Classic Adventure Books - Daily

The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle - Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

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Duration:: 47m
Broadcast on:: 31 Aug 2024
Audio Format:: mp3

After investing billions to light up our network, T-Mobile is America's largest 5G and we'll pay it off up to $800. Up to four lines via virtual prepaid card, a left 15 days qualifying unlocked device and 90+ days with device and eligible carrier and timely redemption required. Card has no cash access and expires in six months. Every day, we rise, challenging ourselves to work for what we believe in. At U.S. Border Patrol, protecting our borders is more than a job. It's a calling. Agents answer the call, working together to keep our country and communities safe. If you are ready for a new mission, join U.S. Border Patrol and go beyond. Learn more at cpp.gov/careers. The Adventure of the Blue Car Bunkle I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second morning after Christmas with the intention of wishing him the compliments of the season. He was lounging upon the sofa in a purple dressing gown, a pipe rack within his reach upon the right and a pile of crumpled morning papers evidently newly studied near at hand. Beside the couch was a wooden chair and on the angle of the back hung a very seedy and disreputable hard felt hat, much the words for wear and cracked in several places. A lens and a four sips lying upon the seat of the chair suggested that the hat had been suspended in this manner for the purpose of examination. "You are engaged," said I, "perhaps I interrupt you." Not at all. I'm glad to have a friend with whom I can discuss my results. The matter is a perfectly trivial one, he jerked his thumb in the direction of the old hat. But there are points in connection with it which are not entirely devoid of interest and even of instruction. I seated myself in his armchair and warmed my hands before his crackling fire, for a sharp frost it set in and the windows were thick with the ice crystals. "I suppose," I remarked, "that, homely as it looks, this thing has some deadly story linked onto it, that it is the clue which will guide you in the solution of some mystery in the punishment of some crime." "No, no, no crime," said Sherlock Holmes, laughing, "only one of those whimsical little incidents which will happen when you have four million human beings all jostling each other within the space of a few square miles. Amid the action and reaction of so dense a swarm of humanity, every possible combination of events may be expected to take place, and many a little problem will be presented which may be striking and bizarre without being criminal. We have already had experience of such." "So much so," I remarked, "that of the last six cases which I have added to my notes, three have been entirely free of any legal crime." "Precisely. You allude to my attempt to recover the Irene Adler papers to the singular case of Miss Mary Sutherland and to the adventure of the man with a twisted lip." "Well, I have no doubt that this small matter will fall into the same innocent category." "You know Peterson, the Commissian heir?" "Yes." "It is to him that this trophy belongs." "It is his hat." "No, no, he found it. Its owner is unknown." "I beg that you will look upon it not as a battered Billy cock, but as an intellectual problem." "And first, as to how it came here, it arrived upon Christmas morning in company with a good fat goose, which is, I have no doubt, roasting at this moment in front of Peterson's fire." "The fact of these, about four o'clock on Christmas morning Peterson, who as you know is a very honest fellow, was returning from some small jollification and was making his way homeward down Tottenham Court Road." "In front of him, he saw, in the gaslight, a tallish man walking with a slight stagger and carrying a white goose slung over his shoulder." "As he reached the corner of Goode Street, a row broke out between this stranger and a little knot of ruffs. One of the latter knocked off the man's hat, on which he raised his stick to defend himself, and swinging it over his head smashed the shop window behind him." Peterson had rushed forward to protect the stranger from his assailants, but the man, shocked at having broken the window and seeing an official looking person in uniform rushing towards him, dropped his goose, took to his heels and vanished amid the labyrinth of small streets which lie at the back of Tottenham Court Road. The ruffs had also fled at the appearance of Peterson, so that he was left in possession of the field of battle, and also of the spoils of victory in the shape of this battered hat and a most unimpeachable Christmas goose. Which surely he restored to their owner. My dear fellow, there lies the problem. It is true that four Mrs. Henry Baker was printed upon a small card which had been tied to the bird's left leg, and it is also true that the initials HB are legible upon the lining of this hat. But as there are some thousands of bakers and some hundreds of Henry bakers in this city of ours, it's not easy to restore loss property to any one of them. What then did Peterson do? He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmas morning, knowing that even the smallest problems are of interest to me. The goose we retained until this morning, when there were signs that in spite of the slight frost, it would be well that it should be eaten without unnecessary delay. Its finder has carried it off, therefore, to fulfill the ultimate destiny of a goose, while I continue to retain the hat of the unknown gentleman who lost his Christmas dinner. Did he not advertise? No. Then what clue could you have as to his identity? Only as much as we can deduce? From his hat? Precisely. But you are joking. What can you gather from this old battered felt? Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you gather yourself as to the individuality of the man who has worn this article? I took the tattered object in my hands and turned it over rather ruefully. It was a very ordinary black hat of the usual round shape, hard and much the worse for wear. The lining had been a red silk, but was a good deal discolored. There was no maker's name, but as Holmes had remarked, the initials H.B. were scrawled upon one side. It was pierced in the brim for a hat secure, but the elastic was missing. For the rest, it was cracked, exceedingly dusty, and spotted in several places, although there seemed to have been some attempt to hide the discolored patches by smearing them with ink. "I can see nothing," said I, handing it back to my friend. On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail, however, to reason from what you see. You are too timid in drawing your inferences. Then pray tell me what it is that you can infer from this hat. He picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar introspective fashion which was characteristic of him. "It is perhaps less suggestive than it might have been," he remarked, "and yet there are a few inferences which are very distinct, and a few others which represent at least a small balance of probability, that the man was highly intellectual is, of course, obvious upon the face of it, and also that he was fairly well to do within the last three years, although he has now fallen upon evil days. He had foresight, but has less now than formerly, pointing to a moral retrogression, which, when taken with the decline of his fortunes, seems to indicate some evil influence, probably drink, at work upon him. This may account also for the obvious fact that his wife has ceased to love him. Why, dear homes! He has, however, retained some degree of self-respect," he continued, disregarding my remonstrance. He is a man who leads a sedentary life, goes out little, is out of training entirely, is middle-aged, has grizzled hair which he has had cut within the last few days, and which he anoints with lime cream. These are the more patent facts which may be deduced from his hat. Also, by the way, that it is extremely improbable that he has had gas laid on in his house. You are certainly joking, Holmes. Not in the least. Is it possible that even now, when I gave you these results, you were unable to see how they are attained? I have no doubt that I am very stupid, but I must confess that I am unable to follow you. For example, how did you deduce that this man was intellectual? For answer, Holmes clapped the hat upon his head. It came right over the forehead, and settled upon the bridge of his nose. "It is a question of cubic capacity," said he, "a man with so large a brain must have something in it." The decline in his fortunes then? This hat is three years old. These flat brims curled at the edge came in then. It is a hat of the very best quality, look at the band of ribbed silk and the excellent lining. If this man could afford to buy so expensive a hat three years ago, and has had no hat since, then he has surely gone down in the world. Well, that is clear enough, certainly. But how about the foresight and the moral retrogression? Sherlock Holmes laughed. "Here is the foresight," said he, putting his finger upon the little disc and loop of the hat secure. There never sold upon hats. If this man ordered one, it is a sign of a certain amount of foresight, since he went out of his way to take this precaution against the wind. But since we see that he has broken the elastic and is not troubled to replace it, it is obvious that he has less foresight now than formally, which is a distinct proof of a weakening nature. On the other hand, he has endeavored to conceal some of these stains upon the felt by dobing them with ink, which is a sign that he has not entirely lost his self-respect. Your reasoning is certainly plausible. The further points that he is middle-aged, that his hair is grizzled, that it has been recently cut, and that he uses lime cream, are all to be gathered from a close examination of the lower part of the lining. The lens discloses a large number of hair ends, clean cut by the scissors of the barber. They all appear to be adhesive, and there is a distinct odor of lime cream. This dust, as you will observe, is not the gritty grey dust of the street, but the fluffy brown dust of the house, showing that it has been hung up indoors most of the time, while the marks of moisture upon the inside are proved positive that the wearer perspired very freely, and could therefore hardly be in the best of training. But his wife, you said that she had ceased to love him. This hat has not been brushed for weeks. When I see you, my dear Watson, with a weak accumulation of dust upon your hat, and when your wife allows you to go out in such a state, I shall fear that you also have been unfortunate enough to lose your wife's affection. But he might be a bachelor, nay, he was bringing home the goose as a peace offering to his wife. Remember the card upon the bird's leg? You have an answer for everything. But how on earth do you deduce that the gas is not laid on in his house? One tallow stain, or even two, might come by chance, but when I see no less than five, owning a rental property sounds like a drink, collect a rent, and relax. That is, until you realize how much work goes into getting it ready. First, you need to conduct market research to understand local rental trends, and determine a competitive rent price. Then there's cleaning, staging, repairs, and hiring a professional photographer. Next, develop a marketing strategy, list the property