The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes (35 page)

gazing out of the window, my fingers drumming idly on the half-lowered pane, which was

already befogged with moisture, when my thoughts were recalled by a sharp ejaculation from

my companion. He was staring fixedly over my shoulder.

"The glass," he muttered.

Over the clouded surface there now lay an intricate tracery of whorls and lines where my

finger had wandered aimlessly.

Holmes clapped his hand to his brow and, throwing open the other window, he shouted

an order to the cabby. The vehicle turned in its tracks and, with the driver lashing at his

horse, we clattered away into the thickening gloom.

"Ah, Watson, Watson, true it is that none are so blind as those who will not see!" quoted

Holmes bitterly, sinking back into his corner. "All the facts were there, staring me in the face,

and yet logic failed to respond."

"What facts?"

"There are nine. Four alone should have sufficed. Here is a man from Cuba, who not

only trains canaries in a singular manner but knows the call of tropical night-birds and keeps a

fireplace in his bedroom. There is devilry here, Watson. Stop, cabby, stop!"

We were passing a junction of two busy thoroughfares, with the golden balls of a pawnshop

glimmering above a street-lamp. Holmes sprang out. But after a few minutes, he was back

again and we recommenced our journey.

"It is fortunate that we are still in the City," he chuckled, "for I fancy that the East End

pawnshops are unlikely to run to golf-clubs."

"Good heavens—!" I began, only to lapse into silence while I stared down at the heavy

niblick which he had thrust into my hand. The first shadows of some vague and monstrous

horror seemed to rise up and creep over my mind.

"We are too early," exclaimed Holmes, consulting his watch. "A sandwich and a glass of

whisky at the first public house will not come amiss."

The clock on St. Nicholas Church was striking ten when we found ourselves once again in

that evil-smelling garden. Through the mist, the dark gloom of the house was broken by a

single feeble light in an upper window. "It is Miss Wilson's room," said Holmes. "Let us

hope that this handful of gravel will rouse her without alarming the household."

An instant later, there came the sound of an opening window.

"Who is there?" demanded a tremulous voice.

"It is Sherlock Holmes," my friend called back softly. "I must speak with you at once, Miss

Wilson. Is there a side door?"

"There is one in the wall to your left. But what has happened?"

"Pray descend immediately. Not a word to your uncle."

We felt our way along the wall and reached the door just as it opened to disclose Miss

Wilson. She was in her dressing-gown, her hair tumbled about her shoulders and, as her startled

eyes peered at us across the light of the candle in her hand, the shadows danced and

trembled on the wall behind her.

"What is it, Mr. Holmes?" she gasped.

"All will be well, if you carry out my instructions," my friend replied quietly. "Where is

your uncle?"

"He is in his room."

"Good. While Dr. Watson and I occupy your room, you will move into your late brother's

bedchamber. If you value your life," he added solemnly, "you will not attempt to leave it."

"You frighten me!" she whimpered.

"Rest assured that we will take care of you. And now two final questions before you retire.

Has your uncle visited you this evening?"

"Yes. He brought Peperino and put him with the other birds in the cage in my room. He said

that as it was my last night at home I should have the best entertainment that he had the power

to give me."

"Ha! Quite so. Your last night. Tell me, Miss Wilson, do you suffer at all from the same

malady as your mother and brother?"

"A weak heart? I must confess it, yes."

"Well, we will accompany you quietly upstairs where you will retire to the adjoining room.

Come, Watson."

Guided by the light of Janet Wilson's candle, we mounted silently to the floor above and

thence into the bedchamber which Holmes had previously examined.

While we waited for our companion to collect her things from the adjoining room, Holmes

strolled across and, lifting the edge of the cloths which now covered the two bird-cages, peered in

at the tiny sleeping occupants.

"The evil of man is as inventive as it is immeasurable," said he, and I noticed that his face

was very stern.

On Miss Wilson's return, having seen that she was safely ensconced for the night, I

followed Holmes into the room which she had lately occupied. It was a small chamber but

comfortably furnished and lit by a heavy silver oil-lamp. Immediately above a tiled Dutch

stove there hung a cage containing three canaries which, momentarily ceasing their song,

cocked their little golden heads at our approach.

"I think, Watson, that it would be as well to relax for half an hour," whispered Holmes as

we sank into our chairs. "So kindly put out the light."

"But, my dear fellow, if there is any danger it would be an act of madness!" I protested.

"There is no danger in the darkness."

"Would it not be better," I said severely, "that you were frank with me? You have made it

obvious that the birds are being put to some evil purpose, but what is this danger that exists only

in the lamplight?"

"I have my own ideas on that matter, Watson, but it is better that we should wait and see. I

would draw your attention, however, to the hinged lid of the stoke-hole on the top of the

stove."

"It appears to be a perfectly normal fitting."

"Just so. But is there not some significance in the fact that the stoke-hole of an iron stove

should be fitted with a tin lid?"

"Great heavens, Holmes!" I cried, as the light of understanding burst upon me. "You mean that

this man Wilson has used the inter-connecting pipes from the stove in the cellar to those in the

bedrooms to disseminate some deadly poison to wipe out his own kith and kin and thus obtain

the property. It is for that reason that he has a fireplace in his own bedroom. I see it all."

"Well, you are not far wrong, Watson, though I fancy that Master Theobold is rather

more subtle than you suppose. He possesses the two qualities vital to the successful murderer

—ruthlessness and imagination. But now, douse the light like a good fellow and for a while let

us relax. If my reading of the problem is correct, our nerves may be tested to their limit before

we see tomorrow's dawn."

