“Yes. Although,” Homes added cynically, “in all probability they will merely serve pressed duck.”
“But, Homes,” I said as a thought struck me, “who could this Mort be?”
“Most probably a tailor in the neighborhood who presses it, since I doubt a restaurant of this calibre would have a presser of their own.” He shook his head. “No, Watney, I fear this is one eating establishment we shall not patronise!”
“A pity in a way, Homes,” I remarked wistfully. “I have been tiring a bit of late of Mrs. Essex’s fried chutneys.”
“On the other hand,” Homes pointed out, his eyes twinkling, “the advertisement speaks nothing of a lounge.”
I looked over his shoulder and saw it was true. No refreshments!
“A place like that should be barred,” I said with feeling, and was about to return in disgust to my labours when Homes suddenly frowned, his former good humour gone as quickly as it had come.
“What is it, Homes?” I inquired anxiously.
“Has it occurred to you, Watney,” he said, staring at the sheet of paper in all seriousness, almost as if he were seeing it for the first time, “that it is exceedingly odd that this advertisement, intended to interest its readers in a new restaurant, should be sent to me? While I have no objection to a proper meal now and then, nobody, I warrant, would call me a gourmet.”
“True, Homes,” I said, thinking about it, and then recalled something else. “But the message was not sent to you, but to this Theodore Resident. Possibly he—”
“Come, come, Watney! At my address? Possibly, next to 10 Downing Street and the Lyons Corner House, the most famous address in all London?” He shook his head and reviewed the advertisement as he spoke. “No, Watney, there is something here that requires further study.” He glanced up at me significantly. “I shall probably be busy attempting to make sense of this message for some time,” he said. “Why don’t you take the opportunity to verify the pub closing hours and see if they might have been changed in the past fortnight?”
“An excellent suggestion, Homes!” I cried, and then suddenly paused, eyeing him dubiously. “But will you not require my assistance?”
“I shall do my best to manage without you, Watney,” said he, heavily.
“Very well, then,” said I, and went down the steps, remarking to myself, as always, at the true unselfishness of my old friend.
It was just after eleven that evening that I returned to our rooms, having verified that not one of the pubs within a two-mile radius had changed their hours by so much as a minute. I went up the stairs, surprised to find them a bit steeper than usual, prepared to tell Homes about the closing hours and receive his congratulations on a job well done, but just as I was about to enter, I heard a loud exclamation from within. Without further ado I burst through the door to find Homes staring at the advertisement in horror.
“Homes!” I cried. “What is it?”
“I am a fool!” he cried.
“Well, sometimes you do seem a bit—” I began, but before I could continue, Homes had come to his feet and was moving rapidly towards his rooms.
“Later, Watney,” he said. “It is good you have come, and when you did! There is not a moment to lose! One second while I change into more suitable raiment and we shall be off.”
“Off, Homes?” I asked, stifling a yawn, and moved towards the sideboard to see if possibly the liquid fare I had been subjected to in the course of my scientific experiment that evening had its equal in our more limited stock. But before I could check more than one or two mixtures, Homes had come hurrying from his room dressed for the street, and had grasped me by the arm.
“Be careful, Homes!” I cried. “You will spill it!”
He paid me no heed. “You have your pistol, Watney?”
“It’s around somewhere, I believe, Homes,” I replied, and tasted my drink. But before I even had a chance to make a decent judgment, Homes was joggling my arm again.
“Well, get it!” he said savagely. “I have my bull’s-eye lantern under my Inverness, and my own revolver in my pocket. We must hurry if we are to prevent this foul crime from being consummated!”
“What foul crime, Homes?” I asked, and began looking about vaguely for my pistol.
“I will tell you on the way,” he replied fiercely, and picked my pistol from its usual place on the desk and thrust it savagely into my pocket. I was about to remonstrate that I was wearing my best suit, but Homes had already plunged down the steps and I could hear him at the kerb calling feverishly at a passing carriage.
I barely had time to finish my drink when his voice came up the stairwell, demanding my presence. With a sigh I descended, finding the steps even steeper than before. Homes had managed a hansom and was already inside. He grasped my arm to drag me aboard, and I fell back into my seat, closing my eyes, as Homes called up loudly to our driver.
“45 Lyme Street, and a tanner extra if you get us there in five minutes, driver!”
Our jehu needed no further persuasion, and as he cracked his whip over his horse’s head we took off with a bound over the rough cobblestones. Homes leaned over and shook me. I sighed.
“All right, Homes,” I said, trying to sit a bit more erect. “What is this all about? Where are we going?”
“To that restaurant we saw advertised,” he replied grimly.
“But, Homes,” I said, surprised, “it has no bar! Besides, I thought you held the place in contempt. Also, to tell you the truth, I’ve been eating so many cashews to-night that I really have little appetite.”
“You do not understand, Watney,” he said fiercely, and reached for the advertisement in his pocket. He pulled it out but before he unfolded it, he looked at me. “Tell me, Watney, have you ever listed the days of the week in their alphabetical order?”
“Why, no, Homes,” I said, thinking about it, and then added apologetically, “I’ve never really felt the need to, you see.”
“Well,” Homes said, heavily, “had you done so you would have noticed they come in the order of Friday, Monday, Saturday, Sunday, Thursday, Tuesday, and Wednesday.”
“Really, Homes?” I murmured.
“Yes. And had you paid the slightest attention to the menus offered on this advertisement,” said he coldly, unfolding the sheet and thrusting it under my nose as if expecting me to be able to read it by the intermittent light cast by the passing gas-lamps, “you might have noticed that the first letters of the various dishes for the weekdays in alphabetical order, spell out a word!”
“How interesting, Homes,” I said, yawning.
“Exactly! For the word is — murders!”
“Oh? But by what means will this foul scheme be perpetrated?” I asked, blinking rapidly to keep awake. “A tailor’s awl in the pressed duck? Or from the natural declination of week-old leftovers in the Rashomon dish?” I immediately wished I had not mentioned the latter, and leaned further to get some fresh air.
“By nothing that simple,” said Homes, his face a mask of sternness. “Once I had the basics of the scheme, it was easily supposed that if the first letters of the cuisine formed an anagram of the word ‘murders,’ then quite obviously the answer lay in an anagram of the final letters!”
“And did it, Homes?” I asked, yearning for my bed.
“It did, indeed. And the word was — arsenic!”
“What word was arsenic, Homes?” I began, but before he could answer we had come with a clatter into Lyme Street and had pulled up before Number 45, the hansom horse heaving and frothing. In a trice Homes was on the pavement, flinging our fare with the tip to our driver, and had pulled me from my comfortable place as our cab moved away in the night.
I looked about. The establishment before which we stood was dark, and I hoped that Homes would recognise the fact and allow us to return to Bagel Street and our comfortable beds. But Homes did not seem at all surprised by the darkness but moved instead stealthily in the direction of the rear of the building.