The lethargic Holmes had now disappeared: here again was the bright-eyed enthusiast, engaged upon his favourite topic.
“You see,” he continued, “I possess a great deal of special knowledge, and I have trained myself to see and deduce from what I observe. This is what makes me unique. You do not seem convinced.”
“It is an audacious statement.”
“Proof, eh? You need a demonstration of my powers. That is easy. I remember that you appeared surprised when I told you on our first meeting that you had just recently come from Afghanistan.”
“You were told, no doubt.”
Holmes dismissed my comment with an irritated wave of his hand. “Nothing of the sort. I knew, I knew you came from Afghanistan. From a long habit, the train of thoughts ran so swiftly through my mind that I arrived at the conclusion without being conscious of the process. To me it is akin to tying one’s bootlaces in the morning. The procedure is carried out automatically, without any thought as to what one is doing. It is second nature.”
“So, how did you know about Afghanistan?”
“My train of reasoning ran thus: here is a gentleman of a medical type, but with the air of a military man. Clearly an army doctor, then. He has just come from the tropics, for his face is dark, but that is not the natural tint of his skin, for his wrists are fair. He has undergone great hardship and probably sickness. Where, currently, in the tropics would an English army doctor be pressed into service that would cause such hardship? Why Afghanistan, of course. The whole train of reasoning did not take a second.”
I listened with amazement to this analysis.
“Why, that is brilliant!” I said, with genuine admiration.
“Elementary.”
“As explained by you, the process seems simple enough, but I doubt if I or anyone I know could perform such a diagnosis.”
“That is because I have trained myself to perform such a diagnosis, as you put it. I perhaps ought to add that I had read in The Times of an army officer called Watson who had been invalided out of the army and had just arrived back from Afghanistan. Information that merely confirmed my deductions.”
Such a revelation removed much of the magic from his previous claim, and it was the first hint I was to obtain that sometimes Sherlock Holmes pretended to be more brilliant than he actually was. My expression must have revealed my thoughts.
“The end result is the same. In solving crime, one must use every facility at one’s command to reach a satisfactory conclusion. The press is a valuable source of information. I scour the papers every day. Luckily I am blessed with a photographic memory, and I can remember the most obscure and outré pieces of information and store them in my brain attic until I should require them. I am sure that in the days to come there will be ample opportunity for me to demonstrate my detective powers in order to convince you of my abilities and to prove that I am no charlatan. However, for now, let me add that this morning you visited Regent’s Park, sheltered under a tree when it came on to rain and then caught a cab back here.”
I opened my mouth in astonishment.
“Adhering to the soles of your shoes are traces of mud and grass which indicate that you have been walking in one of the parks. As Regent’s Park is the nearest, it is fairly safe to assume that to be the one. Also, there is a fragment of an oak leaf caught in the left turn up of your trousers. As it came on to rain heavily and suddenly, it is most likely that you took shelter under one of the giant oaks in the park. It is still raining heavily, but your raincoat is damp rather than soaking wet, so you obviously did not walk back to Baker Street. Observation and deduction, Doctor Watson.”
With these words, he slumped back down in his chair and closed his eyes, shutting me and the real world out of his drug-induced slumbers.
Working as a cab-driver in London, Jefferson Hope had been able to trail Stangerson and Drebber wherever they went. He took satisfaction in dogging their heels, knowing that they were ignorant of his presence. On some occasions, he had even driven the men in his cab. With his full beard and hat pulled low over his brow, he had no fear of being recognised. It was twenty years since they had set eyes upon him, and, he reckoned, no one really looks at cab-drivers in any case. In a strange perverted way, he wished they had recognised him. He could not wait to see the look of shock and horror on their faces when they realised that their nemesis was at hand. That day would come, but it would come when he had planned for it — not before.
Hope had traced Drebber and Stangerson half-way across the world, from St Petersburg, to Paris and then on to Copenhagen. Somehow, they sensed that they were being followed, and their restless sojourning was a clear sign of their guilt. Finally catching up with them in London, Hope had discovered them living in a boarding house in Camberwell. The two men never went out alone, and rarely after dark. This was a stumbling-block for Hope. He knew that he could not tackle both of them at once. He had to wait to catch each one on his own.
However, now he knew he could wait no longer. He could not risk his heart giving out on him — not now that he was so close to his dream. He resolved that today had to be the day. Desperate measures were needed. But then luck was on his side. It was late afternoon as he drove down Torquay Terrace, the street in which the two men were living, when he saw a cab draw up to their door. Presently, luggage was brought out, and after a time Drebber and Stangerson appeared. They stood on the pavement, engaged in a heated conversation. As always, on seeing the two men, Hope’s pulse quickened. They were the devils responsible for the death of John Ferrier and his darling Lucy, and twenty years had done nothing to dispel the deep hatred he felt for them.
Drebber was the taller of the two. He walked with a swagger, and his slicked-back hair and thin moustache enhanced his air of arrogance. In contrast, Stangerson was short, with stooped shoulders, and bore a constant furtive expression.
As they talked, a red-faced young man in shirtsleeves rushed down the path towards them. He was shouting in a threatening manner at Drebber, who responded by shaking his fist at him. Further angry words were exchanged, and within seconds the two men were locked in a vicious embrace. Hope was too far away to catch the nature of the argument, but both men were hot in temper and threw punches at each other in a wild fashion.
With some effort, Stangerson dragged the two of them apart and pushed his colleague into the cab. With further harsh words hurled at Drebber, the young man returned reluctantly to the boarding-house.
It looked to Hope as though the pair had been evicted from their lodgings for some misdemeanour perpetrated by the arrogant Drebber, and now they were on their travels again. He gave a groan of dismay when he heard Drebber give the driver instructions to take them to Euston Station. No doubt that meant they were planning to take the boat train and leave for the Continent. Once there, he might easily lose them again. With a gnawing feeling of despair in the pit of his stomach, Hope followed them at a safe distance.
At Euston, he tethered his cab and caught up with the two fugitives on the crowded platform. Here, another argument broke out between the men. Hope moved as close as he could in the bustling throng so that he could overhear their conversation. Drebber was castigating Stangerson for having misread the timetable. They had just missed one boat train, and the next was not to be for nearly two hours.
“You damned idiot,” Drebber was saying, and, from his blotchy face and slightly slurred speech, it was clear that he had been drinking.
“It’s only a few hours,” responded Stangerson lamely. “We can take a seat in the waiting-room. The time will soon pass.”