The Complete Works of Sherlock Holmes

Chapter 191 New Detective Case (13)
time flies.We flinched when we heard the sound of the door being opened and shut.Then there was the sound of metal keys, and the American entered.He closed the door gently, looked back vigilantly, threw off his coat, and went straight to the big table in the middle, his actions were accurate and quick, and he was very confident.He pushed the table aside, pulled up a piece of rug under the table, rolled it up, took a small crowbar from his pocket, and yanked the floor.Just hearing the sound of the board sliding open, a square hole appeared in the floor immediately.The murderer Evans struck a match, lit a candle stub, and slid down the hole.

Our chance has come.Holmes touched my wrist, and together we tiptoed towards the opening.Though we moved lightly, the old floorboards must have creaked under our feet, for the American's head popped out of the hole and peered worriedly.His face turned toward us angrily, but gradually changed to a sheepish smile as he found two pistols pointed at his head.

"Well, well," said he, calmly, as he climbed up, "you are one more than I am, Mr. Holmes. I think you saw through my tricks at the very beginning, and played me for a fool. Good." , I’m convinced, you beat me—”

Before it was too late, he drew a pistol and fired two shots.I felt a heat on my thigh, like a red-hot iron on meat.Then there was a click, and Holmes hit him on the head with a pistol. I saw him lying on the ground with blood dripping from his face. Holmes quickly searched for the weapon on him.Then my friend's strong arms came around me and helped me sit on the chair.

"Not hurt, Watson? My God, are you not hurt?"

When I know how deep loyalty and love lie behind this cold face, I feel that it is worthwhile to be hurt once, even many times.His bright and strong eyes were a little moist, and his firm lips were trembling a little.This was the only chance I had to see him not only with a great mind but also with a great heart.After so many years of faithful service, I am now at last rewarded with the highest reward.

"It's all right, Holmes. It's just a scratch."

"Fortunately," he cut open my trousers with a knife, and after carefully inspecting the wound, he let out a sigh of relief, "it's a superficial injury." He turned his stone-like face to the prisoner, who was sitting up blankly. "You're lucky. If you've hurt Watson, you won't get out of this room alive. What else do you have to say?"

He didn't say anything, just lay on the ground and stared.Holmes took me by the arm, and together we looked into the little cellar where the hidden cover had been removed.The candle Evans had lit was still in the cave.We saw a pile of rusting machines, great bundles of paper, a row of bottles, and many small packages neatly arranged on a small table.

"The printing press—the complete equipment of a counterfeiter," said Holmes.

"Yes, sir," said the prisoner, struggling up and slumping into a chair, "he is the greatest counterfeiter in London. This is Prescott's machine, and the packet on the table is two thousand counterfeit hundred-pound notes. , circulated everywhere, without flaws. Gentlemen, how about we make a deal? If you will let me go, the banknotes will be yours."

Holmes laughed.

"Mr. Evans, we don't do such things. There's no hiding place for you in this country. You killed Prescott, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir, he drew the gun first, for which I spent five years in prison, and should have given me a medal the size of a plate, because killing him would have saved society from a great evil. He made The counterfeit notes are nearly identical to those issued by the Bank of England, and if I hadn't got rid of him, he would have flooded the market with counterfeit notes. I'm the only one who knows where he makes counterfeit notes. What wonders me here? When I Is it any wonder that I had to try to get him out of the way when I found this rag-collector with a strange name crouching there dead? Perhaps it would be wiser for me to get rid of him, and that would be easy. But I I'm a soft-hearted person. I never shoot anyone unless the other party has a gun. Tell me, Mr. Holmes, what's wrong with me? I didn't touch this machine. I didn't hurt this old antique. Why don't you let me go Walk?"

"It may be considered a premeditated homicide," said Holmes. "But this is not our business. Someone will take care of it next step. The main thing we want is to catch you. Watson, go to the police station. They should have been waiting long ago."

The above is the case about the murderer Evans and the three people with the same surname he fabricated.We later heard that the client, unable to bear the thrill of disillusionment, had gone mad and ended up in a sanitarium in Briskerton.The discovery of Prescott's money-printing equipment was cause for celebration for the police department, which, despite knowing it existed, was never able to find it after his death.Evans did serve a service that allowed several intelligence officers to sleep in peace, for the counterfeiter was a sophisticated criminal who was a special danger to society.The few of them were quite willing to apply for the plate-sized medal for Evans, but unfortunately the court did not appreciate him that much, so the murderer returned to the place where he had just been released.

