Sherlock Holmes - The mysterious Mr Crane

by kentasaiba

As Paul Green returned from an exhausting overseas trip, he found himself sharing a train compartment with a strange man named Mr. Crane. Paul, feeling the weight of his recent experiences, began to unburden himself to this mysterious stranger. He confided in Mr. Crane about three men who had caused him significant distress and whom he wished would simply disappear from his life.

The following events take place in the autumn of 1900. My friend Sherlock Holmes had indeed already investigated several cases for clients who not only wanted to solve a crime but were also accused of one themselves. One might recall the unfortunate Dr. Leon Sterndale, whom I mentioned in my account of the Devil's Foot. Or perhaps the tormented McFarlane, who was accused of the murder of Jonas Oldacre, the so-called builder of Norwood.

As I walked back from my practice to Baker Street today, I suddenly realized that autumn had reached our beautiful London. It had become surprisingly dark quickly, and I hastened my steps to reach the apartment I shared with my old comrade Sherlock Holmes since the death of my wife.

Although the area around Baker Street was relatively safe, with the increasing crime in the city, I wanted to be on the safe side. Although I had been spared from being attacked and robbed by a brazen street thief, I did not want to risk it. I was increasingly confronted with criminals through my joint work with Sherlock Holmes, so I did not want to experience that in my free time as well.

Despite the encroaching darkness, I found the entrance and quickly unlocked it. I hung my coat on the coat stand and walked up the heavy staircase. Upon entering my room, I changed out of my outdoor clothes and into more comfortable ones. Back in the hallway, I called for our loyal housekeeper Mrs. Hudson, but there was no response.

No, that was not correct; there was a response, but from someone else I knew well.

"You are late today, Watson. Mrs. Hudson went to bed early today; she seemed to be suffering from a headache."

The voice came from Holmes' office. I sighed and walked towards it. The door was already half-open, so I spared myself the knocking. My friend seemed only moderately busy. He stood in front of his wide desk and was in the process of unpacking several boxes.

I recognized several test tubes and plastic bags.

"Holmes, I sincerely hope this is not your monthly cocaine solution."

The detective, however, laughed it off.

"Watson, you know I always pick it up myself and check its purity."

I remembered but once again advised my friend to leave these pleasures alone. I was not his treating physician, but I could not stand by and watch him increasingly harm his body.

Holmes, as usual, ignored my advice and set the utensils aside.

"I am currently working on a new method to determine the age of bloodstains. Are you familiar with the principle of fluorescence spectroscopy?"

I had to admit I was not; this was an area in which Holmes was certainly more knowledgeable.

"One of the first significant scientific breakthroughs came from Sir George Stokes in 1852 when he described the 'Stokes shift,' a phenomenon where the fluorescence of a material is emitted at a longer wavelength than the absorbed radiation. Although he probably did not consider the possibility of determining the age of blood, the principle is definitely applicable to it."

I nodded in understanding.

"I am sure this could revolutionize pathology. Especially with older corpses, it is increasingly difficult to determine the exact time of death."

Holmes agreed with me.

"Apart from that, I am primarily concerned with the blood at crime scenes. Determining whether it is new or older could be crucial in certain cases to convict a perpetrator."

Any hobby of Holmes that did not affect his health was fine with me. I turned back towards the door.

"The poor Mrs. Hudson is suffering from a headache, you said? Perhaps I should check on her."

The detective advised against it.

"Do not be overly concerned, Watson. It is only a headache, and she is probably already asleep."

I finally agreed with him; there was probably nothing for me to do. We agreed that it would have been a bad idea to wake the good woman.

However, we could not prevent the subsequent ringing of the bell. It startled us for a moment, as neither of us had expected it at such a late hour, especially since it became more persistent and at shorter intervals after the first time.

"Good Lord, Watson! Go answer the door! We are only making our landlady's headache worse."

I could have pointed out that Holmes could have gone himself, but I gave in. I hurried down the stairs and opened the door to the late visitor.

Before me stood a man whom I estimated to be in his early 30s. He was dressed elegantly but appeared hurried and sweaty.

"Mister Sherlock Holmes?", he hurriedly asked.

I shook my head.

"No, I am Dr. Watson. But I can take you to him."

The man swallowed.

"I would appreciate that. It is of the utmost urgency that I speak with Mr. Holmes quickly."

I let him in and closed the door behind him. I asked him to follow me and led him directly to the office of the master detective. The man probably had difficulty maintaining his composure.

"Mr. Holmes? My name is Paul Green. I know it is presumptuous to appear at such a late hour and without prior notice. However, this is an emergency. Therefore, I beg you... no, I implore you to listen to me."

My friend recognized the man's panic just as I did and offered him a chair. He sat down while I prepared a glass of brandy for him.

Holmes gave Mr. Green a moment to catch his breath and then began.

"What exactly is your problem? Does it have to do with your profession? You are a businessman, right? A traveling salesman, if I am not mistaken."

The unexpected client looked at him in shock.

"My God! Were you warned? Did the police contact you?"

Fear was now audible in his voice.

Holmes and I exchanged questioning glances.

"No, not at all. Although I regularly exchange information with the gentlemen from the Yard, I do not recall the name Paul Green being mentioned."

This seemed to be enough to calm Mr. Green somewhat.

"But how did you know then..."

My friend did not let him finish but pointed to his clothing.

"Your hat, your jacket, your pants, your shoes. All from different manufacturers, even from different countries. Your hat is of English manufacture, your jacket is Italian, and your pants are probably from France. Only your shoes might be from England, but I am not sure, as my knowledge in this area is still lacking. So, you are someone who usually travels a lot. Your skin tells me, however, that you are mainly only on the continent. If you had also visited Asia, that would be easily recognizable. Companies in the import and export sector usually specialize in specific products from neighboring countries."

Mr. Green swallowed and then nodded.

"You are absolutely right, Mr. Holmes. I spent half a year in the Balkans because I was busy setting up a brokerage office there. I work for the company of Mr. James Clearfield and am responsible for acquiring customers abroad."

"So, you have just returned to London?", I asked.

Our client nodded.

"Yes, actually earlier than expected. I was looking forward to surprising my wife, but now... I have only caused her trouble."

I was puzzled.

"Why is that? Is she not happy about your return? After all, you two have been apart for a long time."

Mr. Green now seemed somewhat guilty, which is why Holmes picked up the thread.

"It must have to do with a crime; you mentioned the police earlier. Was there perhaps trouble with the authorities?"

I wondered if Holmes was speculating that our client might be involved in a case of smuggling. That was not the case.

"You could say that. I am wanted by the police. And that is... for murder."

Holmes and I looked at each other again.

"The... murder you did not commit, I simply assume."

Mr. Green gave me a shocked look.

"Of course, I did not! Neither of them!"

Holmes cleared his throat.

"Two? So, a double murder?"

The sales representative nodded.

