MacLeod. ‘Your man was definitely shot, MacLeod, and here’s the bullet that did it. I just got it out of his chest.’
He held out a white enamel dish in which a single bloodstained bullet rolled to and fro. Sherlock Holmes bent over to examine it.
‘A soft revolver bullet,’ he declared. ‘As you will perceive, it expanded considerably after discharge, thus inflicting the horrible mutilation on the body that Inspector MacLeod described.’
‘But it could nae have been a revolver,’ cried the bewildered inspector, tugging his scraggly whiskers in irritation. ‘As I said before there was no sound of a gun being fired. And at this time of the night there is nae so much ado in the streets, that a pistol shot could nae have been heard.’
‘See for yourself then,’ Sherlock Holmes replied, pointing to the small bullet in the dish.
‘I am nae denying it is a bullet, Sir,’ protested the nettled inspector, ‘but Captain Strickland, Sir, you know that the whole courtyard in front of the station is well lit with gas lamps. I am willing to stake my pension that there was nobody around the prisoner and me, at least within pistol range.’
‘But further away,’ suggested Strickland, ‘on the other side of the street maybe.’
‘That’s a good eighty feet or more away,’ replied the inspector, ‘and I can nae be sure.’
‘Was there any traffic on the street then, any carriage passed you by at that moment?’
‘Nae, I am sure of it. Well there was this van — one of those covered delivery things — parked in front of one of the shops on the other side of the street. But nae even a crack shot could have hit a man at that range with just a pistol — especially at night.’
‘Wouldn’t it be rather late to make deliveries?’ remarked Holmes, walking to the open window and peering out into the night. ‘It is not there now, at any rate.’ He turned away from the window to face us. ‘Dear me. Dear me. What a singular problem.’
Something in his tone caught my ear. It seemed to me that the tone of his voice, far from sounding puzzled, hinted at privileged information. Strickland may have detected it too, for he immediately attempted to end the discussion and get Sherlock Holmes out of the police station.
‘Well, there’s nothing more we can do tonight,’ said Strickland briskly, moving to the door. ‘MacLeod, firstthing tomorrow I want you to question all the shopkeepers and residents around here for any unusual activity or suspicious persons they may have seen at the time of the shooting.’
The crowd outside the police station had by now dispersed. The glow of the gas lamps fell on the prone figures of a few beggars sleeping on the hard pavement. The twanging of a sitar drifted faintly through the still night air. For a moment I thought of the plump Portuguese clerk now lying lifeless on a concrete slab in the police mortuary, while his soul was beginning its journey to ‘that undiscovered countryfrom whose bourn no traveller returns.’ A constable flagged down a carriage for us and we rode back to the hotel, savouring the coolness of the late night air.
Sherlock Holmes seemed visibly distraught, his sharp face under his deerstalker cap was bent morosely low. He was so wrapped up in his own musings that he did not seem to hear Strickland’s query. ‘How was it done, Mr Holmes?’
‘What?’
‘The shooting, Mr Holmes. How was the Portuguese fellow done in?’
‘Oh, that,’ replied Holmes rather indifferently, raising his head slowly, ‘just an air-gun.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘An air-gun, my dear Strickland. Or rather an air-rifle. Believe me such a thing does exist. 1 A unique weapon, noiseless and of tremendous power. I knew Von Herder, the blind German mechanic who constructed it to the order of the late Professor Moriarty. It fires a soft revolver bullet. There’s genius in that, for who would expect such a thing from an air-rifle? Moran has, on more than one occasion,
He held out a white enamel dish in which a single bloodstained bullet rolled to and fro. Sherlock Holmes bent over to examine it.
‘A soft revolver bullet,’ he declared. ‘As you will perceive, it expanded considerably after discharge, thus inflicting the horrible mutilation on the body that Inspector MacLeod described.’
‘But it could nae have been a revolver,’ cried the bewildered inspector, tugging his scraggly whiskers in irritation. ‘As I said before there was no sound of a gun being fired. And at this time of the night there is nae so much ado in the streets, that a pistol shot could nae have been heard.’
‘See for yourself then,’ Sherlock Holmes replied, pointing to the small bullet in the dish.
‘I am nae denying it is a bullet, Sir,’ protested the nettled inspector, ‘but Captain Strickland, Sir, you know that the whole courtyard in front of the station is well lit with gas lamps. I am willing to stake my pension that there was nobody around the prisoner and me, at least within pistol range.’
‘But further away,’ suggested Strickland, ‘on the other side of the street maybe.’
‘That’s a good eighty feet or more away,’ replied the inspector, ‘and I can nae be sure.’
‘Was there any traffic on the street then, any carriage passed you by at that moment?’
‘Nae, I am sure of it. Well there was this van — one of those covered delivery things — parked in front of one of the shops on the other side of the street. But nae even a crack shot could have hit a man at that range with just a pistol — especially at night.’
‘Wouldn’t it be rather late to make deliveries?’ remarked Holmes, walking to the open window and peering out into the night. ‘It is not there now, at any rate.’ He turned away from the window to face us. ‘Dear me. Dear me. What a singular problem.’
Something in his tone caught my ear. It seemed to me that the tone of his voice, far from sounding puzzled, hinted at privileged information. Strickland may have detected it too, for he immediately attempted to end the discussion and get Sherlock Holmes out of the police station.
‘Well, there’s nothing more we can do tonight,’ said Strickland briskly, moving to the door. ‘MacLeod, firstthing tomorrow I want you to question all the shopkeepers and residents around here for any unusual activity or suspicious persons they may have seen at the time of the shooting.’
The crowd outside the police station had by now dispersed. The glow of the gas lamps fell on the prone figures of a few beggars sleeping on the hard pavement. The twanging of a sitar drifted faintly through the still night air. For a moment I thought of the plump Portuguese clerk now lying lifeless on a concrete slab in the police mortuary, while his soul was beginning its journey to ‘that undiscovered countryfrom whose bourn no traveller returns.’ A constable flagged down a carriage for us and we rode back to the hotel, savouring the coolness of the late night air.
Sherlock Holmes seemed visibly distraught, his sharp face under his deerstalker cap was bent morosely low. He was so wrapped up in his own musings that he did not seem to hear Strickland’s query. ‘How was it done, Mr Holmes?’
‘What?’
‘The shooting, Mr Holmes. How was the Portuguese fellow done in?’
‘Oh, that,’ replied Holmes rather indifferently, raising his head slowly, ‘just an air-gun.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘An air-gun, my dear Strickland. Or rather an air-rifle. Believe me such a thing does exist. 1 A unique weapon, noiseless and of tremendous power. I knew Von Herder, the blind German mechanic who constructed it to the order of the late Professor Moriarty. It fires a soft revolver bullet. There’s genius in that, for who would expect such a thing from an air-rifle? Moran has, on more than one occasion,
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