One day in the autumn, I visited my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and found him in a serious conversation with a very fat, red-faced old man with bright red hair. I made an apology for my

One day in the autumn, I visited my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and found him in a serious conversation with a very fat, red-faced old man with bright red hair. I made an apology for my interruption, and I was about to leave when Holmes pulled me quickly into the room and closed the door behind me.

“You could not have come at a better time, my dear Watson," he said happily”

“I was afraid that you were busy.”

“And I am. Very busy.”

“Then I can wait in the next room.”

“Not at all. Mr. Wilson, this man has been my partner and helper in many of my most successful cases, and I am sure that he will be very helpful to me in solving your case.”

The fat man stood and nodded his head in greeting, with a quick questioning look from his small eyes.

“Try the sofa,” said Holmes, sitting in his armchair again and putting his fingertips together, as he often did when he was thinking. “My dear Watson, I know that we are both interested in unusual and strange events. You write everything down in great detail, and, if you will excuse my saying so, add even more fantastic details to so many of my own little adventures.”

“Your cases have been of great interest to me,” I observed.

“Just the other day, you will remember that I said that, for strange effects and extraordinary events, we must go to life itself, which is always far more interesting than imagination.”

“An idea which I did not believe.”

“You did, doctor, but you must agree with me now, or I will keep adding fact to fact until your reason breaks down under them and you say that I am right. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here visited me this morning and began a story which is one of the most interesting I have heard in a long time. You have heard me say that the strangest and most unique things are often connected not with the larger crimes but with the smaller ones. So far, it is impossible to say whether Mr. Wilson’s case is a crime or not, but the events are among the most strange that I have ever heard. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would continue your story from the beginning. I ask you because Dr. Watson has not heard the beginning and also because the strangeness of the story makes me want to hear every possible detail again. Usually, when I hear even a few facts I am able to figure out the problem by comparing it to the thousands of other similar cases which I remember. In this case, I have to admit that the facts are unique.”

The fat man stuck out his chest with some pride, and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the pocket of his coat. As he looked down the advertisement column, I took a good look at the man, and tried to understand the man from his dress or appearance.

I did not learn very much, however. Our visitor looked like an average British businessman, fat, arrogant, and slow. He wore baggy gray trousers and a dirty black coat, unbuttoned in the front. A worn hat and an old brown overcoat were on a chair beside him. Altogether, there was nothing special about the man except his bright red hair and a look of great unhappiness.

Sherlock Holmes’s saw what I was doing, and he shook his head with a smile. “Beyond the fact that he has done manual labor, that he is a Freemason, that he has been in China, and that he has done a considerable amount of writing lately, I can see nothing else.”

Mr. Jabez Wilson sat up quickly in his chair with his finger on the paper, but his eyes were on Dr. Watson.

“How did you know all that, Mr. Holmes?” he asked. “How did you know, for example, that I did manual labor? It’s true because I began as a ship’s carpenter.”

“Your hands. Your right hand is larger than your left. You have worked with it and the muscles are more developed.”

“Well, the Freemasonry?”

“You wear an arc and compass breastpin.”

“Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?”

“Your right cuff is very shiny for five inches, and the left one has the smooth patch near the elbow where you rest it on the desk.”

“Well, but China?”

“The fish which you have tattooed above your wrist was done in China. I have studied tattoo marks. That trick of staining the fishes’ scales a delicate pink is quite unique to China. In addition, I see a Chinese coin hanging from your watch chain.”

Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed. “Well, I never! I thought at first that you had done something clever, but I see that there was nothing in it after all.”

“I think, Watson,” said Holmes, “that I made a mistake in explaining. My reputation will be destroyed if I am so honest. Can’t you find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?”

“Yes, I have it now,” he answered, with his thick, red finger pointed halfway down the column. “Here it is. This is what started it all. You just read it for yourself, sir.”

I took the paper from him and read:

“To the Red-headed League: Because of the death of Ezekiah Hopkins, there is now another vacancy which will give a member of the League a salary of four pounds a week for very little work. All red-headed men who are healthy and more than twenty-one years old are eligible. Apply in person on Monday, at eleven o'clock, to Duncan Ross, at the offices of the League in London.”

“What does this mean?” I said, after I had read the strange announcement twice”

Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as he often did when he was excited. “It is a little unusual, isn't it?” said he. “And now, Mr. Wilson, tell us all about yourself and the effect which this advertisement had upon your life. Please, doctor, look at the paper and the date.”