Thor Bridge Mystery

In the bank vaults of Cox & Co. Ltd., Charing Cross Road, there is an old, well-carried lead file box with my name inscribed: John Watson, M.D., ex-Indian Army .It was full of papers, almost all of which were records of cases investigated by Mr. Sherlock Holmes at different times.Some interesting cases have never been successfully investigated, and because there is no ending, they cannot be described.Unsolved puzzles may be interesting for researchers, but they will inevitably be boring for ordinary readers.Take, for example, the case of James Phillimore, a gentleman who went back into his house to fetch an umbrella and disappeared from the world.There was also the case of the little motorboat Alicia, which sailed into a little mist one spring morning and was never seen again, and was never heard from her occupants.Then there was the case of Isadora Besano, a well-known journalist and duelist who suddenly lost his mind one day, staring at a matchbox containing a strange, nameless worm.There were also cases involving the privacy of certain families which, if published, would have alarmed many in high society.It goes without saying that I would never do something like that to give away a secret.There are also a considerable number of files, of various degrees of interest, which I could have edited and published, but which I have not compiled, considering that an excessive reading might affect the reputation of a person whom I particularly respect.In some of these cases, I have participated in the handling of the cases and can speak as a witness; in some cases, I have not participated, or have only slightly intervened, so I can only narrate as a third party.The following story is my personal experience.

It was a blustery morning in October.As I got up and dressed, I watched the wind blow away the remaining leaves from the tall sycamore tree in the backyard.I went downstairs to breakfast, thinking that my friend must be unhappy, for, like all great artists, his mood is susceptible to circumstances.Unexpectedly, he had almost finished his breakfast, and he was in a particularly cheerful mood, with a restlessness that he couldn't restrain when he was happy.

"Another case in hand, Holmes?" I asked.

"Deduction is contagious, Watson," he replied, "and you have also used deduction to study my secret. Yes, there is a case. After a month of tedious and suffocating stagnation, we again It's time to go."

"Can I participate?"

"There's not much action to take part in, but we can talk about it until you eat the hard-boiled eggs that the new cook cooks for us. The eggs are just as hot as the Home Magazine I saw yesterday on the table in the front hall." Relationships. Even small things like cooking an egg require time to be counted, but the love story in that good magazine does not care about the span of time."

A quarter of an hour later the table was removed and we sat face to face.He took a letter out of his pocket.

"You've heard of Neil Gibson, the gold mine magnate?" he asked.

"You mean the United States Senator?"

"Yes, he was once a senator from a western state, but he is better known as the largest gold mining magnate in the world."

"I've heard of this man. Hasn't he lived a good deal of time in England? Almost everyone knows his name."

"No, he bought a sizeable farm in Hampshire five years ago. Surely you know something about the murder of his wife?"

"I remember. That's why he's known. But I only know a little."

"I didn't expect this case to come to me, otherwise I would have finished the brief," he waved his hand at the stack of papers on the chair, "actually, although the case was a sensation, the plot was It is simple and clear. The accused, though lovable, cannot conceal the evidence. Both the coroner's jury and the prosecution in the Police Court are inclined to this point. The case is difficult and has been referred to Winchester Assizes Court, in my opinion I have a hunch that something is wrong, and unless I find enough convincing evidence, my client has little chance of winning."

"Your client?"

"Oh, I forgot to tell you. Watson, your upside-down narrative style has also infected me. Please read this letter first."

He handed me a rough letter, which read:

Lessons from Mr. Holmes:

I can't watch the kindest woman in the world die without doing everything in my power to save her.I cannot explain, nor attempt to explain, but I know for certain that Miss Dunbar is innocent.You know what happened -- who wouldn't?The matter has become national news.But no one stood up to speak for her!It's this injustice that almost drives me crazy.This woman is so kind-hearted that she can't even kill a fly.I will be visiting tomorrow morning at eleven o'clock. I wonder if you can find light in the darkness.Maybe I know a clue and I'm not aware of it.But anyway, everything I know, everything I have, all my life, is available to you if you can save her.I implore you to use your extraordinary wisdom to save her.

Neil Gibson

Claridge's Hotel, October [-]rd

"You see, here is the letter." Holmes knocked out the ashes of his pipe which he had smoked after breakfast, and slowly filled another pipe with tobacco. "This is the gentleman I am waiting for. As for the plot, you have not Time has so many newspapers at once, and if you are interested in the logic of the case, I'd better give you a brief account. This man, in my opinion, is the most powerful financial magnate in the world, and at the same time the most violent and the most formidable character. He married a wife, the victim of this tragedy, of whom I know only that she was past middle age, and that by the presence of a lovely young governess of two children, The position of the mistress is threatened. These three are the protagonists, and the place is an old manor house, which was the center of British political history. Tragedy: The mistress is found killed by a bullet at the end of a bridge nearly half a mile from the house. The pistol bullet had pierced the brain, and it was night, and she was wearing evening dress and shawl. No weapons were found nearby, and there was no clue of any murder at the scene. No weapons were around, take note of that, Watson. The murder seemed to have been committed at night. , the body was found by the rangers at eleven o'clock in the evening, and was examined by the police and doctors before being carried home. That may be too brief, do you understand?"

"The situation is clear. But why suspect the governess?"

