"Improved," was my reply. "When she awoke this morning, she was able to recall a great deal about living in Boston and New York. I took her to see Sir Morris Stein, the great neurologist around the corner in Harley Street. I've referred one or two cases to him before. He's a remarkable fellow, semi-retired now to work on his books, but he owes me a favor. He concurs she's not brain damaged - puts her amnesia down to a combination of drugs, post-hypnotic suggestion, and exhaustion from terror. He thinks her loss of memory as to recent events is going to continue to pass off spontaneously over the next few weeks without further treatment."
"And her amnesia about her early life?"
"He beat around the bush about that. Said he wanted to see her once a week for a while. He said a curious thing - that he didn't think this fellow Garnett was capable of building such a wall between her mind and her memory entirely without help. But he wouldn't explain what he meant. Could there be yet another doctor involved in the case?"
"Interesting. No, I don't think that's what he meant. I have a theory about her early life-but this is not the time. My dear fellow, do you suppose you could get your wife and servants out of the house for a few days?"
"Good God, Holmes, why?"
"It has to do with what I didn't find in Liverpool. This has been quite a case for negative data. Of course, I expected not to find Garnett, the excess luggage-if Garnett's the man I think him, it has probably been sent to Wooton-Under-the-Edge or some such place, to be left until called for-or a traceable poison in Sacker's body, and indeed all these things failed to turn up, right on schedule. But the crowning absence, the one I didn't expect, is the absence of motive for the slaying of Sacker. That has proved to be the keystone.
"I've been wrong about Garnett, Watson; wrong from the very beginning. I had assumed, that because he refused to kill Miss Smith or allow her to be killed or otherwise molested, that he was a man of greater moral scruples as well as greater intelligence than his partner; that, in short, he was a sane and rational gentleman, within the limits of his criminality. Wrong.
"Watson, the man is a megalomaniac of the first order. The springs of his actions are not reason and intelligence, but vision and obsession. And the name of his obsession is Cordelia Smith."
"Do you think he will come back to London and try to kill her?" I asked, horrified.
"Not exactly. I think he's going to come back to London and try to kidnap her. And we shall be waiting to take him in the trap. Thus the removal of your wife and servants, both to clear the path and to get them out of harm's way."
"But what about Miss Smith? You can't stake her out like a goat at a tiger hunt!" I protested indignantly.
"I can't spring a trap without bait, either. I think you rather underestimate Miss Smith. I believe she will wish to be in at the kill. She once described herself as the ghost of a murdered woman, as I recall. No, she has no love for Garnett, whatever distorted feelings he may harbor towards her.
"I'm having your place watched as discreetly as I can. I don't think Garnett will strike tonight; he needs a little time to prepare a hiding place, among other things. Inspector Lestrade is cooperating, under protest; he would rather be expending his considerable energies combing Ireland, I understand. I shall be along some time tomorrow to help set up, hopefully without being seen. Give my regards to Mrs. Watson, will you?" He rang off.
I sighed, and steeled myself to break Holmes's news to my wife. She is a patient woman, but turning her out of her home to make way for a midnight visit by a poisoning madman was going rather outside her experience, even for the interests of justice. However, she took it better than I had hoped, and although I suspect it was the cause of some coolness between herself and Holmes for a time thereafter, I was able to see her safely off for a visit to some friends at Greenwich early the next morning. Miss Smith had shown far less alarm than Alicia when Holmes's plan was revealed to her. She merely smiled, and expressed herself willing to cooperate to the best of her abilities. Later in the morning, however, she came down to my study to ask if I had an extra handgun which she might carry upon her person.
"Both Holmes and I shall be armed," I reassured her. "And Inspector Lestrade will have men outside. There will be no need for you to get involved in the unpleasantness." She accepted this after some hesitation. Privately, I breathed a sigh of relief; after her performance in the back garden, I was uncertain of how she would behave if armed.
About three in the afternoon there came a ring at my front door. Answering it of necessity myself, I beheld a thin, bent old man, whose wizened face and rheumy eyes were framed by white side-whiskers.
"Dr. Watson, is it? I was told you was the man to see about the rheumatics," he said in a high, thin quaver.
I had seen the disguise before, but it never ceased to amaze me. However, I kept a straight face, and invited the old man inside. As I closed the door, Holmes straightened up with a sigh of relief.
"It's a good disguise," he remarked, depositing cane, hat, and side-whiskers upon my hall table. "But good heavens, I think I should be seeing you in earnest about the rheumatics if I had to keep it up for very long. I've received answers from Boston and New York. Is your resident patient within?"
"She's reading in the study."
Miss Smith looked up in quick alarm as we entered, but her face relaxed into a smile when she saw Holmes. "Is all prepared, then?" she inquired.
"Very nearly," Holmes responded easily. "Lestrade will move his men into position at dusk. In a moment we three shall hold a council of war as to how best receive our nocturnal visitor, assuming he comes tonight, and also assuming he comes at all. If I were he, I would be halfway to St. Petersburg by now.