"Yes, two people died because of me. Maybe... indirectly. But I swear to you by God, I am not a murderer! Even... if the police think differently. When I came home tonight, they were already waiting at my door and talking to my wife. When they saw me, they rushed towards me. I panicked and fled."

I grumbled.

"That was perhaps not the wisest course of action. That way, you only appear unnecessarily suspicious."

Our client seemed guilty, but it was Holmes who encouraged him.

"I do not necessarily share that opinion. Watson, you know how easily our friends from the Yard sometimes take the easy way out. In the worst case, Mr. Green would now be languishing in a cell. No, the fact that he sought me out was already the right decision."

Hope sprang up in the man.

"Does that mean... you will help me?"

Holmes raised a hand.

"One thing at a time. You have not yet given me any details. Why exactly do they consider you responsible for these murders?"

Mr. Green took a deep breath.

"Because... I commissioned them. In a way."

A cryptic statement, I thought, and Holmes seemed to feel the same way.

"How about you start from the very beginning?"

Our client took a large sip from the glass and let the brandy slide down his throat. After he had drunk enough courage, he began to tell his story.

"Alright, I will tell you my story in every detail. Even at the risk of you not believing me, but I simply have to tell you about him. About the devil... and the deal I unwittingly made with him."
I had just entered the station and was glad to be back from England. Returning home from a longer stay abroad, I felt nothing more than the desire to finally be back in my familiar surroundings. My house, my mineral collection, my wife Karen. At the thought of her, I shuddered slightly.

Not that my feelings for her had changed since then, no, on the contrary, I still desired her. But whenever I had loved something in my life, be it a valuable object, an animal, or even a person, this feeling had always been accompanied by this terrible fear of losing the beloved.

"Why do you make so many bothersome thoughts, my friend?" a voice next to me asked.

"What?" I asked, surprised.

"Excuse me, are you talking to me?"

"Obviously, or?" the stranger replied. "If your wife truly loves you, she will be overjoyed at your return. She will embrace you and everything will be as it was before. So why do you look so glum?"

"Excuse me, but how do you know that I am on my way home and how do you know about Karen?"

The stranger smiled. "You wrote your name in thought on the fogged-up windowpane. It's a pretty name, I like it. Karen, I mean, but you already know that," said the stranger.

I nodded.

"Yes, I am a bit nervous, as you have already noticed."

I turned my gaze away from the windowpane, on which the name of my beloved was slowly starting to run in countless little rivulets. I discreetly examined the person opposite me. A man of indeterminate age in a gray suit of good quality and fabric. A pale-colored hat, the brim of which was so wide that directly underneath it a pair of glasses with a gold rim became visible, in whose thin lenses the remaining sunlight of the day was reflected. The eyes behind them were not discernible. Instead, below the mouth area, there was a prominent chin with a striking dimple.

His lips were thin, almost rimless, and in the left corner of his mouth, it twitched from time to time.

"I hope you do not waver in your decision," said the stranger.

"Which decision?" I asked.

"The decision to return to your wife, to Karen," the stranger replied.

"Oh no, no worries," I replied.

"You seem to be an extremely good observer, Mister..." I continued the conversation.

"Just call me Mister Crane," the stranger replied.

"Gladly. So you are also traveling to London, I assume. This train ends there, doesn't it?" I asked.

"Well, yes," Mister Crane replied. "How long were you away? If you allow me to ask this question, of course, you owe me no explanation."

"It's fine. To be honest, I've been away for almost half a year, in the Balkans. I had business to attend to there, setting up a brokerage office. A long time. Under certain circumstances, a very long time. Yes, much too long," I mused.

"Especially when it comes to Karen and me. She knew this trip had to be made. We both hoped that I would be promoted to office manager in my London firm. But unfortunately..."

I paused. "Oh, excuse me, I'm just rambling. It probably doesn't interest you at all."

"On the contrary, my friend," said Mister Crane. "Go ahead, talking frees you, just as silence does. Everything in its own time, but I have the feeling that talking is the better choice for you at the moment."

"There's not much to say about it," I said.

"My boss, old Mister Clearfield, sent me on this trip. Supposedly because he thinks highly of me, but somehow I had a nagging feeling right from the start that they just wanted to get rid of me."

"Who exactly are you talking about?" Mister Crane asked.

"Well, Mister Clearfield and a man named Ethan Sanders. The handsome Ethan is the type of person who does everything just a little bit more precisely than precisely. If you want to hold the door open for the boss, you can be sure that Ethan is already standing there, smiling at you with his buttery smile," I explained.

"Do you fear that this Ethan might have used your absence to snatch the job from under your nose?" Mister Crane asked.

"It would be very much like him, even though he knows perfectly well that I have seniority. If it weren't for his precision. Besides, Karen and I could really use the money. Not that it would be much more, but we wouldn't have to turn every penny twice," I added.

"I understand, we're back to Karen. What did you actually want to tell me about her?" Mister Crane asked.

"Oh, Karen is probably the finest person you've ever met," I replied.

"How that sounds. Are you making fun of me?" I asked, my voice sounding tired and resigned.

"Not at all," Crane replied. "Where a person's suffering resides, there is no room for frivolity. Don't you think?"

I sighed.

"Suffering? Oh yes, I suffer. Don't tell me it's not so. It was my first thought since I first saw you. And this suffering, it has to do with Karen. There's an old childhood friend of hers. His name is Arthur Granger. He's one of those rich idlers who don't have to worry because they're swimming in their father's money. But the really annoying thing about it is that he can't leave Karen alone. He's constantly sending her chocolates or flowers or inviting her to the theater."

"But you don't let that happen, do you?" my counterpart asked.

"What am I supposed to do?" I wanted to know desperately.

"He just won't go away. He's more annoying than a housefly. Sometimes I wish..."

"What do you wish for?" Crane asked curiously.

"Sometimes I imagine in my thoughts how I put my hands around his neck and then slowly squeeze. I see how his eyes bulge out, hear how he tries to gasp for air. Like a bug-eyed carp on dry land."

"Oh yes, that's good," said Crane.

"But there's no sound to be heard. He just stares at you while he slowly suffocates. And then you wake up from your dream and regret that it was only a dream."

I hastily denied it.

"No, I'm glad about it, because deep down I'm afraid of these thoughts."

"But that's only natural," said Crane.

"Look, there's a person who is about to take away the most precious thing you have. And this, moreover, in your absence, where you can't do the slightest thing against it. All you have, all you can rely on, is the willpower of your beloved Karen. By the way, how is it with her?"

"Well, I'm afraid..." I began, but Crane interrupted me.

"All clear, don't say anything more. Well, it sounds like you're in quite a predicament, my dear friend. Your life. Everything that's important to you is heading straight for a dead end."

"You're probably already in the middle of it and are about to run full speed into the wall. And let me tell you this. It's a very stable wall made of good bricks. It doesn't take much imagination to figure out how this will turn out. But what you need is something or someone to put you back on the right track, out of the dead end. Back to life, dear Paul."

