Chapter Chapter 4 · 第4章

The Story of the Bald-Headed Man

We followed the Indian down a sordid and common passage, ill-lit and

worse furnished, until he came to a door upon the right, which he threw

open. A blaze of yellow light streamed out upon us, and in the centre

of the glare there stood a small man with a very high head, a bristle

of red hair all round the fringe of it, and a bald, shining scalp which

shot out from among it like a mountain-peak from fir-trees. He writhed

his hands together as he stood, and his features were in a perpetual

jerk, now smiling, now scowling, but never for an instant in repose.

Nature had given him a pendulous lip, and a too visible line of yellow

and irregular teeth, which he strove feebly to conceal by constantly

passing his hand over the lower part of his face. In spite of his

obtrusive baldness, he gave the impression of youth. In point of fact

he had just turned his thirtieth year.

“Your servant, Miss Morstan,” he kept repeating, in a thin, high voice.

“Your servant, gentlemen. Pray step into my little sanctum. A small

place, miss, but furnished to my own liking. An oasis of art in the

howling desert of South London.”

We were all astonished by the appearance of the apartment into which he

invited us. In that sorry house it looked as out of place as a diamond

of the first water in a setting of brass. The richest and glossiest of

curtains and tapestries draped the walls, looped back here and there to

expose some richly-mounted painting or Oriental vase. The carpet was of

amber-and-black, so soft and so thick that the foot sank pleasantly

into it, as into a bed of moss. Two great tiger-skins thrown athwart it

increased the suggestion of Eastern luxury, as did a huge hookah which

stood upon a mat in the corner. A lamp in the fashion of a silver dove

was hung from an almost invisible golden wire in the centre of the

room. As it burned it filled the air with a subtle and aromatic odour.

“Mr. Thaddeus Sholto,” said the little man, still jerking and smiling.

“That is my name. You are Miss Morstan, of course. And these

gentlemen—”

“This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. Watson.”

“A doctor, eh?” cried he, much excited. “Have you your stethoscope?

Might I ask you—would you have the kindness? I have grave doubts as to

my mitral valve, if you would be so very good. The aortic I may rely

upon, but I should value your opinion upon the mitral.”

I listened to his heart, as requested, but was unable to find anything

amiss, save indeed that he was in an ecstasy of fear, for he shivered

from head to foot. “It appears to be normal,” I said. “You have no

cause for uneasiness.”

“You will excuse my anxiety, Miss Morstan,” he remarked, airily. “I am

a great sufferer, and I have long had suspicions as to that valve. I am

delighted to hear that they are unwarranted. Had your father, Miss

Morstan, refrained from throwing a strain upon his heart, he might have

been alive now.”

I could have struck the man across the face, so hot was I at this

callous and off-hand reference to so delicate a matter. Miss Morstan

sat down, and her face grew white to the lips. “I knew in my heart that

he was dead,” said she.

“I can give you every information,” said he, “and, what is more, I can

do you justice; and I will, too, whatever Brother Bartholomew may say.

I am so glad to have your friends here, not only as an escort to you,

but also as witnesses to what I am about to do and say. The three of us

can show a bold front to Brother Bartholomew. But let us have no

outsiders,—no police or officials. We can settle everything

satisfactorily among ourselves, without any interference. Nothing would

annoy Brother Bartholomew more than any publicity.” He sat down upon a

low settee and blinked at us inquiringly with his weak, watery blue

eyes.

“For my part,” said Holmes, “whatever you may choose to say will go no

further.”

I nodded to show my agreement.

“That is well! That is well!” said he. “May I offer you a glass of

Chianti, Miss Morstan? Or of Tokay? I keep no other wines. Shall I open

a flask? No? Well, then, I trust that you have no objection to

tobacco-smoke, to the mild balsamic odour of the Eastern tobacco. I am

a little nervous, and I find my hookah an invaluable sedative.” He

applied a taper to the great bowl, and the smoke bubbled merrily

through the rose-water. We sat all three in a semi-circle, with our

heads advanced, and our chins upon our hands, while the strange, jerky

little fellow, with his high, shining head, puffed uneasily in the

centre.

