"I am inclined to think—" said I.
"I should do so," Sherlock Holmes remarked
impatiently.
I believe that I am one of the most long-suffering of
mortals; but I'll admit that I was annoyed at the sardonic
interruption. "Really, Holmes," said I severely, "you are a little
trying at times."
He was too much absorbed with his own thoughts to give any
immediate answer to my remonstrance. He leaned upon his hand, with
his untasted breakfast before him, and he stared at the slip of
paper which he had just drawn from its envelope. Then he took the
envelope itself, held it up to the light, and very carefully
studied both the exterior and the flap.
"It is Porlock's writing," said he thoughtfully. "I can
hardly doubt that it is Porlock's writing, though I have seen it
only twice before. The Greek e with the peculiar top flourish is
distinctive. But if it is Porlock, then it must be something of the
very first importance."
He was speaking to himself rather than to me; but my vexation
disappeared in the interest which the words awakened.
"Who then is Porlock?" I asked.
"Porlock, Watson, is a nom-de-plume, a mere identification
mark; but behind it lies a shifty and evasive personality. In a
former letter he frankly informed me that the name was not his own,
and defied me ever to trace him among the teeming millions of this
great city. Porlock is important, not for himself, but for the
great man with whom he is in touch. Picture to yourself the pilot
fish with the shark, the jackal with the lion—anything that is
insignificant in companionship with what is formidable: not only
formidable, Watson, but sinister—in the highest degree sinister.
That is where he comes within my purview. You have heard me speak
of Professor Moriarty?"
"The famous scientific criminal, as famous among crooks
as—"
"My blushes, Watson!" Holmes murmured in a deprecating
voice.
"I was about to say, as he is unknown to the
public."
"A touch! A distinct touch!" cried Holmes. "You are
developing a certain unexpected vein of pawky humour, Watson,
against which I must learn to guard myself. But in calling Moriarty
a criminal you are uttering libel in the eyes of the law—and there
lie the glory and the wonder of it! The greatest schemer of all
time, the organizer of every deviltry, the controlling brain of the
underworld, a brain which might have made or marred the destiny of
nations—that's the man! But so aloof is he from general suspicion,
so immune from criticism, so admirable in his management and
self-effacement, that for those very words that you have uttered he
could hale you to a court and emerge with your year's pension as a
solatium for his wounded character. Is he not the celebrated author
of The Dynamics of an Asteroid, a book which ascends to such
rarefied heights of pure mathematics that it is said that there was
no man in the scientific press capable of criticizing it? Is this a
man to traduce? Foul-mouthed doctor and slandered professor—such
would be your respective roles! That's genius, Watson. But if I am
spared by lesser men, our day will surely come."
"May I be there to see!" I exclaimed devoutly. "But you were
speaking of this man Porlock."
"Ah, yes—the so-called Porlock is a link in the chain some
little way from its great attachment. Porlock is not quite a sound
link—between ourselves. He is the only flaw in that chain so far as
I have been able to test it."
"But no chain is stronger than its weakest
link."
"Exactly, my dear Watson! Hence the extreme importance of
Porlock. Led on by some rudimentary aspirations towards right, and
encouraged by the judicious stimulation of an occasional ten-pound
note sent to him by devious methods, he has once or twice given me
advance information which has been of value—that highest value
which anticipates and prevents rather than avenges crime. I cannot
doubt that, if we had the cipher, we should find that this
communication is of the nature that I indicate."
Again Holmes flattened out the paper upon his unused plate. I
rose and, leaning over him, stared down at the curious inscription,
which ran as follows:
534 C2 13 127 36 31 4 17 21 41 DOUGLAS 109 293 5 37 BIRLSTONE
26 BIRLSTONE 9 47 171
"What do you make of it, Holmes?"
"It is obviously an attempt to convey secret
information."
"But what is the use of a cipher message without the
cipher?"
"In this instance, none at all."
"Why do you say 'in this instance'?"
"Because there are many ciphers which I would read as easily
as I do the apocrypha of the agony column: such crude devices amuse
the intelligence without fatiguing it. But this is different. It is
clearly a reference to the words in a page of some book. Until I am
told which page and which book I am powerless."
"But why 'Douglas' and 'Birlstone'?"
"Clearly because those are words which were not contained in
the page in question."
"Then why has he not indicated the book?"
"Your native shrewdness, my dear Watson, that innate cunning
which is the delight of your friends, would surely prevent you from
inclosing cipher and message in the same envelope. Should it
miscarry, you are undone. As it is, both have to go wrong before
any harm comes from it. Our second post is now overdue, and I shall
be surprised if it does not bring us either a further letter of
explanation, or, as is more probable, the very volume to which
these figures refer."
Holmes's calculation was fulfilled within a very few minutes
by the appearance of Billy, the page, with the very letter which we
were expecting.