“It is The Morning Chronicle on April 27, 1890. Just two months ago.”

“Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson. Please continue.”

“Well, it is just as I was telling you, Mr. Holmes,” said Jabez Wilson, wiping his forehead, “I have a small pawnbroker's business near the City. It's not a very large business. I used to be quite busy, but now I make just enough money to live. I used to be able to keep two assistants, but now I only keep one; and it would be difficult to pay him but he is willing to work for half wages because he wants to learn the business.”

“What is the name of this helpful young man?” asked Sherlock Holmes.

“His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he's not really very young either. It’s hard to say his age. I could not ask for a smarter assistant, Mr. Holmes; and I know that he could do better and earn twice what I am able to give him. But, if he is satisfied to work for me, why should I put ideas in his head?”

“Why, indeed? You are very lucky to have an employee who works for less than the full market price. It is not a common experience among employers nowadays.”

“Oh, he has his faults, too," said Mr. Wilson. "He is very enthusiastic about photography. He is always taking pictures when he should be studying and then going down into the basement to develop his pictures. That is his main fault; but, in general, he's a good worker.”

“Is he still with you?”

“Yes, sir. He and a young girl who cooks and keeps the place clean -- that's all I have in the house because I am a widower and never had any family. We live very quietly; we keep a roof over our heads and pay our debts.

“The first thing that caused a problem was that advertisement. Spaulding came into my office eight weeks ago with this paper in his hand, and he said, ‘I wish to God, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed man.’

‘Why?’ I asked.

He said, ‘Here’s another vacancy in the League of the Red-headed Men. It’s worth a small fortune to any man who gets it. There are more vacancies than there are men, so the trustees don’t know what to do with the money. If my hair would only change color I could do it.’

‘Why, what is it, then?’ I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes, I usually stay home because my business comes to me instead of my having to go to it, and I often go weeks without having to leave my house. I don't know much of what is going on outside, and I am always glad to hear a bit of news.

‘Haven’t you heard of the League of the Red-headed Men?’ he asked with his eyes wide open.

‘Never.’

‘But you could fill one of the vacancies.'

‘And what are they worth?’ I asked.

‘Oh, just a couple of hundred pounds a year, but the work is easy, and it won’t interfere very much with your other jobs.’

“Well, I was really interested in that because my business has not been over good recently, and an extra couple of hundred pounds would have been very handy.”

‘Tell me all about it,’ said I.

‘Well,’ he said, showing me the advertisement, ‘you can see that the League has a vacancy, and there is the address where you should apply. I think the League was started by an American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins, who had very strange ways. He was red-headed, and he had great sympathy for all red-headed men; so, when he died he left his enormous fortune with lawyers with instructions to use the interest to help red-headed men. From all I hear, it is good pay, and very little to do.’

‘But,’ I said, ‘there would be millions of red-headed men who would apply.’

‘Not as many as you might think,’ he answered. Only Londoners can apply and only grown men. This American started in London when he was young, and he wanted to help the City. And, I heard that if your hair is light red or dark red or anything but real, bright, fiery red you can’t get the job. Now, if you wanted to apply, Mr. Wilson, you could easily get the job; but perhaps it wouldn’t be worth your effort to go of your way for just a few hundred pounds.’

‘Now it is a fact that I have a lot of hair and bright red, so I thought that I had as good a chance as anyone. Vincent Spaulding seemed to know so much about it that I thought he might be useful, so I just ordered him to close the shop for the day and to come with me. He was very happy to have a day off, so we shut the business up and went to the address that was given in the advertisement.’

‘I hope I never see such a sight again, Mr. Holmes. From north, south, east, and west, every man who had red hair had gone into the City to answer the advertisement. Fleet Street was full of red-headed men. Every shade of red was there, but there weren’t many who had real bright red hair. When I saw how many were waiting, I almost gave up, but Spaulding encouraged me. I don’t know how he did it, but he pushed and pulled until he got me through the crowd, and right up to the steps which led to the office. Soon we found ourselves in the office.’

“Your story has been very entertaining,” remarked Holmes. “Please continue.”

“There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs and a small table. A small man with hair that was even redder than mine sat at the table. He said a few words to each man as he came up, and then he always managed to find some fault in them. Getting the job was not such an easy matter after all. However, when our turn came, the little man was very nice to me, and he closed the door as we entered so that he could have a private word with us.

