The Case of the Assured Assassin
II: The Smiling Assassin
In the course of my career, I have had many requests come my way. Some pitiable, some unseemly, some downright peculiar, but this was unique in for its enormity and sheer audacity. As unbelievable as it was, I tried desperately to find in that face any trace of amusement to confirm my fervent wish that this was nothing but an unpleasant jest.
"Surely you are not serious, sir?" said I, when what little hope I had had faded fast.
From behind his glasses, his gaze never wavered. "Oh, but I am very serious, Doctor. I have a 'grudge', for want of a better word, against your estimable friend, and I mean to settle that score. Permanently."
"And you expect me to help you? You would be advised, sir, to leave my surgery this instant before I am forced to call for the police!"
The man sighed. "I had anticipated your reaction, Doctor. Now, be a good fellow and sit down."
The words were quietly but confidently spoken. I should not have paid them much heed, but then I find that a pistol pointed in my general direction is always more compelling than the best-judged argument. Accordingly, I sat.
"Better," said he contentedly, although he did not relax his grip on his gun. "Now, sir, our business is very straightforward. You will aid me and I will ensure that your pretty wife is left to her widowhood in peace."
I will not pretend that at that moment I did not feel a chill run through me. In my long acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes, we have faced all manner of criminal lunatics who have sworn vengeance and promised our certain deaths. But to threaten Mary, the most innocent and unassuming of souls, was to drive a knife through my very heart.
He saw my troubled expression and he chuckled, the vilest sound that I wish never to hear again. Looking at this otherwise unremarkable man anew, I was certain of the danger I found myself in. Small he may have been, but his presence seemed to fill the room with the very malice of the man. Clean-shaven and bald but for a thin strand of greying hair encircling his scalp above his ears, he gave the impression of highly-polished wooden effigy, left for all eternity with a hideous grin plastered across its face.
"You seemed somewhat stunned, Doctor," said he. "Either you do not believe me or you do not believe that I should bring such a proposition to your door. In either case, I wish to assure you most earnestly of my intentions. Similarly, you may be certain that if you attempt any action against my person during the course of our business, I will shoot you here and then your wife will be next."
I pride myself on being able to summon up a timely reaction when faced with danger, but for once I was at a loss. Words did indeed fail me. I knew not how to respond or how to extract myself from this terrible situation. I sat, in stupefied horror, as the man continued with his proposition.
"I am a methodical man and have prepared for every eventuality. I know that today, for example, your former landlady visits her sister in Sanderstead, leaving at two and returning on the eight fifteen train. I know that she allowed you to keep your keys to your former rooms and that you are in the habit of letting yourself in when you are summoned to assist your friend in his investigations."
It was fast occurring to me that he knew far too much about our habits to be merely a wondering maniac with a slight grievance against Holmes. He had clearly taken the time to observe the comings and goings at Baker Street with great care over a lengthy period.
"I also know," he went on, "that at present, you are at odds, which suits my purpose exceeding well."
"How ever did you know that?" I said in spite of myself.
His sickly smile broadened. "Your clever friend is not unique in his talent for observation, Doctor. The reasoning behind my assertion is quite elementary. On Saturday last, you received a summons from Mr Holmes –"
"A request," I corrected him, keen for some bizarre reason to preserve what little was left of my dignity.
"Come now, Doctor. Do not split hairs on such an issue. You are summoned and you attend, like the loyal friend you are. There is no shame in such devotion; I mention it only to illuminate you as to my deductions. Where a man deviates from habit, as you did on Saturday night, there is cause for interest. Faced with the choice, you chose your wife. Am I not right?"
As much I as hated to admit it, if only to myself, he was correct. How he knew was absurdly simple too, as Holmes would have it. Clearly, this creature had been following me and making a careful observation of my routine. Futile as it was now, I cursed myself for being lackadaisical enough not to have been aware of my unwanted shadow.
"Then the next day," the man continued, "you took yourself to Baker Street, I imagine to explain your absence of the previous evening. Your interview was brief, but heated, if I am any judge of your furious expression as you left your former rooms. Since then you have not been back, nor has Mr Holmes visited you. Thus, I was able to ascertain that a cloud hangs over your friendship, and today you had intended to lay that same disagreement which exists between you."
Had I been a superstitious man, I would have been convinced that he was a reader of minds, so accurately had he described my movements, and even now my very thoughts and future plans. But my long association with Holmes has to some degree trained me in the art of following such reasoning. The direction of his gaze, fixed admiring on the bottle of whisky on my desk, confirmed my suspicion.
"That was a gift from a patient," I said, rather desperately to my ears.
My vain attempt at outfoxing him failed dismally.
"Doctor, please do not insult me," said he. "Even if I had not seen you purchase it earlier, then I would still have been able to deduce from the fact that you had it wrapped so carefully and at extra cost, that this was not destined for your consumption." He smiled again. "Or rather I should say not for your lone consumption. It is a conciliatory gift for Mr Holmes, is it not?"
I said nothing to this. It was a small act of defiance on my part, which was nevertheless a pointless exercise, since he already knew enough without any confirmation from me.
"As I say," he continued. "It does make everything so much easier, much neater, you know. And I pride myself on my neatness. A case presented to those blunderers at Scotland Yard with all the loose ends perfectly tied up makes for a quick resolution. So, shall we begin?"
He looked at me expectantly, as though he imagined I would throw myself wholeheartedly behind his proposition. In all truth, I could not move, even if I had willed it. I do not fancy myself to be a timid or uncourageous man, and yet I was proving myself to be quite the weaker of the two in this monstrous plot.
"Well?" the man persisted.
"No," said I finally finding my voice. "I will not help you."
He gave me a look of benevolent toleration, which sat ill on his unctuous features. "My dear sir, let me make it plain. One way or another, you will not live to see another dawn. What I am offering you is a choice of partner in your demise. Now, Doctor, who is it to be – Mrs Watson or Mr Holmes?"
A choice, he claimed, but really no choice at all. If I had thought I could have got to him in time and wrenched that pistol from his grasp, I would have thrown all my effort into such an act. Except that with his steady grip and his finger posed on the trigger, I was equally certain that not only would I fail, but condemn my dear wife as well.
"Shall I make it easy for you?" said the man, his impatience now sounding clearly in his voice. "But several days ago, you proved yourself willing to put your marriage before your friendship. Why should you falter now? If Mr Holmes is half the man you claim when you pen these little stories of yours, then surely our poor effort to seek his demise will fail. That must give you some consolation, surely?"
"No, it does not."
My words added a touch of steel to his pale blue eyes. "Maybe not, but it will have to do. I lose patience, sir, and time is running short. Now, Doctor, open that whisky bottle."
Poor Dr Watson! Whatever is he to do?
Continued in III: The Deadliest Gift
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