The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories (23 page)

AMONGST ALL THE
talented officers of Scotland Yard Chief Detective Inspector Lestrade was both the most astute and the most successful—so at least he often gave me to understand. Long after he had retired I used to visit him in the Nursing Home in Surrey in which he passed the last years of his life, and with the minimum of encouragement he would relate again the triumphs of himself, of Gregson, of Athelney Jones, of “young” Stanley Hopkins and the rest of those heroes who had flourished in what he considered the palmy days of the Yard.

Yet curiously enough he seldom mentioned the name of Sherlock Holmes, with whom his name had been linked in my own early memories. This I found difficult to understand, and I even, at one time, harboured the unworthy suspicion that he was in some way jealous of the reputation of the Baker Street detective. When I contrived to mention the latter's name he would make a faintly depreciatory comment and pass on to another part of the saga of his own career. Rarely, very rarely, he was more communicative about a man—or men, for a certain Dr. Watson had worked with Holmes in those bygone days—about whose doings I had an insatiable curiosity. Once only he related a story of the two to me.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes was a clever man in his way, but not nearly so clever as he thought himself, and as for that Watson…! My old chief at the Yard, I remember, used to call Mr. Sherlock Holmes ‘the Gifted Amateur,' though why, I couldn't quite make out. You see, properly speaking, he wasn't an amateur at all, and as for being gifted—well—there were some of us at the Yard that could have given him half a stone and a beating any day.”

Lestrade gave a wheezy chuckle of satisfaction.

“But he had some bright ideas, hadn't he? I suppose he was helpful to you now and then?”

“If you ask me,” retorted Lestrade, “the boot was on the other leg. I can remember one case when I helped Holmes—and Watson too, for that matter—out of a pretty tight jam—not that they were as grateful to me as they might have been. I'll tell you about it.”

It was in the year 1889, so far as I can remember, and it's in my mind that Mr. Sherlock Holmes had been having rather a lean time—why, even that Watson could hardly find any cases to write about at that time (you know the Doctor used to write up his friend's cases for what they call publicity purposes nowadays). When, therefore, the case of the Dark Diamond was handed over to me and I noticed that Dr. Watson was connected with it in his professional capacity it seemed to me that it was the only kind thing to do to let Holmes have a finger in the pie. I was a bit sorry for him, as you might say, besides I wasn't too sure that I could solve the mystery just as quickly and easily as I wanted to. So I walked round to Baker Street somewhere about
teatime and found them both smoking in their room.

“Ah, Lestrade,” said Holmes in his high-and-mighty manner, “you are often the harbinger of good tidings—what have you for me now?”

“I suppose Dr. Watson has told you about this case of Rheinhart Wimpfheimer's diamond?” I asked. Holmes smiled.

“Watson's account is a trifle confused. I should be glad if you would run over the case so that I may have the salient facts before me; possibly I may be able to help you.”

The reports which I made in those days didn't miss much so I read out the notes which I had already made.

Mr. Rheinhart Wimpfheimer is well known as a man who has amassed a prodigious fortune in trade with the Orient; he is even better known as the greatest of all collectors of famous and curious jewels. In this field only one other person can compare with him, and that is his younger brother Mr. Solomon Wimpfheimer, a wealthy bachelor residing in Albany. Between the two brothers a keen but friendly rivalry has always existed, but the elder's collection is believed to be incomparably the finer. Mr. Rheinhart Wimpfheimer is himself a widower, living in some luxury at his residence, 123 Great Cumberland Place. Apart from the servants his household consists of himself, his unmarried daughter, aged about twenty-five, and his private secretary who assists him both in his business dealings and in his collecting. Many of his possessions have already been given or loaned to museums but some of the more precious are always kept in the house. Amongst them all, the famous Dark Diamond of Dungbura holds pride of place. So much is he attached to this wonderful stone that he carries it with him daily in a small chamois leather bag suspended from his neck. At night it is placed resting on the chamois leather bag on the table by his bedside.