on rental sites, and schedule countless showings. Oh, no free time for information. Whew! Sound complicated? Your house is here to take the hard work off your rental to-do list. Our job is complicated because it should be. We handle everything from marketing and showing your property to screening tenants and preparing the lease. Our best-in-class property management professionals take care of your property as if it were our own, from rent collection to maintenance coordination, all for one flat monthly fee. Go to runnerswarehouse.com for a free rental analysis to find out how much your home can rent for. Or call 303-974-9444 to speak with a rent estate advisor today. Because from now on, the only thing you need on your to-do list is to call runners warehouse. There's a world of fantastic concepts and beautiful ideas out there that are completely beyond your reach, simply because you do not have the words for them. We don't have them either, but we're going to find them. On our podcast, 50 Words for Snail, we're going on a hunt to find new magical words without an English equivalent. We hope you will join us. If I think that there can be little doubt that the individual must be brought into frequent contact with burning tallow, walks upstairs at night probably with his hat in one hand and a guttering candle in the other. Anyhow, he never got tallow stains from a gas jet. Are you satisfied? "Well, it is very ingenious," said I, laughing. "But since, as you said, just now there has been no crime committed and no harm done, save the loss of a goose, all this seems to be rather a waste of energy." Sherlock Holmes had opened his mouth to reply when the door flew open, and Peterson, the commissioner, rushed into the apartment with flushed cheeks and the face of a man who is dazed with astonishment. "The goose, Mr. Holmes, the goose, sir," he gasped. "Hey, what of it then? Has it returned to life and flapped off through the kitchen window?" Holmes twisted himself round upon the sofa to get a fairer view of the man's excited face. "See, here, sir, see what my wife found in its crop." He held out his hand and displayed upon the center of the palm, a brilliantly scintillating blue stone, rather smaller than a bean in size, but of such purity and radiance that it twinked away. "It's the precious stone. It cuts into glasses, though it were putty." "It's more than a precious stone. It's THE precious stone." "Not the countess of more cars' blue car-bunkle," I ejaculated. "Precisely so. I ought to know its size and shape, seeing that I have read the advertisement about it in the time I've had, and I've had it in my life." "It is absolutely unique, and its value can only be conjectured, but the reward offered of a thousand pounds is certainly not within a 20th part of the market price." "A thousand pounds! Great Lord of Mercy!" The Commissian air plumped down into a chair and stared from one to the other of us. "That is the reward, and I have reason to know that you can only be conjectured, but the reward offered of a thousand pounds is certainly not within a 20th part of the market price." "That is the reward, and I have reason to know that there are sentimental considerations in the background which could induce the countess to part with half her fortune, if she could just recover the gem." "It was lost, if I remember a ride, at the Hotel Cosmopolitan," I remarked. "Precisely so. On the 22nd of December, just five days ago, John Horner, a plumber, was accused of having abstracted it from the ladies' jewel case. The evidence against him was so strong that the case has been referred to the Assizes. I have some account of the matter here, I believe." He rummaged amid his newspapers, glancing over the dates, until at last he smoothed one out, doubled it over, and read the following paragraph. "Hotel Cosmopolitan Jewel Robbery." John Horner, 26, plumber, was brought up upon the charge of having, upon the 22nd instant, abstracted from the jewel case of the Countess of Morcar, the valuable gem known as the Blue Car Bunkle. James Rider, upper attendant at the hotel, gave his evidence to the effect that he had shown Horner up to the dressing room of the Countess of Morcar upon the day of the robbery, in order that he might solder the second bar of the great, which was loose. He had remained with Horner some little time, but had finally been called away. On returning, he found that Horner had disappeared, that the bureau had been forced open, and that the small Morocco casket, in which, as it afterwards transpired, the Countess was accustomed to keep her jewel, was lying empty upon the dressing table. Rider instantly gave the alarm, and Horner was arrested the same evening, but the stone could not be found, either upon his person or in his rooms. Catherine Kuzak, made of the Countess, deposed to having heard Rider's cry of dismay on discovering the robbery, and to having rushed into the room where she found matters as described by the last witness. Inspector Bradstreet, B. Division, gave evidence as to the arrest of Horner, who struggled frantically and protested his innocence in the strongest terms. Evidence of a previous conviction for robbery, having been given against the prisoner, the magistrate refused to deal summarily with the offence, but referred it to the assizes. Horner, who had shown signs of intense emotion during the proceedings, fainted away at the conclusion and was carried out of court. "So much for the police court," said Holmes, thoughtfully, tossing aside the paper. The question for us now to solve is the sequence of events leading from a rifle jewel case at one end to the crop of a goose in Tottenham Court Road at the other. You see, Watson, our little deductions have suddenly assumed a much more important and less innocent