Part 6 (1/2)

Miss Adler pushed herself up from the sofa and walked to the writing-desk.

”I am about to show it to you, Sherlock. Try not to be so impatient.”

”I ask your pardon,” said Holmes. ”When a problem absorbs me, I tend to neglect the formalities.”

A hint of dryness revealed itself in Irene Adler's voice as she said, ”The problem absorbs me, too.”

She removed a buff-colored sheet of paper from the desk and handed it to him. Holmes read the telegram aloud in a rapid mutter: ”'Do nothing, stop. Tell no one, stop. Further instructions will be forthcoming, stop. Disobey these orders and you face the direct consequences-'”

”Stop!” cried Irene Adler, with ghastly appositeness.

She wavered where she stood, and I moved quickly to her side, supporting her with a hand under one elbow and another on her back.

”Here, now!” I said. ”Sit back down. Have some more brandy.”

Walking unsteadily, she allowed me to guide her to the sofa and sank back on to its cus.h.i.+oned softness. ”I'm sorry,” said she. ”I thought I was stronger.” I added a small amount of brandy to her gla.s.s. Her face, normally alert and vivacious, with a quality that could convey an impression of supreme vitality to the last row of a theater, now bore a pinched, drawn look. She gave a deep sigh, and spoke in a low, almost resigned tone.

”There it is, Sherlock. I have been waiting, waiting, waiting for those 'further instructions' since four o'clock this afternoon!” She glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf. ”And it is now nearly nine-thirty! What has happened to my son?”

The peal of the front-door bell came as if in answer to her cry. She gave a gasp of fear and half rose from the sofa.

”It's the message!” she cried.

I sprang to the window, flung aside the curtain, and stepped on to the balcony. I saw below me a carriage and its driver, and, almost directly beneath my feet, a foreshortened form on the steps of the house. Running back into the drawing-room, I flung a quick report over my shoulder as I headed for the archway leading to the stairs.

”Closed carriage, Holmes-one horse-man at the reins-another at the door!”

A shouted ”Wait!” from Holmes brought me to a momentary halt. He dashed past me and down the stairs. I paused at the top landing, and was aware that Irene Adler had come up behind me.

I could see h.e.l.ler in the doorway, just turning to look at the fast-approaching Sherlock Holmes. The butler was holding in his hand an envelope apparently just received from the man who had rung the doorbell. Holmes brushed past him, and the sound of his shoes clattering on the front steps mingled with the rumble of a departing carriage and the swift tap of shod hooves on the cobbles.

In a moment he re-entered the hallway, his face dark with anger. Evidently, like Frau Reichenbach, he had been unable to gain any useful information from his brief view of the carriage. His gaze fell upon h.e.l.ler, and, with an uncharacteristic show of temper, he vented his ire upon the unfortunate man.

”What are you standing there for? What is it? Deliver the letter to your mistress at once!”

”But, sir,” the butler said in an injured tone, ”it's not addressed to Miss Adler.”

”Not? Not addressed to her? To whom is it addressed, then?”

h.e.l.ler held out the envelope.

”To you, sir.”

”What? What? Here, hand it over, then!”

Holmes ripped it open savagely and s.n.a.t.c.hed out a sheet of heavy notepaper. As he read it, he stiffened, and the febrile irritation that had animated his actions and speech for the last few moments seemed to fall away from him. When he looked up to the head of the stairs where Irene Adler and I stood, his face was grave.

After a moment, he spoke, and there was a world of weariness in his voice.

”I had better read this to you.” He glanced down at the note again. ”'The life of Scott Adler depends upon one thing alone, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, your refusal to cooperate with the police. You will refuse, and you will give no reason for your refusal or . . . the boy . . . will die.'”

Holmes had managed to finished reading the note aloud only with difficulty, and seemed to dread looking once more at Irene Adler.

By the time he raised his eyes, he did not have to be concerned about meeting her gaze: upon hearing the contents of the letter, she had turned perfectly white, and then fainted in my arms.

”Holmes!” I bellowed; and he rushed to help me support her.

Together we carried her to the sofa and set her down in as comfortable a position as possible. Though she was pale, and her pulse was both light and rapid, she seemed to be in no real trouble, and in fact might take some benefit from her short period of unconsciousness. My greatest fear, in fact, was that, once recovered, her concern and agitation-bound to be increased by the contents of the letter-would prevent her from sleeping at all, thus putting a dangerous strain on her nervous system.

I took one of my cards from my note-case, scribbled on it the ingredients of a mild sleeping-draught, and handed it to h.e.l.ler.

”Here, take this round to the nearest chemist's, and-”

”A chemist, sir? Do you mean a scientist? I don't-”

”A pharmacy, man! A drugstore,” said Holmes impatiently.

”Oh, yes, sir. There's one on Fourth Avenue.”

”Whatever you call the place, give the man there this card. I doubt you'll need a prescription; he's probably got the powders made up under some trade name I'm not familiar with. Be off with you, now!”

Though Irene Adler was stirring fretfully by the time h.e.l.ler returned, a packet of the powders dissolved in water allowed her to sink into a calm drowsiness which, by the time we left, had not yet deepened into sleep.

”If she's still awake in an hour's time,” said I as we took our leave of h.e.l.ler on the front steps, ”see that she takes another packet of those powders.”

The butler gave a slight bow.

”Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Good night, gentlemen,” he said.

He closed the door, and Holmes and I made our way down the steps to the street that fronted on the small park.

”That ought to take care of matters until morning, Holmes,” said I. ”Shall we look for a cab? We ought to be able to find one on the next street over, I should say.”

”I should prefer to walk,” said Sherlock Holmes in a colorless tone.

I looked up and saw from a sign at a street corner that we were at Twenty-first Street. I subtracted that number from forty-four, the number of the street that our hotel was in, and quickly enough saw that we had some twenty-three streets to traverse in a northward direction, plus one or more avenues to the west. I had no notion, however, how far apart the streets were, so was unable to estimate what sort of distance Holmes' projected walk involved. It was a mild night, though, and, after the stuffiness of the closed house and the atmosphere of fear and depression that pervaded it, I was glad of the fresh air and exercise.

”Whatever you say,” said I cheerfully.

As we walked along, eventually turning to the north on an avenue which, curiously enough, bore the name of one Madison rather than a number, I looked about me with interest. The area, with its shops and blocks of flats and offices, was not unlike certain parts of London, say the eastern end of Oxford Street, yet the shapes of the buildings and their uniform modernity never failed to make it clear that we were in a foreign land.

I had hoped that the walk might enliven Holmes' wits and encourage him to discuss with me his notions of the problems we faced, but he seemed sunk in morose introspection, and strode heavily along with bowed head, taking no notice of his surroundings. At length, when the mounting value of the street numbers told me we were not far from the Algonquin Hotel, I ventured to speak.

”Can you make head or tail of it at all, Holmes? I can't.”

In the same dead voice with which he had last spoken, Sherlock Holmes answered, ”I am being manipulated.”