The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Affair of the Texan’s Honour
We were returning in the early evening to our temporary lodgings, having watched the kinema show at Madame Tussaud’s in Marylebone Road, when Holmes became suddenly alert, pointing his stick ahead of him and saying in that urgent murmur I knew so well, “What do you make of this fellow, Watson? The one with the brand new top hat, the red whiskers and a borrowed morning coat who recently arrived from the United States but has just returned from the north-western suburbs where he made an assignation he might now be regretting?”
I chuckled at this. “Come off it, Holmes!” I declared. “I can see a chap in a topper lugging a heavy bag, but how you could say he was from the United States and so on, I have no idea. I believe you’re making it up, old man.”
“Certainly not, my dear Watson! Surely you have noticed that the morning coat is actually beginning to part on the back seam and is therefore too small for the wearer. The most likely explanation is that he borrowed a coat for the purpose of making a particular visit. The hat is obviously purchased recently for the same reason, while the man’s boots have the ‘gaucho’ heel characteristic of the South Western United States, a style found only in that region and adapted, of course, from a Spanish riding boot. I have made a study of human heels, Watson, as well as of human souls!”
We kept an even distance behind the subject of our discussion. The traffic along Baker Street was at its heaviest, full of noisy carriages, snorting horses, yelling drivers and all of London’s varied humanity pressing its way homeward, desperate to find some means of cooling its collective body. Our ‘quarry’ had periodically to stop and put down his bag, occasionally changing hands before continuing.
“But why do you say he arrived recently? And has been visiting north-west London?” I asked.
“Clearly our friend is wealthy enough to afford the best in hats and Gladstone bags, yet wears a morning coat too small for him. It suggests he came with little luggage, or perhaps his luggage was stolen, and had no time to visit a tailor. Or he went to one of the ready-made places and took the nearest fit. Thus, the new bag, also, which he no doubt bought to carry the object he has just acquired. He did not realise how heavy it was. I am sure if he were not staying nearby, he would have hired a cab. He could be regretting his acquisition, especially if it were costly and not entirely what he was expecting. He certainly did not realise how awkward it would be to carry, especially in this weather. That suggests that he believed he could walk from Baker Street Underground Railway Station, which in turn suggests he has been visiting north west London, which is chiefly served from Baker Street.”
It was rarely that I questioned my friend’s judgements, but privately I found this one too fanciful. I was a little surprised, therefore, when I saw the top-hatted gentleman turn left into Dorset Street and disappear. Holmes immediately increased his pace. “Quickly, Watson! He must be close to his destination.”
Rounding the corner, we were just in time to see the American arrive at the door of our own lodgings, Number 2, Dorset Street, and put a latch-key to the lock!
“Well, Watson,” said Holmes in some triumph. “Shall we attempt to verify my analysis?” Whereupon he strode up to our fellow lodger, raised his hat and offered to help him with the bag.
The man reacted rather dramatically, panting like an animal, falling backwards against the railings and almost knocking his own hat over his eyes. He glared at Holmes, and then with a wordless growl, pushed on into the front hall, lugging the heavy Gladstone behind him and slamming the door in my friend’s face. Holmes lifted his eyebrows in an expression of baffled amusement. “No doubt the efforts with the bag have put the gentleman in poor temper, Watson!”
Once within, we were in time to see the man, hat still precariously on his head, heaving his bag up the stairs. The thing had come undone and I caught a glimpse of silver, the gleam of gold, the representation, I thought, of a tiny human hand. When he recognised us he stopped in some confusion, then murmured in a dramatic tone:
“Be warned, gentleman. I possess a revolver and am an expert shot!”
Holmes accepted this news gravely and informed the man that while he understood an exchange of pistol fire to be something in the nature of an introductory courtesy in Texas, in England it was still considered impolitic to support one’s cause by letting off guns in the house. This I found a little hypocritical from one given to target practice in the parlour!
However, our fellow lodger looked suitably embarrassed and began to recover himself. “Forgive me, gentlemen,” he said. “I am a stranger here and I must admit I’m rather confused as to who my friends and enemies are. I have been warned to be careful. How did you get in?”
“With a key, as you did, my dear sir. Doctor Watson and myself are guests here for a few weeks.”
“Doctor Watson!” The man’s voice established him immediately as an American. The drawling brogue identified him as a South Westerner and I trusted Holmes’ ear enough to believe that he must be Texan.
“I am he.” I was mystified by his evident enthusiasm but illuminated when he turned his attention to my companion.