“A moment, Lestrade,” Holmes interrupted me. “Watson, pray pass me the third of those bulky volumes by your side. Ah—yes—I thought that there would be a note. The Dark Diamond of Dungbura, one of the most famous stones in the world owing to its size, its peculiar colour and its history. How or when it appeared in Dungbura, which is on the confines of Thibet, and how it passed from there to Europe are unknown, but it has since found a place in several of the greatest collections. Whereas most precious stones have a sinister reputation this one is reputed invariably to bring happiness and good fortune to its possessor. But I interrupt your orderly narrative, Lestrade. Proceed, if you will.”

Early on Wednesday morning Mr. Rheinhart Wimpfheimer was suddenly taken ill. His usual medical attendant was on holiday and our friend Dr. Watson here was acting as his locum tenens. Dr. Watson was urgently summoned to the house at about nine and diagnosed the case as one of brain fever—correct me if I am wrong, Doctor.

“That is quite correct; I prescribed the usual remedies and promised to call again in the evening.”

Dr. Watson called again in the evening and on his arrival found Mr. Wimpfheimer still unconscious. During the course of the visit, however, the patient had a short period of mental clarity and—I regret to say—vehemently expressed his desire to have the assistance of some physician more highly qualified than Dr. Watson.

“Ah, well,” said Holmes, “after all he is a cultured man of unlimited wealth, and the services of a General Practitioner of limited experience and mediocre ability…”

“Holmes, this is unworthy of you,” protested Watson. “You yourself have failed to obtain immediate success on some occasions.”

“The dates?” replied Holmes acidly.

I hurried on with my report lest a quarrel should develop between the two friends. The patient relapsed into delirium and Dr. Watson gave instructions to the nurse and wrote down the names and addresses of some of his eminent fellow practitioners. He then left the house.

“The time, Watson?” inquired Holmes.

“It was 7 p.m.,” replied Watson a little sulkily. “Mr. Wimpfheimer is a collector of furniture
and
objets d'art
of all kinds. I passed at least four grandfather clocks on the staircase and, as all of them struck, the time was somehow impressed on my memory.”

“Excellent, Watson. I am gratified that you are developing the power of observation. What happened next?”

A call was sent to Scotland Yard at ten o'clock this morning and I myself hurried round to 123 Great Cumberland Place where I found the house in a state of great commotion. When Sir Euston Pancras, the brain fever specialist, called that morning to examine the patient it was observed by the valet that the Dark Diamond of Dungbura which had lain on the table by the bedside the night before had vanished.

“It was there at the time of your visit, Watson?” inquired Holmes.

“It was—I observed it lying on the chamois leather bag on the table.”

Between that time and the specialist's visit five persons entered the sickroom—the nurse who was on duty during the night, the nurse who relieved her this morning, the patient's confidential valet, his private secretary, and his daughter.

“What steps have you taken?” inquired Holmes. “Have you examined all these persons?”

No stone has been left unturned but the mystery seems insoluble. Of the five persons concerned none left the house except Miss Wimpfheimer who drove in a hansom to visit her uncle in Albany and tell him of his brother's progress. She left the house at about 9 p.m. and returned some three-quarters of an hour later. These persons are, moreover, all above suspicion. The valet and the secretary have been with Mr. Wimpfheimer for more than ten years, the first nurse retired to sleep almost immediately after she left the sickroom, and the second nurse did not leave the sickroom after she came on duty. The whole house has been searched from attic to cellar and the Diamond is not in it. I am forced to the conclusion that some burglar must have entered the room and abstracted the stone—but here again there are difficulties. There are double windows in all the rooms and an elaborate system of burglar alarms; moreover Mr. Wimpfheimer has a dachshund to which he is devotedly attached; this animal never leaves him and sleeps in his bedroom. It is inconceivable that it should not have barked if a burglar had entered the room in the night-time. Still a burglar must have entered the room. The question is, how and when did he enter and how did he escape? You know my methods, Mr. Holmes—apply them (I often gave Mr. Sherlock Holmes pieces of advice of that kind and I think they were useful to him). Perhaps you may have some suggestion to make as to how the crime was accomplished.