aspect. Here is the stone. The stone came from the goose, and the goose came from Mr. Henry Baker, the gentleman with the bad hat and all the other characteristics with which I have bored you. So now we must set ourselves very seriously to finding this gentleman and ascertaining what part he has played in this little mystery. To do this, we must try the simplest means first, and these lie undoubtedly in an advertisement in all the evening papers. If this fail, I have recourse to other methods. What will you say? Give me a pencil in that slip of paper. "Found at the corner of Good Street, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr. Henry Baker can have the same by applying at 6.30 this evening at 2.21 B. Baker Street." That's clear and concise. Very, but will he see it? Well, he is sure to keep an eye on the paper, since to a poor man the loss was a heavy one. He was clearly so scared by his mischance in breaking the window and by the approach of Peterson that he thought of nothing but flight. But since then, he must have bitterly regretted the impulse which caused him to drop his bird. And then again, the introduction of his name will cause him to see it for everyone who knows him will direct his attention to it. Here you are, Peterson. Run down to the advertising agency and have this put in the evening papers. In which, sir? Oh, in the Globe, Star, Paul Moll, St. James, Evening News, Standard, Echo, and any others that occur to you. Very well, sir. And this stone? Yes, I shall keep the stone. Thank you. And I say, Peterson, just buy a goose on your way back and leave it here with me. For we must have one to give to this gentleman in place of the one which your family is now devouring. When the Commissioner had gone, Holmes took up the stone and held it against the light. It's a bony thing, said he, just see how it glints and sparkles. Of course, it is a nucleus in focus of crime, every good stone is. They are the devil's pet baits. In the larger and older jewels, every facet may stand for a bloody deed. This stone is not yet twenty years old. It was found in the banks of the Amoy River in southern China and is remarkable in having every characteristic of the car-bunkle save that it is blue in shade instead of ruby red. In spite of its youth, it is already a sinister history. There have been two murders, a vitriol throwing, a suicide, and several robberies brought about for the sake of this 40 grain weight of crystallized charcoal. Who would ever think that so pretty a toy could be a purveyor of the gallows in the prison. I'll lock it up in my strong box now and drop a line to the countess to say that we have it. Do you think that this man-horner is innocent? I cannot tell. Well, then, do you imagine that this other one, Henry Baker, had anything to do with the matter? It is, I think, much more likely that Henry Baker is an absolutely innocent man who had no idea that the bird which he was carrying was of considerable more value than if it had been. More value than if it were made of solid gold. That, however, I shall determine by a very simple test if we have an answer to our advertisement. And you can do nothing till then? Nothing. In that case, I shall continue my professional round, but I shall come back in the evening at the hour you have mentioned, for I would like to see the solution of sotangle the business. Very glad to have you. I dine at seven. There is a woodcock, I believe. By the way, in view of recent occurrences, perhaps I ought to ask Mrs. Hudson to examine its crop. I had been delayed at a case, and it was a little after half past six, when I found myself in Baker Street once more. As I approached the house, I saw a tall man in a scotch bonnet with a coat, which was buttoned up to his chin, waiting outside in the bright semicircle which was thrown from the fan light. Just as I arrived, the door was opened, and we were shown up together to Holmes' room. "Mr. Henry Baker, I believe?" said he, rising from his armchair and greeting his visitor with the easy air of geniality which he could so readily assume. "Pray take this chair by the fire, Mr. Baker. It's a cold night, and I observe that your circulation is more adapted for summer than for winter." "Ah, Watson, you have just come at the right time. Is that your hat, Mr. Baker?" "Yes, sir, that is undoubtedly my hat." He was a large man with rounded shoulders, a massive head, and a broad intelligent face, sloping down to a pointed beard of grizzled brown. A touch of red in nose and cheeks, with a slight trimmer in his extended hand, recalled Holmes' surmises to his habits. His rusty brown frock coat was buttoned right up in front, with the collar turned up and his lank wrists protruded from his sleeves without a sign of cuff or shirt. He spoke in a slow staccato fashion, choosing his words with care, and gave the impression generally of a man of learning and letters who had had ill usage at the hands of fortune. "We have retained these things for some days," said Holmes, "because we expected to see an advertisement from you giving your address. I am at a loss to know now why you did not advertise." Our visitor gave a rather shame-faced laugh. "Shillings have not been so plentiful with me as they once were," he remarked. "I had no doubt that the gang of ruffs who assaulted me had carried off both my hat and the bird. I did not care to spend more money in a hopeless attempt to recover them." "Very naturally, by the way, about the bird, we were compelled to eat it. To eat it, our visitor half rose from his chair in his excitement. Yes, it would have been no use to anyone had we not done so, but I presume that this other goose upon the sideboard, which is about the same weight and perfectly fresh, will answer your purpose equally