"But before that: I have received these cables." He took them out of his breast pocket. "I'm afraid Tufts was disappointing. They tell me they have not had a student named Cordelia Smith or Cordelia Smith-something within the last fifteen years."
"But that can't be!" began my patient.
Holmes held up a hand. "My New York correspondent, however, tells me that a gentleman by the name of Lt. Oser of the New York Police Department has been searching high and low for over a month for a lady by the name of Cordelia Naismith, who disappeared one night along with one Dr.James Helmuth and his private secretary, named Orville Sandeman, both of whom are desired urgently by the New York Police for questioning."
The lady sank back into her chair with a long, low sigh. "Calvin Oser," she breathed. "Thank God."
Holmes gave a little bow. "The gentleman is a friend of yours, I take it. In that case you will be happy to know that he took ship for London from New York last night."
"An old friend," she replied, pleased relief upon her features. "I can't recall now how I first met him, but he was my friend in New York. I went to him when I first began to suspect about-James Helmuth, yes, that was his name-when I began to suspect there was something peculiar going on from his laboratory. I kept my eyes open and reported to him, hoping to pick up something that would be concrete evidence. I can remember telling him at the last not to make a move until he heard from me." She rubbed her forehead. "What happened after that, now?"
"Presumably, this Garnett-Helmuth fellow suspected you were a spy," I interjected.
"Yes," she replied. "It is just on the tip of my memory, I can feel it." "Perhaps Helmuth himself will tell us, if we can but lay hands upon him tonight," said Holmes. "To turn for a moment from speculation to the practical: presumably he will come in by the back, so as to remain unseen, or so he thinks. Now it is not my wish to expose Miss Naismith to any more physical danger than absolutely necessary, therefore.
He was interrupted by a ring at my front door. "Now who can that be?" "Probably a patient," I replied, rising. "Don't get up, my dear fellow.
I've made arrangements to send all my emergencies today to Anstruther down the way. I'll just send him along."
I opened my front door to disclose a tall, clean-shaven gentleman of about fifty-five, dressed with great neatness and propriety. His bright eyes met mine with congenial directness. A cab waited in the street behind him.
"Dr. Watson?" he inquired politely.
"Yes, but Dr. Anstruther is taking my calls today," I replied. "A family emergency. He is just down the street-Number 114."
"Ah, how disappointing. You were particularly recommended to me. Well, my case is not urgent. Might I step in and make an appointment for another time? Thank you."
I closed the door behind him and turned to lead the way to my consulting room, which adjoined my study and was where my books were kept. As I entered the room ahead of him I felt something cold brush the back of my neck. Turning, I found myself looking down the gleaming barrel of a well-oiled revolver.
"Ah," I cried in a good, loud voice, after an instant's pause. "Dr. James Helmuth, is it? We were not expecting you to call so early."
"I imagine not," he agreed affably. "But it's no good, I'm afraid; I know there's no one here but you, my friend Miss Naismith, and that old man who came in a while ago. Now, I have no desire to inconvenience you in any way. Kindly do me the favor of calling down Miss Naismith, and we will just be on our way." His pistol never wavered from my head.
"Not so fast, Dr. Helmuth," came Holmes's voice suavely as he stepped into the consulting room from the study, his cocked revolver in his hand and Miss Naismith at his shoulder. His face abruptly went cold and still as he saw my predicament. Miss Naismith neither screamed nor shrank, but her eyes widened, then narrowed to a freezing watchfulness.
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, is it?" inquired the hawk-faced doctor. "What a surprise. A privilege to meet you, I'm sure."
"I'm sorry I cannot say the same," returned Holmes, covering Helmuth with the same still intensity with which Helmuth covered me.
"What a piquant situation," continued Helmuth, unruffled. "A Mexican standoff, in the vivid phraseology of my adopted country. Just take your pistol by the barrel and lay it on the desk over there, will you? Ah, you wish to point out that if I shoot Dr. Watson you will surely shoot me. True, but would it not be rather cold consolation for the death of such an old and dear friend? And really, no shooting need take place at all. I was sure you would see reason.
This last as Holmes, grey with anger, mortification, and a cold suppressed fear, placed his pistol upon my consulting room desk.
"Very good. Now just stand in the middle of the room over there." He took a hypodermic from his pocket and tossed it lightly to land upon an easy chair near Holmes. "Now, Cordelia, my pet, Mr. Holmes is just going to give you an injection to calm your nerves. Go to him."
No one moved. "Now, really, anyone would think I was intending to carry you off to do you harm instead of good. Nonsense. Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, I would no more intentionally injure this lady than I would take a penknife to the Mona Lisa. It would be aesthetic sacrilege. You are all making a great deal of fuss over very little."
"Not a penknife," replied Miss Naismith, a kind of Arctic light in her eyes. "But I can very easily imagine you taking a brush and palette to her, to 'improve' the picture."
"I'm waiting," replied Helmuth coldly. Out of the corner of my eye I could see his finger tighten on the trigger.
Miss Naismith shrugged, and started to walk in front of the desk toward Holmes. As she passed it she whirled softly and aimed Holmes's pistol toward us. "Lewis Brookman!" she cried.