“And what of the painting?”
He stood up and vawned
“That, my dear Watson, is the work of a man who is far beyond Morountzeff and his kind. A man who might be a leader of nations if revolution should ever enthrone the philosophy of Anarchism or Communism. His name sends a shiver down the backs of Kings, Kaisers and Tsars. He warms the blood of political debaters and cut-throats alike. He is Peter Piatkoff and he is known in the Anarchist underworld as Peter the Painter. Oh yes, he might have made his name as an artist but he is too pure for that. In the name of the stern justice of a virtuous republic, he would cut a throat as readily as you or I would slice an apple.”
“Another Robespierre!”
He looked at me as if I had not understood.
“Robespierre wanted only France. Piatkoff will settle for nothing less than the world.”
“And he is here, in England?” I asked uneasily.
Sherlock Holmes smiled to himself.
“He is not here-but he is coming. Oh yes, he is coming. And when he comes, England will know all about it. My information is recent and particularly reliable.”
I was more than a little unnerved by this. Holmes seemed to take a strange pleasure in his promise. It was as if he anticipated single combat of some kind, alone against a terrible enemy. I went to bed and slept badly. There was something in the air-or rather in the manner-of Sherlock Holmes, which disturbed me. It was rare indeed that in any of our cases he had thrilled to the prospect of a personal duel. But now I was reminded of the terrible day when he went to meet his fate at the hands of Professor Moriarty, remarking that the world could no longer hold both of them and that if his own life must be forfeit to destroy his enemy, he would think the price well worth paying.
5
Two days later, I came down to breakfast to find Holmes already there and unusually cheerful. As I sat down, he put aside his knife and fork, extending his palm.
“And what, Watson, do you make of this? I fear I purloined it yesterday in Morountzeffs room. Lestrade and his merry men had overlooked it on their visit.”
I saw a round lead bullet for a muzzle-loading rifle, which I recognised from my days of military service.
“A twelve bore!” I said at once. He chuckled.
“Well done, Watson! It was not at all what Lestrade and his sergeants expected to find. Because they did not expect it, they overlooked it.”
“But what does it mean?”
“Evidently Gardstein and his friends are looking for rifles of any sort. So far they have been content with revolvers. After all, you cannot carry rifles through the streets of London without causing comment! Yet rifles mean something quite different to handguns. They can be used to defend a strong-point. They will do it with a terrible accuracy which revolvers lack. Lee Enfields are the easiest to come by and our opponents are clearly in the market for them. But if they are prepared to defend-or even to attack-strong-points in this manner, then the revolution is probably much closer than we believe.”
This did not reassure me in the least. Holmes, however, was in excellent spirits. He glanced through the newspaper and then said,
“Here is something for your scrapbook, my dear fellow!”
It was a report of the incident on Friday night, the terrible night-time drama of Exchange Buildings and Houndsditch. Holmes waggled his fork at me with a little impatience.
“The third paragraph in the editorial, old fellow. This is precisely what I had hoped to avoid.”
A curious coincidence in the terrible events of Friday night was the presence among the police officers in Houndsditch of the well-known consulting detective, Mr Sherlock Holmes. Scotland Yard will say only that Mr Holmes chanced to be in company with Inspector Lestrade at the time and was in no way connected with the case. Most of our readers will surely hope that this is not the truth. Our nation and our society are under attack by the scourings of Europe ’s political gutters. We have tolerated too much for too long on our own soil. If Mr Sherlock Holmes were to purge England and the civilised world of such unprincipled villainy, the civilised world would rally to him and he would earn the sincere gratitude of all decent men and women. If Mr Holmes has not been invited to exterminate this menace, let that invitation be issued now.
I laid the paper down. Never had I read an editorial which adopted so strident a tone.
“A little strongly put,” said Holmes brightly, “but then I have not been invited to do anything except to have dinner this evening.”
“Where?”
“I was remiss in not mentioning it last night. By-the-by, I shall be a little late home. Lestrade, sensible fellow that he is, has decided to call upon the advice of brother Mycroft in this case. Our friend is in deeper water than is usual. Even the Political Branch at Scotland Yard has not been able to help him much. Mycroft, on the other hand, lives, moves and has his being in the world of politics and conspiracy. He keeps an eye upon it, on the government’s behalf.”
“An eye upon Russia?” I inquired sceptically. Holmes smiled.
“Mycroft is particularly fluent in the Russian language, and deeply read in Russian history and culture. His translations of the poetry of Alexander Blok are, I understand, highly regarded. I have also agreed to do what I can for Lestrade. In consequence, Brother Mycroft is giving us dinner in a private room of the Diogenes Club. Please, do not wait up.”
And that was all. After he had gone out, I was left to wonder what labyrinth we were invited to explore. By the time that evening came, I was ready for an early dinner. Then I took down a volume of Sir Walter Scott from the bookshelf-The Heart of Midlothian-and was presently far away in the North, the Edinburgh of a hundred years since and the drama of the Porteus riots. The narrative carried me along so easily that at the end of every chapter, I resolved to read just one more before the early night that I had promised myself.
It was, I think, gone eleven o’clock when I first heard the noise in the street outside-or rather on the outside wall of the room. Something like an empty tin-can hit the wall of the building with a clang and clattered back into the street.
“Mr Hoolmes! Mr Share-lock Hoolmes!”
A first blow of the knocker on the front door was followed by a second.
“Mr Hoolmes, it is I-You know who I am!-and I know you for a lackey and a lick-spittle! A craven flunkey of your monarch and his ministers! An oppressor of the people, one who must share the fate of his paymasters!”
It was so preposterous and unexpected that for a moment I sat and was not sure what to do. There was a pause and I thought the bawling lout had gone on his way. Perhaps he was disconcerted at getting no response. Perhaps he thought it was the wrong house, though the address of Sherlock Holmes was certainly no secret. The curtains were closed. I moved carefully towards them and, at the side, made a tiny gap which gave me a view of the street below by lamplight.
The man was still standing on the far side of the roadway, outside the unlit florist’s shop. He was not in the least the ragged trousered fellow I had expected. His smart black overcoat had what looked like an astrakhan collar and he carried a broad brimmed hat in his left hand. There was something in his right hand which looked like a stone. He was tall, neatly and quite expensively dressed. His hair was dark and trim, he had fine whiskers, his features were more aristocratic than not, indeed his nose was beaked almost to the point of disfigurement.
“You know me! You know me, Mr Hoolmes. When I tell you the name Piatkoff, you will know. You cannot answer? That you are a friend of tyrants, I have known. That you are such a coward, I did not think! A policeman’s lackey!”