Chapter 4

To Catch a Thief

“Well, well,” said Holmes presently with an exclamation of satisfaction, “things are turning a little in our direction at last.” He had spread out his big map of London and leaned eagerly over it. “While there are numerous small fry, there are but few who would handle so big an affair. The only men left worth considering are; Louis La Rothiere, of Campden Mansions, Notting Hill; and Hugo Oberstein, 13 Caulfield Gardens, Kensington. Why, Watson, I do honestly believe that we are going to pull it off, after all.”

He slapped me on the shoulder with a sudden burst of hilarity. “I am going out now. It is only a reconnaissance. I will do nothing serious without my trusted comrade and biographer at my elbow. Do stay here, and the odds are that you will see me again in an hour or two. If time hangs heavy get foolscap and a pen, and begin your narrative of how we saved the State.”

I felt some reflection of his elation in my own mind, for I knew well that he would not depart so far from his usual austerity of demeanour unless there was good cause for exultation. All the long evening I waited, filled with impatience for his return. At last, shortly after nine o’clock, there arrived a messenger with a note:

Am dining at Goldini’s Restaurant, Gloucester Road, Kensington. Please come at once and join me there. Bring with you a jemmy, a dark lantern, a chisel, and a revolver.

S.H.

It was a nice equipment for a respectable citizen to carry through the dim, fog-draped streets. I stowed them all discreetly away in my overcoat and drove straight to the address given. There sat my friend at a little round table near the door of the garish Italian restaurant.

“Have you had something to eat? Then join me in a coffee and curacao. Try one of the proprietor’s cigars. They are less poisonous than one would expect. Have you the tools?”

“They are here, in my overcoat.”

“Excellent. Let me give you a short sketch of what I have done, with some indication of what we are about to do. Now it must be evident to you, Watson, that Larrabee’s death is in no way related to Wilson or to the missing part of the treaty. It is concerned with some love affair, a romantic entanglement or some scandal, and with blackmail no doubt. We may look into it after we have handled these more pressing matters. That was clear from the instant that I determined the fact that it was Irene Adler who so cleverly made her way into Larrabee’s apartment after his death. I was not surprised that she was in some way involved in it!”

“Was it her picture you showed to Constable MacPherson?”

“Indeed it was my dear Watson.”

“It seems most improbable.”

“Yes, Watson, we must fall back upon the old axiom that when all other contingencies fail, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Here all other contingencies HAVE failed. Once that was cleared up and Larrabbe’s name untangled from this skein, it left only two names on our list: La Rothiere, in Notting Hill and Oberstein in Kensington. Which one of the two is it? That was the question which we had to answer. There was only one possible way. I had to go round and see who was in residence and who was not. When I found La Rothiere was at home and that the other leading international agent had recently left London, Mr. Hugo Oberstein, of 13 Caulfield Gardens, had become my objective.”

“Splendid, Holmes! You have got it!”

“So far - so far, Watson. We advance, but the goal is afar. Oberstein lived there with a single valet, who was probably a confederate entirely in his confidence. We must bear in mind that Oberstein has gone to the Continent to dispose of his booty, but not with any idea of flight; for he had no reason to fear a warrant, and the idea of an amateur domiciliary visit would certainly never occur to him. Yet that is precisely what we are about to make.”

“Could we not get a warrant and legalize it?”

“Hardly on the evidence.”

“What can we hope to do?”

“We cannot tell what correspondence may be there.”

“I don’t like it, Holmes.”

“My dear fellow, you shall keep watch in the street. I will do the criminal part. It is not a time to stick at trifles. Think of Mycroft’s note, of the Admiralty, the Cabinet, the exalted persons who wait for news. We are bound to go.”

My answer was to rise from the table.

“You are right, Holmes. We are bound to go.”

He sprang up and shook me by the hand.

“I knew you would not shrink at the last,” said he, and for a moment I saw something in his eyes which was nearer to tenderness than I had ever seen. The next instant he was his masterful, practical self once more.