"First of all, there is clear evidence. A one-shot pistol was found on the floor of her closet, the caliber of which was the same as the bullet in the corpse." At this moment, he looked straight at him, and repeated the words, "in The baseboard of her wardrobe." Then he fell silent again.I could see that something was going on in his head, and it would be reckless to interrupt him.Suddenly, he woke up again, "Yes, Watson, the pistol was found. The evidence is conclusive and beyond repudiation. Both juries agreed. In addition, there is a note on the deceased, asking her to be at the end of the bridge." Meet, undersigned by the governess. Well? This time the motive is stated. Senator Gibson is an attractive man. If his wife were to die, who else would Who is more hopeful to be the future hostess? Love, property, status, everything depends on the death of a middle-aged woman. Vicious, really vicious!"

"Indeed, Holmes."

"In addition, she could not provide evidence of an alibi. On the contrary, she had to admit that she had been to the Thunder God Bridge shortly before the accident time-the location of the tragedy. She could not deny it because the villagers passing by saw her appear there. place."

"It seems that the case can be settled."

"And yet, Watson, yet! The bridge is a broad stone bridge, with stone balustrades, and it spans the narrowest part of a deep and long pond lined with reeds. It is called Thor's Pond. At the head of the bridge lie The dead body. That is the basic fact. However, I think our client has come, much earlier than the appointed time."

Billy had already opened the door, but the name he announced was unexpected.It was Mr. Marlowe Bates, whom none of us knew.He was a lean, nervous man, with frightened eyes and a quick, hesitant demeanor—a man on the verge of a nervous breakdown, in my medical sense.

"You are very excited, Mr. Bates," said Holmes. "Sit down, please. I can only talk to you a little while, as I have a visitor at eleven o'clock."

"I know," gasped the visitor, speaking in staccato breathlessness, "Mr. Gibson is coming. He's my employer. I'm manager of his farm. Mr. Holmes, he's a bully." , a big bully."

"Is it so serious, Mr. Bates?"

"Excuse my words, I cannot control my emotions. Time is limited, and I must not let him find me here. He will be here soon. But I have no conditions to come early. His secretary, Mr. Ferguson, only told this morning I asked him to talk to you."

"And you're his manager?"

"I have tendered my resignation. I shall be out of his bondage in a week or two. He is a cruel man, cruel to everyone. His donations to charity are only a cover for his crimes. His wife is The chief victim. He was cruel to her, cruel! How she died I don't know, but I dare say he made her life miserable. She was tropical, Brazilian, of course you know."

"I haven't heard of that."

"She was born in the tropics, with a tropical character. Daughter of heat, daughter of passion. She loved him with such passion, but when she grew old--I've heard she was very beautiful--she Just never got his favor again. We all liked her and sympathized with her and hated how badly he treated her. But he was very talkative and cunning. That's what I'm telling you. Don't listen to his smooth talk, his stomach There's something worse in there. I'm going. No! Don't keep me! Here he comes."

The guest glanced at the clock in horror, then ran out the door.

"Look at the matter! The matter!" said Holmes, after a pause. "Mr. Gibson appears to have had a very devoted family, but the warning is in order. Now I shall wait for my arrival."

At exactly eleven o'clock we heard heavy footsteps on the stairs, and the celebrated millionaire was let in.At first sight, I understood not only the horror and loathing of his manager, but also the curse of his countless business rivals.If I were a sculptor and wanted to create a typical successful entrepreneur, a man of iron will and a heart of stone, I would choose Mr. Neil Gibson as my model.His tall, bony figure gave off a sense of hunger and greed.To uglify the nobility of the portrait of Abraham Lincoln into meanness is a little like him.His face seemed to be a rough, unforgiving head carved out of granite, deeply wrinkled and scarred, expressing a life of peril.His cold gray eyes, shining shrewdly under their bushy brows, looked us up and down.When Holmes introduced my name, he made a slight bow, and then with dignified composure drew up a chair and sat down directly facing my friend, knees almost touching.

"Let me be frank, Mr. Holmes," he opened his mouth. "I have no regard for the cost of this case. You can use the banknotes as a torch, if you need to illuminate the truth. This woman is innocent, and this woman is innocent." The woman's grievances must be washed away, and this is your responsibility. You raise the fee!"

"My business charges are fixed," said Holmes grimly, "and I never vary them, except sometimes for nothing."

"Well, if money doesn't matter to you, consider fame. If you succeed in this case, the newspapers all over England and all over the United States will praise you. You will be the head of news on two continents."

"Thank you, Mr. Gibson, but I don't need flattery. You may find it strange that I prefer to work in anonymity. I'm interested in the problem itself. It's a waste of time. Tell the facts."

"As far as I can tell, the papers have already covered the main points. I'm afraid I can't help you with anything new. But if there's anything you ask for clarification, I'm here to answer it."

"Well, just a little bit."

"What is it?"

"What is your relationship with Miss Dunbar?"

The King of Gold jumped up from his chair with a start, and then resumed his great composure.

"I think you have a right to ask that question, perhaps in the discharge of your duty, Mr. Holmes."

"I agree with your idea."

(End of this chapter)