’ He leaned forward, and lowered his voice for emphasis. ‘I detected your actions. Now, please continue.”
Rance resumed his narrative, but retained his suspicious expression. “I went back to the gate and sounded my whistle. That brought three other constables to the spot.”
“Was the street still empty?”
“Well, it was, as far as anybody that could be of any good goes.”
“What do you mean?”
The constable’s features broadened into a grin. “I’ve seen many a drunk chap in my time,” he said, “but never anyone so cryin’ drunk as that blighter. He was at the gate when I came out, a-leanin’ up ag’in the railings, and a- singin’ at the pitch o’ his lungs about Columbine’s Newfangled Banner, or some such stuff. He couldn’t stand, far less help.”
“What sort of a man was he?” asked Sherlock Holmes.
John Rance appeared to be somewhat irritated at this digression. “He was an uncommon drunk sort o’ man,” he said. “He’d have found himself in the station if we hadn’t been so took up.”