well?" "Oh, certainly, certainly," answered Mr. Bay. Owning a rental property sounds like a dream, collect a rent, and relax. That is, until you realize how much work goes into getting it ready. First, you need to conduct market research to understand local rental trends and determine a competitive rent price. Then there's cleaning, staging, repairs, and hiring a professional photographer. Next, develop a marketing strategy, list the property on rental sites and schedule countless showings. "Oh, you'll be the sweetest person for the information." Sound complicated? Renters Warehouse is here to take the hard work off your rental to-do list. Our job is complicated because it should be. We handle everything from marketing and showing your property to screening tenants and preparing the lease. Our best-in-class property management professionals take care of your property as if it were our own, from rent collection to maintenance coordination. All for one flat, monthly fee. Go to Renters Warehouse.com for a free rental analysis to find out how much your home can rent for. Or call 303-974-9444 to speak with a rent estate advisor today. Because from now on, the only thing you need on your to-do list is to call Runners Warehouse. There's a world of fantastic concepts and beautiful ideas out there that are completely beyond your reach, simply because you do not have the words for them. We don't have them either, but we're going to find them. On our podcast, 50 Words for Snow, we're going on a hunt to find new magical words without an English equivalent. We hope you will join us. Care with a sigh of relief. Of course, we still have the feathers, legs, crop, and so on of your own bird, so if you wish, the man burst into a hearty laugh. "They might be useful to me as relics of my adventure," said he, "but beyond that, I can hardly see what used the dejected member of my late acquaintance are going to be to me. No, sir, I think that, with your permission, I will confine my attentions to the excellent bird which I perceive upon the sideboard." Sherlock Holmes glanced sharply across at me, with a slight shrug of his shoulders. "There is your hat, then, and there your bird," said he. "By the way, would it bore you to tell me where you got the other one from? I am somewhat of a foul fancier, and I have seldom seen a better-grown goose." "Certainly, sir," said Baker, who had risen and tucked his newly-gained property under his arm. "There are a few of us who frequently alpha in, near the museum. We are to be found in the museum itself, during the day, you understand. This year our good host, Windigate, by name, instituted a goose-club, by which, on consideration of some few pence every week, we were each to receive a bird at Christmas. My pence were duly paid, and the rest is familiar to you. I am much indebted to you, sir, for a scotch bonnet is asfitted neither to my years nor my gravity." With a comical pomposity of manner, he bowed solemnly to both of us, and strode off upon his way. "So much for Mr. Henry Baker," said Holmes, when he had closed the door behind him. "It is quite certain that he knows nothing whatever about the matter." "Are you hungry, Watson?" "Not particularly." "Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a supper, and follow up this clue while it is still hot." "Yes, by all means." "It was a bitter night, so we drew on our ulsters and wrapped crevots around our throats. Outside, the stars were shining coldly, in a cloudless sky, and the breath of the passers-by blew out into smoke like so many pistol shots. Our footfalls rang out crisply and loudly as we swung through the doctor's quarter, Whimple Street, Harley Street, and so threw Whigmore Street into Oxford Street. In a quarter of an hour we were in Bloomsbury at the Alpha Inn, which is a small public house at the corner of one of the streets that runs down into Holburn. Holmes pushed open the door of the private bar, and ordered two glasses of beer from the ruddy-faced white apron's landlord. "Your beer should be excellent if it is as good as your geese," said he. "My geese," the man seemed surprised. "Yes, I was speaking only half an hour ago to Mr. Henry Baker, who was a member of your Goose Club." "Ah, yes, I see. But you see, sir, them's not our geese." "Indeed, who's then?" "Well, I got the two dozen from a salesman in Covent Garden." "Indeed, I know some of them, which one was it?" "Breckon Ridge is his name. I don't know him." "Well, here's your good health, landlord, and prosperity to your house. Good night." "Now for Mr. Breckon Ridge," he continued, buttoning up his coat as we came into the frosty air. "Remember, Watson, that though we have so homely a thing as a goose at one end of this chain, we have at the other a man who will certainly get seven years' penal servitude unless we can establish his innocence. It is possible that our inquiry may but confirm his guilt, but in any case we have a line of investigation which has been missed by the police and which a singular chance has placed into our hands. Let us follow it out to the bitter end, faces to the south then and quick march. We passed across Holburn, down Indal Street, and so threw a zigzag of slums to Covent Garden Market. One of the largest stalls bore the name of Breckon Ridge upon it, and the proprietor, a horsey-looking man with a sharp face and trimmed side whiskers, was helping a boy to put up the shutters. "Good evening. It's a cold night," said Holmes. Salesman nodded and shot a questioning glance at my companion. "Sold out of geese, I see," continued Holmes, pointing at the bare slabs of marble. "Let you have five hundred tomorrow morning." "That's no good." "Well, there are some on the stall with the gas flare." "Ah, but I was recommended to you." "Who by?" "The landlord of the Alpha." "Oh, yes, I