"The same writing," remarked Holmes, as he opened the
envelope, "and actually signed," he added in an exultant voice as
he unfolded the epistle. "Come, we are getting on, Watson." His
brow clouded, however, as he glanced over the
contents.
"Dear me, this is very disappointing! I fear, Watson, that
all our expectations come to nothing. I trust that the man Porlock
will come to no harm.
"DEAR MR. HOLMES [he says]:
"I will go no further in this matter. It is too dangerous—he
suspects me. I can see that he suspects me. He came to me quite
unexpectedly after I had actually addressed this envelope with the
intention of sending you the key to the cipher. I was able to cover
it up. If he had seen it, it would have gone hard with me. But I
read suspicion in his eyes. Please burn the cipher message, which
can now be of no use to you.
"FRED PORLOCK."
Holmes sat for some little time twisting this letter between
his fingers, and frowning, as he stared into the fire.
"After all," he said at last, "there may be nothing in it. It
may be only his guilty conscience. Knowing himself to be a traitor,
he may have read the accusation in the other's eyes."
"The other being, I presume, Professor
Moriarty."
"No less! When any of that party talk about 'He' you know
whom they mean. There is one predominant 'He' for all of
them."
"But what can he do?"
"Hum! That's a large question. When you have one of the first
brains of Europe up against you, and all the powers of darkness at
his back, there are infinite possibilities. Anyhow, Friend Porlock
is evidently scared out of his senses—kindly compare the writing in
the note to that upon its envelope; which was done, he tells us,
before this ill-omened visit. The one is clear and firm. The other
hardly legible."
"Why did he write at all? Why did he not simply drop
it?"
"Because he feared I would make some inquiry after him in
that case, and possibly bring trouble on him."
"No doubt," said I. "Of course." I had picked up the original
cipher message and was bending my brows over it. "It's pretty
maddening to think that an important secret may lie here on this
slip of paper, and that it is beyond human power to penetrate
it."
Sherlock Holmes had pushed away his untasted breakfast and
lit the unsavoury pipe which was the companion of his deepest
meditations. "I wonder!" said he, leaning back and staring at the
ceiling. "Perhaps there are points which have escaped your
Machiavellian intellect. Let us consider the problem in the light
of pure reason. This man's reference is to a book. That is our
point of departure."
"A somewhat vague one."
"Let us see then if we can narrow it down. As I focus my mind
upon it, it seems rather less impenetrable. What indications have
we as to this book?"
"None."
"Well, well, it is surely not quite so bad as that. The
cipher message begins with a large 534, does it not? We may take it
as a working hypothesis that 534 is the particular page to which
the cipher refers. So our book has already become a LARGE book,
which is surely something gained. What other indications have we as
to the nature of this large book? The next sign is C2. What do you
make of that, Watson?"
"Chapter the second, no doubt."
"Hardly that, Watson. You will, I am sure, agree with me that
if the page be given, the number of the chapter is immaterial. Also
that if page 534 finds us only in the second chapter, the length of
the first one must have been really intolerable."
"Column!" I cried.
"Brilliant, Watson. You are scintillating this morning. If it
is not column, then I am very much deceived. So now, you see, we
begin to visualize a large book printed in double columns which are
each of a considerable length, since one of the words is numbered
in the document as the two hundred and ninety-third. Have we
reached the limits of what reason can supply?"
"I fear that we have."
"Surely you do yourself an injustice. One more coruscation,
my dear Watson—yet another brain-wave! Had the volume been an
unusual one, he would have sent it to me. Instead of that, he had
intended, before his plans were nipped, to send me the clue in this
envelope. He says so in his note. This would seem to indicate that
the book is one which he thought I would have no difficulty in
finding for myself. He had it—and he imagined that I would have it,
too. In short, Watson, it is a very common book."
"What you say certainly sounds plausible."
"So we have contracted our field of search to a large book,
printed in double columns and in common use."
"The Bible!" I cried triumphantly.
"Good, Watson, good! But not, if I may say so, quite good
enough! Even if I accepted the compliment for myself I could hardly
name any volume which would be less likely to lie at the elbow of
one of Moriarty's associates. Besides, the editions of Holy Writ
are so numerous that he could hardly suppose that two copies would
have the same pagination. This is clearly a book which is
standardized. He knows for certain that his page 534 will exactly
agree with my page 534."
"But very few books would correspond with that."
"Exactly. Therein lies our salvation. Our search is narrowed
down to standardized books which anyone may be supposed to
possess."
"Bradshaw!"
"There are difficulties, Watson. The vocabulary of Bradshaw
is nervous and terse, but limited. The selection of words would
hardly lend itself to the sending of general messages. We will
eliminate Bradshaw. The dictionary is, I fear, inadmissible for the
same reason. What then is left?"
"An almanac!"
"Excellent, Watson! I am very much mistaken if you have not
touched the spot. An almanac! Let us consider the claims of
Whitaker's Almanac. It is in common use. It has the requisite
number of pages. It is in double column. Though reserved in its
earlier vocabulary, it becomes, if I remember right, quite
garrulous towards the end." He picked the volume from his desk.