I lay back in the darkness and drawing some comfort from the thought that ever since the

affair with Colonel Sebastian Moran I had carried my revolver in my pocket, I sought in my

mind for some explanation that would account for the warning contained in Holmes's words.

But I must have been wearier than I had imagined. My thoughts grew more and more

confused and finally I dozed off.

It was a touch upon my arm that awoke me. The lamp had been relit and my friend was

bending over me, his long black shadow thrown upon the ceiling.

"Sorry to disturb you, Watson," he whispered. "But duty calls."

"What do you wish me to do?"

"Sit still and listen. Peperino is singing."

It was a vigil that I shall long remember. Holmes had tilted the lamp-shade, so that the light

fell on the opposite wall broken by the window and the great tiled stove with its hanging bird-

cage. The fog had thickened and the rays from the lamp, filtering through the window-glass, lost

themselves in luminous clouds that swirled and boiled against the panes. My mind darkened

by a premonition of evil, I would have found our surroundings melancholy enough without the

eerie sound that was rising and falling from the canary cage. It was a kind of whistling beginning

with a low, throaty warble and slowly ascending to a single chord that rang through the

room like the note of a great wineglass, a sound so mesmeric in its repetition that almost

imperceptibly the present seemed to melt away and my imagination to reach out beyond

those fogbound windows into the dark, lush depth of some exotic jungle. I had lost all count of

time, and it was only the stillness following the sudden cessation of the bird's song that

brought me back to reality. I glanced across the room and, in an instant, my heart gave one

great throb and then seemed to stop beating altogether.

The lid of the stove was slowly rising.

My friends will agree that I am neither a nervous nor an impressionable man but I must

confess that, as I sat there gripping the sides of my chair and glaring at the dreadful thing that

was gradually clambering into view, my limbs momentarily refused their functions.

The lid had tilted back an inch or more and through the gap thus created a writhing mass of

yellow, stick-like objects was clawing and scrabbling for a hold. And then, in a flash, it was out

and standing motionless upon the surface of the stove.

Though I have always viewed with horror the bird-eating tarantulas of South America, they

shrank into insignificance when compared with the loathsome creature that faced us now across

that lamplit room. It was bigger in its spread than a large dinner-plate, with a hard, smooth,

yellow body surrounded by legs that, rising high above it, conveyed a fearful impression that

the thing was crouching for its spring. It was absolutely hairless save for tufts of stiff bristles

around the leg-joints and, above the glint of its great poison mandibles, clusters of beady eyes

shone in the light with a baleful red iridescence.

"Don't move, Watson," whispered Holmes, and there was a note of horror in his voice that I

had never heard before.

The sound roused the creature for, in a single lightning bound, it sprang from the stove to

the top of the birdcage and, reaching the wall, whizzed round the room and over the ceiling

with a dreadful febrile swiftness that the eye could scarcely follow.

Holmes flung himself forward like a man possessed.

"Kill it! Smash it!" he yelled hoarsely, raining blow after blow with his golf-club at the

blurred shape racing across the walls.

Dust from broken plaster choked the air and a table crashed over as I flung myself to the

ground when the great spider cleared the room in a single leap and turned at bay. Holmes

bounded across me, swinging his club. "Keep where you are!" he shouted and even as his voice

rang through the room, the thud . . . thud . . . thud of the blows was broken by a horrible

squelching sound. For an instant, the creature hung there and then, slipping slowly down, it lay

like a mess of smashed eggs with three thin, bony legs still twitching and plucking at the floor.

"Thank God that it missed you when it sprang!" I gasped, scrambling to my feet.

He made no reply and glancing up I caught a glimpse of his face reflected in a wall mirror.

He looked pale and strained and there was a curious rigidity in his expression.

"I am afraid it's up to you, Watson," he said quietly. "It has a mate."

I spun round to be greeted by a spectacle that I shall remember for the rest of my days.

Sherlock Holmes was standing perfectly still within two feet of the stove and on top of it,

reared up on its back legs, its loathsome body shuddering for the spring, stood another

monstrous spider.

I knew instinctively that any sudden movement would merely precipitate
the creature's leap

and so, carefully drawing my revolver from my pocket, I fired pointblank.

Through the powder-smoke, I saw the thing shrink into itself and then, toppling slowly

backwards, it fell through the open lid of the stove. There was a rasping, slithering sound rapidly

fading away into silence.

"It's fallen down the pipe," I cried, conscious that my hands were now shaking under a

strong reaction. "Are you all right, Holmes?"

He looked at me and there was a singular light in his eye.

"Thanks to you, my dear fellow!" he said soberly. "If I had moved then—but what is that?"

A door had slammed below and, an instant later, we caught the swift patter of feet upon the

gravel path.

"After him!" cried Holmes, springing for the door. "Your shot warned him that the game

was up. He must not escape!"

But fate decreed otherwise. Though we rushed down the stairs and out into the fog,

Theobold Wilson had too much start on us and the advantage of knowing the terrain. For a

while, we followed the faint sound of his running footsteps down the empty lanes towards the

river, but at length these died away in the distance.

"It is no good, Watson. We have lost our man," panted Holmes. "This is where the

official police may be of use. But listen! Surely that was a cry?"

"I thought I heard something."

"Well, it is hopeless to look further in the fog. Let us return and comfort this poor girl with

the assurance that her troubles are now at an end."

"They were nightmare creatures, Holmes," I exclaimed, as we retraced our steps towards the

house, "and of some unknown species."

"I think not, Watson," said he. "It was the
Galeodes
spider, the horror of the Cuban forests.

It is perhaps fortunate for the rest of the world that it is found nowhere else. The creature is

nocturnal in its habits, and unless my memory belies me, it possesses the power actually to