“When I first determined to make this communication to you,” said he,

“I might have given you my address, but I feared that you might

disregard my request and bring unpleasant people with you. I took the

liberty, therefore, of making an appointment in such a way that my man

Williams might be able to see you first. I have complete confidence in

his discretion, and he had orders, if he were dissatisfied, to proceed

no further in the matter. You will excuse these precautions, but I am a

man of somewhat retiring, and I might even say refined, tastes, and

there is nothing more unæsthetic than a policeman. I have a natural

shrinking from all forms of rough materialism. I seldom come in contact

with the rough crowd. I live, as you see, with some little atmosphere

of elegance around me. I may call myself a patron of the arts. It is my

weakness. The landscape is a genuine Corot, and, though a connoisseur

might perhaps throw a doubt upon that Salvator Rosa, there cannot be

the least question about the Bouguereau. I am partial to the modern

French school.”

“You will excuse me, Mr. Sholto,” said Miss Morstan, “but I am here at

your request to learn something which you desire to tell me. It is very

late, and I should desire the interview to be as short as possible.”

“At the best it must take some time,” he answered; “for we shall

certainly have to go to Norwood and see Brother Bartholomew. We shall

all go and try if we can get the better of Brother Bartholomew. He is

very angry with me for taking the course which has seemed right to me.

I had quite high words with him last night. You cannot imagine what a

terrible fellow he is when he is angry.”

“If we are to go to Norwood it would perhaps be as well to start at

once,” I ventured to remark.

He laughed until his ears were quite red. “That would hardly do,” he

cried. “I don’t know what he would say if I brought you in that sudden

way. No, I must prepare you by showing you how we all stand to each

other. In the first place, I must tell you that there are several

points in the story of which I am myself ignorant. I can only lay the

facts before you as far as I know them myself.

“My father was, as you may have guessed, Major John Sholto, once of the

Indian army. He retired some eleven years ago, and came to live at

Pondicherry Lodge in Upper Norwood. He had prospered in India, and

brought back with him a considerable sum of money, a large collection

of valuable curiosities, and a staff of native servants. With these

advantages he bought himself a house, and lived in great luxury. My

twin-brother Bartholomew and I were the only children.

“I very well remember the sensation which was caused by the

disappearance of Captain Morstan. We read the details in the papers,

and, knowing that he had been a friend of our father’s, we discussed

the case freely in his presence. He used to join in our speculations as

to what could have happened. Never for an instant did we suspect that

he had the whole secret hidden in his own breast,—that of all men he

alone knew the fate of Arthur Morstan.

“We did know, however, that some mystery—some positive danger—overhung

our father. He was very fearful of going out alone, and he always

employed two prize-fighters to act as porters at Pondicherry Lodge.

Williams, who drove you to-night, was one of them. He was once

light-weight champion of England. Our father would never tell us what

it was he feared, but he had a most marked aversion to men with wooden

legs. On one occasion he actually fired his revolver at a wooden-legged

man, who proved to be a harmless tradesman canvassing for orders. We

had to pay a large sum to hush the matter up. My brother and I used to

think this a mere whim of my father’s, but events have since led us to

change our opinion.

“Early in 1882 my father received a letter from India which was a great

shock to him. He nearly fainted at the breakfast-table when he opened

it, and from that day he sickened to his death. What was in the letter

we could never discover, but I could see as he held it that it was

short and written in a scrawling hand. He had suffered for years from

an enlarged spleen, but he now became rapidly worse, and towards the

end of April we were informed that he was beyond all hope, and that he

wished to make a last communication to us.

“When we entered his room he was propped up with pillows and breathing

heavily. He besought us to lock the door and to come upon either side

of the bed. Then, grasping our hands, he made a remarkable statement to

us, in a voice which was broken as much by emotion as by pain. I shall

try and give it to you in his own very words.

“‘I have only one thing,’ he said, ‘which weighs upon my mind at this

supreme moment. It is my treatment of poor Morstan’s orphan. The cursed

greed which has been my besetting sin through life has withheld from

her the treasure, half at least of which should have been hers. And yet

I have made no use of it myself,—so blind and foolish a thing is

avarice. The mere feeling of possession has been so dear to me that I

could not bear to share it with another. See that chaplet dipped with

pearls beside the quinine-bottle. Even that I could not bear to part

with, although I had got it out with the design of sending it to her.

You, my sons, will give her a fair share of the Agra treasure. But send

her nothing—not even the chaplet—until I am gone. After all, men have

been as bad as this and have recovered.