“’This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,’ said my assistant, ‘and he wants to fill a vacancy in the League.’

“’And he will be great for it,’ the other answered. ‘He fills every requirement. I cannot remember when I have seen such wonderful red hair.’ He took a step back and looked at my hair until I was embarrassed. Then suddenly he stepped forward, shook my hand, and congratulated me.

“’It would be wrong to wait,’ he said. ‘However, I have to check carefully.’ Then he grabbed my hair in both his hands and pulled until I cried. ‘There are tears in your eyes,’ he said. ‘I see that your hair is real, but we have to be careful because we have been fooled twice.’ He walked over to the window and shouted at the top of his voice that the vacancy was filled. A groan of disappointment came from below, and the people all left.

“’My name,’ he said, ‘is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am a member of the League. Are you married, Mr. Wilson? Do you have a family?’

“I said that I didn’t.”

“He immediately became sad.”

“’Oh no!' he said, ‘that is too bad! I am sorry to hear you say that. The purpose of the fund was to encourage red-headed people to have children. It is unfortunate that you are a bachelor.’

“I became very sad, Mr. Holmes. I thought that I wouldn’t have the position, but, after a few minutes, he said that it would be all right.”

“’In most cases,' he said, ‘the problem might be serious, but we must make an exception for a man with hair like yours. When can you start?’

“’Well, it’s a little awkward because I already have a business,’ I said.

“’Oh, don’t worry about that, Mr. Wilson!’ said Vincent Spaulding. ‘I’ll be able to look after that for you.’

“’What hours would I have to work?’ I asked.

“’Ten to two.’

“Now a pawnbroker's business is mostly done of an evening, Mr. Holmes, especially Thursday and Friday evenings, which is just before pay day; so it would be a good way for me to earn a little money in the mornings. I also knew that my assistant was a good man, and that he would see that everything was okay.”

“’That would be very good for me,’ I said. ‘And how much does it pay?’

“’Four pounds a week.’

“’And the work?’

“’Well, you have to be in the office the whole time. If you leave, you give up your position forever. The will is very clear about that. You don't complete your job if you leave the office during that time.’

“’It’s only four hours a day, and I would not think of leaving,’ I said.

“’No excuse will be accepted,’ said Mr. Duncan Ross, ‘not sickness, not business, nor anything else. You must stay in the office, or you lose your job.’

“’And the work?’

“’You have to copy out the Encyclopedia Britannica. The first volume of is on that table. You have to find your own pens and paper, but we will give you this table and chair. Will you be ready tomorrow?’

“’Certainly,’ I answered.

“’Then, good-by, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratulate you once more on the important position which you have been lucky enough to get.’ I went home with my assistant not knowing what to say or do, I was so pleased at my own good luck.

“Well, I thought about everything all day, and, by evening, I was depressed again because I started to believe that it was all a lie, though I couldn’t imagine why. It seemed impossible to believe that anyone could make such a will, or that they would pay so much money for just copying out the Encyclopedia Britannica.’ Vincent Spaulding tried to cheer me up, but, by bed time, I was sure that I was a fool. However, in the morning, I decided to have a look at it anyhow, so I bought a pen and seven pieces of blank paper. I started off for the office.

“Well, to my surprise, everything was okay. The table was ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross was there to see that I got to work. He started me off with the letter A, and then he left me; but he dropped in from time to time to see that everything was okay. At two o'clock he said good bye, complimented me on how much I had written, and locked the door of the office after me.

“This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and, on Saturday, the manager came in and gave me four golden coins for my week’s work. The next week, it was the same and the week after, too. Every morning I was there at ten, and every afternoon I left at two. Slowly, Mr. Duncan Ross started to come in only once in the morning, and then, after awhile, he did not come in at all. Still, I never thought of leaving the room even for a minute because I was not sure if he might come, and the job was such a good one, and suited me so well, that I would not take a change on losing it.

“Eight weeks passed away, and I had written about Archery, and Armor, and Architecture, and Africa, and hoped that I would soon get to the Bs soon. I had to spend a little money for the paper, and I had almost filled a shelf with my writings. And then suddenly the job came to an end."

“To an end?”

“Yes, sir. This morning. I went to work as usual at ten o'clock, but the door was locked with a little sign in the middle of door. Here it is. You can read yourself.”

He held up a piece of white cardboard, about the size of a piece of note paper.

“THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE IS NO MORE.

Oct. 9, 1890.”

Sherlock Holmes and I looked the sign and the sad face of Mr. Wilson until the funny side of the story was too much and we both burst into laughter.

“I cannot see that this is very funny,” cried our Mr. Wilson. “If you are just going to laugh at me, I am going to leave.”

“No, no,” cried Holmes. “I really wouldn't miss your case for the world. It is most unusual. But there is something just a little funny about it. What did you do when you found the card on the door?"

“I was shocked. I didn’t know what to do. None of the neighbors knew anything about it. Finally, I went to the landlord, and I asked him what had happened to the Red-headed League. He said that he had never heard of them. Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He said that he didn’t know Mr. Ross.

“I said, ‘The gentleman at No. 4.’

“‘What, the red-headed man?’

“‘Yes.’

“He said, ‘His name was William Morris. He was a lawyer, and he was just staying there for a short time until his office was ready. He moved out yesterday.’

“‘Where could I find him?’

“‘Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 17 King Edward Street, near St. Paul's.’

“I went there, Mr. Holmes, but that address was a bookstore, and no one in it had ever heard of Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross.”

“And what did you do then?” asked Holmes.

“I went home, and I asked my assistant for advice. But he didn’t know anything. He said that if I waited I would get a letter. But that was not good enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not want to lose such a job without a struggle. Because I had heard that you gave advice to poor people who needed it, I came right to you.”

Holmes said, “Your case is a really interesting one, and I will be happy to look into it for you. From what you have told me, I think that a more serious problem might exist.”

“Serious!” said Mr. Wilson. “I lost four pounds in a week.”

Holmes replied, “I don’t think that you have any real complaint against this league. You earned thirty pounds and you learned a lot about everything in the encyclopedia under the letter A. You lost nothing.”

“That’s true. But I want to find out about them, and why they played this joke - if it was a joke - on me. It was an expensive joke for them because it cost them thirty-two pounds.”

“We will try clear up this mystery. First, one or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours who showed you the advertisement - how long has he worked for you?”

“About a month then.”

“How did he begin working for you”

“He answered an advertisement I put in a newspaper.”

“Was he the only one who applied for the job?”

“No, many men applied.”

“Why did you pick him?”

“Because he was handy and cheap.”

“At half wages.”

“Yes.”

“What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?”

“Small, very smart, no hair on his face. Has a white scar on his forehead.”

Holmes sat up in his chair, excited. "I thought so," he said. “Did you notice that his ears are pierced for earrings?”

“Yes. He told me that he had them pierced when he was a young man.”

“Hmm!” said Holmes, thinking deeply. "He is still working for you?”

“Oh, yes. He is the only one left.”

“And has he taken care of your business when you have been away?”

“Yes, there’s never very much to do in the morning.”

“That’s enough for now, Mr. Wilson. I will tell you what I think in a day or two. Today is Saturday, and I hope that by Monday we will have solved the mystery.”

“Well, Watson,” said Holmes, when our visitor had left, “what do you think?”

“I can’t understand it,” I answered honestly. “It is very mysterious.”

“In general,” said Holmes, “the stranger a thing is the less mysterious it really is. It is the common, ordinary crimes which are really puzzling, just as a common face is the most difficult to identify. But I must try to solve this quickly.”

“What are you going to do, then?” I asked.

“I’m going to smoke,” he answered. “This is a three-pipe problem, and I ask you not speak to me for fifty minutes.” He made himself comfortable in his chair and began to smoke. After awhile, I thought that he had fallen asleep, and I was falling asleep myself, when he suddenly jumped out of his chair as though he had made a decision and put his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.

“There is a concert at St. James's Hall this afternoon," he said. “What do you think, Watson? Could you get away from your patients for a few hours?”

“I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very busy.”

“Then put on your hat and come along. I am going through the City first, and we can have some lunch on the way.”

We traveled on the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short walk took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the story which we had listened to in the morning. It was a little, rundown place, where four rows of worn, two-storied brick houses looked out onto a small a lawn and a few bushes. A brown board with JABEZ WILSON in white letters was on a corner house, announcing the business of our red-headed client. Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on one side, and looked it all over, with his eyes shining brightly. Then he walked slowly up the street, and then down again to the corner, still looking at the houses with interest. Finally he returned to the pawnbroker's and where he banged his stick strongly on the ground two or three times. He went up to the door and knocked. It was instantly opened by a bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to step in.

