Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes Read online

  “Dr. Roylott had a cheetah and a baboon. Why not a snake too? I was doubly sure as soon as I saw the dish of milk. Roylott had trained the snake to crawl through the vent and down the rope. The snake would come back when he whistled! The clang that Helen heard? That was the safe door closing.

  “I knew the doctor would try the snake trick again. This time Helen would be killed. So I waited. When I heard the snake hiss, I hit.”

  “You drove the snake back into the other room,” said I.

  “Yes,” said Holmes. “I hit the snake so hard it was good and mad. So it turned on its owner. In a way, I was the one who made Dr. Roylott die.”

  Holmes sighed and picked up his pipe. “I cannot say that I am very sorry,” he said.

  The Red-headed League

  Sherlock Holmes still lives in our old rooms at 221B Baker Street. I called upon him there one day last fall.

  I found Holmes deep in talk. With him was a fat old man who had bright red hair.

  “Come in, Dr. Watson!” Holmes cried. “Meet Mr. J. B. Wilson. Mr. Wilson, this is Dr. Watson. He works with me on many of my cases.”

  The fat man got up and made me a little bow. Holmes sat back. He put his fingers together. (He often does that when he is thinking.) He smiled.

  “Watson, my dear man, I know you love strange stories as much as I do. Mr. Wilson here has just started telling his tale. And it’s one of the strangest stories I have ever heard.”

  Mr. Wilson looked proud. He pulled a piece of paper out of his coat pocket. “Look at this notice, Dr. Watson,” he said. “You may read it for yourself.”

  I took the paper from him.

  To All Red-headed Men

  There is a job open at the Red-headed League. The pay is 4 pounds a week. The work is not very hard. To get the job you must have red hair. You must be a man over 21 years old. Come in person on Monday, at 11 o’clock, to 7 Fleet Street. Ask for Duncan Ross.

  “What can it mean?” I asked.

  Holmes gave a chuckle. “It is a little odd, isn’t it? Do tell us more, Mr. Wilson.”

  “I own a store at Coburg Square,” said Wilson. “It’s a very small place. Of late years it has not done much more than give me a living. I used to have two helpers. Now I can pay only one. I can pay him only because he will work for half pay. I don’t know what I would do without him.”

  “Hmm. A good helper who works for half pay,” said Holmes. “And what is the name of this nice young man?”

  “Vincent Spaulding,” replied Wilson. “Oh, Vincent does have his problems. He is always down in the basement. He plays with all those cameras of his down there. A real photo nut. But on the whole he’s a very good worker.

  “One day about eight weeks ago, Spaulding came into my room. He had this paper in his hand. ‘I tell you, Mr. Wilson,’ Spaulding said, ‘I wish I were a red-headed man. Here’s another job open at the Red-headed League.’

  “Now, I had never heard of the Red-headed League. I don’t get out too much. But Spaulding knew all about it.

  “He told me that the league had been started by Ezekiah Hopkins. Hopkins was an American millionaire. He had bright red hair.

  “All his life people made fun of Hopkins because of his red hair. Then Hopkins came to London. In London he got rich. So he loved London. And he felt sorry for men with red hair. So when he died, Hopkins left his money to the red-headed men of London.

  “Now, as you may have noticed, my hair is very red. So it was easy for Spaulding to talk me into giving the job a try. ‘What have you got to lose?’ he asked me.

  “That was a Monday. It’s always a slow day at the store. So we shut the shop. Spaulding went with me to Fleet Street.

  “I never saw such a sight. Fleet Street was packed with red-headed men. The street looked like a wagon full of oranges. I saw every shade of red you can think of. Orange red. Brick red. Irish setter red.

  “I was ready to give up and go home. But Spaulding would not hear of it. I do not know how he did it. But he pushed and pulled. At last he got me to the door.

  “We joined the line going up the steps. There was another line of men coming down. They were men who had been turned down.

  “Our line kept moving. Soon we found ourselves in a room on the second floor. There was nothing in the room except two chairs and a table. Behind the table sat a small man. His hair was as red as mine. This man looked over each new job hunter. He found some small reason to say no to each one.

