The Lost Radio Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (13 page)

“You’re running
a terrible risk, Mr. Holmes.”

“Part of my
profession, Gregson. But it didn’t work. It didn’t work, confound it.”

“What didn’t
work?” I asked.

“The murderer
still hasn’t tipped his hand. I wonder if I’ve underestimated him.”

“It looks as if
you have, sir. And if you don’t mind my saying so I think you’d have been a lot
wiser to let me handle the case as soon as you found Mr. Humphries’ body,
instead of going in for all this dressing up stuff.”

Holmes stood
there as if he hadn’t heard a word Inspector Gregson had said. It was that look
of intense concentration I was so familiar with.

“But of course!”
Holmes suddenly shouted, “Now I see it. Only one person could have killed Mark
Humphries.”

“Who, Holmes?” I
asked.

“Do as I say and
I’ll show you. I’m going to Humphries’ dressing room now, alone. Give me a few
moment’s start, and then follow me. Out of sight, but within earshot.”

Holmes quickly
left and we watched as, again assuming the movements and gestures of Mark
Humphries, he entered the now dead man’s dressing room.

Gregson and I
secreted ourselves in a stairwell not far from the dressing room.

“You know,
doctor,” Gregson said, “I’m very fond of Mr. Holmes, and yet there are times
when I get so angry with him. He shouldn’t risk his life like that.”

“You know
Holmes, Gregson, he’ll never change,” I said, somewhat bemused.

“Well if he
doesn’t, one of these days he’s going to wake up and find himself dead,” Gregson
said. I laughed at the Inspector’s serious but unintentionally humorous
comment. Abruptly we both became aware of shouting coming from the dressing
room.

“You devil!”
shouted the voice, “how many times do I have to kill you?”

“Gregson,
quickly, Holmes is in danger!”

I rushed to the
dressing room door, Gregson at my side. I flung open the door and there, before
us, a razor in his hand, stood Derrick Lindsay. Holmes was struggling with the
man, desperately trying to keep the razor from his throat.

“Watson!
Gregson! Grab his arm! Look out for that razor!”

Thank Heavens
Holmes maneuvered Lindsay so his back was towards us, allowing us to come up
from behind and disarm the man. Gregson pulled the razor away from Lindsay,
then hit him hard across the jaw, stunning him. Lindsay fell to the floor, at
first moaning in pain, then weeping in distress, bits of the beard Holmes wore
on stage clenched in his hand.

“Very neat,
Gregson,” Holmes said, quickly regaining his composure.

“Are you all
right, Holmes?”

“Perfectly.
Thanks, old chap, though I’m a little tired. Gregson, my dear fellow, will you
take over from here? I think I’ve had enough melodrama for one day.”

Gregson took
charge of the killer as Holmes sat down at the dressing table and removed the
remainder of the makeup until he was once again in his regular clothes, pipe
between his teeth and a smile of complete satisfaction on his face.

In a short while
we hailed a cab and returned to Baker Street, where we settled in for the
night.

“Ah,” Holmes
said, easing himself into a chair, “how pleasant, Watson, to be back in Baker
Street again. A crackling fire, my dressing gown and your company combine to
make a soothing end to a somewhat violent day.”

“Yes, it’s been
a most unusual case, Holmes. I still don’t entirely understand it. The original
idea, of course, was to try and drive Mark Humphries mad by making him think
that he was a murderer. That accounted for the boots and the bloodstained razor.”

“Precisely, my
dear fellow, and the killer, having conditioned his victim by this trickery,
then murdered him, trying to make it appear a suicide. Now who had a motive?”

“Three people, I
believe, Holmes. Mrs. Humphries, her lover, Señor Vennelli, and Derrick
Lindsay. I must say that I suspected the wife.”

“So did I for a
while. And yet it was illogical. She knew, and we may therefore presume her
lover knew, that I was suspicious of her.”

“Then she must
have known that you promised her husband a solution to his troubles before the
night was out. It seems highly improbable that she, or Señor Vennelli, would
have faked his suicide at that point.”

“Quite right,
Watson,” Holmes said as he lit a cigar, “so I investigated Derrick Lindsay’s
affairs and found that what Humphries had referred to as the ‘kindly act of a
friend’ in helping him back onto his feet, was in reality the mortgaging of his
entire theatrical effects. Lindsay stood to inherit the theatre on Humphries’
death, therefore, I was convinced he was the killer.”