sent him a couple of dozen." "Fine birds, they were too." "Now where did you get them from?" "To my surprise, the question provoked a burst of anger from the salesman." "Now then, mister," said he, with his head cocked and his arms akimbo. "What are you driving at? Let's have it straight now." "It's straight enough. I should like to know who sold you the geese which used supply to the Alpha." "Well, then I shan't tell you. So now." "Oh, it's a matter of no importance. But I don't know why you should be so warm over such a trifle." "Warm? You'd be as warm, maybe, if you were a pester as I am. When I pay good money for a good article, there should be an end of the business. But it's where the geese, and who did you sell the geese to, and what will you take for the geese?" "One would think they are the only geese in the world to hear the fuss that's made over them." "Well, I have no connection with any other people who have been making inquiries," said Holmes carelessly. "If you won't tell us, the bet's off. That's all. But I'm always ready to back my opinion on a matter of fouls, and I have a fiver on it that the bird I ate is country bread." "Well, then you've lost your fiver for its town bread," snapped the salesman. "It's nothing of the kind. I say it is. I don't believe it." "Do you think you know more about fouls than I, who have handled them ever since I was a nipper? I tell you all those birds that went to the alpha were town bread. You'll never persuade me to believe that. Will you bet, then?" "It's merely taking your money, for I know that I am right. But I'll have a sovereign on with you just to teach you not to be obstinate." The salesman chuckled grimly. "Bring me the books, Bill," said he. The small boy brought round a small thin volume and a great greasy backed one, laying them out together beneath the hanging light. "Now then, Mr. Coxure," said the salesman, "I thought that I was out of geese, but before I finish you'll find that there's still one left in my shop." "You see this little book?" "Well, that's the list of the folk from whom I buy. You see?" "Well then, here on this page of the country folk and the numbers after the names are where their accounts are in the big ledger." "Now then, you see this other page in red ink?" "Well, that's a list of my town suppliers. Now look at that third name. Just read it out to me." "Mrs. Oakshot 117 Brixton Road 249, red homes." "Quite so. Now, turn that up in the ledger." Homes turned to the page indicated. "There you are, Mrs. Oakshot 117 Brixton Road, egg and poultry supplier." "Now then, what's the last entry?" "December 22nd, 24 geese at seven shilling sixpence." "Quite so. There you are. And underneath, sold to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha at twelve shillings." "What do you have to say now?" Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined. He drew a sovereign from his pocket and threw it down upon the slab, turning away with the air of a man who's discussed as too deep for words. A few yards off, he stopped under a lamppost and laughed in the hearty noiseless fashion which was peculiar to him. "When you see a man with whiskers of that cut and the pinken protruding out of his pocket, you can always draw him by a bet," said he. "I dare say that if I had put a hundred pounds down in front of him, that man would not have given me such complete information as was drawn from him by the idea that he was doing me on a wager." "Well, Watson, we are, I fancy, nearing the end of our quest, and the only point which remains to be determined is whether we should go on to this Mrs. Oakshot tonight or whether we should reserve it for tomorrow." It is clear from what that surly fellow said that there are others besides ourselves who are anxious about this matter, and I should, his remarks were suddenly cut short by a loud hubbub which broke out from the stall which we had just left. Turning round, we saw a little rat-faced fellow standing in the center of the circle of yellow light which was thrown by the swinging lamp. While Breckenridge, the salesman, framed in the door of his stall was shaking his fists fiercely at the cringing figure. "I bet enough of you and your geese," he shouted. "I wish you were all at the devil together. If you come pestering me any more with your silly talk, I'll set the dog at you." "You bring Mrs. Oakshot here, and I'll answer to her, but what do you have to do with it? Did I buy the geese off you?" "No, but one of them was mine all the same," whined the little man. "Well, then asked Mrs. Oakshot for it." "She told me to ask you. Well, you can ask the king of Prusa for all I care. I've had enough of it. Get out of this!" He rushed fiercely forward, and the inquiry flitted away into the darkness. "Huh, this may save us a visit to Brixton Road," whispered Holmes. "Come with me, and we will see what is to be made of this fellow." Striding through the scattered knots of people who lounged round the flaring stalls, my companion speedily overtook the little man and touched him upon the shoulder. He sprang round, and I could see in the gas light that every vestige of color had been driven from his face. "Who are you then? What do you want?" he asked in a quavering voice. "You will excuse me," said Sherlock Holmes, blandly, "but I could not help overhearing the questions which you put to the salesman just now. I think that I could be of assistance to you." "You? Who are you? How could you know anything of the matter?" "My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other people don't know." "But you could know nothing of this—excuse me, I know everything of it. You are endeavoring to trace some geese, which were sold by Mrs. Oakshot of Brixton Road to a salesman named Breckenridge, by him in turn