“It is nearly half a mile, but there is no hurry. Let us walk,” said he. “Do not drop the instruments, I beg. Your arrest as a suspicious character would be a most unfortunate complication.”

Caulfield Gardens was one of those lines of flat-faced pillared, and porticoed houses which are so prominent a product of the middle Victorian epoch in the West End of London. Next door there appeared to be a children’s party, for the merry buzz of young voices and the clatter of a piano resounded through the night. The fog still hung about and screened us with its friendly shade. Holmes had lit his lantern and flashed it upon the massive door.

“This is a serious proposition,” said he. “It is certainly bolted as well as locked. We would do better in the area. There is an excellent archway down yonder in case a too zealous policeman should intrude. Give me a hand, Watson, and I will do the same for you.”

A minute later we were both in the area. Hardly had we reached the dark shadows before the step of the policeman was heard in the fog above. As its soft rhythm died away, Holmes set to work upon the lower door. I saw him stoop and strain until with a sharp crash it flew open. We sprang through into the dark passage, closing the area door behind us.

“Here we are, Watson - this must be the one.”

Holmes swept his light along the door-frame.

“You can see where they rested the body. Halloa, Watson! what is this? There can be no doubt that it is a blood mark.”

He was pointing to faint discolourations along the woodwork of the floor.

“Here it is on the stone of the stair also. The demonstration is complete. So far we are justified,” said he. “What do you think of it, Watson?”

“A masterpiece. You have never risen to a greater height.”

“I cannot agree with you there... If it were not for the grave interests involved, the affair up to this point would be insignificant. Our difficulties are still before us. But perhaps we may find something here which may help us.”

We had ascended the kitchen stair and entered the suite of rooms upon the first floor. One was a dining-room, severely furnished and containing nothing of interest. A second was a bedroom, which also drew blank. The remaining room appeared more promising, and my companion settled down to a systematic examination. It was littered with books and papers, and was evidently used as a study. Swiftly and methodically Holmes turned over the contents of drawer after drawer and cupboard after cupboard, but no gleam of success came to brighten his austere face. At the end of an hour he was no further than when he started.

“The cunning dog has covered his tracks,” said he. “He has left nothing to incriminate him. His dangerous correspondence has been destroyed or removed. This is our last chance.”

It was a small tin cash-box which stood upon the writing-desk. Holmes pried it open with his chisel. Several rolls of paper were within, covered with figures and calculations, without any note to show to what they referred. Holmes tossed them all impatiently aside. There only remained an envelope with some small newspaper slips inside it. He shook them out on the table, and at once I saw by his eager face that his hopes had been raised.

“What is this, Watson? Eh? What is this? Record of a series of messages in the advertisements of a paper. Daily Telegraph agony column by the print and paper. Right-hand top corner of a page. No dates - but messages arrange themselves. This must be the first:

“Hoped to hear sooner. Terms agreed to. Write fully to address given on card.

“Pierrot.

“Next comes:

“Too complex for description. Must have full report, Stuff awaits you when goods delivered.

“Pierrot.

“Then comes:

“Matter presses. Must withdraw offer unless contract completed. Make appointment by letter. Will confirm by advertisement.

“Pierrot.

“Finally:

“Monday night after nine. Two taps. Only ourselves. Do not be so suspicious. “Payment in hard cash when goods delivered.

“Pierrot.

“A fairly complete record, Watson! If we could only get at the man at the other end!” He sat lost in thought, tapping his fingers on the table. Finally he sprang to his feet.

“Well, perhaps it will not be so difficult, after all. There is nothing more to be done here, Watson. I think we might drive round to the offices of the Daily Telegraph, and so bring a good day’s work to a conclusion.”

Mycroft Holmes had come round by appointment after breakfast next day and Sherlock Holmes had recounted to him our proceedings of the day before. His brother shook his head over our confessed burglary.

“We cannot do these things in the name of Government, Sherlock,” said he. “No wonder you get results that are beyond us.”

