“At one point I thought I had lost sight of him, for a drayman’s cart came between us, and at the same moment he ducked into one of the deadfalls. I soon ascertained where he had gone, however, and after a moment’s hesitation entered the place myself.
“The light shone from cheap tallow candles and ancient kerosene lamps with dark purple shades. Losing no time, I approached the man and asked if I could speak with him.
“He stared at me silently, his dark eyes narrowed into slits. At last, he signaled the barman for a second drink, and handed me a small glass of clear liquor.
“I thanked him, but he remained dumb. ‘Do you speak English?’ I inquired finally.
“He grinned, and with an easy motion of his wrist flicked back his drink and set the empty glass on the bar. ‘I speak it as well as you, señor. My name is Juan Portillo. What do you want?’
“‘I want to know why you visited the Warburton residence yesterday, and again this afternoon.’
“His smile broadened even further. ‘Ah, now I understand. You follow me?’
“‘There have been suspicious events at that house, ones which I have reason to believe may concern you.’
“‘I know nothing of suspicious events. They hire me to do a job, and to be quiet. So I am quiet.’
“‘I must warn you that if you attempt to harm the colonel in any way, you will answer for it to me.’
“He nodded at me coldly, still smiling. ‘Finish your drink, señor. And then I will show you something.’
“I had seen the saloon keeper pour my liquor from the same bottle as his, and thus could not object to drinking it. The stuff was strong as gin, but warmer, and left a fiery burn in the throat. I had barely finished it when Portillo drew out of some hidden pocket a very long, mother-of-pearl handled knife.
“‘I never harm the colonel. I never even see this colonel. But I tell you something anyway. Men who follow me, they answer to this,’ he said, lifting the knife.
“He snarled something in Spanish. Three men, who had been sitting at a round table several yards away, stood up and strode towards us. Two carried pistols in their belts, and one tapped a short, stout cudgel in his hand. I was evaluating whether to make do with the bowie knife I kept on my person, or cut my losses and attempt an escape, when one of the men stopped short.
“‘Es el Doctor! Dr. Watson, yes?’ he said eagerly.
“‘After a moment’s astonishment, I recognized a patient I had treated not two weeks before even though he could not pay me, a man who had gashed his leg so badly in a fight on the wharf that his friends had carried him to the nearest physician. He was profoundly happy to see me, a torrent of Spanish flowing from his lips, and before two minutes had passed of him gesturing proudly at his wound and pointing at me, Portillo’s dispute had been forgotten. I did not press my luck, but joined them for another glass of that wretched substance and bade them farewell, Portillo’s unblinking black eyes upon me until I was out of the bar and making for Front Street with all speed.
“The next day, I determined to report Portillo’s presence to the colonel, for as little as I understood, I now believed him an even more sinister character. To my dismay, however, I found the house in a terrible uproar.”
“I am not surprised,” Holmes nodded. “What had happened?”
“Sam Jefferson stood accused of breaking into Charles Warburton’s darkroom with the intent to steal his photographic apparatus. The servant who opened the door to me was hardly lucid for her tears, and I heard cruel vituperations even from outside the house. Apparently, or so the downstairs maid said in her state of near-hysterics, Charles had already sacked Jefferson, but the colonel was livid his nephew had acted without his approval, theft or no theft, and at the very moment I knocked, they were locked in a violent quarrel. From where I stood, I could hear Colonel Warburton screaming that Jefferson be recalled, and Charles shouting back that he had already suffered enough indignities in that house to last him a lifetime. Come now, Holmes, admit to me that the tale is entirely unique,” I could not help but add, for the flush of colour in my friend’s face told me precisely how deeply he was interested.
“It is not the ideal word,” he demurred. “I have not yet heard all, but there were cases in Lisbon and Salzburg within the last fifty years which may possibly have some bearing. Please, finish your story. You left, of course, for what gentleman could remain in such circumstances, and you called the next day upon the colonel.”
“I did not, as a matter of fact, call upon the colonel.”
“No? Your natural curiosity did not get the better of you?”
“When I arrived the following morning, Colonel Warburton as well as Sam Jefferson had vanished into thin air.”
I had expected this revelation to strike like a bolt from the firmament, but was destined for disappointment.
“Ha,” Holmes said with the trace of a smile. “Had they indeed?”
“Molly and Charles Warburton were beside themselves with worry. The safe had been opened and many deeds and securities, not to mention paper currency, were missing. There was no sign of force, so they theorized that their uncle had been compelled or convinced to provide the combination.
“A search party set out at once, of course, and descriptions of Warburton and Jefferson circulated, but to no avail. The mad colonel and his servant, either together or separately, against their wills or voluntarily, left the city without leaving a single clue behind them. Upon my evidence, the police brought Portillo in for questioning, but he proved a conclusive alibi and could not be charged. And so Colonel Warburton’s obsession with war, as well as the inscrutable designs of his manservant, remain to this day unexplained.
“What do you think of it?” I finished triumphantly, for Holmes by this time leaned forward in his chair, entirely engrossed.
“I think that Sam Jefferson-apart from you and your noble intentions, my dear fellow-was quite the hero of this tale.”
“How can you mean?” I asked, puzzled. “Surely the darkroom incident casts him in an extremely suspicious light. All we know is that he disappeared, probably with the colonel, and the rumour in San Francisco told that they were both stolen away by the Tejano ghost who possessed the house. That is rubbish, of course, but even now I cannot think where they went, or why.”
“It is impossible to know where they vanished,” Holmes replied, his grey eyes sparkling, “but I can certainly tell you why.”
“Dear God, you have solved it?” I exclaimed in delight. “You cannot be in earnest-I’ve wracked my brain over it all these years to no avail. What the devil happened?”
“First of all, Watson, I fear I must relieve you of a misapprehension. I believe Molly and Charles Warburton were the authors of a nefarious and subtle plot which, if not for your intervention and Sam Jefferson’s, might well have succeeded.”
“How could you know that?”
“Because you have told me, my dear fellow, and a very workmanlike job you did in posting me up. Ask yourself when the colonel’s mental illness first began. What was his initial symptom?”
“He changed his will.”
“It is, you will own, a very telling starting point. So telling, in fact, that we must pay it the most stringent attention.” Holmes jumped to his feet and commenced pacing the carpet like a mathematician expounding over a theorem. “Now, there are very few steps-criminal or otherwise-one can take when one is disinherited. Forgery is a viable option, and the most common. Murder is out, unless your victim has yet to sign his intentions into effect. The Warburtons hit upon a scheme as cunning as it is rare: they undertook to prove a sane man mad.”