"How do you...?" I asked, confused.

"The little sign on your suitcase," Crane explained.

"You mustn't leave the solution to your problems to others. You have to grab them by the scruff of the neck and tear them out by the roots. Eliminate all annoyances and you will finally be free."

"Eliminate?" I asked.

"In a way that they never return. Nothing is more annoying than a problem that keeps coming back to you, that doesn't leave you alone. Like Arthur Granger."

"Yes, but what can I do against someone like him?" I asked resignedly.

"Well, if you're already burying your head in the sand, I think we're both wasting our time here."

I shrugged.

"I... I don't know what to do anymore. I..."

"If you want to get rid of your problems, then you have to really want it, Paul. From the bottom of your heart. But I do, yes. I want to get rid of them. From now on, no more stuttering. No excuses about things you might or might not want to do. No. Instead, I offer you my help."

"Your help? What does that look like, I mean?"

"Very good. You're starting to understand. Just think of me as your extended arm."

"So you want to talk to Arthur Granger, right?" I asked skeptically.

"Yes. It's quite possible that I'll talk to him too."

"And for what? I mean, what do you demand in return from me? Because you're proposing something like a deal to me, right?" I wanted to know.

"A return favor? To be honest, I haven't thought about it. Let's just say I'll present my request to you at the appropriate time. Don't be afraid, Paul. We will certainly agree on a fair price."

I sank back into the warm cushions and shortly thereafter fell into a light slumber, from which I awoke about twenty minutes later.

"Oh, I dozed off. Are we... Sir? Mister?" I asked, staring at the opposite seat. It was empty. Except for the neatly folded newspaper that the stranger, Mister Crane, had held in his hands earlier, nothing reminded me of his existence.

A stranger. How had it come to this, that I had poured out my heart to him? I, who was otherwise rather reserved and did not share my most secret thoughts with anyone. A feeling of unease arose within me. I feared I had made a mistake. But perhaps it could still be corrected. The train had just pulled into the station. The man who had called himself Crane must still be somewhere here.

"Excuse me, may I please pass? I'm in a terrible hurry," I asked, looking around. Indeed, I thought I recognized a tall, slender figure at one of the exits. He was wearing Mister Crane's hat and the rest of his appearance left no doubt.

"Hello, Sir? Mister Crane? Please wait, I need to talk to you. So wait, please," I called out, but the other did not wait. He did not even look back. I, stuck in the aisle between the travelers, saw my peculiar travel companion get off the train onto the platform, which was crowded with people. Their legs disappeared into the thick fog and seemed as if an alien force was driving them. Among them, Crane. No more than a figure that began to blur before my eyes at that moment. And again that one thought that pushed itself to the forefront. Had I made a mistake? Had I made an irreparable mistake?

But the more the building of King's Cross disappeared in the tangle of streets behind me and thus all the events that now seemed unreal to me from a distance faded more and more, the more freely I breathed. A new feeling of joy filled me and suddenly I could hardly wait to return to the little house near the Thames. I imagined how Karen would react and how... Well, I imagined a lot. My fantasies piled up into ever more magnificent structures the closer I got.

As I turned into the street, I could already see the house. And the warm light it cast through the small windows onto the dirty gutter, which did not seem dirty to me at all on this evening. My anticipation could not have been greater.

In the little house at the strange number seventeen, they had no idea what was approaching.

"You still don't seem quite convinced, my dear," Arthur Granger noted.

"It's just not that simple. You know..."

"Yes, I know. I know almost everything about you, Karen. About your attempts to earn something extra as a barmaid and how much you hate being ogled by the drunken guys. I know how desperately you try to fall asleep. Shivering all over because the coal didn't last again."

"What is this? Do you want to humiliate me?" Karen asked.

"But not at all, Karen. Don't you realize that I just want to open your eyes? Sometimes it might have to hurt a little so you wake up. Look at yourself and pull yourself... it can't go on like this. I brought you something," Arthur explained.

"Please not, Arthur. I already don't know how I'll ever be able to pay you back for all of this. What is this?" Karen asked.

"A piece of paper that will make all your worries seem very, very small all at once. I've drawn up a purchase agreement for you," Arthur replied.

"A purchase agreement for the house? But it doesn't even belong to me," Karen objected.

"Darling, we both know he'll never come back, right? How often have we talked about it? Karen. Six months. Just think about it. He would have written to you, wouldn't he? If everything had been alright, he would have written you at least one letter, right?" Arthur argued.

"See? And why do you want to spend your best years in this rat hole? Why wait for something that will never happen?"

Karen's displeasure grew.

"What's the deal with this contract?" Karen asked.

"Well, that's more like it. Here, take a look at the contract. I talked to Mister Doe from the shipping company. You know Mister Doe, right?" Arthur explained.

"Yes, I think so," Karen confirmed.

"You should remember his name well, because he's not averse to buying this house."

"But what does he want with it?" Karen asked.

"I guess he'll have it demolished to build a new warehouse on it. But that's no longer your concern, Karen. Once you've left this behind, you won't care what becomes of it, because you'll already be staying in a fancy hotel," Arthur explained.

"No, Arthur. I can't. I won't squander what Paul and I..."

But Arthur interrupted her.

"It's only temporary, until you find something new. And I'll support you in everything. Well, what do you say?" Arthur asked.

"I don't know," Karen replied.

"If I were you, I wouldn't hesitate much longer, Karen," Arthur advised. "What's going on here?" I asked as I finally entered the house. "Oh my God, Paul. What the hell. What does this mean?" Arthur exclaimed. "You... you really are Paul. My God, I thought..." Karen stammered. "What did you think?" I asked. "I thought you were dead now," she confessed, beginning to sob. "Oh yes? Did he tell you that?" I turned my gaze to my rival. "What are you doing here? What are you doing here?" I asked angrily.

"Good evening, Paul. Your return comes as a bit of a surprise, as you yourself must admit," Arthur said. "What are you doing here, I want to know," I demanded.

"I merely came to pay an old friend a visit and cheer her up a little," Arthur explained. I could very well imagine what he meant by that. "What is this document?" my gaze fell on the paper.

"Do I see this correctly? A purchase agreement for this house," I noted.

"Paul, I didn't want to..." Karen began. "Did you arrange this, Arthur?" I asked critically.

"Yes. And why not? It was no longer bearable to see Karen going under in this dump. So there were only two options. Set fire to the dilapidated shack and try to get the insurance to cover it or sell the whole mess while someone who still has half their wits about them is willing to pay a certain sum for it," Arthur explained. "It's my father's house," I emphasized. "It looks like I arrived just in time. I bet you yourself would have made a pretty penny on a sale, hm?" I saw in his eyes that I was right.

"I'll show you what I do with your contract. Look closely, Arthur. There goes a clean contract. What do you say now?" I took the initiative.