to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha, and by him to his club, of which Mr. Henry Baker is a member." "Oh, sir, you are the very man whom I have longed to meet," cried the little fellow, with outstretched arms and quivering fingers. "I can hardly explain to you how interested I am in this matter." Sherlock Holmes hailed a four-wheeler, which was passing. "In that case, we had better discuss it in a cozy room rather than in this windswept marketplace," said he, "but pray." Owning a rental property sounds like a dream. Collect a rent, and relax. That is, until you realize how much work goes into getting it ready. First, you need to conduct market research to understand local rental trends and determine a competitive rent price. Then there's cleaning, staging, repairs, and hiring a professional photographer. Next, develop a marketing strategy, list the property on rental sites, and schedule countless showings. "Oh, don't forget to transfer the information, drop the lease on collection." "Phew! Sound complicated?" 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We hope you will join us. Tell me before we go further, who is it that I have the pleasure of assisting? The man hesitated for an instant. "My name is John Robinson," he answered with a side-long lance. "No, no, the real name," said Holmes sweetly. "It is always awkward doing business with an alias." A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the stranger. "Well, then," said he, "my real name is James Ryder." Precisely so, head attendant of the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Pray step into the cab, and I shall soon be able to tell you everything which you would wish to know. The little man stood glancing from one to the other of us with half-frightened, half-hopeful eyes, as one who is not sure whether he is on the verge of a windfall or a catastrophe. Then he stepped into the cab, and in half an hour we were back in the sitting room at Baker Street. Nothing had been said during our drive, but the high, thin breathing of our new companion in the claspings and unclaspings of his hands spoke of his hands. Spoke of the nervous tension within him. "Here we are," said Holmes, cheerily, as we filed into the room. "The fire looks very seasonable in this weather. You look cold, Mr. Ryder. Pray take the basket, chair. I will just put on my slippers before we settle this little matter of yours." Now then, you want to know what became of those geese. "Yes, sir, or rather I fancy of that goose. It was one bird I imagined in which you were interested, white with a black bar across the tail." Ryder quivered with emotion. "Oh, sir," he cried, "can you tell me where it went to?" "It came here." "Here?" "Yes, and a most remarkable bird it proved. I don't wonder that you should take an interest in it. It laid an egg after it was dead. The bonniest, brightest little blue egg that ever was seen. I have it here, in my museum." Our visitors staggered to his feet and clutched the mantelpiece with his right hand. Holmes unlocked his strong box and held up the blue car-bunkle, which shone out like a star with a cold, brilliant, many-pointed radiance. Ryder stood glaring with a drawn face, uncertain whether to claim or to disown it. "The game's up, Ryder," said Holmes quietly. "Hold up, man, or you'll be into the fire. Give him an arm back into his chair, Watson. He's not got blood enough to go in for felony with impunity. Give him a dash of brandy." "So?" Now he looks a little more human. "What a shrimp it is, to be sure." For a moment, he had staggered and nearly fallen, but the brandy brought a tinge of color into his cheeks, and he sat staring with frightened eyes at his accuser. "I have almost every link in my hands, and all the proofs which I could possibly need, so there is little which you need tell me. Still, that little may, as well, be cleared up to make your case complete." You had heard, Ryder of this blue stone of the Countess of more cars? "It was Catherine Kuzak, who told me of it," said he, in a crackling voice. "I see. Her ladyship's waiting-made. Well, the temptation of sudden wealth so easily acquired was too much for you, as it has been for better men before you. But you were not very scrupulous in the means you used. It seems to me, Ryder, that there is the making of a very pretty villain in you. You knew that this man-horner, the plumber, had been concerned in some such matter before, and that suspicion would rest more readily upon him. What did you do then? You made some small job in my lady's room, you and your Confederate Kuzak, and you managed that he should be the man sent for. And then, when he had left, you rifled the jewel-case, raised the alarm, and had this unfortunate man arrested. You then, Ryder threw himself down suddenly upon the rug and clutched at my companion's knees. "For God's sake have mercy," he shrieked, "think of my father, of my mother, it would break their hearts. I never went wrong before. I never will again. I swear it. I swear it on a Bible. Oh, don't bring it into court. For Christ's sake, don't." "Get back into your chair," said Holmes, sternly. "It is very well to cringe and crawl now, but you thought little enough of this poor horner in the dock for a crime of which he knew nothing. I will fly, Mr. Holmes. I will leave the country, sir. Then the charge against him will break down." "Hmm, we will talk about that. And now let us hear a true account of the next act. How came the stone into the goose, and how came the goose into the open market? Tell us the truth, for there lies your only hope and safety." Ryder passed his tongue over his parched lips. "I will tell you it just as it happens, sir," said he. When Horner had been arrested, it seemed to me that it would be best for me to get away with the