"At any rate," Lestrade went on, "the autopsy is scheduled for tonight in Liverpool. I wondered if you would care to go along with me and see what there is to be seen."
"Sacker was murdered by the one you call Garnett; the method was poison, and the autopsy will not find it," came a low voice from the chemical corner. We all turned our attention to see Miss Smith, her face in her hands,
in that hunched posture which I now knew to be indicative of the highest tension.
"I hate to sound like an echo of the good inspector," said Holmes quietly, "but how do you know that the autopsy will not find the poison?"
"Because," she said into her hands, "the coroner in New York couldn't find it either."
Holmes smiled a beatific smile. "Ah," he said. "The last piece." He went to her and took her hands gently from her face. "Now, Cordelia, try not to be upset," he said in the same earnest tones he had used to such good effect before, "but I want you to tell me what you recall. Remember, you are safe now."
"It's all jumbled up in my mind," she began. "But there was a man, a rich man with shady connections, who died suddenly in New York, oh, a few months ago or a little longer. It was what first made me suspect, or rather, what first made me take my suspicions seriously. He-Garnett-had a laboratory on the top floor of a big, fine house-I must have worked there, I don't think I lived there. I was sitting in a corner, working on extracting an equation from a data curve, when he came in with another man, a wealthy-looking, Italian sort of fellow.
" 'Do you guarantee your product?' asked the Italian.
" 'Well, you can hardly expect me to put it in writing,' replied the one you call Garnett-I'm sure that's not his right name.
'Five thousand dollars is a rather steep price for a packet no bigger than my thumbnail,' said the Italian.
" 'Oh, smaller, smaller,' said Garnett. 'But you must remember, you are also purchasing my professional discretion.'
" 'It seems to me,' said the Italian coldly, 'that is a blade with two edges.' 'Not at all,' replied Garnett with a sort of poisonous cheeriness. 'You asked me for a new, effective rat-killer; I supplied it. What you do with it afterwards is hardly my responsibility. Besides, no questions will be asked.'
" 'Rat poison; how true,' laughed the Italian. And they went into a part of the laboratory that was always kept locked. The Italian was the rich man's cousin; I saw a picture in the paper about the funeral."
"What else do you remember?" pressed Holmes.
"Nothing!" Her fist thumped down upon the deal table in her frustration, making the glassware rattle. "It's just another image with no context."
"It's enough for now." Holmes walked to the center of the room and stood before the fireplace, momentarily indecisive. "I admit, Inspector, to a strong temptation to accompany you up to Liverpool and see the scene first hand. However, Garnett is surely far from there by now. If I could but penetrate his reasoning - but I can't make bricks without straw. Liverpool it must be. I shall be packed in five minutes. Watson," he turned to me, "oblige me by escorting Miss Smith home, will you? I'll get in touch with you tomorrow night. And," he lowered his voice, "don't let her go out alone, my dear fellow."
"You anticipate some danger to her person?" I asked quietly. "I thought it was Sacker who wanted her killed, not Garnett. Is she not safe now?"
"I shouldn't care to put it to an empirical test," he replied. "At least not while I'm gone."
I nodded, and turned to collect my patient and her things. As the two cabs for which we had sent Billy arrived at the front door, Holmes and Lestrade came down the stairs, now equipped for the journey. Lestrade was saying, "I have the schedule. The tram for Liverpool leaves in just under an hour."
"Good," replied Holmes. "It will give us just time to stop at the Wigmore Street Post Office and send a cable to Brazil."
"Brazil! But this case has nothing whatever to do with Brazil," protested Lestrade, getting into their cab. "The United States, yes, but not South America."
"No? I must be mistaken, then," Holmes's voice floated back blandly as the cab bore them away. "Wigmore Street Post Office, cabby."
***
The next evening I received a telephone call in my study from Holmes in Baker Street. This was a rather unusual occurrence, as he was not fond of the instrument, being addicted from long habit to telegrams when in a hurry and a personal visit when not.
"How is Miss Smith today?" was his first question.
"Improved," was my reply. "When she awoke this morning, she was able to recall a great deal about living in Boston and New York. I took her to see Sir Morris Stein, the great neurologist around the corner in Harley Street. I've referred one or two cases to him before. He's a remarkable fellow, semi-retired now to work on his books, but he owes me a favor. He concurs she's not brain damaged - puts her amnesia down to a combination of drugs, post-hypnotic suggestion, and exhaustion from terror. He thinks her loss of memory as to recent events is going to continue to pass off spontaneously over the next few weeks without further treatment."
"And her amnesia about her early life?"
"He beat around the bush about that. Said he wanted to see her once a week for a while. He said a curious thing - that he didn't think this fellow Garnett was capable of building such a wall between her mind and her memory entirely without help. But he wouldn't explain what he meant. Could there be yet another doctor involved in the case?"
"Interesting. No, I don't think that's what he meant. I have a theory about her early life-but this is not the time. My dear fellow, do you suppose you could get your wife and servants out of the house for a few days?"
"Good God, Holmes, why?"
"It has to do with what I didn't find in Liverpool. This has been quite a case for negative data. Of course, I expected not to find Garnett, the excess luggage-if Garnett's the man I think him, it has probably been sent to Wooton-Under-the-Edge or some such place, to be left until called for-or a traceable poison in Sacker's body, and indeed all these things failed to turn up, right on schedule. But the crowning absence, the one I didn't expect, is the absence of motive for the slaying of Sacker. That has proved to be the keystone.
"I've been wrong about Garnett, Watson; wrong from the very beginning. I had assumed, that because he refused to kill Miss Smith or allow her to be killed or otherwise molested, that he was a man of greater moral scruples as well as greater intelligence than his partner; that, in short, he was a sane and rational gentleman, within the limits of his criminality. Wrong.
"Watson, the man is a megalomaniac of the first order. The springs of his actions are not reason and intelligence, but vision and obsession. And the name of his obsession is Cordelia Smith."
"Do you think he will come back to London and try to kill her?" I asked, horrified.
"Not exactly. I think he's going to come back to London and try to kidnap her. And we shall be waiting to take him in the trap. Thus the removal of your wife and servants, both to clear the path and to get them out of harm's way."
"But what about Miss Smith? You can't stake her out like a goat at a tiger hunt!" I protested indignantly.
"I can't spring a trap without bait, either. I think you rather underestimate Miss Smith. I believe she will wish to be in at the kill. She once described herself as the ghost of a murdered woman, as I recall. No, she has no love for Garnett, whatever distorted feelings he may harbor towards her.
"I'm having your place watched as discreetly as I can. I don't think Garnett will strike tonight; he needs a little time to prepare a hiding place, among other things. Inspector Lestrade is cooperating, under protest; he would rather be expending his considerable energies combing Ireland, I understand. I shall be along some time tomorrow to help set up, hopefully without being seen. Give my regards to Mrs. Watson, will you?" He rang off.