The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
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"I was not and am not sure which; but I knew that the ship must have an
"I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that the bark Lone Star
was there in January, '85, my suspicion became a certainty. I then inquired as
to the vessels which lay at present in the port of London."
"The Lone Star had arrived here last week. I went down to the Albert Dock
and found that she had been taken down the river by the early tide this morning,
homeward bound to Savannah. I wired to Gravesend and learned that she had passed
some time ago, and as the wind is easterly I have no doubt that she is now past
the Goodwins and not very far from the Isle of Wight."
"What will you do, then?"
"Oh, I have my hand upon him. He and the two mates, are as I learn, the
only native-born Americans in the ship. The others are Finns and Germans. I
know, also, that they were all three away from the ship last night. I had it
from the stevedore who has been loading their cargo. By the time that their
sailing-ship reaches Savannah the mail-boat will have carried this letter, and
the cable will have informed the police of Savannah that these three gentlemen
are badly wanted here upon a charge of murder."
There is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid of human plans, and the
murderers of John Openshaw were never to receive the orange pips which would
show them that another, as cunning and as resolute as themselves, was upon their
track. Very long and very severe were the equinoctial gales that year. We waited
long for news of the Lone Star of Savannah, but none ever reached us. We did at
last hear that somewhere far out in the Atlantic a shattered stern-post of the
boat was seen swinging in the trough of a wave, with the letters "L. S." carved
upon it, and that is all which we shall ever know of the fate of the Lone Star.
ADVENTURE VI. THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP
Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal of the
Theological College of St. George's, was much addicted to opium. The habit grew
upon him, as I understand, from some foolish freak when he was at college; for
having read De Quincey's description of his dreams and sensations, he had
drenched his tobacco with laudanum in an attempt to produce the same effects. He
found, as so many more have done, that the practice is easier to attain than to
get rid of, and for many years he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object
of mingled horror and pity to his friends and relatives. I can see him now, with
yellow, pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point pupils, all huddled in a chair,
the wreck and ruin of a noble man.
One night--it was in June, '89--there came a ring to my bell, about the
hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the clock. I sat up in my
chair, and my wife laid her needle-work down in her lap and made a little face
"A patient!" said she. "You'll have to go out."
I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.
We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps upon the
linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad in some dark-colored stuff,
with a black veil, entered the room.
"You will excuse my calling so late," she began, and then, suddenly losing
her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms about my wife's neck, and
sobbed upon her shoulder. "Oh, I'm in such trouble!" she cried; "I do so want a
"Why," said my wife, pulling up her veil, "it is Kate Whitney. How you
startled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were when you came in."
"I didn't know what to do, so l came straight to you." That was always the
way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birds to a light-house.
"It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wine and water,
and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or should you rather that I
sent James off to bed?"
"Oh, no, no! I want the doctor's advice and help, too. It's about Isa. He
has not been home for two days. I am so frightened about him!"
It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her husband's
trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend and school companion. We
soothed and comforted her by such words as we could find. Did she know where her
husband was? Was it possible that we could bring him back to her?
It seems that it was. She had the surest information that of late he had,
when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in the farthest east of the
City. Hitherto his orgies had always been confined to one day, and he had come
back, twitching and shattered, in the evening. But now the spell had been upon
him eight-and-forty hours, and he lay there, doubtless among the dregs of the
docks, breathing in the poison or sleeping off the effects. There he was to be
found, she was sure of it, at the Bar of Gold, in Upper Swandam Lane. But what
was she to do? How could she, a young and timid woman, make her way into such a
place and pluck her husband out from among the ruffians who surrounded him?
There was the case, and of course there was but one way out of it. Might I
not escort her to this place? And then, as a second thought, why should she come
at all? I was Isa Whitney's medical adviser, and as such I had influence over
him. I could manage it better if I were alone. I promised her on my word that I
would send him home in a cab within two hours if he were indeed at the address
which she had given me. And so in ten minutes I had left my armchair and cheery
sitting-room behind me, and was speeding eastward in a hansom on a strange
errand, as it seemed to me at the time, though the future only could show how
strange it was to be.
But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my adventure. Upper
Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the high wharves which line the
north side of the river to the east of London Bridge. Between a slop-shop and a
gin-shop, approached by a steep flight of steps leading down to a black gap like
the mouth of a cave, I found the den of which I was in search. Ordering my cab
to wait, I passed down the steps, worn hollow in the centre by the ceaseless
tread of drunken feet; and by the light of a flickering oil-lamp above the door
I found the latch and made my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with
the brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden berths, like the forecastle of
an emigrant ship.
Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying in
strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown back, and
chins pointing upward, with here and there a dark, lack-lustre eye turned upon
the newcomer. Out of the black shadows there glimmered little red circles of
light, now bright, now faint, as the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls
of the metal pipes. The most lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and
others talked together in a strange, low, monotonous voice, their conversation
coming in gushes, and then suddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling out
his own thoughts and paying little heed to the words of his neighbor. At the
farther end was a small brazier of burning charcoal, beside which on a
three-legged wooden stool there sat a tall, thin old man, with his jaw resting
upon his two fists, and his elbows upon his knees, staring into the fire.
As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe for me
and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth.
"Thank you. I have not come to stay," said I. "There is a friend of mine
here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him."
There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and peering through
the gloom I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and unkempt, staring out at me.
"My God! It's Watson," said he. He was in a pitiable state of reaction,
with every nerve in a twitter. "I say, Watson, what o'clock is it?"
"Of what day?"
"Of Friday, June 19th."
"Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What d'you want
to frighten the chap for?" He sank his face onto his arms and began to sob in a
high treble key.
"I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting this two
days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!"
"So I am. But you've got mixed, Watson, for I have only been here a few
hours, three pipes, four pipes--I forget how many. But I'll go home with you. I
wouldn't frighten Kate--poor little Kate. Give me your hand! Have you a cab?"
"Yes, I have one waiting."
"Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something. Find what I owe, Watson.
I am all off color. I can do nothing for myself."
I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of sleepers,
holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug, and
looking about for the manager. As I passed the tall man who sat by the brazier I
felt a sudden pluck at my skirt, and a low voice whispered, "Walk past me, and
then look back at me." The words fell quite distinctly upon my ear. I glanced
down. They could only have come from the old man at my side, and yet he sat now
as absorbed as ever, very thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe
dangling down from between his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer
lassitude from his fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back. It took
all my self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a cry of astonishment.
He had turned his back so that none could see him but I. His form had filled
out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull eyes had regained their fire, and there,
sitting by the fire and grinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock
Holmes. He made a slight motion to me to approach him, and instantly, as he
turned his face half round to the company once more, subsided into a doddering,
"Holmes!" I whispered, "what on earth are you doing in this den?"
"As low as you can," he answered; "I have excellent ears. If you would have
the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend of yours I should be
exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you."
"I have a cab outside."
"Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust him, for he appears to
be too limp to get into any mischief. I should recommend you also to send a note
by the cabman to your wife to say that you have thrown in your lot with me. If
you will wait outside, I shall be with you in five minutes."
It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes's requests, for they were
always so exceedingly definite, and put forward with such a quiet air of
mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitney was once confined in the cab my
mission was practically accomplished; and for the rest, I could not wish
anything better than to be associated with my friend in one of those singular
adventures which were the normal condition of his existence. In a few minutes I
had written my note, paid Whitney's bill, led him out to the cab, and seen him
driven through the darkness. In a very short time a decrepit figure had emerged
from the opium den, and I was walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes. For
two streets he shuffled along with a bent back and an uncertain foot. Then,
glancing quickly round, he straightened himself out and burst into a hearty fit
"I suppose, Watson," said he, "that you imagine that I have added
opium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other little weaknesses on
which you have favored me with your medical views."
"I was certainly surprised to find you there."
"But not more so than I to find you."
"I came to find a friend."
"And I to find an enemy."
"Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural prey. Briefly,
Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable inquiry, and I have hoped to find
a clew in the incoherent ramblings of these sots, as I have done before now. Had
I been recognized in that den my life would not have been worth an hour's
purchase; for I have used it before now for my own purposes, and the rascally
Lascar who runs it has sworn to have vengeance upon me. There is a trap-door at
the back of that building, near the corner of Paul's Wharf, which could tell
some strange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonless nights."
"What! You do not mean bodies?"
"Ay, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we had 1000 pounds for every
poor devil who has been done to death in that den. It is the vilest murder-trap
on the whole riverside, and I fear that Neville St. Clair has entered it never
to leave it more. But our trap should be here." He put his two forefingers
between his teeth and whistled shrilly--a signal which was answered by a similar
whistle from the distance, followed shortly by the rattle of wheels and the
clink of horses' hoofs.
"Now, Watson," said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart dashed up through the gloom,
throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light from its side lanterns. "You'll
come with me, won't you?
"If I can be of use."
"Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use; and a chronicler still more so. My
room at The Cedars is a double-bedded one."
"The Cedars?" "Yes; that is Mr. St. Clair's house. I am staying there
while I conduct the inquiry."
"Where is it, then?"
"Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive before us."
"But I am all in the dark."