I may take a glance at it in my leisure. By the way, it is curiousthat you should have come from Topeka. I used to have acorrespondent—he is dead now—old Dr. Lysander Starr, who wasmayor in 1890.”
“Good old Dr. Starr!” said our visitor. “His name is stillhonoured. Well, Mr. Holmes, I suppose all we can do is to reportto you and let you know how we progress. I reckon you will hearwithin a day or two.” With this assurance our American bowedand departed.
Holmes had lit his pipe, and he sat for some time with a curioussmile upon his face.
“Well?” I asked at last.
“I am wondering, Watson—just wondering!”
“At what?”
Holmes took his pipe from his lips.
“I was wondering, Watson, what on earth could be the objectof this man in telling us such a rigmarole of lies. I nearly askedhim so—for there are times when a brutal frontal attack is thebest policy—but I judged it better to let him think he had fooledus. Here is a man with an English coat frayed at the elbow andtrousers bagged at the knee with a year’s wear, and yet by thisdocument and by his own account he is a provincial American1316 The Complete Sherlock Holmes
lately landed in London. There have been no advertisements inthe agony columns. You know that I miss nothing there. Theyare my favourite covert for putting up a bird, and I would neverhave overlooked such a cock pheasant as that. I never knew a Dr.
Lysander Starr, of Topeka. Touch him where you would he wasfalse. I think the fellow is really an American, but he has worn hisaccent smooth with years of London. What is his game, then, andwhat motive lies behind this preposterous search for Garridebs?
It’s worth our attention, for, granting that the man is a rascal, hecertainly a complex and ingenious one. We must now find out ifour other correspondent is a fraud also. Just ring him up, Watson.”
I did so, and heard a thin, quavering voice at the other end ofthe line.
“Yes, yes, I am Mr. Nathan Garrideb. Is Mr. Holmes there? Ishould very much like to have a word with Mr. Holmes.”
My friend took the instrument and I heard the usual syncopateddialogue.
“Yes, he has been here. I understand that you don’t know him....
How long? ... Only two days! ... Yes, yes, of course, it is a mostcaptivating prospect. Will you be at home this evening? I supposeyour namesake will not be there? ... Very good, we will come then,for I would rather have a chat without him.... Dr. Watson willcome with me.... I understand from your note that you did notgo out often.... Well, we shall be round about six. You need notmention it to the American lawyer.... Very good. Good-bye!”
It was twilight of a lovely spring evening, and even Little RyderStreet, one of the smaller offshoots from the Edgware Road,within a stone-cast of old Tyburn Tree of evil memory, lookedgolden and wonderful in the slanting rays of the setting sun.
The particular house to which we were directed was a large, oldfashioned,Early Georgian edifice, with a flat brick face brokenonly by two deep bay windows on the ground floor. It was on thisground floor that our client lived, and, indeed, the low windowsproved to be the front of the huge room in which he spent hiswaking hours. Holmes pointed as we passed to the small brassplate which bore the curious name.
“Up some years, Watson,” he remarked, indicating its discolouredsurface. “It’s his real name, anyhow, and that is something to note.”
The house had a common stair, and there were a number ofnames painted in the hall, some indicating offices and some privatechambers. It was not a collection of residential flats, but ratherthe abode of Bohemian bachelors. Our client opened the doorfor us himself and apologized by saying that the woman in chargeleft at four o’clock. Mr. Nathan Garrideb proved to be a very tall,loose-jointed, round-backed person, gaunt and bald, some sixty-The Case Book of Sherlock Holmes 1317
odd years of age. He had a cadaverous face, with the dull dead skinof a man to whom exercise was unknown. Large round spectaclesand a small projecting goat’s beard combined with his stoopingattitude to give him an expression of peering curiosity. The generaleffect, however, was amiable, though eccentric.
The room was as curious as its occupant. It looked like a smallmuseum. It was both broad and deep, with cupboards and cabinetsall round, crowded with specimens, geological and anatomical.
Cases of butterflies and moths flanked each side of the entrance. Alarge table in the centre was littered with all sorts of debris, whilethe tall brass tube of a powerful microscope bristled up amongthem. As I glanced round I was surprised at the universality ofthe man’s interests. Here was a case of ancient coins. There wasa cabinet of flint instruments. Behind his central table was alarge cupboard of fossil bones. Above was a line of plaster skullswith such names as “Neanderthal,” “ Heidelberg,” “Cro-Magnon”
printed beneath them. It was clear that he was a student of manysubjects. As he stood in front of us now, he held a piece of chamoisleather in his right hand with which he was polishing a coin.
“Syracusan—of the best period,” he explained, holding it up.
“They degenerated greatly towards the end. At their best I holdthem supreme, though some prefer the Alexandrian school. Youwill find a chair here, Mr. Holmes. Pray allow me to clear thesebones. And you, sir—ah, yes, Dr. Watson—if you would have thegoodness to put the Japanese vase to one side. You see roundme my little interests in life. My doctor lectures me about nevergoing out, but why should I go out when I have so much to holdme here? I can assure you that the adequate cataloguing of one ofthose cabinets would take me three good months.”
Holmes looked round him with curiosity.
“But do you tell me that you never go out?” he said.
“Now and again I drive down to Sotheby’s or Christie’s.
Otherwise I very seldom leave my room. I am not too strong,and my researches are very absorbing. But you can imagine, Mr.
