The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Affair of the Texan’s Honour
When Mr Macklesworth had left our rooms, I turned to Holmes, hoping for a little further illumination, but he was nursing his solution to him as if it were a favourite child. The expression on his face was extremely irritating to me. “Come, Holmes, this won’t do! You say I suggested the motive, yet you offer no hint of the solution! Mrs Gallibasta is not the murderess, yet you say a murder is most likely involved. My theory—that Sir Geoffrey had the Silver spirited away and then killed himself so that he would not be committing a crime, as he would if he had been bankrupted—seems to confirm this. His handwriting has identified him as the author of the scheme. Now, suddenly, you speak of some Louisiana desperado known as ‘Little Pierre’, who appears to have been your main suspect until Mr Macklesworth revealed that he was dead.”
“I agree with you, Watson, that it seems very confusing. I hope for illumination tonight. Do you have your revolver with you, old friend?”
“I am not in the habit of carrying a gun about, Holmes.”
At this, Sherlock Holmes crossed the room and produced a large shoe-box which he had also brought from 22lb that afternoon. From it he produced two modern Webley revolvers and a box of ammunition. “We may need these to defend our lives, Watson. We are dealing with a master criminal intelligence. An intelligence both patient and calculating, who has planned this crime over many years and now believes there is some chance of being thwarted.”
“You think Mrs Gallibasta is in league with him and will warn him when the telegram arrives?”
“Let us say, Watson, that we must expect a visitor tonight. That is why the Fellini Silver stands in our window to be recognised.”
I told my friend that at my age and station I was losing patience for this kind of charade, but reluctantly I agreed to accept the revolver and load it.
THE NIGHT WAS almost as sultry as the day and I was beginning to wish that I had availed myself of lighter clothing and a glass of water when I heard a strange, scraping noise from somewhere in the street and risked a glance down from where I stood in darkness behind the curtain.
I was astonished to see a figure, careless of any observer, yet fully visible in the yellow light of the lamps, climbing rapidly up the wisteria vine!
Within seconds the man—for man it was, and a gigantic individual, at that—had slipped a knife from his belt and was opening the catch on the window in which the Fellini Silver still sat. It was all I could do to hold my position. I could not speak, to warn Holmes, or our prey would bolt. Common sense told me he could not simply grab the Silver and leave. He would have to lower it by a rope or carry it down the stairs. This meant he had to enter the room where we awaited him.
The audacious burglar remained careless of any onlookers, as if his greed for the Silver so consumed him that he was oblivious to all ordinary considerations. I caught a glimpse of his features in the lamp-light. He had thick, wavy hair tied back in a bandanna, a couple of day’s stubble on his chin and dark, almost negroid skin. I guessed at once that he was a relative of Mrs Gallibasta.
Then he had snapped back the catch of the window and I heard his breath hissing from his lips as he raised the sash and slipped inside.
The next moment Holmes emerged from his hiding place and levelled the revolver at the man who turned with the blazing eyes of a trapped beast, knife in hand, his wild, dark eyes seeking escape.
“There is a loaded revolver levelled at your head, man,”
said Holmes evenly. “You would be wise to drop that knife and surrender—Jean-Pierre Fromental!”
With a wordless snarl, the intruder flung himself towards the Silver, placing it between himself and our guns.
He had a mad, careless expression upon his handsome features. “Shoot if you dare!” he cried. “You will be destroying more than my unworthy life! You will be destroying everything you have conspired to preserve! I underestimated you, Macklesworth, if that’s you—he gestured, in fact, towards me. I thought you were an easy dupe—besotted by your belief that you were related to a knight of the realm, with whom you had an intimate correspondence! How readily you answered my questions! I worked for years to discover everything I could about you. You seemed perfect. You were willing to do anything, so long as it was described as a matter of family honour. Oh, how I planned! How I held myself in check! How patient I was. How noble in all my deeds! I ascertained you had no claim on the title or the estate, so would never need any contact with the executors. All so that I would one day own not merely that fool Geoffrey’s money, but also his most prized treasure! I had his devotion—but I wanted everything else besides! And would have had it if you had not suddenly revealed a desire to stay in England!”
It was then,suddenly, that I understood the truth of the situation!
At that moment I saw a flash of silver and heard the sickening sound of steel entering flesh. With a sharp intake of breath, Holmes fell back, his pistol dropping from his hand. Yelling something incoherent I, in turn, discharged my own revolver, careless of Fellini or his art, in my belief that my friend was once again to be taken from me—this time before my eyes.
