“This is serious, Watson,” he cried. “There is some devilry goingforward! Why should such a message stop in such a way? I shouldput Scotland Yard in touch with this business—and yet, it is toopressing for us to leave.”
“Shall I go for the police?”
“We must define the situation a little more clearly. It may bearsome more innocent interpretation. Come, Watson, let us goacross ourselves and see what we can make of it.”
As we walked rapidly down Howe Street I glanced back at thebuilding which we had left. There, dimly outlined at the top window,I could see the shadow of a head, a woman’s head, gazing tensely,rigidly, out into the night, waiting with breathless suspense for therenewal of that interrupted message. At the doorway of the HoweStreet flats a man, muffled in a cravat and greatcoat, was leaningagainst the railing. He started as the hall-light fell upon our faces.
“Holmes!” he cried.
“Why, Gregson!” said my companion as he shook hands withthe Scotland Yard detective. “Journeys end with lovers’ meetings.
What brings you here?”
“The same reasons that bring you, I expect,” said Gregson. “Howyou got on to it I can’t imagine.”
“Different threads, but leading up to the same tangle. I’ve beentaking the signals.”
“Signals?”
“Yes, from that window. They broke off in the middle. We cameover to see the reason. But since it is safe in your hands I see noobject in continuing the business.”
“Wait a bit!” cried Gregson eagerly. “I’ll do you this justice, Mr.
Holmes, that I was never in a case yet that I didn’t feel strongerfor having you on my side. There’s only the one exit to these flats,so we have him safe.”
“Who is he?”
“Well, well, we score over you for once, Mr. Holmes. You mustgive us best this time.” He struck his stick sharply upon theground, on which a cabman, his whip in his hand, sauntered overfrom a four-wheeler which stood on the far side of the street. “MayI introduce you to Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” he said to the cabman.
“This is Mr. Leverton, of Pinkerton’s American Agency.”
“The hero of the Long Island cave mystery?” said Holmes. “Sir, Iam pleased to meet you.”
The American, a quiet, businesslike young man, with a cleanshaven,hatchet face, flushed up at the words of commendation. “Iam on the trail of my life now, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “If I can getGorgiano—”
“What! Gorgiano of the Red Circle?”
“Oh, he has a European fame, has he? Well, we’ve learned allabout him in America. We KNOW he is at the bottom of fiftymurders, and yet we have nothing positive we can take him on. Itracked him over from New York, and I’ve been close to him for aweek in London, waiting some excuse to get my hand on his collar.
Mr. Gregson and I ran him to ground in that big tenement house,and there’s only the one door, so he can’t slip us. There’s three folkcome out since he went in, but I’ll swear he wasn’t one of them.”
“Mr. Holmes talks of signals,” said Gregson. “I expect, as usual,he knows a good deal that we don’t.”
In a few clear words Holmes explained the situation as it hadappeared to us.
The American struck his hands together with vexation.
“He’s on to us!” he cried.
“Why do you think so?”
“Well, it figures out that way, does it not? Here he is, sendingout messages to an accomplice—there are several of his gang inLondon. Then suddenly, just as by your own account he was tellingthem that there was danger, he broke short off. What could itmean except that from the window he had suddenly either caughtsight of us in the street, or in some way come to understand howclose the danger was, and that he must act right away if he was toavoid it? What do you suggest, Mr. Holmes?”
“That we go up at once and see for ourselves.”
“But we have no warrant for his arrest.”
“He is in unoccupied premises under suspicious circumstances,”
said Gregson. “That is good enough for the moment. When wehave him by the heels we can see if New York can’t help us to keephim. I’ll take the responsibility of arresting him now.”
Our official detectives may blunder in the matter of intelligence,but never in that of courage. Gregson climbed the stair to arrestthis desperate murderer with the same absolutely quiet andbusinesslike bearing with which he would have ascended theofficial staircase of Scotland Yard. The Pinkerton man had tried topush past him, but Gregson had firmly elbowed him back. Londondangers were the privilege of the London force.
The door of the left-hand flat upon the third landing wasstanding ajar. Gregson pushed it open. Within all was absolutesilence and darkness. I struck a match and lit the detective’slantern. As I did so, and as the flicker steadied into a flame, we allgave a gasp of surprise. On the deal boards of the carpetless floorthere was outlined a fresh track of blood. The red steps pointedtowards us and led away from an inner room, the door of whichwas closed. Gregson flung it open and held his light full blaze infront of him, while we all peered eagerly over his shoulders.
In the middle of the floor of the empty room was huddledthe figure of an enormous man, his clean-shaven, swarthy facegrotesquely horrible in its contortion and his head encircled bya ghastly crimson halo of blood, lying in a broad wet circle uponthe white woodwork. His knees were drawn up, his hands thrownout in agony, and from the centre of his broad, brown, upturnedthroat there projected the white haft of a knife driven blade-deepinto his body. Giant as he was, the man must have gone down likea pole-axed ox before that terrific blow. Beside his right hand amost formidable horn-handled, two-edged dagger lay upon thefloor, and near it a black kid glove.
“By George! it’s Black Gorgiano himself!” cried the Americandetective. “Someone has got ahead of us this time.”
“Here is the candle in the window, Mr. Holmes,” said Gregson.
“Why, whatever are you doing?”
Holmes had stepped across, had lit the candle, and was passingit backward and forward across the window-panes. Then hepeered into the darkness, blew the candle out, and threw it on thefloor.