“Thank you,” said Holmes, “I only wished to ask you how to get from here to the Strand.”

“Third right, fourth left,” answered the assistant, quickly, closing the door.

“Smart fellow,” observed Holmes as we walked away. “He is the fourth smartest man in London, and he may actually be the third. I know something of him.”

“Clearly,” I said, “Mr. Wilson’s assistant is involved in this mystery of the Red-headed League. I am sure that you asked how to get to the Strand just to see him.”

“Not him.”

“What then?”

“The knees of his pants.”

“And what did you see?”

“What I expected to see.”

“Why did you beat the ground?”

“My dear doctor, this is a time for looking, not for talking. We are spies in an enemy’s country. We know something about Saxe-Coburg Square now. Let’s explore the parts which are behind it.”

When we turned the corner from Saxe-Coburg Square, we saw a very different scene. The road was one of the main roads that carried traffic from the City to the north and west. The road was crowded with many vehicles going back and forth. The footpaths were crowded with people hurrying every which way. It was difficult to believe, as we looked at the line of fine shops and businesses, that they were so close to the faded, dirty square which we had just left.

“Let me see,” said Holmes, standing at the corner and looking along the street, “I would like to remember the order of the houses here. It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of London. There is Mortimer’s, a tobacco shop, a little newspaper shop, a City and Suburban Bank, and a Vegetarian Restaurant. That’s the whole block. And now, doctor, we’ve done our work, so it’s time we had some play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land, where everything is sweetness, and delicacy, and harmony, and there are no red-headed clients to trouble us with their problems."

My friend was an enthusiastic musician and a skilled composer. All afternoon, he sat listened in perfect happiness, gently waving his long thin fingers in time to the music, while his gently smiling face and his dreamy eyes were not those of Holmes the sleuth-hound, Holmes the relentless, keen-witted, ready-handed criminal agent. The change of his character took him from extreme relaxation to terrible energy; and he was never as powerful as when he had been relaxing in his armchair. Then the strong desire to give chase would suddenly come upon him, and that his brilliant reasoning power would rise until he seemed superhuman. When I saw him that afternoon listening so carefully to the music at St. James's Hall, I felt that an evil time might be coming upon those he had decided to hunt down.

“You want to go home, no doubt, doctor,” he said, as we left the concert.

“Yes.”

“And I have some business to do which will take several hours. This business at Saxe-Coburg Square is serious.”

“Why serious?”

“A terrible crime is being planned. I believe that we will be able to stop it on time. But, because today is Saturday, it is more difficult. I will want your help tonight.”

“At what time?”

“Ten will be early enough.”

“I will be at Baker Street at ten.”

“Very well. And, I say, doctor! There may a little danger, so please bring your gun.” He waved his hand and disappeared in the crowd.

I think that I am smarter than my neighbors, but I was always depressed when I compared myself with Sherlock Holmes. I had heard what he had heard, I had seen what he had seen, and yet I was sure that he saw clearly not only what had happened, but what was about to happen, while I was still confuse. As I drove home to my house in Kensington, I thought it all over, from the incredible story of the red-headed man copying the Encyclopedia to the visit to Saxe-Coburg Square, and the words which he had said as he left. What was this night-time meeting, and why should I bring a gun? Where were we going, and what were we going to do? I had a hint from Holmes that the pawnbroker’s assistant was a dangerous man - a man who might have a deep plan. I tried to figure it out but gave it up in the end and left it until our meeting.

It was a quarter-past nine when I left my home and went to Holmes’ house on Baker Street. Two cabs were parked in front of the door, and I heard the sound of voices from above. I found Holmes talking loudly with two men, Peter Jones, a police officer, and a thin, sad-faced man, with a shiny hat and an expensive coat.

“Ha! Our group is complete,” said Holmes, buttoning up his jacket and taking his walking stick. “Watson, I think you know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr. Merryweather.”

“I hope that tonight will not be a waste of time,” said Mr. Merryweather unhappily.

“You can be confident in Mr. Holmes,” said the police officer. “He has his own methods, which are sometimes a little too theoretical and fantastic, but he is a great detective. Often, he has done a better job than the police.”

“Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right!” said the stranger, respectfully. “Still, I miss my card game. It is the first Saturday night for twenty-seven years that I have not played cards.”