  “But my turn was different. The red-headed man took one look at me. Then he got up and closed the door. He shook my hand. ‘I’m Duncan Ross,’ he said.

  “I was too afraid to say anything. So my helper spoke for me. ‘This is J. B. Wilson,’ said Spaulding. ‘He’s here about the job with the Redheaded League.’

  “ ‘And he’s just right for it!’ cried Duncan Ross. ‘I don’t think I have ever seen such a fine head of hair.’

  “Ross stepped over to the open window. ‘The job has been taken!’ he shouted. One by one the men below all went away. Soon Mr. Duncan Ross and I were the only redheads in sight.

  “Ross turned to me. ‘How soon can you start your new job?’

  “ ‘Uh, I don’t know …’ said I. ‘You see, I have a small store—’

  “Vincent Spaulding broke in. ‘Oh, don’t worry about the store, Mr. Wilson,’ he said. ‘I can take care of that for you.’

  “So I said I would work for Mr. Ross. I was to come to Fleet Street every day between ten and two. My job? Well, you are not going to believe this. All I had to do was to copy the Encyclopedia Britannica. That’s all. And for that I would be paid four pounds a week!

  “I walked out of there feeling very pleased with myself. But not for long. Quite soon I began having second thoughts. This all had to be some kind of joke. I just couldn’t believe that story about Ezekiah Hopkins.

  “But as my helper had said, I had nothing to lose. So I showed up at Fleet Street the next day at ten.

  “To my surprise, everything went just as Mr. Ross had said it would. I went to Fleet Street every day. I copied the encyclopedia. Every Saturday Mr. Ross would come in and pay me four pounds.

  “Things went on this way for eight weeks. I copied out all the facts about animals. About apples. About Africa. I began to get tired of the A’s. I hoped to finish soon and get on to the B’s. Then all at once the whole business came to an end.”

  “What? To an end?” asked Sherlock Holmes.

  “Yes, sir,” said Wilson. “It happened only this morning. I went to work at ten o’clock. When I got there I found this card on the door.”

  The Red-headed League no longer exists.

  October 9, 1890

  Sherlock Holmes and I read this card. We looked at J. B. Wilson’s face. The funny side of his story made us forget ourselves. We laughed until we roared.

  “I can’t see that it’s very funny,” cried Mr. Wilson. His face turned as red as his hair. “If you’re going to make fun of me, I’ll leave.”

  “No, no. Don’t go,” said Holmes. “I very much want to hear your story. I have a feeling it could be something very important.”

  “Why, of course it’s important,” said Mr. Wilson. “I have lost four pounds a week!”

  “Come, come, Mr. Wilson,” said Holmes. “You have lost nothing. You are thirty-two pounds richer than you thought you would be. To say nothing of what you now know about things starting with A.”

  “But I want to know what it was all about!” Mr. Wilson said. “That’s why I came to you, Mr. Holmes. Can you find out for me?”

  “I will do my best,” said Holmes. “But first—a question. This Vincent Spaulding. This helper of yours. What does he look like?”

  “Well, he’s small. But very quick and strong. About thirty years old. He has a patch of very white skin on his face.”

  Holmes sat up straight. He was very excited. “That’s enough, Mr. Wilson,” he said. “You may go home now. Today is Saturday. By Monday I will have your answer
.”

  When Wilson had gone, Holmes turned to me. “Well, Watson,” he asked. “What do you make of it?”

  “I make nothing of it,” I answered. “It is very strange. What are you going to do?”

  “Go hear some music,” replied Holmes. “There is a violin concert at St. James’s Hall this afternoon. Come along. We have time to make a stop on the way.”

  We took the underground train to Aldersgate. A short walk, and we were in Coburg Square.

  One of the corner houses wore a sign that read “J. B. Wilson.” Holmes stopped in front of the house. He thumped on the sidewalk with his stick. He pounded in two or three more spots. Then he walked up and knocked on the door.

  Mr. Wilson’s helper answered. He was a bright, clean looking young man.

  “So sorry to bother you,” said Holmes. “But can you tell me how to get to the Strand?”

  “Third right, fourth left,” the young man answered. He closed the door.