“For England, home and beauty - eh, Watson? Martyrs on the altar of our country. But what do you think of it, Mycroft?”

“Excellent, Sherlock! Admirable! But what use will you make of it?”

Holmes picked up the Daily Telegraph which lay upon the table.

“Have you seen Pierrot’s advertisement to-day?”

“What? Another one?”

“Yes, here it is.”

To-night. Same hour. Same place. Two taps. Most vitally important. Your own safety at stake.

Pierrot.

“By George!” I cried. “If he answers that we’ve got him!”

“That was my idea when I put it in. I think if you could both make it convenient to come with me about eight o’clock to Caulfield Gardens we might possibly get a little nearer to a solution.”

I remember that during the whole of that memorable day he lost himself in a monograph which he had undertaken upon Palestrina Style Counterpoint. For my own part I had none of this power of detachment, and the day, in consequence, appeared to be interminable. The great national importance of the issue, the suspense in high quarters, the direct nature of the experiment which we were trying - all combined to work upon my nerve. It was a relief to me when at last, after a light dinner, we set out upon our expedition. Mycroft met us by appointment at the outside of Gloucester Road Station. The area door of Oberstein’s house had been left open the night before, and it was necessary for me, as Mycroft Holmes absolutely and indignantly declined to climb the railings, to pass in and open the hall door. By nine o’clock we were all seated in the study, waiting patiently for our man.

An hour passed and yet another. When eleven struck, the measured beat of the great church clock seemed to sound the dirge of our hopes. Mycroft and I were fidgeting in our seats and looking twice a minute at our watches. Holmes sat silent and composed, his eyelids half shut, but every sense on the alert. He raised his head with a sudden jerk.

“He is coming,” said he.

There had been a furtive step past the door. Now it returned. We heard a shuffling sound outside, and then two sharp taps with the knocker. Holmes rose, motioning us to remain seated. The gas in the hall was a mere point of light. He opened the outer door, and then as a dark figure slipped past him he closed and fastened it. “This way!” we heard him say, and a moment later our man stood before us. Holmes had followed him closely, and as the man turned with a cry of surprise and alarm he caught him by the collar and threw him back into the room. Before our prisoner had recovered his balance the door was shut and Holmes standing with his back against it. The man glared round him, staggered, and fell senseless upon the floor. With the shock, his broad-brimmed hat flew from his head, his cravat slipped down from his lips, and there were the long light beard and the soft, handsome delicate features of Colonel Valentine Walter.

Holmes gave a whistle of surprise.

“You can write me down an ass this time, Watson,” said he. “This was not the bird that I was looking for.”

“Who is he?” asked Mycroft eagerly.

“The younger brother of the late Sir James Walter. Yes, yes; I see the fall of the cards. He is coming to. I think that you had best leave his examination to me.”

We had carried the prostrate body to the sofa. Now our prisoner sat up, looked round him with a horror-stricken face, and passed his hand over his forehead, like one who cannot believe his own senses.

“What is this?” he asked. “I came here to visit Mr. Oberstein.”

“Everything is known, Colonel Walter,” said Holmes. “How an English gentleman could behave in such a manner is beyond my comprehension. But your whole correspondence and relations with Oberstein are within our knowledge. So also are the circumstances connected with the death of Field-Marshal Wilson. Let me advise you to gain at least the small credit for repentance and confession, since there are still some details which we can only learn from your lips.”

The man groaned and sank his face in his hands. We waited, but he was silent.

“I can assure you,” said Holmes, “that every essential is already known. We know that you were pressed for money; that you took an impress of the keys which your brother held; and that you entered into a correspondence with Oberstein, who answered your letters through the advertisement columns of the Daily Telegraph. We are aware that you went down to the office in the fog on Monday night, but that you were seen and followed by Wilson. He saw your theft, but could not give the alarm, as it was just possible that you were taking the treaty to your brother in London and he was aware of the parts of the treaty that had to remain secret. Leaving all his private concerns, like the good soldier that he was, he followed you closely in the fog and kept at your heels until you reached this very house. There he intervened, and then it was, Colonel Walter, that to treason you added the terrible crime of murder.”

