"Excellent," said Holmes, rising to his feet. He must have rung the buzzer to our downstairs landing, for there was a gentle tap on the door. "I'm activating some of my sources, and it might be well, Mr. Mac, if we give the Chinaman a long, hard, second look."
As I secured the Inspector's hat and coat, he evidenced an expression of disappointment. "Would there be anything else you'd like to suggest, Mr. Holmes?"
The sleuth chose to be frank. "I could din your ears with conjecture, but it's hard evidence you're needing, is it not?"
MacDonald shrugged as Holmes opened the door.
"We all have our ways," he said, and on this philosophical note he departed.
"A moment, Bill," exclaimed Holmes crossing to the desk to secure the pages of foolscap he had written on earlier. "After you show the Inspector out, do see that these get off, will you?"
Passing the boy some coins, Holmes closed the door and began to rub his hands together in a satisfied manner.
"My dear Watson, we have had a fulsome evening, have we not?"
I had to agree with him there.
In truth, there was a feeling of familiar comfort in that the mood of our establishment was again normal. The wheels were spinning and at a rapid rate.
Chapter Three
Another Puzzle
The following morning I rose quite early for me, my mind churning with the possibility of another outbreak of violence similar to the one that had claimed the heroic General Gordon.
Holmes and I breakfasted together but he was preoccupied, and experience cautioned me that it was useless to try to rouse him from his thoughts. The rain was still with us, and since I had no medical calls on my calendar, The Lancet claimed my attention for a time. I noted that my friend spent some time inspecting the golden dagger that had come our way the night before and then, wearying of it, had crossed to the window to gaze at the dreary scene outside.
The sheaf of cables that had been sent the previous evening meant that Holmes had initiated certain inquiries and now, while awaiting responses, he was going over the matter of the departed agent, Cruthers, the dagger, and the fears expressed by his brother. I rather hoped that he had plenty to think about since, as readers of my words know, he was not of a patient nature.
As my head rose to survey the silhouette of the great detective, it was immediately obvious that matters had taken an unexpected turn. His eyes, which had been viewing the outside scene in a moody manner, were now fastened on an area immediately below his vantage point, and his whipcord frame leaned forward slightly. On occasion, he did bear a remarkable resemblance to a predatory bird about to swoop.
"Ah ha, Watson! What have we here? A carriage at the curb. A gentleman descending from it, for his clothes are of Saville Row. Eureka! He is hastening to our very door. Considering the state of the weather and the resultant lack of traffic, I would say this indicates a matter requiring the attention of certain unique talents. That is the way you put it in those stories you write, is it not?"
I was prompted to remind him that those stories, which he oft-times accused me of foisting on a patient reading public, were but recountings, devoid of form or content without his actions. But Holmes's eyes were sparkling and he was rubbing his hands together like a gleeful moneylender. I did not wish to intrude on his happy anticipation, but my native practicality took hold.
"See here, Holmes, you do have that Mid East matter to consider."
"Not until more information comes our way. Meanwhile we have a man who has come through the rain on this wearisome day, and we cannot deny him an audience."
Here we go again, I thought. Holmes, self-appointed protector of all in need on three continents, because he hated a wasted moment and his ego could not let him pass a puzzle by.
While Billy announced our visitor and Holmes signified that he should be shown up, it occurred to me that my smug attitude would get a justified comeuppance if the man turned out to be a solicitor for church funds but such was not the case.
Mr. Clyde Deets of Mayswood, as he was announced, was well turned out indeed, from his lucent top hat and black frock coat with white waistcoat down to his patent-leather shoes. I noted, as he deposited his hat and gloves on our occasional table while greeting Holmes, that his hair was thinning. The flesh on his face was pale, even after braving the wind outside, but firm. He had a small moustache somewhat military in its cut. As he seated himself in the basket chair indicated by Holmes, he brushed some droplets of moisture from his black satin cravat. The word "foppish" came to my mind, but the square cut of his shoulders with the suggestion of bunched muscles caused me to amend it to "meticulous." I liked to have such little observations at hand should Holmes ask my opinion, an infrequent occurrence.
"There are cigars in the coal scuttle," said the consulting detective with a gesture of his hand.
Deets suppressed surprise at the eccentric arrangements in our quarters. I hoped Holmes would not secure shag from the Persian slipper.
"Thank you, no, Mr. Holmes." He seemed ill at ease. "I feel most fortunate in finding you in your lodgings," he added lamely as his eyes questioningly swiveled towards me.
"This is my associate, Doctor Watson. His discretion is beyond question, and he is quite indispensable to my investigations."
While Holmes had used these words, or similar ones, many times through the years, they always prompted a glow of pride, though I had my own ideas as regards their truth. Suddenly, a thought surprised me. Did Holmes really believe this?
It was not apparent to me whether Deets resented my presence or not. "We had a bit of unpleasantness at the family home last night. Mayswood, you know."
I didn't. Holmes gave no indication as to whether he shared my ignorance or not. There was an awkward pause, then Deets continued: "Felt some professional help was required, so I dashed over here first thing. Came right to the best, you see."
I noted Holmes's eyebrows escalating slightly, and there was an air of mild amusement about him.
"Not immediately to our door, Mr. Deets. There is a smudge of dusty ash on your topper that is indigenous to our railway system, and surely I note a return ticket in your waistcoat pocket. Then there is some mud on your shoes, inevitable considering the weather, and judging by the color of the soil, I would venture the guess that you went from the railway station to an address in the Hyde Park vicinity."
Deets's eyes had widened and there was that look, half amazement and half apprehension, that I had seen so many times before.
"Mayswood is down Surrey way, Mr. Holmes, and I did toddle over to the home of my solicitor before coming here. I say, you are a bit of a crackerjack, are you not? Lawyer Simpson lives in Hyde Park for a fact. Old fellow thought I should contact the police, but the idea of a squad of constables descending on the ménage didn't fill me with enthusiasm. Felt if you might be persuaded to lend a hand, things would be more discreet."
"Let us consider what this unpleasantness involves."
I shuddered in my mind at what Holmes's reaction might be to a tale of domestic strife, but Deets did better than that.
"Fact is, Mr. Holmes, we got burgled, or jolly well would have but for happy chance."
Once started, our visitor swung into his tale with commendable alacrity, and he presented it with a minimum of extraneous verbiage, a fact that I knew weighed well with Holmes.
"Wife's upcountry visiting her sister. Just me in the house along with the staff. Had planned on running over to the Turf Club for dinner and whist. A short distance from Mayswood the carriage horse threw a shoe, so we came back, you see, to hitch up another. Found I'd left my cigarettes, and while Alfred was changing horses, went back inside to locate my case. Rather fancy it. Lucky, you see. Turned a bullet once and saved my life, but that's another story. Anyway, I went upstairs with Dooley, the butler, on my heels. Old fellow brushed against a shield on the wall, and it fell with a fearful clatter. Then we heard another sound above and rushed up. We have an upstairs sitting room. Used to be a sort of art gallery. Father was keen on oils. In any case, found the French windows wide open. Rain blowing in. Someone had been there all right, but not a sign of the beggar."