stone at once, for I did not know at what moment the police might not take it into their heads to search me and my room. There was no place about the hotel where it would be safe. I made out, as if on some commission, and I made for my sister's house. She had married a man named Oakshot, and lived in Brixton Road where she patent fouls for the market. All the way there every man I met seemed to me to be a policeman or a detective, and for all that it was a cold night. The sweat was pouring down my face before I came to the Brixton Road. My sister asked me what was the matter and why I was so pale, but I told her that I had been upset by the jewel robbery at the hotel. Then I went back into the backyard and smoked a pipe and wondered what would be the best to do. I had a friend once, called Maudsley, who went to the bad and had just been serving his time in Pentonville. One day he had met me and fallen to talk about the way of thieves and how they could get rid of what they stole. I knew that he would be true to me, for I knew one or two things about him, so I made up my mind to go right on to Kilburn where he lived and take him into my confidence. He would show me how to turn the stone into money, but how to get to him in safety. I thought of the agonies I had gone through and coming from the hotel. I might, at any moment, be seized and searched, and there would be the stone in my waistcoat pocket. I was leaning against the wall at the time and looking at the geese which were waddling about round my feet, and suddenly an idea came into my head which showed me how I could beat the best detective that ever lived. My sister had told me some weeks before that I might have the pick of her geese for a Christmas present, and I knew that she was always as good as her word. I could take my goose now, and in it I would carry my stone to Kilburn. There was a little shed in the yard, and behind this I drove one of the birds, a fine big one, white with a barred tail. I caught it, and prising its bill open, I thrust the stone down its throat as far as my finger could reach. The bird gave a gulp, and I felt the stone pass along its gullet and down into its crop. But the creature flapped and struggled, and out came my sister to know what was the matter. As I turned to speak to her, the brute broke loose and fluttered off among the others. "Whatever were you doing with that bird, Jim?" says she. "Well," said I, "you said you'd give me one for Christmas, and I was feeling which was the fattest." "Oh," says she, "we've set yours aside for you. Jim's bird, we call it. It's the big white one over yonder. There's twenty-six of them, which makes one for you, and one for us, and two dozen for the market." "Thank you, Maggie," says I, "but if it's all the same to you, I'd rather have that one I was handling just now." "The other is a good three pounds heavier," said she, "and we've fattened it expressly for you." "Never mind. I'll have the other, and I'll take it now," said I. "Oh, just as you like," said she, a little huffed. "Which is it you want, then?" "That white one, with the barred tail, right in the middle of the flock." "Oh, very well. Kill it and take it with you." "Well, I did what she had said, Mr. Holmes, and I carried the bird all the way to Kilburn. I told my pal what I had done, for he was a man that it was easy to tell a thing like that, too." He laughed until he choked, and we got a knife and opened the goose. My heart turned to water, for there was no sign of the stone, and I knew that some terrible mistake had occurred. I left the bird, rushed back to my sisters, and hurried into the backyard. There was not a bird to be seen there. "Where are they all, Maggie?" I cried. "Gone to the dealers, Jim." "Which dealers? Breckenridge of Covent Garden?" "But was there another with a barred tail?" I asked, the same as the one I chose. "Yes, Jim. There were two barred-tailed ones, and I could never tell them apart." "Well, then, of course, I saw it all, and I ran off as hard as my feet would carry me to this man, Breckenridge. But he had sold a lot at once, and not one word would he tell me as to where they had gone. You heard him yourselves tonight?" "Well, he has always answered me like that. My sister thinks that I am going mad. Sometimes I think that I am myself. And now I am myself a branded thief without ever having touched the wealth for which I sold my character. God help me. God help me." He burst into convulsive sobbing, with his face buried in his hands. There was a long silence, broken only by his heavy breathing, and by the measured tapping of Sherlock Holmes' fingertips upon the edge of the table. Then my friend rose, and threw open the door. "Get out!" said he. "What, sir?" "Oh, heaven bless you! No more words! Get out!" And no more words were needed. There was a rush, a clatter upon the stairs, the bang of a door, and the crisp rattle of running footfalls from the street. "After all, Watson," said Holmes, reaching up his hand for his clay pipe, "I am not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies. If Horner were in danger it would be another thing, but this fellow will not appear against him, and the case must collapse. I suppose that I am commuting a felony, but it is just possible that I am saving a soul. This fellow will not go wrong again. He is too terribly frightened. Send him to Gail now, and you make him a Gailbird for life. Besides, it's the season of forgiveness. Chance has put in our way a most singular and whimsical problem, and its solution is its own reward. If you will have the goodness to touch the bell doctor, we will begin another investigation, in which also a bird will be the chief feature." End of the adventure of the blue car buckle. 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