His Last Bow: An Epilogue of Sherlock Holmes Read online

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  His Last Bow

  An Epilogue of Sherlock Holmes

  By

  Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  (Part of a collection of stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle published asa book entitled His Last Bow)

  It was nine o'clock at night upon the second of August--the mostterrible August in the history of the world. One might have thoughtalready that God's curse hung heavy over a degenerate world, for therewas an awesome hush and a feeling of vague expectancy in the sultry andstagnant air. The sun had long set, but one blood-red gash like anopen wound lay low in the distant west. Above, the stars were shiningbrightly, and below, the lights of the shipping glimmered in the bay.The two famous Germans stood beside the stone parapet of the gardenwalk, with the long, low, heavily gabled house behind them, and theylooked down upon the broad sweep of the beach at the foot of the greatchalk cliff in which Von Bork, like some wandering eagle, had perchedhimself four years before. They stood with their heads close together,talking in low, confidential tones. From below the two glowing ends oftheir cigars might have been the smouldering eyes of some malignantfiend looking down in the darkness.

  A remarkable man this Von Bork--a man who could hardly be matched amongall the devoted agents of the Kaiser. It was his talents which hadfirst recommended him for the English mission, the most importantmission of all, but since he had taken it over those talents had becomemore and more manifest to the half-dozen people in the world who werereally in touch with the truth. One of these was his presentcompanion, Baron Von Herling, the chief secretary of the legation,whose huge 100-horse-power Benz car was blocking the country lane as itwaited to waft its owner back to London.

  "So far as I can judge the trend of events, you will probably be backin Berlin within the week," the secretary was saying. "When you getthere, my dear Von Bork, I think you will be surprised at the welcomeyou will receive. I happen to know what is thought in the highestquarters of your work in this country." He was a huge man, thesecretary, deep, broad, and tall, with a slow, heavy fashion of speechwhich had been his main asset in his political career.

  Von Bork laughed.

  "They are not very hard to deceive," he remarked. "A more docile,simple folk could not be imagined."

  "I don't know about that," said the other thoughtfully. "They havestrange limits and one must learn to observe them. It is that surfacesimplicity of theirs which makes a trap for the stranger. One's firstimpression is that they are entirely soft. Then one comes suddenly uponsomething very hard, and you know that you have reached the limit andmust adapt yourself to the fact. They have, for example, their insularconventions which simply MUST be observed."

  "Meaning 'good form' and that sort of thing?" Von Bork sighed as onewho had suffered much.

  "Meaning British prejudice in all its queer manifestations. As anexample I may quote one of my own worst blunders--I can afford to talkof my blunders, for you know my work well enough to be aware of mysuccesses. It was on my first arrival. I was invited to a week-endgathering at the country house of a cabinet minister. The conversationwas amazingly indiscreet."

  Von Bork nodded. "I've been there," said he dryly.

  "Exactly. Well, I naturally sent a resume of the information toBerlin. Unfortunately our good chancellor is a little heavy-handed inthese matters, and he transmitted a remark which showed that he wasaware of what had been said. This, of course, took the trail straightup to me. You've no idea the harm that it did me. There was nothingsoft about our British hosts on that occasion, I can assure you. I wastwo years living it down. Now you, with this sporting pose of yours--"

  "No, no, don't call it a pose. A pose is an artificial thing. This isquite natural. I am a born sportsman. I enjoy it."

  "Well, that makes it the more effective. You yacht against them, youhunt with them, you play polo, you match them in every game, yourfour-in-hand takes the prize at Olympia. I have even heard that you gothe length of boxing with the young officers. What is the result?Nobody takes you seriously. You are a 'good old sport' 'quite a decentfellow for a German,' a hard-drinking, night-club, knock-about-town,devil-may-care young fellow. And all the time this quiet country houseof yours is the centre of half the mischief in England, and thesporting squire the most astute secret-service man in Europe. Genius,my dear Von Bork--genius!"

  "You flatter me, Baron. But certainly I may claim my four years inthis country have not been unproductive. I've never shown you mylittle store. Would you mind stepping in for a moment?"

  The door of the study opened straight on to the terrace. Von Borkpushed it back, and, leading the way, he clicked the switch of theelectric light. He then closed the door behind the bulky form whichfollowed him and carefully adjusted the heavy curtain over the latticedwindow. Only when all these precautions had been taken and tested didhe turn his sunburned aquiline face to his guest.

  "Some of my papers have gone," said he. "When my wife and thehousehold left yesterday for Flushing they took the less important withthem. I must, of course, claim the protection of the embassy for theothers."

  "Your name has already been filed as one of the personal suite. Therewill be no difficulties for you or your baggage. Of course, it is justpossible that we may not have to go. England may leave France to herfate. We are sure that there is no binding treaty between them."

  "And Belgium?"

  "Yes, and Belgium, too."

  Von Bork shook his head. "I don't see how that could be. There is adefinite treaty there. She could never recover from such ahumiliation."

  "She would at least have peace for the moment."

  "But her honor?"

  "Tut, my dear sir, we live in a utilitarian age. Honour is a mediaevalconception. Besides England is not ready. It is an inconceivablething, but even our special war tax of fifty million, which one wouldthink made our purpose as clear as if we had advertised it on the frontpage of the Times, has not roused these people from their slumbers.Here and there one hears a question. It is my business to find ananswer. Here and there also there is an irritation. It is my businessto soothe it. But I can assure you that so far as the essentialsgo--the storage of munitions, the preparation for submarine attack, thearrangements for making high explosives--nothing is prepared. How,then, can England come in, especially when we have stirred her up such adevil's brew of Irish civil war, window-breaking Furies, and God knowswhat to keep her thoughts at home."

  "She must think of her future."

  "Ah, that is another matter. I fancy that in the future we have ourown very definite plans about England, and that your information willbe very vital to us. It is to-day or to-morrow with Mr. John Bull. Ifhe prefers to-day we are perfectly ready. If it is to-morrow we shallbe more ready still. I should think they would be wiser to fight withallies than without them, but that is their own affair. This week istheir week of destiny. But you were speaking of your papers." He satin the armchair with the light shining upon his broad bald head, whilehe puffed sedately at his cigar.

  The large oak-panelled, book-lined room had a curtain hung in thefurther corner. When this was drawn it disclosed a large, brass-boundsafe. Von Bork detached a small key from his watch chain, and aftersome considerable manipulation of the lock he swung open the heavy door.

  "Look!" said he, standing clear, with a wave of his hand.

  The light shone vividly into the opened safe, and the secretary of theembassy gazed with an absorbed interest at the rows of stuffedpigeon-holes with which it was furnished. Each pigeon-hole had itslabel, and his eyes as he glanced along them read a long series
of suchtitles as "Fords," "Harbour-defences," "Aeroplanes," "Ireland,""Egypt," "Portsmouth forts," "The Channel," "Rosythe," and a score ofothers. Each compartment was bristling with papers and plans.

  "Colossal!" said the secretary. Putting down his cigar he softlyclapped his fat hands.

  "And all in four years, Baron. Not such a bad show for thehard-drinking, hard-riding country squire. But the gem of mycollection is coming and there is the setting all ready for it." Hepointed to a space over which "Naval Signals" was printed.

  "But you have a good dossier there already."

  "Out of date and waste paper. The Admiralty in some way got the alarmand every code has been changed. It was a blow, Baron--the