"You should stop, Paul. Your behavior is embarrassing. Maybe you should ask yourself who helped Karen survive in the shards you left behind over the past few months and where the coal in your stove comes from," Arthur advised. "Get out of here and don't you dare set foot over this threshold ever again," I ordered. "It's probably really better if I go. Karen, I'm sorry. I would have liked to help you, but unfortunately, my hands are tied. Farewell," Arthur said.

"Arthur, wait. Arthur, please wait," Karen called. The man turned around once more, this time without feigned friendliness. "Don't worry. I know when it's time to retreat. Farewell, Karen," Arthur said and left the house. "Farewell," Karen murmured.

"Oh, coachman," Arthur called out once he was outside. I was more than glad when he finally left.
„Hello Karen, do you have anything to eat? I'm afraid I'm starving," I asked the next morning. Still the same house, just a different morning. The beginning of an extraordinary day in every way. Outside, the fog still drifted in impenetrable wisps over the river. The dockworkers had resumed their work somewhere in this surreal environment. Only in the small house on our street was there still quiet. Until that special moment.

"Please open the door," said a voice from outside.

"What... what does this mean? Yes, just a moment please. Are you Mister Green? Mister Paul Green?" someone asked brusquely.

"Yes, that's me, but what...?"

"May I come in?" asked the man.

"Listen, who are you anyway?" I demanded to know. "My name is Jones. Inspector Jones," the man introduced himself. I scrutinized him and wondered for a moment if he could be telling the truth. Finally, I gave in. "Police? Yes, please, come in. Has something happened?" I asked worriedly. The supposed officer looked around and then spoke to me directly.

"You haven't been in town for a while, Mister Green," said the inspector.

"Yes, that's right. I was abroad for six months on business." A noncommittal nod followed.

"You only returned last night, Mister Green?" asked the inspector.

"Yes," I confirmed. "You spent the night here? The whole night, I mean," asked the inspector. "Sure, this is my house. So you didn't go out again last night," the inspector stated. "Listen, wouldn't it be better if you finally told me what you want from me?" I asked impatiently. "Why so unfriendly, Mister Green? I'm just trying to do my job here. So?" asked the inspector. "So what?" I wanted to know. "Did you leave your house again after ten o'clock last night? Yes or no, Mister Green?" asked the inspector. "My husband was here at home all evening, Inspector," said Karen, who had joined us in the meantime. "And all night as well," she added.

"Oh, good morning, Mrs. Green," said the inspector. I now stepped between the two and cleared my throat. "I'm just conducting a routine interview here. So you claim...?" began the inspector. "Excuse me, I'm not claiming anything. I know that my husband hasn't left this house since last night, and I should know, after all, as his wife," Karen explained.

"Quite right, Mrs. Green. It's just that, as it looks, Mister Green spent the night here on the couch. I mean, how can you be so sure that he was here the whole time?" asked the inspector.

"Because Paul was mostly with me from last night on, in our shared bedroom. It was only in the early morning hours that he went next door. The noises from the dockyard next door woke him up. Isn't that right, darling?" Karen asked.

"Yes," I confirmed, still perplexed.

"I assume you must believe me, Inspector. Or do you want to take a look next door for safety and check how much bedding is present and how rumpled the sheet is?" Karen asked.

"I don't think that will be necessary," said the inspector.

"Perhaps this situation would be less strange for us if you finally told us what this is all about," Karen requested.

"Are you both familiar with a man named Arthur Granger?" asked the inspector.

"Yes, indeed. What about him?" I was surprised by the topic.

"Mister Granger was found dead in his house last night. He was beaten to death," the inspector explained.

"Oh God, how terrible," Karen held her hands to her mouth.

"Terrible is probably the right word for it. Someone must have struck him repeatedly with a heavy object on the head. His face was barely recognizable," the man from Scotland Yard could report. The man who was with us yesterday was now dead. I couldn't believe it.

"How horrible. And you come to us because...?" Karen asked. "Why to us?" I was also interested.

"You both should not make the mistake of trying to fool me. I know that Mister Granger was still here last night. He came to you to discuss a purchase contract for your house," the policeman confronted us. Immediately, I asked from whom he had this information.

"I don't have to answer this question, but I will. I found several notes in Mister Granger's notebook for last night. The first concerned a certain Mister Doe. The second name was yours, Mrs. Green. There was even a time noted. Ten o'clock in the evening." My wife didn't need long to think. "It's true. Mister Granger was still here last night. He had the contract with him," she explained to the inspector. "What's the story with that?" asked Jones. "Nothing. Mister Granger had apparently gotten it into his head that my husband and I wanted to sell this house. But that's not the case," she could tell. The inspector scratched his head. "To be honest, I don't know what to make of this. When Mister Granger left this house, that was around ten-thirty, you are said to have followed him, Mrs. Green. Is that correct?" he asked.

"Where from... I see. The nosy Mrs. Hardberry from next door, hm? Yes, the time will probably be correct, the rest too. Too bad she apparently can't read lips. I told Mister Granger that my husband and I would no longer need his help in the future," Karen explained.

"What help?" asked the inspector.

"Any help," she made it clear that she planned to distance herself from Arthur.

"Could it be that there was an argument between you two and Mister Granger last night, during which Mister Granger left this house in a hurry?" the inspector speculated.

"No," I insisted. "I and Mister Granger only had a slight disagreement."

"About what, if I may ask?" asked the law enforcement officer.

"About the way he interfered in my wife's affairs while I was away," I explained. "Do you mean to imply that Granger made advances to your wife?" followed the next question. I hesitated now and considered my answer very carefully. But it was Karen who now intervened.

"Mister Jones, I find your question embarrassing and highly offensive. My husband was abroad for six months. Do you seriously believe he has nothing better to do than to kill an old friend right after his arrival? Besides, you seem to be forgetting something. It wasn't Paul who followed Granger out onto the street, but me." The policeman, however, was not impressed by this. "It doesn't convince me at all that one of you might not have left the house last night after all. Through the back door perhaps. Do you mind if I take a look around here?" he asked for cooperation.

"Please. Do what you must," I confirmed it to him. Finally, we endured this humiliating procedure. We stood close together in the living room. Our gazes met again and again, only to avoid each other, just to meet again. No word was spoken between us in these minutes.

"That's it for now. Sorry if I've been a burden to you," said the inspector.

"It's okay, Inspector. What happened must be clarified, right? No crime should go unpunished," said Karen. The officer nodded to us. "That's right. It's possible that I'll have a few more questions for you both later. So I must urgently ask you not to leave this city for the time being," Jones requested. "Don't worry, Inspector, we weren't planning to," I assured him.

"Well, then. Goodbye. And no hard feelings," the intruder said goodbye.

"Goodbye, Inspector," I replied. As soon as he was gone, I had to sit down. But my wife remained standing. "Arthur is dead. He is dead, shortly after leaving this house and..." Karen murmured.

"What are you trying to tell me? Why did you lie? You don't even know where I was. Last night," I asked my better half.