“I did not! I did not! Before God I swear that I did not!” cried our wretched prisoner.

“Tell us, then, how Field-Marshal Henry Wilson met his end before you laid him upon the steps to his home.”

“I will. I swear to you that I will. I did the rest. I confess it. It was just as you say. A Stock Exchange debt had to be paid. I needed the money badly. Oberstein offered me five thousand. It was to save myself from ruin. But as to murder, I am as innocent as you.”

“What happened, then?”

“Wilson followed me as you describe. I never knew it until I was at the very door. It was thick fog, and one could not see three yards. I had given two taps and Oberstein had come to the door. Wilson rushed up and demanded the return of the papers. Oberstein had a short life-preserver. He always carried it with him. As Wilson forced his way after us into the house Oberstein struck him on the head. The blow was a fatal one. He was dead within five minutes. There he lay in the hall, and we were at our wit’s end what to do. First Oberstein examined the treaty papers which I had brought. He said that some of them were essential, and that he must keep them. ‘You cannot keep them,’ said I. ‘There will be a dreadful row at Woolwich if they are not returned.’ ‘I must keep them,’ said he, ‘for a copy will be no proof of their existence.’ ‘Then they must all go back together to-night,’ said I. He thought for a little, and then he cried out that he had it. ‘These I will keep,’ said he. ‘The others we will stuff into the pocket of this man. When he is found the whole business will assuredly be put to his account.’ I could see no other way out of it, so we did as he suggested. We waited half an hour at the window before all traffic stopped. It was so thick that nothing could be seen, and we had no difficulty in transporting Wilson’s body on a cart the two miles to his home in Knightsbridge. That was the end of the matter so far as I was concerned.”

“And your brother?”

“He said nothing, but he had caught me once with his keys, and I think that he suspected. I read in his eyes that he suspected. As you know, he never held up his head again.”

There was silence in the room. It was broken by Mycroft Holmes.

“Can you not make reparation? It would ease your conscience, and possibly your punishment.”

“What reparation can I make?”

“Where is Oberstein with the papers?”

“I do not know.”

“Did he give you no address?”

“He said that letters to the Hotel du Louvre, Paris, would eventually reach him.”

“Then reparation is still within your power,” said Sherlock Holmes.

“I will do anything I can. I owe this fellow no particular good-will. He has been my ruin and my downfall.”

“Here are paper and pen. Sit at this desk and write to my dictation. Direct the envelope to the address given. That is right. Now the letter:

“Dear Sir:

“With regard to our transaction, you will no doubt have observed by now that one essential detail is missing. I have information which will make it complete. This has involved me in extra trouble, however, and I must ask you for a further advance of five hundred pounds. I will not trust it to the post, nor will I take anything but gold or notes. I would come to you abroad, but it would excite remark if I left the country at present. Therefore I shall expect to meet you in the smoking-room of the Charing Cross Hotel at noon on Saturday. Remember that only English notes, or gold, will be taken.”

“That will do very well. I shall be very much surprised if it does not fetch our man.”

And it did! It is a matter of history - that secret history of a nation which is often so much more intimate and interesting than its public chronicles - that Oberstein, eager to complete the coup of his lifetime, came to the lure and was safely engulfed for fifteen years in a British prison. We never found the secret articles from the treaty and can only assume the worst. Colonel Walter died in prison towards the end of the second year of his sentence. As to Holmes, he returned refreshed to his monograph upon Palestrina Style Counterpoint, which has since been printed for private circulation, and is said by experts to be the last word upon the subject. He said no more about the treaty; but I fancy that I could guess what he thought a month later. In the meantime, we had two loose ends that remained to be tied up: one was the threatened gold reserves, the other, the mystery of Irene Adler and James Larrabee.