“‘I will tell you how Morstan died,’ he continued. ‘He had suffered for

years from a weak heart, but he concealed it from every one. I alone

knew it. When in India, he and I, through a remarkable chain of

circumstances, came into possession of a considerable treasure. I

brought it over to England, and on the night of Morstan’s arrival he

came straight over here to claim his share. He walked over from the

station, and was admitted by my faithful old Lal Chowdar, who is now

dead. Morstan and I had a difference of opinion as to the division of

the treasure, and we came to heated words. Morstan had sprung out of

his chair in a paroxysm of anger, when he suddenly pressed his hand to

his side, his face turned a dusky hue, and he fell backwards, cutting

his head against the corner of the treasure-chest. When I stooped over

him I found, to my horror, that he was dead.

“‘For a long time I sat half distracted, wondering what I should do. My

first impulse was, of course, to call for assistance; but I could not

but recognise that there was every chance that I would be accused of

his murder. His death at the moment of a quarrel, and the gash in his

head, would be black against me. Again, an official inquiry could not

be made without bringing out some facts about the treasure, which I was

particularly anxious to keep secret. He had told me that no soul upon

earth knew where he had gone. There seemed to be no necessity why any

soul ever should know.

“‘I was still pondering over the matter, when, looking up, I saw my

servant, Lal Chowdar, in the doorway. He stole in and bolted the door

behind him. “Do not fear, Sahib,” he said. “No one need know that you

have killed him. Let us hide him away, and who is the wiser?” “I did

not kill him,” said I. Lal Chowdar shook his head and smiled. “I heard

it all, Sahib,” said he. “I heard you quarrel, and I heard the blow.

But my lips are sealed. All are asleep in the house. Let us put him

away together.” That was enough to decide me. If my own servant could

not believe my innocence, how could I hope to make it good before

twelve foolish tradesmen in a jury-box? Lal Chowdar and I disposed of

the body that night, and within a few days the London papers were full

of the mysterious disappearance of Captain Morstan. You will see from

what I say that I can hardly be blamed in the matter. My fault lies in

the fact that we concealed not only the body, but also the treasure,

and that I have clung to Morstan’s share as well as to my own. I wish

you, therefore, to make restitution. Put your ears down to my mouth.

The treasure is hidden in—’

“At this instant a horrible change came over his expression; his eyes

stared wildly, his jaw dropped, and he yelled, in a voice which I can

never forget, ‘Keep him out! For Christ’s sake keep him out!’ We both

stared round at the window behind us upon which his gaze was fixed. A

face was looking in at us out of the darkness. We could see the

whitening of the nose where it was pressed against the glass. It was a

bearded, hairy face, with wild cruel eyes and an expression of

concentrated malevolence. My brother and I rushed towards the window,

but the man was gone. When we returned to my father his head had

dropped and his pulse had ceased to beat.

“We searched the garden that night, but found no sign of the intruder,

save that just under the window a single footmark was visible in the

flower-bed. But for that one trace, we might have thought that our

imaginations had conjured up that wild, fierce face. We soon, however,

had another and a more striking proof that there were secret agencies

at work all round us. The window of my father’s room was found open in

the morning, his cupboards and boxes had been rifled, and upon his

chest was fixed a torn piece of paper, with the words ‘The sign of the

four’ scrawled across it. What the phrase meant, or who our secret

visitor may have been, we never knew. As far as we can judge, none of

my father’s property had been actually stolen, though everything had

been turned out. My brother and I naturally associated this peculiar

incident with the fear which haunted my father during his life; but it

is still a complete mystery to us.”

The little man stopped to relight his hookah and puffed thoughtfully

for a few moments. We had all sat absorbed, listening to his

extraordinary narrative. At the short account of her father’s death

Miss Morstan had turned deadly white, and for a moment I feared that

she was about to faint. She rallied however, on drinking a glass of

water which I quietly poured out for her from a Venetian carafe upon

the side-table. Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair with an

abstracted expression and the lids drawn low over his glittering eyes.

As I glanced at him I could not but think how on that very day he had

complained bitterly of the commonplaceness of life. Here at least was a

problem which would tax his sagacity to the utmost. Mr. Thaddeus Sholto

looked from one to the other of us with an obvious pride at the effect

which his story had produced, and then continued between the puffs of

his overgrown pipe.