“And then after
he murdered him he saw what he thought to be Mark Humphries on the stage.”

“Ah, that’s
where I was slow and stupid, old chap,” Holmes said smiling. “I couldn’t
imagine what motive gave Lindsay the cold clear nerve to suppress all reactions
when he saw his supposed victim revived on the stage. Only later did I realize.”

“Well, Holmes,
what was the motive that made him hold his hand?”

“The
characteristic that ruled his life, Watson. Avarice! A morbid love of money.
You see, if he’d attacked me during the performance, he would have had to
refund the money to the audience. His greed conquered all other passions. It
made him wait until the performance was finished before he attempted my life.”

“You know,
Holmes, now that the case is solved, I’ll tell you something in confidence. At
the end of the play tonight, when you were waiting for Lindsay to tip his hand,
I was afraid that you’d made a mistake, that you’d slipped up on the case.”

“And I, Watson,
will tell you something in confidence,” he said leaning towards me, “there were
two of us that felt the same way.”

“Now you’re
being modest, Holmes.”

“I assure you I’m
not, my dear chap. In fact, in the future, if it should strike you that I’m . .
. well, getting a little overconfident of my powers, or perhaps taking a little
less pain over a case than it deserves, kindly whisper ‘Sweeney Todd’ in my
ear, will you. I shall be infinitely obliged to you!”

Holmes sat back,
blowing large puffs of smoke into the air as I chuckled quietly. Yes, Holmes
never ceased to amaze me.

Return to table of
contents

I

“HOLMES!” I
said in anger, “the least you could do is tell
me
what transpired during those months you spent
in Tibet!”

“What?” he
replied his eyes still at the microscope, “and have you write it all up as
another one of your highly exaggerated stories about my so-called exploits?”

I said nothing.
I merely sat there, pencil in hand, ready to write, as I stared at Holmes. The
deathly quiet at last penetrated his thoughts and he looked up to see me
sitting there, anger across my face.

“I must
apologize, old friend; it was a thoughtless thing to say. Can you forgive me?”

“I don’t know,
Holmes. It’s been two years now that you have refused to even utter a word on
what happened during that period you were presumed dead. You’ve sorely tried my
patience each and every time I have asked you for information!”

Holmes put his
microscope aside and came to sit before me. His face was filled with a look
that I could only assume was that of anxiety. He seemed hesitant to speak.
Finally, leaning forward, he looked at me with a sense of friendship and
compassion that I had seen only rarely before.

“My dear Watson,
do try to understand that, for me, those three years I spent wandering
throughout the world are of the most personal nature. It is not easy for me to
speak of them, even to you. Much transpired then that has affected and changed
the inner core of my being, and it is for that reason I have found it difficult
to reveal any of what I have gone through.”

“Holmes,” I
said, letting go of my anger, “why didn’t you reveal at least this much to me
before? I would have understood.”

“Call it a
stubbornness on my behalf. Or a reluctance to talk about my experiences during
that period. I merely resisted your curiosity with as much patience as I could
muster.”

“Holmes, I am
truly sorry. I shall not bring it up again.”

“No, Watson,” he
returned, surprising me by his change of mind, “I believe you are right. I
should have gotten some of this off my mind long ago. There is one experience I
had that almost shattered me as a man. I shall reveal it to you if you will
bear with me.”

“Of course.”

Holmes had, in
the few years since he had returned to Baker Street, referred to his having
wandered about the world to such places as Persia, Egypt, and the south of
France. But that was all. He never revealed to me, until now, any of his actual
exploits. As I sat listening and taking notes, Holmes graphically depicted to
me one of the most interesting adventures he had ever had. I shall try to do
justice to this amazing story by putting into my own words exactly what Holmes
revealed to me.

For two years,
Holmes spent his time in Tibet, where he disguised himself as a Norwegian
explorer by the name of Sigerson. His object being to visit the forbidden city
of Lhasa.

Holmes,
accompanied by native guides, had spent weeks climbing upwards through the
Tibetan mountains in an effort to reach his objective. Finally, he found
himself standing on the outskirts of his tiny encampment, high in the Tibetan
snows. Surrounding him were the excited group of native guides, their
fur-capped faces and shaggy sheepskin coats making them appear like strange
animals, as they stood there gesticulating wildly.