"So what? What does that say?" Karen shrugged. She now sat down next to me and took my hand. "Paul, we... we have to stick together now, you and I. I know I've given you reasons to hate me, but I've never stopped loving you. And if you still care about me at all, then... then take me in your arms now and hold me tight," Karen pleaded.

"It's okay, darling, it's okay. I... I'm holding you. Everything will be okay between us again, won't it?" I wanted to know. "Of course, of course it will, darling," said Karen. Describing my feelings, as they presented themselves that morning, is not easy. Let's get to the part where I left the house. Relieved to be able to leave, because it suddenly seemed even narrower, even stuffier than it usually was. With my fists deep in my pockets, I made my way through the streets. I knew where I had to go. To a certain office building on Mason Street, to a certain real estate office to a certain older gentleman who still owed me six months' salary. Arriving there, I opened the front door and entered. Quickly, I found what I was looking for. A somewhat round woman sat at the reception.

"Good day, Miss Miller," I greeted her. Her look spoke volumes. She certainly hadn't expected me.

"Mister Green? Oh, dear me. We didn't expect you at all. We thought you might be..." the secretary stammered. "You thought I was dead, right?" I smiled. She seemed a bit caught.

"No, I wanted to say something else. I don't know what, I... You probably want to speak to Mister Clearfield, I assume," said the secretary. I nodded.

"That would be fabulous," I agreed.

"I... I don't know if he has time. He only arrived an hour ago and..."

I raised my hands in a calming gesture. "He'll make time for me. Thank you, Miss Miller. How about you put the champagne on ice? After all, there's a little reunion to celebrate," I suggested. I left the good woman sitting and continued on my way purposefully. Soon I had reached the office, which was still in the same place. I knocked only briefly and decided to enter the room immediately to give my boss no opportunity to prepare.

"Good day, Mister Clearfield. Surely you are..." I began as I entered the office. The shock took me immediately completely. "Oh my God, what... what happened here?" I cried in horror. The scene that presented itself to me in the large office looked like it had been thrown onto the canvas by an ancient painter. There were the half-drawn curtains, letting in only a wedge of light that spilled over the massive desk and over the carpeted floor, almost to the door. On the cluttered desktop, buried under papers and files, lay Edgar Clearfield. He lay on his side, with his head pushed into the narrow beam of light. His eyes stared blankly at the floor. His right arm was stretched far out, as was his index finger, as if he wanted to point at something or someone even in death. The floor in front of the desk was littered with papers. Most of them were splattered with blood, still relatively fresh, bright red splatters that stretched across the desk and the cream-colored floor. In Clearfield's back of the head gaped a black hole that imposed itself shamelessly on the viewer.

"I stood petrified, staring at the equally gruesome and final wound of my former superior and, in the morbid fascination that completely engulfed me, did not even notice the secretary's steps approaching in his back. The woman reacted as most secretaries would who unexpectedly encountered a corpse.

"Oh my God, Mister Clearfield. Oh God, how terrible," she cried in horror.

"Good heavens, Martha, what's going on here? Did you...?" asked a man who also entered the office.

"Oh no, oh no, no, no. It's Mister Clearfield. He... he... he..." the secretary stammered.

The newcomer reacted just like most would.

"I see. Oh my goodness, what a mess. What a...?" the man began.

Then he saw me.

"Paul?" he couldn't hide his astonishment.

"Hello Ethan. What, you... oh dear, what, I mean, what do we do now? How did this even...?" helplessness quickly followed.

"And where are you coming from now so suddenly? You don't seem very pleased to see me again," I greeted my colleague.

"Yes, how am I supposed to... under these circumstances... the police! We... someone must notify the police immediately," he then had the idea.

He turned to leave but paused and turned to me again.

"Paul, I... I'm asking you quite concretely, did you... I mean, you know, did you have anything to do with this?" he dared to ask.

I would have liked to grab him by the throat for that, but I managed to keep my composure.

"No," I answered him, although I certainly didn't have to.

"Okay. And you're really sure about that? I mean, oh my God, can't we cover something over his head until the police arrive? A handkerchief or..." Ethan didn't know where to step. Again and again, he looked at me.

"Paul, you really didn't do it?" he asked again.

"He just came through the door," the secretary assured.

With this statement, Ethan's suspicion seemed to be allayed.

"But someone must have seen or heard something. It can't be that someone just marches in here and... oh, it's all terrible," he complained.

Inevitably, I had to think of the words of the strange Mr. Crane.

"Eliminate all annoyances and you will finally be free again."

"I will notify the police," I declared.

Neither Ethan nor the poor Mrs. Miller could think clearly at the moment.

"Oh my God. Yes, it's terrible. Someone struck him with brutal force. I ask you, Paul, who in the world could hate this old man so much?" Ethan couldn't understand.

And I realized that I had reached a point where I could no longer afford to refuse help from outside. I had to do something and do it quickly, if I didn't want the killing to continue. And it would continue, I felt that very clearly at that moment. And so I made a lonely decision all by myself.
„I admit, this is one of the strangest stories I've heard in a long time," murmured Sherlock Holmes.
We had listened attentively to Mr. Green's story and hadn't interrupted him even once.
„Isn't that right, Watson?" Holmes asked.
I couldn't react at first, so engrossed was I in the descriptions. My friend had to address me a second time.
„Yes, strange indeed," I confirmed.
„So, Mr. Green, you believe that the stranger from the train, Mr. Crane, committed both murders, correct?" Holmes asked for our client's opinion.
„Well, what would you believe in my place?" asked Paul Green.
„You met this gentleman on the train?" Holmes wanted to confirm again.
The salesman obliged him.
„Yes, in Dover. Whether he, like me, had previously come by ferry from Calais, I cannot say. In any case, he sought out my compartment shortly after the train departed," Green explained.
The detective stroked his chin.
„Did you have the impression that he did this intentionally? That he deliberately sought contact with you?" Holmes was interested.
Our client thought about it.
„I have naturally asked myself that as well. The answer is, I cannot say for certain. Perhaps I simply radiated something that, how shall I put it, appealed to him."
„A man with insight into human nature, then," Holmes concluded from the statement.
I disliked how my friend praised a potential murderer.
„I also consider that possible. And has this Mr. Crane contacted you again since then? Personally or perhaps by telegram?" I turned to our client.
But he just shook his head.
„No, nothing, absolutely nothing. That's what worries me so much. I feel like I've poured out my whole heart to him and now..."
Holmes had meanwhile stood up and placed a hand on his shoulder.
„Now you feel like you've handed over the reins, correct? You believe that Mr. Crane is creeping into your life in a way that leaves you no control at all."
Mr. Green confirmed it.
„Yes, that pretty much describes how I feel right now."
„The question is, what does he want? What is this man aiming for?" I wondered aloud.
But this time, the detective had no answer for me.
„We don't know that yet. Nor has he made any demands of Mr. Green. He might still do so. By the way, is your wife informed?" Holmes was interested.
The salesman shook his head abruptly.
„No, that is, not yet. I haven't found a suitable opportunity for it yet," Green explained.
„You were abroad on business. Where exactly there?" followed the next question.
Our client did not need long to recall his memories.
„In Pančevo. That's a small town near Belgrade. I was supposed to conduct sales negotiations for certain properties on behalf of the company I work for. Essentially, it's about English industrial companies wanting to buy up areas along the Orient Express railway line." Green explained.
„For what purpose?" Holmes asked.
„One hopes for an economic boom in the respective regions through the expansion of further stations," Green explained.
„Do you think there might be a motive in that, Holmes?" I tried to explore the purpose of his questions.
But my friend's expression did not change.
„We cannot rule it out at this point, although I don't see where that would lead us," Holmes replied.
„The responsible criminal inspector is a certain Jones, correct? I have dealt with him before, he is someone you can talk to. Did you tell him about Mr. Crane?"
„I couldn't help it," said Green. „We all waited in Mr. Clearfield's office for the police to arrive. I had the feeling that he would have arrested me on the spot if he could have."
„Did you give him a description of the mysterious stranger?" Holmes inquired.
„Yes, I did. If I could draw myself, I would bring you the man on paper right now." Green was certain of his case.
Holmes glanced at the clock.
„It's already quite late today. I suggest you spend the night here in Baker Street. Tomorrow morning, we will then go to Scotland Yard, where you will have a composite sketch made. That will be a great help to us."
It was clear that the seeker of help was not happy with this solution. I patted him on the arm in a comradely manner.
„Don't worry, Mr. Holmes knows exactly what he's doing. If he says he will stand up for you, he will keep his word."
Then I turned to my friend and inquired about our next steps.
„I think we will first inspect the premises of your company. There are a few points that are not entirely clear to me. While we're at it, we can also talk to Ethan Sanders. What do you think? Would you perhaps like to accompany us, Mr. Green?"
It was clear that the poor man would have preferred to leave this whole matter behind him. But it was no use, his statements were essential for this case. Even I, despite my numerous experiences with Holmes, would never have called myself a criminalist.