  “That,” said Holmes as we walked away, “is the fourth smartest man in London. I have come across him before. Did you get a look at his knees?”

  “What about his knees?” I asked. “What do you know, Holmes? Why did you pound the sidewalk like that?”

  “My dear doctor,” said Holmes. “This is no time to talk. This is the time to look. Let’s see what lies behind this quiet block.” We turned the corner.

  To my surprise, we found ourselves on a busy street. “Let’s see,” said Holmes. “There’s a cigar store. And there’s the City Bank. And there is a restaurant. Hmm, yes …”

  He turned to me. “I’ll want your help,” he said. “Can you be ready at ten tonight? Good. See you then. Oh, and Dr. Watson. Do you have your gun? You had better bring it along.”

  He waved his hand. Then he disappeared.

  I got back to Baker Street just before ten o’clock that evening. Two horse-drawn cabs were waiting outside. Inside, I found two men with Holmes.

  “Ah! We are all here now!” Holmes said. “You know Inspector Jones of Scotland Yard, don’t you, Watson? And this is Mr. Merryweather.”

  Mr. Merryweather was long, thin, and sad-faced. He wore a very shiny top hat. He did not look at all happy. “This had better not be a wild-goose chase,” he said. “I’m missing my Saturday night card game. First time in twenty years.”

  Holmes laughed. “You’ll play a more exciting game tonight,” he said. “You, Mr. Merryweather, stand to win or lose thirty thousand pounds. And you, Mr. Jones? You stand to get your man.”

  “That’s right!” cried Inspector Jones. “John Clay. Killer. Robber. He’s a young man. But he’s at the top of the crime heap.

  “Yes—he’s quite a man, John Clay. The grandson of a duke. Went to the high-class schools. His head is as quick as his fingers. I’ve been on his trail for years. I’ve never even set eyes on him yet.”

  “I hope you will meet him tonight,” said Holmes. “Let’s go. Two cabs are waiting outside. You two men take the first cab. Dr. Watson and I will follow in the second.”

  Holmes did not say much during the long drive. We drove through the dark streets. Soon we got to the busy street near Mr. Wilson’s house.

  Merryweather and Jones were there ahead of us. We followed Mr. Merryweather down a narrow alley. There was a side door there. He opened it. Inside was a small hall. At the end of the hall there was a heavy gate. Merryweather opened that too. Then we went down some narrow stone stairs. There was another heavy gate at the bottom.

  Merryweather stopped to light a lamp. He opened the gate and we passed into a large room. It was piled with boxes.

  Holmes held the lamp up to the roof. “Looks as if no one can get in from above,” he said.

  “Or from below,” added Merryweather. He tapped the floor with his cane. “Why—dear me! It sounds hollow!” he cried.

  “Quiet now!” whispered Holmes. “Please sit down on one of these boxes. And do try not to get in the way. Your shouting has already put us in danger.”

  Merryweather looked hurt. But he sat down.

  “We have at least an hour to wait,” Holmes said. “They will do nothing until our red-haired friend is in bed. After that they will not lose a minute.

  “By now, Dr. Watson, I’m sure you know where we are,” Holmes went on. “We are in a room under the City Bank. Mr. Merryweather here is the head of the bank. I’ll let him tell you why John Clay will soon enter this basement.”

  “It is our French gold,” the banker whispered. “Over thirty thousand pounds’ worth.” He bit his nails and looked sad. “We were afraid something like this would happen.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Holmes. “It will all be over soon. And now we must cover the lamp. I’m afraid we will have to wait in the dark. But first let’s get in place. These are very dangerous men. We will have to be careful. I will hide behind this box. You men hide over there. Wait till I flash the light. Then close in on them. Watson, keep your gun ready. If they fire, shoot them down in their tracks.”

  I bent down behind a wooden box. I kept my gun hand on top of the box. I was ready for anything.

  How long that wait seemed! Later I learned that we had waited only an hour and a quarter. But it felt like all night. I tried not to move. I was afraid to make a sound. I could hear the other men breathing.