The freezing
wind whirled great clouds of snow away from the mountain top that loomed above
them. Holmes felt a premonition of impending disaster as the leader of the
guides approached him.

“Sire, my men
will go no further. They say the Goddess of the Mountain is angry! If we climb
further, she will swallow us up! She will bury us!”

“But we cannot
go back now!” Holmes yelled through the ever increasing wind. “We have come so
far. Over a thousand feet! Eight hundred feet higher and we shall reach the
pass where we shall be safe!”

“I will not go!”
yelled one of the men. “We can stay back there in the tent, until the Goddess
of the Mountain tells us we can go further!”

“He is right,” added
the leader, “we can’t go!”

The men moved to
stand together in defiance of Holmes, as he looked about and saw the danger as
the snow and wind increased, swirling around them like snakes ready to pounce
and kill.

“Fools! Fools!
If you stay here in the wilderness, there might be an avalanche and you will
all be buried! You will be swept away! The only road to safety lies upward!”

The men stood
their ground, protesting wildly that they would go no further. Their fear of
the Goddess of the Mountain was greater than their concern for themselves.
Holmes saw it was useless to argue with them.

“Then I shall go
on, alone!”

He turned away
and slowly, painfully, began the long climb up the side of the mountain some
eight hundred feet to the safety of the pass above. Holmes was the only one who
survived. As he struggled through the pass that led to safety, the icy gale
lashed at him in a frenzy of numbing cold and stinging snow.

A few moments
after he reached the top, the avalanche occurred. The tents, the guides, and
all their equipment were buried beneath hundreds of feet of hurdling,
thundering snow. The way behind him was now closed. It was impossible to go
back and attempt to rescue any of the guides. Holmes turned his sight to the
freezing rock and snow that lay ahead. Alone, unaided, he descended the path
that led to the plateau beyond, for the Goddess of the Mountain was still
angry. Through the knifing wind and snow he battled on, without food and
without much hope.

Even Holmes was
helpless in that battle of man against the elements. What happened in that next
thirty-six hours, he never really knew, except that the wind howled and the
driving snow slashed at him without mercy. Finally, unable to endure the ever
increasing cold and pain, his mind began to wander. He became delirious,
tracking about in the snow, gesturing and mumbling to himself in a dreamlike
state that bordered on death.

“Watson, dear
boy, hand me my violin, will you?—Moriarty, I want to introduce you to the
Goddess of the Mountain; I think you have a lot in common—221 B Baker Street,
Cabby, and for heavens sake, get me there as fast as you can, I think I’ve
caught a chill!”

Though his mind
was wandering, his great strength, combined with his instinctive urge for
self-preservation, kept him on his feet. When finally he returned to normal
consciousness, he found himself in a primitive cart drawn by two oxen as it
jogged along a rough road. Although it was cold, the sun was shining on him,
giving him some relief from the intense freezing he had lived through. Next to
him was a woman who slowly fed him warm broth from a cup. For a moment the
woman looked at him with a comforting smile, then put the cup aside.

“No wonder you
look puzzled, poor man, you can’t make up your mind whether you are in this
world or the next.”

Holmes, through
swollen and bleary eyes could see that this was no native woman who was
comforting him.

“Who are you?”
he asked weakly, still assuming the role of Sigerson, the Norwegian explorer. “And
how did I get here, please?”

“My name is
Ilene Farley. I’m a medical missionary. I found you wandering out of your mind
two days ago, just beyond the mountains, at the foot of the village. And, well,
I’ve taken you under my wing, so to speak. We’re going to the monastery of
Pancha-Pushpah.”

“I am most
grateful to you, Miss Farley. You have saved my life. Permit me to introduce
myself. My name is Sigerson. Olaf Sigerson, a Norwegian explorer.”

The young woman
laughed.

“Oh no. No, your
name is Sherlock Holmes, and you’re a famous English detective. Mr. Holmes, you
have been delirious for the last two days. In your ravings I was delighted to
learn that the great Sherlock Holmes did not die two years ago at the
Reichenbach Falls.”

“I can see that
further simulation at a disguise is useless, my dear young lady. However, I
must implore you to keep my secret. It is essential that for a while longer the
world continues to think me dead.”

“You need not
worry, Mr. Holmes. I’m a great admirer of yours, and I promise that no one will
ever learn your secret from my lips. Now, try to drink a little more broth. You
are dreadfully weak.”