“I think you will find,” said Sherlock Holmes, “that you will play for a higher stake tonight than you have ever done, and that the play will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will be some thirty thousand pounds; and for you, Jones, it will be the man you want to catch.”

“John Clay, the murderer, thief, and forger. He’s a young man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession, and I would like to have my handcuffs on him more than on any criminal in London. Young John Clay is an amazing man. His grandfather was a Royal Duke, and John has been to Oxford. He is very cunning, and though we see signs of him everywhere, we never know where to find him. He’ll break into a house in Scotland one week and raise money to build an orphanage in Cornwall the next. I’ve been trying to catch him for years and have never seen.”

“I hope that I can introduce you tonight. I’ve had one or two attempts to catch him also, and I agree that he is the best of his profession. It is past ten, however, and it is time that we start. If you two will take the first cab, Watson and I will follow in the second.”

Sherlock Holmes didn’t say much during the long drive and sat in the cab humming the songs he had heard in the afternoon. We until we reached Farringdon Street.

“We are close now,” my friend remarked. “This fellow Merryweather is a bank director and personally interested in the matter. I thought we should also have Jones with us. He is a good man, though a complete idiot as a police officer. However, he is brave and very determined. Here we are, and they are waiting for us.”

We had reached the crowded road where we were the morning. Our cabs were sent away, and we followed Mr. Merryweather down a narrow passage and through a door which he opened for us. Inside, there was a small corridor, which ended at a very large iron gate. This was also opened and led down a set of stone steps, which ended at another huge gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped to light a lantern, and then led us down a dark passage to a third door and then into a huge room which was full of big boxes.

“You are safe from above,” said Holmes, as he held up his light and looked around.

“Nor from below,” said Mr. Merryweather, banging his stick on the floor. “Why, it sounds hollow!” he said, looking up in surprise.

“I must ask you to be a little quieter,” said Holmes. “You have already put us in danger. May I ask that you sit on one of those boxes and not to get in the way?”

Mr. Merryweather sat on a box with a hurt look on his face while Holmes knelt on the floor, and, with the lantern and a magnifying glass, began to look carefully at the cracks between the stones. After a few seconds, he stood again and put his magnifying glass in his pocket.

“We have to wait for at least an hour,” he remarked, “because they can’t do anything until the pawnbroker is sleeping. They will not wait any longer because they will want to have a long time to escape. Now we are in the basement of the City branch of one of the main London banks. Mr. Merryweather is the chairman, and he will explain that there are good reasons why criminals in London are interested in this basement.”

“It is our French gold,” whispered the director. “We have had several warnings that someone might try to steal it.”

“Your French gold?”

“Yes. We borrowed thirty thousand gold coins from the Bank of France. Thieves learned that we didn’t take the money out of the boxes, and that it is still in our basement. The box I am sitting on has two thousand gold coins in it. We have more gold here now than we usually keep in a single branch office, and the directors are worried about it.”

“They have good reason to be worried,” said Holmes.

“And now we need to make a plan. I think that something will happen very soon. In the meantime, Mr. Merryweather, we must cover that lantern to make it dark.”

“And sit in the dark?”

“I am afraid so. I see that the thieves are closer than I had expected. And, first, we have to get ready. These are dangerous men, and, even though we might have an advantage, they may hurt us unless we are careful. I will stand behind this box, and you should hide behind those. Then, when I flash a light on them, surround them quickly. If they shoot, Watson, you should shoot them down.”

I put my gun on the top of the wooden box I was crouched behind. Holmes covered the front of his lantern, and left us in darkness.

“They have only one way to get out,” whispered Holmes. “That is back through the house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you did what I asked you, Jones?”

“I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door.”

“They have no escape. And now we must be silent and wait.”

It seemed to take forever, but it was only an hour and a fifteen minutes. I was tired and stiff because I was afraid to change my position. From my position, I could look over the box at the floor. Suddenly, my eyes saw a small light.

At first, it was a very small light through a small hole in the floor. Then it became bigger and bigger, and then, without any warning or sound, the small hole got bigger and a white hand appeared and felt around in the center of the little area of light. For a minute or more, the hand stuck out of the floor. Then it pulled back as suddenly as it appeared.

It disappeared briefly. With a loud sound, one of the big white stones turned over upon its side, and left a big hole. A light shone out of the hole. Then a boyish face looked through. A young man crawled out of the hole. In a minute, he stood at the side of the hole and helped his friend, a small, slim red- haired man, climb out also.