Mr. Sherlock Holmes honoured me with one of his supercilous smiles.

“The case, my good Lestrade, though essentially a simple one, presents some features which are not without interest. I shall be glad to look into it for you.”

“And when will you be prepared to restore the Diamond?” I asked with just the proper touch of sarcasm.

“Perhaps if you will honour Dr. Watson and myself with your company at breakfast tomorrow—let us say at 9:30—I may have some information for you.”

I can see that room in Baker Street as clearly as though it was yesterday. When I returned the next morning Holmes, in his dressing-gown, was sitting in his chair at one side in a cloud of smoke and Dr. Watson was opposite him looking ill and worried. Perhaps, I thought, that Jezail bullet of which he was always talking was giving him a twinge of pain. His stethoscope, an old-fashioned instrument, was lying beside him, as though he was just about to start on a round of visits. Holmes waved me to a seat.

“Let me briefly elucidate the case,” he began. “Last night I called at Great Cumberland Place. Disguised as a veterinary surgeon I explained that Mr. Wimpfheimer had given me an appointment some days before to examine the
dachshund, and I was immediately admitted to the sickroom. The windows give no appearance of having been opened for some weeks at least; the physical formation of the dachshund enabled me, furthermore, to make an examination of the carpet.”

“What was peculiarly noticeable about the carpet?” I asked.

“Nothing was noticeable about the carpet—that was peculiar. Your theory that a burglar must have entered the room is wholly untenable.”

He paused and placed the tips of his long fingers together.

“We have therefore certain incontrovertible facts. The Diamond lay on the table when Watson paid his visit at 7 p.m.; it had disappeared when Sir Euston called at 10 in the morning—no burglar can have entered the room during that period; five persons, and five persons alone, entered the room during the night, all of them people of unimpeachable character; no one of them had any motive, so far as is known, for the theft. It is an old maxim of mine, however, that when the impossible has been excluded whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Therefore one of those five persons stole the Diamond.”

“Amazing, Holmes,” exclaimed Watson. Holmes's pale face flushed a little at this compliment, but he continued his exposition.

“If we confine ourselves to the established facts we can carry the analysis further. The Diamond has been stolen from the bedroom, and stolen by one of the five persons who entered the bedroom. It is not in the house and therefore it has been removed from the house. It is a fair deduction that the thief who took it from the bedroom also removed it from the house. Moreover other considerations lead me to the same conclusion. No ordinary thief would choose the night when a trained and wakeful nurse sat at Mr. Wimpfheimer's bedside to make a burglarious entry, and indeed no professional thief would even contemplate stealing the Dungbura Diamond, for its peculiarities would make it impossible for the thief to dispose of it. I therefore come to the conclusion that this was no ordinary theft. One solution and one only remains. Lestrade, the stone was abstracted not for vulgar gain but in order that it might be transferred to some other collection! There are no lengths to which collectors will not go—the pride of possession overcomes all scruples—and remember that the Dungbura Diamond brings happiness and good fortune to its possessor.”

He paused dramatically.

“Mr. Solomon Wimpfheimer is a collector, Miss Wimpfheimer visited him in the evening to tell him of his brother's illness. We do not know what impelled this unhappy woman to transfer the Diamond from her father to her uncle but we do know that it was her hand which removed it from Great Cumberland Place. The case is completed. Breakfast can wait. Put on your hat, Watson, and we will stroll with Lestrade to Albany. There, unless I am much mistaken, we shall find the Diamond.”

“But, but…” interrupted Watson. Holmes frowned at his friend. “I have demonstrated that the Diamond can have left Great Cumberland Place in no other way,” he remarked severely.

“But—my stethoscope…” stammered Watson. We both turned towards him as the Doctor, clutching his side, appeared to faint and fell back in his chair.

For the first time in my experience Holmes seemed to be overcome by a human emotion. He rushed to his friend, tore open his shirt and applied the stethoscope to his chest.

“Alas, poor fellow,” he cried, “he is dead. I can hear nothing.”