“Thank you so
much,” Holmes smiled.

With great
effort Holmes lifted himself up on one elbow and drank again from the cup.
Suddenly, from the roadside, a voice began to yell.

“Help me,
please! Please to give me help!”

Miss Farley
looked around and saw a man beside the road.

“Another white
man travels the road to Pancha-Pushpah. Stop the cart! Do you need help?”

“Ah, thank you,
lady. My own cart has broken a wheel. You are going perhaps to the monastery of
Pancha-Pushpah?”

“We are.”

“Good. Feodor
Dimitrivich Borodin, Imperial Russian envoy will travel with you. Please to
make room. Ah, spasiba!”

The Russian was
large, muscular and had a blazing red beard. He smiled as he pulled himself
onto the cart. Holmes leaned close to Miss Farley.

“Remember my
secret,” he whispered to her.

“The cart may
proceed,” the Russian said with authority, then turned to Miss Farley. “Your
name please, young lady.”

“Ilene Farley. I’m
an American medical missionary.”

“I do not
approve of missionaries,” he frowned, “but . . . you are very beautiful. So
Borodin will forgive you. Who is this lying on the floor? He looks half dead.”

“I am half dead,”
said Holmes, attempting a smile. “My name is Sigerson, I am Norwegian.”

“What is a
Norwegian doing in Tibet?”

“I have been
exploring the mountains. And what, may I ask, is a Russian doing in Tibet?”

“What is a
Russian doing? Ha! You shall see, my friend. To Holy Mother Russia shall belong
Tibet! But now, let us relax. We have some hours ahead of us before we reach
the monastery. You like vodka, Miss Farley?”

“I’m afraid I
don’t drink.”

The Russian
bellowed with laughter. Holmes watched every move he made, fascinated by this
gruff man’s authoritative air.

“Borodin will
teach you to drink. Then he will sing you songs of his native Russia. We shall
be happy!”

He placed a
small flask to his lips and gulped greedily of the vodka. He wiped his lips
with his sleeve, then burst into song. Every note jarred Holmes’ already aching
and weary head. It seemed like an eternity to my poor friend, but finally, the
cart, with its strange, assorted trio, arrived at the gates of the monastery.
It was an edifice, Holmes told me, of great antiquity and of breath-taking beauty,
built in the shadow of a giant mountain.

Before long,
Holmes was fed and bathed and made comfortable in his own quarters. Weakly he
walked about, trying to regain his strength. At one point, he requested a
chance to speak to the abbot of the monastery, and spent a few moments with
him. It was not long before he and his two companions were summoned into the
presence of the head abbot himself; a man of great age and infinite wisdom. The
faint chanting of religious music could be heard coming from another part of
the monastery, as the old abbot stood before Holmes and the others, keenly
observing them before he spoke.

“My dear Miss
Farley, my dear gentlemen. I have welcomed you to this monastery, and yet, each
one of you has come to me separately, and asked that he be given permission to
go to the sacred city of Lhasa. I cannot give that permission, my children.”

“Borodin has
traveled a long way,” the Russian said in restrained anger. “Russia will be
most unhappy if he does not get the permission!”

“I am an
explorer, reverend sir,” Holmes said. “Will not that fact entitle me to some
consideration?”

“I too have
traveled a great way, sir,” added Miss Farley.

“My children, I
realize your claims, but the permission is not in my power to grant. Tibet is
ruled by our Chinese overlords. In any case, I will ask you to turn your heads.
The gentleman approaching us has preceded you in residence here. He also wishes
to tread the road to Lhasa.”

“You have new
visitors, I see,” said the tall man who now approached Holmes and the others.

“Yes, my son.
Permit me to introduce you. This is Sir Harvey Forrester from Great Britain,
and this is Miss Ilene Farley from America, Feodor Borodin from Russia, and Mr.
Olaf Sigerson from Norway. Please be seated, everyone. My children, the Chinese
ruler in this province has heard of your presence here. He has announced his
intention of visiting you. Before he arrives, I should like to ask you each a
question. Four of you, all from different countries, have traveled here to the
mountains of Tibet. At this monastery, I can offer you refreshments, the
opportunity of acquiring wisdom, and peace. What more do you seek that you must
go to Lhasa? I shall ask you each that question in turn. You, Miss Farley, what
do you seek?”