“It's safe,” he whispered. “Have you brought the tools and the bags? Oh no! Run, Archie, run!”

Sherlock Holmes had jumped out and grabbed the thief by the shirt. The other jumped down the hole, and I heard the sound of tearing cloth as Jones grabbed at him. The light shone on the barrel of a gun, but Holmes him the man’s wrist with him stick, and the pistol fell to the floor.

“It's no use, John Clay,” said Holmes, “you have no chance to escape.”

“So I see,” the other answered, coolly. “I think that my pal is all right, though I see you have got a piece of his shirt.”

“There are three men waiting for him at the door,” said Holmes.

“Oh, really. You seem to have thought of everything. Congratulations.”

“And I congratulate you,” Holmes answered. “Your red-headed idea was very new and effective.”

“You'll see your friend again soon,” said Jones. “He's quicker at climbing down holes than I am. Just hold out your hands while I put the handcuffs on you.”

“Please don’t touch me with your filthy hands,” said our prisoner, as the handcuffs were put on his wrists. “I have royal blood in my veins. Please say ‘sir’ and ‘please’ when you talk to me.”

“All right,” said Jones with a laugh. “Would you please, sir, go upstairs where we can get a cab to take your highness to the police station?”

“That is better,” said John Clay. He made a bow to the three of us and walked quietly out with the detective.

“Really, Mr. Holmes,” said Mr. Merryweather, “I do not know how the bank can thank you or repay you. You have completely detected and defeated one of the most serious attempts at bank robbery.”

“I owed Mr. John Clay a few things,” said Holmes. “I have had to pay a little money to solve this case and I expect the bank to pay me, but I expect nothing else. This interesting experience and the story of the Red-headed League, which is very unusual, is enough payment.”

* * * * *

“You see, Watson,” he explained as we sat having a drink at Baker Street, “it was clear from the beginning that the only possible reason for this fantastic business of the advertisement of the League, and the copying of the ‘Encyclopedia,’ had to be to get this not simple-minded pawnbroker out of the way for several hours every day. It was a curious way of doing it, but it was probably the best. The plan probably came to Clay’s brilliant mind because of the color of his partner’s hair. The four pounds a week was just to attract him. They put in the advertisement, one man set up the temporary office, the other encouraged the man to apply for the, and together they were able to get him to leave his office every morning in the week. When I heard that the assistant was working for half wages, it was clear to me that he had some strong reason for taking the job.”

“But how could you guess what the reason was?”

“The man’s business was a small one, and there was nothing in his house which would require such a detailed plan and cost, so it had to be something outside of the house. What could it be? I thought of the assistant's interest in photography, and the fact that he often went into the basement of the house. The basement! That was the end of this puzzle. Then I asked around about the mysterious assistant, and found that I had to deal with one of the coolest and most daring criminals in London. He was doing something in the basement - something which took many hours a day for months on end. What could it be? I could think of nothing except that he was digging a tunnel to some other building.

“So, when we went to visit the scene, I surprised you by beating on the ground with my stick. I was checking to see whether the basement was in front or behind. It was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and the assistant answered it. We have had some struggles, but we had never seen each other before. I didn’t really look at his face. His knees were what I wanted to see. You probably noticed how worn, wrinkled, and stained they were. They showed that he had spent hours digging. The only remaining point was what they were digging for. I walked round the corner, saw that the City and Suburban Bank was next to our friend's premises, and felt that I had solved my problem. When you drove home after the concert I visited Scotland Yard and the chairman of the bank directors.”

“And how could you tell that they would try to steal the gold tonight?” I asked.

“Well, when they closed their League offices, that was a sign that they didn’t care anymore about Mr. Jabez Wilson’s presence; in other words, that they had completed their tunnel. But it was necessary that they use it soon because it might be discovered, or the gold might be moved. Saturday would suit them better than any other day because it would give them two days for their escape. For all these reasons I expected them to come tonight.”

“You figured it out beautifully,” I exclaimed in admiration. “It is like a long a chain, and yet every link is strong.”

“It saved me from boredom,” he answered, yawning. “Alas! I already feel it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort to escape from the commonplaces of existence. These little problems help me to do so.

“And you are a benefactor of the race,” said I.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, perhaps, after all, it is of some little use,” he said. “’The man is nothing, the work is everything.’”

Дата добавления: 2015-09-29