"Here is page 534, column two, a substantial block of print
dealing, I perceive, with the trade and resources of British India.
Jot down the words, Watson! Number thirteen is 'Mahratta.' Not, I
fear, a very auspicious beginning. Number one hundred and
twenty-seven is 'Government'; which at least makes sense, though
somewhat irrelevant to ourselves and Professor Moriarty. Now let us
try again. What does the Mahratta government do? Alas! the next
word is 'pig's-bristles.' We are undone, my good Watson! It is
finished!"
He had spoken in jesting vein, but the twitching of his bushy
eyebrows bespoke his disappointment and irritation. I sat helpless
and unhappy, staring into the fire. A long silence was broken by a
sudden exclamation from Holmes, who dashed at a cupboard, from
which he emerged with a second yellow-covered volume in his
hand.
"We pay the price, Watson, for being too up-to-date!" he
cried. "We are before our time, and suffer the usual penalties.
Being the seventh of January, we have very properly laid in the new
almanac. It is more than likely that Porlock took his message from
the old one. No doubt he would have told us so had his letter of
explanation been written. Now let us see what page 534 has in store
for us. Number thirteen is 'There,' which is much more promising.
Number one hundred and twenty-seven is 'is'—'There is' "—Holmes's
eyes were gleaming with excitement, and his thin, nervous fingers
twitched as he counted the words—"'danger.' Ha! Ha! Capital! Put
that down, Watson. 'There is danger—may—come—very soon—one.' Then
we have the name 'Douglas'—'rich—country—now—at
Birlstone—House—Birlstone—confidence—is—pressing.' There, Watson!
What do you think of pure reason and its fruit? If the green-grocer
had such a thing as a laurel wreath, I should send Billy round for
it."
I was staring at the strange message which I had scrawled, as
he deciphered it, upon a sheet of foolscap on my knee.
"What a queer, scrambling way of expressing his meaning!"
said I.
"On the contrary, he has done quite remarkably well," said
Holmes. "When you search a single column for words with which to
express your meaning, you can hardly expect to get everything you
want. You are bound to leave something to the intelligence of your
correspondent. The purport is perfectly clear. Some deviltry is
intended against one Douglas, whoever he may be, residing as
stated, a rich country gentleman. He is sure—'confidence' was as
near as he could get to 'confident'—that it is pressing. There is
our result—and a very workmanlike little bit of analysis it
was!"
Holmes had the impersonal joy of the true artist in his
better work, even as he mourned darkly when it fell below the high
level to which he aspired. He was still chuckling over his success
when Billy swung open the door and Inspector MacDonald of Scotland
Yard was ushered into the room.
Those were the early days at the end of the '80's, when Alec
MacDonald was far from having attained the national fame which he
has now achieved. He was a young but trusted member of the
detective force, who had distinguished himself in several cases
which had been intrusted to him. His tall, bony figure gave promise
of exceptional physical strength, while his great cranium and
deep-set, lustrous eyes spoke no less clearly of the keen
intelligence which twinkled out from behind his bushy eyebrows. He
was a silent, precise man with a dour nature and a hard Aberdonian
accent.
Twice already in his career had Holmes helped him to attain
success, his own sole reward being the intellectual joy of the
problem. For this reason the affection and respect of the Scotchman
for his amateur colleague were profound, and he showed them by the
frankness with which he consulted Holmes in every difficulty.
Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself; but talent instantly
recognizes genius, and MacDonald had talent enough for his
profession to enable him to perceive that there was no humiliation
in seeking the assistance of one who already stood alone in Europe,
both in his gifts and in his experience. Holmes was not prone to
friendship, but he was tolerant of the big Scotchman, and smiled at
the sight of him.
"You are an early bird, Mr. Mac," said he. "I wish you luck
with your worm. I fear this means that there is some mischief
afoot."
"If you said 'hope' instead of 'fear,' it would be nearer the
truth, I'm thinking, Mr. Holmes," the inspector answered, with a
knowing grin. "Well, maybe a wee nip would keep out the raw morning
chill. No, I won't smoke, I thank you. I'll have to be pushing on
my way; for the early hours of a case are the precious ones, as no
man knows better than your own self. But—but—"
The inspector had stopped suddenly, and was staring with a
look of absolute amazement at a paper upon the table. It was the
sheet upon which I had scrawled the enigmatic message.
"Douglas!" he stammered. "Birlstone! What's this, Mr. Holmes?
Man, it's witchcraft! Where in the name of all that is wonderful
did you get those names?"
"It is a cipher that Dr. Watson and I have had occasion to
solve. But why—what's amiss with the names?"
The inspector looked from one to the other of us in dazed
astonishment. "Just this," said he, "that Mr. Douglas of Birlstone
Manor House was horribly murdered last night!"