  Suddenly my eyes caught a flash of light on the floor. The flash got larger. It became a yellow line. Then a hole opened. A hand came out of the hole. It was a thin, white hand.

  The hand felt the floor around the hole. Then everything went dark again.

  But not for long. There was a tearing sound. The hole in the floor got bigger. Over the edge peeped the face of a young man. There was a patch of bright white skin on his forehead. The young man pulled himself up into the room.

  A second later he pulled a second young man up. The second man was also small and thin. He had a pale face. His hair was bright, bright red.

  At that second Sherlock Holmes flashed the light.

  “Great Scott!” yelled the first man. “Jump, Archie!”

  “It’s no use, John Clay,” said Holmes. “You have no chance at all.”

  Inspector Jones had the handcuffs ready.

  “Don’t you touch me with your dirty hands,” said John Clay. “I have noble blood, you know.” The cuffs closed around his wrists.

  “You see it all now, Watson,” said Holmes. It was early the next morning. We were back at Baker Street drinking tea. “There was only one reason for the Red-headed League. That was to get our old friend Mr. Wilson out of his store. You may think it was an odd way to do it. But I can hardly think of a better one.

  “Of course what gave them the idea was Mr. Wilson’s red hair. By chance it happened to be the same color as Archie’s hair. So Archie became …”

  “Mr. Duncan Ross!” I cried.

  “Quite so. And John Clay became Vincent Spaulding. Remember how he was always in the basement? He said it was for photography. But I knew better as soon as I saw his knees. They were dirty. It was proof that he had been digging.

  “Then I tapped the sidewalk in front of the house. No—he wasn’t digging out that way. So he must be digging toward the back of the house. We walked around the block. And there I saw the City Bank.”

  Suddenly Holmes laughed. “Do you know what a red herring is, Dr. Watson? It’s a false clue that is meant to lead us away from the real clues. Well, you’ve got to hand it to John Clay. He’s not only smart. He’s funny. Don’t you get it? The Redheaded League was just a red hairing, all along!”

  The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle

  It was the second morning after Christmas. I called on my friend Sherlock Holmes to give him good wishes for the holiday.

  I found the great detective lying on the sofa. He was smoking his favorite pipe. Next to the sofa stood a chair. On the chair’s back there hung a black hat. The hat was dirty and torn.

  A magnifying glass lay on the seat of the chair. Holmes had been looking at the hat.

/>   “You know Peterson, the doorman?” asked Holmes.

  “Yes,” said I.

  “He found this hat. He brought it here this morning—along with a good, fat goose. Right now the goose is cooking over Peterson’s fire.

  “The facts are these. It was four o’clock on Christmas morning. Peterson was walking home late. He had been at a little party. Peterson could see a man walking ahead of him in the gaslight. He was a tall man. He carried a white goose over his shoulder.

  “The tall man got to the corner of Goodge Street. Just then a gang of toughs came into the street. One of the toughs knocked off the tall man’s hat. The tall man tried to fight back with his stick. Instead, he broke the window behind him.

  “Peterson rushed up to help the tall stranger. But at the sound of the breaking glass, the man dropped the goose and ran. The gang of roughs ran away too. So Peterson was left with the goose—and this hat.”

  “Which, surely, he gave back to the owner?” asked I.

  “My dear fellow. There lies the problem. True, we know the NAME of the owner. See? Here’s a small card that was tied to the left leg of the goose. The card says, ‘For Mrs. Henry Baker.’ Then, here are the letters ‘H. B.’ inside the hat. So we’re pretty sure the tall man was Henry Baker. But there are thousands of people named Baker in London. And HUNDREDS of them must be named Henry.

  “Well, Peterson brought the hat to me. He kept the goose as long as he could. But today it had to be cooked or it would spoil. So Peterson took the goose home. He left the hat for me.”

  At that moment the door flew open. Peterson, the doorman, rushed into the room. His face was red.

  “The goose, Mr. Holmes! The goose, sir!” he gasped.

  “What about it?” asked Holmes.

  “See here, sir! See what my wife found inside!” He held out his hand. There lay a shining blue stone. It was no bigger than a bean in size. But it was so pure and bright that it twinkled like a star.