So the next morning, we set off for the Yard, where Mr. Green provided a sketch of the mysterious Mr. Crane. Inspector Jones would have liked to arrest the man immediately, but it was thanks to Holmes that he remained in his custody for the time being.
The detective requested a copy of the sketch, which, to my surprise, he did not keep but forwarded to Wiggins. The young head of the Baker Street Irregulars had often been a help to us in tracking down certain individuals who did not want to be found.
After that, we went together with Jones and Mr. Green to inspect the second crime scene.
The office building on Mason Street lay in the last dying rays of the day's sun. From the outside, nothing indicated the horrific event that had taken place within these walls today. Only upstairs on the fifth floor, one quickly got the impression that one was conversing there a bit more discreetly. As if one were better checking once more whether the one or the other door was really firmly locked.
„And you believe I could be next?" asked Mr. Sanders. „But why?"
„Is that so hard to understand? Mr. Green mentioned your name to the stranger, among others," Holmes explained.
Ethan Sanders kept looking at his colleague, as if he had commissioned a murder attempt on him.
Only when our client left the room to get a glass of water did my friend continue.
„I heard that Mr. Green was supposed to succeed the poor Mr. Clearfield, correct?"
Mr. Sanders wanted to say something but first made sure that his colleague Paul was not about to return.
„Oh, dear me. Did he tell you that, yes? The truth, however, is different. It was never a question of making Paul anything other than what he was in this company," Sanders explained.
I furrowed my brow.
„Why is that? Mr. Green seems very dedicated and capable to me." I objected.
Ethan Sanders laughed briefly.
„For the simple reason that he is good for nothing else. Nothing against Paul, but basically, he should know that best himself. Mr. Clearfield always only spoke to me about making me his deputy," Sanders revealed.
Holmes nodded several times.
„What a shame that Mr. Clearfield is no longer with us to confirm this."
Mr. Sanders did not seem to feel this way.
„Completely unnecessary. I was the only one suitable for this position."
When Mr. Green returned, we wanted to see the crime scene. We crossed the corridor, eyed by shy glances from the employees, among whom curiosity ultimately prevailed.
„So this is where it happened," Holmes murmured.
Mr. Sanders touched his head.
„This is a fine mess you've gotten us into, Paul." he criticized.
„Mr. Sanders, would you please fetch the receptionist?" Holmes asked.
He meant a certain Miss Miller, who worked in the anteroom and who had let Mr. Green in that morning. Holmes introduced himself to her and then took her statement.
„Miss Miller, you opened this door for Mr. Green this morning around ten o'clock, correct?" Holmes asked.
The woman wanted to nod at first but then shook her head.
„I, no... Actually, he opened it himself after he simply stormed past me," Miss Miller explained.
„Good," said Holmes. „You both found Mr. Clearfield lying on the desk shortly thereafter. As we know, he arrived at the office around nine o'clock. Therefore, the murder must have occurred between nine and ten o'clock."
„I already told all of this to the inspector," Miss Miller assured.
„You also told him that you heard a noise from your superior's room around nine-thirty," Holmes commented. „You described it to the inspector as a dull thud."
„Yes, that's true," Miss Miller confirmed.
„And that didn't surprise you?" Holmes asked.
„Of course, I wondered what it could have been," said Miss Miller. „I then got up from my seat and went to the door. I knocked and asked if everything was alright."
„And what was the response?" Holmes asked.
„A voice answered and said I shouldn't worry," Miss Miller explained. „A voice that I initially still mistook for that of her boss."
„Yes, but afterwards, I wasn't so sure anymore," Miss Miller replied.
„That's fine, Miss Miller. No one here is blaming you. Did Mr. Clearfield receive any visitors in the short time he was in the office?"
„No, sir," Miss Miller answered.
„No one went in?" Holmes asked.
But the receptionist also had to deny this.
„Not you either, Mr. Sanders?" Holmes turned to the employee.
He immediately denied it.
„On the contrary. I even came to work a little late today because I was held up." Sanders reported.
„Yes, but how did the murderer enter the room then?" I asked.
Miss Miller pointed to the other side of the office.
„Perhaps through the window, and there is a fire escape at the corner of the building."
„I know, it leads into the backyard," said Sanders.
I raised an eyebrow.
„But are we to assume that the murderer climbed the fire escape and knocked on the closed window so that Mr. Clearfield would let him in? That's nonsense, especially since it would have caused quite a bit of noise. Moreover, voices would certainly have been heard, an argument, a confrontation." I expressed my skepticism.
My friend placed a hand on my shoulder in acknowledgment.
„Quite right, Watson! What does that tell us? What single logical conclusion remains? The murderer was already in this room when Clearfield entered his office. Specifically, in this wardrobe here. Certainly not a comfortable position, but a grown man could have fit here."
He opened the heavy wardrobe door, and we recognized that a person could indeed have fit inside.
„But the question of how the murderer got in still remains." Holmes asked. „This door is kept locked overnight, I assume?"
Both Sanders and Miss Miller confirmed this assumption.
„However... Paul, you always had a spare key, right?" Sanders now turned to his colleague.
He seemed perplexed and nodded automatically.
„Yes... well... I don't know. Earlier, yes, but I don't know where I left it, to be honest."
I recognized how Inspector Jones' eyes narrowed.
Holmes, on the other hand, did not ask again; Mr. Green could not remember what had become of it.
„Well, this strange Mr. Crane does indeed seem to be a master of all trades," said Holmes. „Where will you be this evening, Mr. Sanders?"
„Where I... well, in my own apartment, of course," he replied immediately.
„Which is located where?" Holmes inquired.
„In Glenn Street. Near Hyde Park," Sanders specified.
The detective nodded knowingly.
„I suggest that Dr. Watson accompany you there," said Holmes. „Make sure that no one has gained access to the apartment and, of course, you should not leave the house afterwards."
„You believe I am in danger, yes?" Sanders asked. „From the murderer?"
Holmes pursed his lips.
„Almost all the people whose names Mr. Green mentioned to the strange stranger are already dead," Holmes reminded him. „It would surprise me greatly if they spared you of all people."
Unease rose in Ethan Sanders. Again and again, his gaze turned towards his colleague Mr. Green. I could not blame him, although our client was not at fault. He had only spoken to someone about his problems, a very human need. Who could have guessed that this person would turn out to be a madman who wanted to help the poor Mr. Green in such a horrible way.
Holmes suggested that Mr. Green should also make his way home. Inspector Jones assigned one of his men to stand guard outside the victim's house. He referred to it as protection, but none of us missed the fact that the inspector still suspected him. Although Holmes had vouched for him, the inspector would have risked his career in the event of a possible escape.

