“He wanted to get our amiable friend out of his room—thatvery clear, and, as the collector never went out, it took someplanning to do it. The whole of this Garrideb invention wasapparently for no other end. I must say, Watson, that there iscertain devilish ingenuity about it, even if the queer name ofthe tenant did give him an opening which he could hardly haveexpected. He wove his plot with remarkable cunning.
“But what did he want?”
“Well, that is what we are here to find out. It has nothingwhatever to do with our client, so far as I can read the situation.
is something connected with the man he murdered—the manwho may have been his confederate in crime. There is some guiltysecret in the room. That is how I read it. At first I thought ourfriend might have something in his collection more valuable thanhe knew—something worth the attention of a big criminal. Butthe fact that Rodger Prescott of evil memory inhabited theserooms points to some deeper reason. Well, Watson, we can butpossess our souls in patience and see what the hour may bring.”
The Case Book of Sherlock Holmes 1323
That hour was not long in striking. We crouched closer in theshadow as we heard the outer door open and shut. Then came thesharp, metallic snap of a key, and the American was in the room.
He closed the door softly behind him, took a sharp glance aroundhim to see that all was safe, threw off his overcoat, and walkedup to the central table with the brisk manner of one who knowsexactly what he has to do and how to do it. He pushed the tableto one side, tore up the square of carpet on which it rested, rolledit completely back, and then, drawing a jemmy from his insidepocket, he knelt down and worked vigorously upon the floor.
Presently we heard the sound of sliding boards, and an instantlater a square had opened in the planks. Killer Evans struck amatch, lit a stump of candle, and vanished from our view.
Clearly our moment had come. Holmes touched my wrist as asignal, and together we stole across to the open trap-door. Gentlyas we moved, however, the old floor must have creaked underour feet, for the head of our American, peering anxiously round,emerged suddenly from the open space. His face turned upon uswith a glare of baffled rage, which gradually softened into a rathershamefaced grin as he realized that two pistols were pointed at hishead.
“Well, well!” said he coolly as he scrambled to the surface. “Iguess you have been one too many for me, Mr. Holmes. Sawthrough my game, I suppose, and played me for a sucker from thefirst. Well, sir, I hand it to you; you have me beat and——”
In an instant he had whisked out a revolver from his breast andhad fired two shots. I felt a sudden hot sear as if a red-hot iron hadbeen pressed to my thigh. There was a crash as Holmes’s pistolcame down on the man’s head. I had a vision of him sprawlingupon the floor with blood running down his face while Holmesrummaged him for weapons. Then my friend’s wiry arms wereround me, and he was leading me to a chair.
“You’re not hurt, Watson? For God’s sake, say that you are nothurt!”
It was worth a wound—it was worth many wounds—to knowthe depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. Theclear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips wereshaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a greatheart as well as of a great brain. All my years of humble but singlemindedservice culminated in that moment of revelation.
“It’s nothing, Holmes. It’s a mere scratch.”
He had ripped up my trousers with his pocket-knife.
“You are right,” he cried with an immense sigh of relief. “It isquite superficial.” His face set like flint as he glared at our prisoner,who was sitting up with a dazed face. “By the Lord, it is as well for1324 The Complete Sherlock Holmes
you. If you had killed Watson, you would not have got out of thisroom alive. Now, sir, what have you to say for yourself?”
He had nothing to say for himself. He only sat and scowled. Ileaned on Holmes’s arm, and together we looked down into thesmall cellar which had been disclosed by the secret flap. It wasstill illuminated by the candle which Evans had taken down withhim. Our eyes fell upon a mass of rusted machinery, great rolls ofpaper, a litter of bottles, and, neatly arranged upon a small table, anumber of neat little bundles.
“A printing press—a counterfeiter’s outfit,” said Holmes.
“Yes, sir,” said our prisoner, staggering slowly to his feet andthen sinking into the chair. “The greatest counterfeiter Londonever saw. That’s Prescott’s machine, and those bundles on the tableare two thousand of Prescott’s notes worth a hundred each and fitto pass anywhere. Help yourselves, gentlemen. Call it a deal andlet me beat it.”
Holmes laughed.
“We don’t do things like that, Mr. Evans. There is no boltholefor you in this country. You shot this man Prescott, did you not?”
“Yes, sir, and got five years for it, though it was he who pulled onme. Five years—when I should have had a medal the size of a soupplate. No living man could tell a Prescott from a Bank of England,and if I hadn’t put him out he would have flooded London withthem. I was the only one in the world who knew where he madethem. Can you wonder that I wanted to get to the place? And canyou wonder that when I found this crazy boob of a bug-hunterwith the queer name squatting right on the top of it, and neverquitting his room, I had to do the best I could to shift him? Maybewould have been wiser if I had put him away. It would have beeneasy enough, but I’m a soft-hearted guy that can’t begin shootingunless the other man has a gun also. But say, Mr. Holmes, whathave I done wrong, anyhow? I’ve not used this plant. I’ve not hurtthis old stiff. Where do you get me?”
“Only attempted murder, so far as I can see,” said Holmes.
But that’s not our job. They take that at the next stage. What wewanted at present was just your sweet self. Please give the Yard acall, Watson. It won’t be entirely unexpected.”