Lord Carfax found his voice. “Mr. Holmes refers to my father’s country-home.” Then, turning back to Holmes, he said, “This is a far more likely place for me to be than for you gentlemen. I spend a good deal of my time here.”
“Lord Carfax is our angel from Heaven,” said Sally Young, rapturously. “He has given of his money and of his time so generously, that the hostel is as much his as ours. It could hardly exist without him.”
Lord Carfax flushed. “You make too much of it, my dear.”
She laid an affectionate hand upon his arm; her eyes were very bright. Then the glow faded; her whole manner changed. “Lord Carfax. There is another one. Have you heard?”
He nodded, sombrely. “I wonder if it will ever end! Mr. Holmes, are you by any chance applying your talents to the hunt for the Ripper?”
“We shall see what develops,” said Holmes, abruptly. “We have taken up enough of your time, Miss Young. I trust that we shall meet again.”
With that we bowed and departed, going out through the silent morgue, that was now deserted except for the dead.
Night had fallen, and the street-lamps of Whitechapel dotted the lonely thoroughfares, deepening rather than banishing the shadows.
I drew up my collar. “I don’t mind saying, Holmes, that a good fire and a cup of hot tea―”
“On guard, Watson!” cried Holmes, his reactions far sharper than my own; and an instant later we were fighting for our lives. Three toughs had leapt out of the darkness of a courtyard and were upon us.
I saw the flash of a knife-blade as one of them shouted, “You two take the big cove!”
Thus I was left with the third thug, but he was quite enough, armed as he was with a glittering weapon. The savagery of his attack left no doubt as to his intentions. I whirled to meet his attack not an instant too soon. But my stick slipped from my grasp, and I would have gone down with the brute’s blade in my flesh if he had not slipped in his eagerness to get at me. He fell forward, pawing the air, and I acted from instinct, bringing my knee upwards. A welcome bolt of pain shot up my thigh as my knee-cap connected with my assailant’s face. He bellowed in pain and staggered back, blood spouting from his nose.
Holmes had retained his stick and his wits. From the corner of my eye I witnessed his first defensive move. Using the stick as a sword, he thrust straight and true at the nearest man’s abdomen. The ferrule sank deep, bringing a scream of agony from the man and sending him down, clutching at his belly.
That was all I saw, because my assailant was up and at me again. I got my fingers around the wrist of his knife-arm and veered the blade off its course towards my throat. Then we were locked together, struggling desperately. We went to the cobble-stones in a frantic sprawl. He was a big man, strongly-muscled, and even though I strained against his arm with every ounce of my strength, the blade moved closer to my throat.
I was in the act of consigning my soul to its Maker when a thud of Holmes’s stick glazed the eyes of my would-be murderer and pitched him over my head. With an effort I heaved off the weight of the man’s body, and struggled to my knees. At that moment there was a cry of rage and pain from one of Holmes’s assailants. One of them cried, “Come on, Butch! These blokes are a bit thick!” and, with that, my attacker was snatched to his feet, the trio ran off into the shadows, and disappeared.
Holmes was kneeling beside me. “Watson! Are you all right? Did that knife get into you?”
“Not so much as a scratch, Holmes,” I assured him.
“If you’d been hurt, I should never have forgiven myself.”
“Are you all right, old chap?”
“Except for a bruised shin.” Helping me to my feet, Holmes added grimly, “I am an idiot. An attack was the last thing I anticipated. The aspects of this case change swiftly.”
“Don’t blame yourself. How could you possibly have known?”
“It is my business to know.”
“You were alert enough to beat them at their own game, when every advantage was on their side.”
But Holmes would not be comforted. “I am slow, slow, Watson,” said he. “Come, we shall find a hansom and get you home to that fire and a hot tea.”
A cab hove in sight and picked us up. When we were rattling back towards Baker Street, Holmes said, “It would be interesting to know who sent them.”
“Obviously, some-one who wishes us dead,” was my retort.
“But our ill-wisher, whoever he is, appears to have used poor judgement in selecting his emissaries. He should have chosen cooler heads. Their enthusiasm for the job impaired their efficiency.”
“Our good fortune, Holmes.”
“They achieved one goal, at least. If there was any doubt before, they have wedded me irrevocably to this case.” Holmes’s tone was grim indeed, and we rode the remainder of the journey in silence. It was not until we were seated before the fire with steaming cups of Mrs. Hudson’s tea that he spoke again.
“After I left you yesterday, Watson, I corroborated a few small points. Did you know that a nude―a quite good work, by the way―by one Kenneth Osborne, hangs in the National Gallery?”
“Kenneth Osbourne, did you say?” I exclaimed.
“The Duke of Shires.”
Ellery Succeeds
He had typed steadily through the night; dawn found him blinking, stubbled, and famished.
Ellery went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator and brought out a bottle of milk and the three sandwiches he had failed to eat the previous afternoon. He wolfed them down, drained what was left of the milk, wiped his mouth, yawned, stretched, and went to the phone.
“Morning, dad. Who won?”
“Who won what?” Inspector Queen asked querulously, from Bermuda.
“The horseshoe game.”
“Oh, that. They rang in some stacked shoes on me. How’s the weather in New York? Lousy, I hope.”
“The weather?” Ellery glanced at the window, but the Venetian blinds were closed. “To tell you the truth, dad, I don’t know. I worked all night.”
“And you sent me down here for a rest! Son, why don’t you join me?”
“I can’t. It’s not only this book I’ve got to finish, but Grant Ames dropped in yesterday. He drank me dry and left a package.”
“Oh?” said the Inspector, coming to life. “What kind of package?”
Ellery told him.
The old man snorted. “Of all the baloney. Somebody’s pulling a funny on you. Did you read it?”
“A few chapters. I must say it’s pretty well done. Fascinating, in fact. But then―out of nowhere―lightning struck, and I got back to my typewriter. How do you plan to spend your day, dad?”
“Frying myself on that damned beach. Ellery, I’m so bored I’m beginning to chew my nails. Son, won’t you let me come home?”
“Not a chance,” said Ellery. “You fry. Tell you what. How would you like to read an unpublished Sherlock Holmes?”
Inspector Queen’s voice took on a cunning note. “Say, that’s an idea. I’ll call the airline and book a stray seat―I can be in New York in no time―”
“Nothing doing. I’ll mail the manuscript down to you.”
“To hell with the manuscript!” howled his father.
“So long, daddy,” said Ellery. “Don’t forget to wear your dark glasses on the beach. And you eat everything they put on your plate.”
He hung up hastily, not a second too soon.
He peered at the clock. It had the same bloodshot look as the typewriter.
He went into his bathroom, took a shower, and came back in his pajamas. The first thing he did in his study was to yank the telephone jack out of the wall socket. The second thing he did was to seize Dr. Watson’s journal.
It will put me to sleep, he said to himself cunningly.