"And what are you going to do now?" I asked my friend as we left the company building again.

He checked the time and seemed satisfied.

"Find the murderer. That is still my profession, in case you have forgotten. I would like to ask you to stay by Mr. Sanders' side tonight. Go back to Baker Street and get your Webley. You never know."

But I quickly objected.

"It's okay, Holmes, I have it with me today," I tried not to sound too proud of being well-prepared this time.

After hearing about this mysterious Mr. Crane, I was aware that we were dealing with an extremely insidious and presumably insane individual.

Finally, we parted ways, and after Mr. Green apologized to my ward once more, we set off for Glenn Street.

Ethan Sanders lived in a small apartment with only two rooms. I would make myself a makeshift bed, but that wasn't a problem. In Afghanistan, I sometimes had to sleep on stony ground, so this was nothing.

And so it happened, and Mr. Sanders provided me with several blankets. He himself went to bed early, unlike me. Holmes had given me a task, namely to protect the life of my host.

As I was about to fall asleep around midnight, I was startled. I heard footsteps and got up as quickly as possible. I felt my pants for my Webley and was satisfied to find it still in place. It was dark, but I stepped out into the hallway, assuming Mr. Crane wouldn't be armed with a firearm. So far, he had relied on brute force with his victims. I noticed a shadow and pointed my revolver at it.

Just in time, I recognized that it was the homeowner, Mr. Sanders.

"For heaven's sake, don't scare me like that!" I pleaded.

Sanders seemed embarrassed.

"I'm sorry, Doctor, but I was just too scared. I imagined seeing someone at the window. So I wanted to go outside and make sure." he confessed.

I would have liked to tell him how stupid this course of action was. If Crane was really out there, he would have walked straight into the arms of his murderer. Then we both jumped.

A heavy knock at the front door. I and my host looked at each other, then I walked towards it.

"Yes? Who is it?" I called out, alarmed.

The seconds until the answer passed.

"It's me, Watson! Now open up!" Holmes' voice sounded from outside.

Or was it really his? I wasn't completely sure; it could also be a trap.

I decided to open the door but kept my revolver drawn. Mr. Sanders kept his distance. I opened the door and indeed recognized the master detective outside. Immediately, I let him in and was surprised by his appearance.

"Holmes! I almost shot you! What are you doing here?" I asked in astonishment.

The detective dusted off his coat and then looked at Ethan Sanders. He seemed relieved that the man was unharmed.

"There have been developments. I managed to locate this Mr. Crane and have him arrested."

Not only was I astonished, but also Mr. Sanders, who must have been greatly relieved. I knew Holmes worked efficiently, but the fact that he produced results so quickly impressed even me, an old hand.

"So... is it over?" gasped Mr. Sanders.

Holmes started again.

"Not quite, unfortunately, we still lack evidence. I had Mr. Green picked up to identify his acquaintance from the train. He is now on his way to the Yard. I would like to ask you to accompany us as well." he said to Sanders.

But he seemed puzzled.

"Me? But I've never seen him and can't identify him." he noted.

My friend seemed to have a different opinion.

"Maybe you can. Crane must have scouted the company before he could kill Mr. Clearfield. Maybe you saw someone suspicious without realizing it. Your statement could be crucial for the conviction of the criminal."

Sanders understood and began to get dressed. A short time later, we took a cab to Scotland Yard.

Inspector Jones was already waiting for us, and Holmes inquired about our client. He was sitting in a waiting room and was picked up by us. He and Mr. Sanders only nodded at each other, then Jones escorted us to the interrogation room where the alleged Mr. Crane was being held.

As we entered, I already recognized the man sitting at the table. His hands were intertwined, and he stared at us. His gaze seemed cold and expectant.

"This... is him? Our wanted Mr. Crane?" I wanted to know.

The longer I looked at him, the more I recognized the resemblance to the composite sketch that Mr. Green had provided.

"Not quite, his real name is Wilson Murdock. He's got quite a record. Burglary, assault... but double murder is new even for him." Jones explained.

But the suspect only raised his hands innocently.

"I beg you, Inspector! I've already explained to you that this is a misunderstanding. You've arrested the wrong man. Yes, I'm not proud of my past deeds, but I would never kill anyone." the criminal defended himself.

Holmes took a step forward.

"Well, we'll put that to the test now. Mr. Green, if you please?" he turned to our client.

I swallowed hard and also stepped forward. He now stood directly in front of the man from the train and examined him from head to toe. After a while, he turned back to us.

"It... I'm not sure. He matches in build, but the clothing is different this time."

I was speechless, while Holmes and Jones remained calm.

"But... you talked to him, didn't you?" Jones reminded him of his account.

Mr. Green nodded but insisted that he had still been quite sleepy and the stranger had pulled his hat low over his face.

Mr. Murdock yawned exaggeratedly.

"Well, there you have it. What did I tell you? Can I go now?"

Holmes and Jones exchanged glances. Finally, the Yard officer opened the suspect's handcuffs.

"But... you can't be serious!" I interjected with Mr. Green again.

He apologized but didn't know what to say.

Mr. Sanders now placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't blame yourself, Paul. You did your best. If you're not sure, that's how it is. Better than having an innocent man arrested." he reassured him.