“My brother and I,” said he, “were, as you may imagine, much excited as

to the treasure which my father had spoken of. For weeks and for months

we dug and delved in every part of the garden, without discovering its

whereabouts. It was maddening to think that the hiding-place was on his

very lips at the moment that he died. We could judge the splendour of

the missing riches by the chaplet which he had taken out. Over this

chaplet my brother Bartholomew and I had some little discussion. The

pearls were evidently of great value, and he was averse to part with

them, for, between friends, my brother was himself a little inclined to

my father’s fault. He thought, too, that if we parted with the chaplet

it might give rise to gossip and finally bring us into trouble. It was

all that I could do to persuade him to let me find out Miss Morstan’s

address and send her a detached pearl at fixed intervals, so that at

least she might never feel destitute.”

“It was a kindly thought,” said our companion, earnestly. “It was

extremely good of you.”

The little man waved his hand deprecatingly. “We were your trustees,”

he said. “That was the view which I took of it, though Brother

Bartholomew could not altogether see it in that light. We had plenty of

money ourselves. I desired no more. Besides, it would have been such

bad taste to have treated a young lady in so scurvy a fashion. ‘Le

mauvais goût mène au crime.’ The French have a very neat way of putting

these things. Our difference of opinion on this subject went so far

that I thought it best to set up rooms for myself: so I left

Pondicherry Lodge, taking the old khitmutgar and Williams with me.

Yesterday, however, I learn that an event of extreme importance has

occurred. The treasure has been discovered. I instantly communicated

with Miss Morstan, and it only remains for us to drive out to Norwood

and demand our share. I explained my views last night to Brother

Bartholomew: so we shall be expected, if not welcome, visitors.”

Mr. Thaddeus Sholto ceased, and sat twitching on his luxurious settee.

We all remained silent, with our thoughts upon the new development

which the mysterious business had taken. Holmes was the first to spring

to his feet.

“You have done well, sir, from first to last,” said he. “It is possible

that we may be able to make you some small return by throwing some

light upon that which is still dark to you. But, as Miss Morstan

remarked just now, it is late, and we had best put the matter through

without delay.”

Our new acquaintance very deliberately coiled up the tube of his

hookah, and produced from behind a curtain a very long befrogged

topcoat with Astrakhan collar and cuffs. This he buttoned tightly up,

in spite of the extreme closeness of the night, and finished his attire

by putting on a rabbit-skin cap with hanging lappets which covered the

ears, so that no part of him was visible save his mobile and peaky

face. “My health is somewhat fragile,” he remarked, as he led the way

down the passage. “I am compelled to be a valetudinarian.”

Our cab was awaiting us outside, and our programme was evidently

prearranged, for the driver started off at once at a rapid pace.

Thaddeus Sholto talked incessantly, in a voice which rose high above

the rattle of the wheels.

“Bartholomew is a clever fellow,” said he. “How do you think he found

out where the treasure was? He had come to the conclusion that it was

somewhere indoors: so he worked out all the cubic space of the house,

and made measurements everywhere, so that not one inch should be

unaccounted for. Among other things, he found that the height of the

building was seventy-four feet, but on adding together the heights of

all the separate rooms, and making every allowance for the space

between, which he ascertained by borings, he could not bring the total

to more than seventy feet. There were four feet unaccounted for. These

could only be at the top of the building. He knocked a hole, therefore,

in the lath-and-plaster ceiling of the highest room, and there, sure

enough, he came upon another little garret above it, which had been

sealed up and was known to no one. In the centre stood the

treasure-chest, resting upon two rafters. He lowered it through the

hole, and there it lies. He computes the value of the jewels at not

less than half a million sterling.”

At the mention of this gigantic sum we all stared at one another

open-eyed. Miss Morstan, could we secure her rights, would change from

a needy governess to the richest heiress in England. Surely it was the

place of a loyal friend to rejoice at such news; yet I am ashamed to

say that selfishness took me by the soul, and that my heart turned as

heavy as lead within me. I stammered out some few halting words of

congratulation, and then sat downcast, with my head drooped, deaf to

the babble of our new acquaintance. He was clearly a confirmed

hypochondriac, and I was dreamily conscious that he was pouring forth

interminable trains of symptoms, and imploring information as to the

composition and action of innumerable quack nostrums, some of which he

bore about in a leather case in his pocket. I trust that he may not

remember any of the answers which I gave him that night. Holmes

declares that he overheard me caution him against the great danger of

taking more than two drops of castor oil, while I recommended

strychnine in large doses as a sedative. However that may be, I was

certainly relieved when our cab pulled up with a jerk and the coachman

sprang down to open the door.

“This, Miss Morstan, is Pondicherry Lodge,” said Mr. Thaddeus Sholto,

as he handed her out.