Holmes directed his next words to the businessman.

"And what about you? Have you perhaps seen Mr. Murdock near your company?"

I directed our last hope to our client's colleague, but he couldn't remember seeing the man there. Finally, we had no choice but to let the man go. As soon as he left the room, I whispered to Holmes.

"Holmes, can we really allow this? He'll flee as soon as he leaves the building!"

But the detective remained calm.

"He won't, Watson. Come, I'll explain everything to you in a moment." he whispered back.

When we stood outside the Yard building, Mr. Green asked us how things would proceed.

"First, go home and rest. My constable is still standing in front of your house. Make yourself available until we need further statements from you." the inspector requested.

It was clear that he didn't want to let Mr. Green off the hook just yet.

"And you..." he then addressed his colleague.

"I have to go to the office. It's still early, but I won't find any more sleep anyway." Sanders said.

Holmes seemed satisfied with this approach.

"Good, at work you are surrounded by colleagues, so the perpetrator is unlikely to strike. And tonight, I will send Doctor Watson to you again." the detective suggested.

So we agreed and parted ways. Holmes discussed something with Inspector Jones, then took me by the arm.

"Follow me, Watson, we're in a hurry." he whispered to me.

I asked what he meant by that, but as usual, he put me off until later.

Less than 20 minutes later, we reached a building that was still under construction and clearly not yet habitable. Nevertheless, we entered the interior, and Holmes seemed to be looking for a specific spot. He came to stand next to a glassless window and waved me over.

"Holmes, will you finally tell me what we..." I began, but he cut me off.

"Quiet, Watson! Not another word from now on!" he instructed me.

I would have liked to give him a piece of my mind at that moment, but I managed to control myself.

We positioned ourselves next to the window and seemed to be waiting for something or someone. Just as I was about to object again, something stirred. Outside, voices could be heard. They were male, one of which sounded agitated. I recognized it, after all, I had spent the previous evening with the person. It was Mr. Sanders. To recognize the other voice took me a moment. After all, I had only heard it once before and only recently. And that was in the interrogation room at Scotland Yard.

It was Mr. Crane, or Mr. Murdock, as he was probably called. Tense, we listened to their conversation.

"What's the problem? The police let me go." Murdock noted.

But Mr. Sanders only hissed audibly.

"Do you have any idea what incredible luck you had? That this simple-minded Paul didn't recognize you for sure? Otherwise, you'd be behind bars by now! Do you understand that?"

Murdock laughed softly.

"You probably mean 'we' would be behind bars, don't you? You killed those two men. And quite cold-bloodedly, from what I heard."

It would have left me speechless if Holmes hadn't assured me to stay quiet anyway.

"And if so, that's none of your business! You were only meant to play your role! You should have left London long ago!" Sanders snarled.

Murdock just shrugged.

"No. You paid me too little for that. I have some business going on here that I can't just give up."

Next, I flinched. The sound that followed was one I knew all too well. The hammer of a revolver was cocked.

"You won't be doing anything more in this city. Or in any other! You've become a risk!" Sanders shouted.

Immediately, Holmes grabbed me by the shoulder and pushed me towards a side exit. I was ready to use my Webley, but as soon as we reached the alley, I was relieved to find that this time it wasn't necessary.

As soon as Sanders drew his revolver, several Scotland Yard officers stormed out of the building next door. They seemed to have been lying in wait as well. Without much effort, they had overpowered Sanders and wrestled him to the ground. Another officer kept an eye on Murdock to prevent him from attempting to escape.

Holmes, however, surprisingly intervened on his behalf.

"It's okay, Mr. Murdock here won't risk jeopardizing the deal he made with us." he assured them.

I became curious. But I wasn't the only one.

"Deal? This... was a damn trap?" Sanders stammered.

The detective confirmed it to him.

"Of course. If we had simply arrested you, it would have been your word against ours. We couldn't have proven that you were even near Mr. Granger's house. And Miss Miller would have testified that you weren't even in the company at the time of Mr. Clearfield's murder. And yet, this was the easiest to explain. You entered the building first. You sneaked into your superior's office when he went to the restroom or something similar. After that, you only had to hide in the closet and attack your victim at an opportune moment. Then you escaped through the fire escape to the outside. A short time later, you entered the building through the front entrance and pretended to be late. What was your motive? Mr. Clearfield never really considered making you his successor, did he?"

Sanders avoided his gaze.

"No, damn it. Even though I always gave everything for the company. He always treated me condescendingly, he begged for me to smash his skull!"

His cold-bloodedness surprised even me.

"But why Mr. Granger? How did you know him?" I asked Holmes.

For him, this didn't seem to require much explanation.

"Oh, he didn't know him. But Mr. Green knew him, and both harbored a grudge against each other. That was enough for Sanders to eliminate him and cast suspicion on our client. You see, our Mr. Murdock here was never meant to be found. The story of the great unknown wouldn't have convinced either Inspector Jones or the jury. You would have killed two birds with one stone. Isn't that right?" he turned to Mr. Sanders, who was now being lifted up by the officers.

He refrained from saying anything more, at least not without the presence of a legal representative. He would definitely need one urgently. The constables loaded him into an arriving police van, while another grabbed Mr. Murdock by the arm.

Before he was also taken away, he handed Holmes a note.

The detective unfolded it and nodded satisfied. I recognized an address, which was this one here.

"I had instructed Mr. Murdock to slip it to Mr. Sanders. Wiggins managed to find him surprisingly quickly, and I had a conversation with him. He assured me that he knew nothing about the murders, and I believed him unreservedly. He is merely a small-time crook, no capital crimes. Sanders picked him up in the East End. In return for playing along with our little game, he will likely get off almost scot-free. Maybe he won't even have to testify, given the many trains like this one, not to mention Sanders' confession."

I was once again impressed and at the same time annoyed that Holmes hadn't let me in on his plan again. As compensation, I let him treat me to lunch.

Only in the afternoon did we visit Mr. Green and his wife Karen at home. Both couldn't believe that such a large conspiracy had been hatched.

"I... still don't understand how Ethan could hate me so much." Mr. Green said.

Holmes just grumbled.

"As they say, excessive ambition or striving for the unattainable leads to harm or failure. Too much ambition sometimes consumes the soul."

After that, we said our goodbyes, not without our client thanking us profusely once more. In his company, he did not want to remain, too terrible things had happened to him in connection with it. He wanted to consult with his wife and then embark on a completely new path. We wished him all the best in this decision.

On the way home, I spoke to Holmes.

"When did you know that this Crane... or Murdock was not our perpetrator?"

My friend smirked.

"In principle, immediately. And that was because he never made any demands from the beginning. No one listens to a stranger's problems and promises to help them with them. People just aren't that altruistic."

I resigned.

"I hope your worldview isn't really as bleak as you present it to me."

Holmes sighed.

"Unfortunately, it is only confirmed by the numerous crimes that come my way almost every day." he confided in me.