The Strange Return of Sherlock Holmes by Barry Grant Page B

comes from the play. Lydia Languish says it repeatedly. You may recall, Bundle, that thirty years ago there was a very famous murder case in which the German word Rache was scrawled on a wall, in blood, by someone who hoped to throw investigators off the track . . . I’m sorry, not thirty . . . no, you wouldn’t . . .’ – he passed his hand over his forehead – ‘. . . more like a hundred and . . .’ He frowned, seemed to drift away into another of his moods. Then he said, ‘A meaningless phrase meant to confuse us.’
    Sergeant Bundle took little notice. ‘It sounds like mockery to me, sir – a phrase meant to mock the police.’ He slapped his hand on the chair arm and got up.
    Again Coombes was floating into some other realm, staring at the ceiling and drifting into outer space.
    Bundle said his goodbyes and departed.
    Suddenly the atmosphere in the room had become oppressive. I left my companion to his ruminations and walked to the top of the road and bought a newspaper. When I returned I saw that my moody companion had brought out his antique leather valise, the one with the Hotel Beau-Rivage sticker on the side, a valise of the sort people carried on board steamships in the days of the Titanic and Lusitania. It might have been on display at the Victoria and Albert. ‘So this is your suitcase, is it?’ I said. ‘Your suitcase from 1914?’
    â€˜Exactly so,’ he said. ‘And it contains a positive treasure for dismal times like these.’ He opened the valise and brought out a small morocco case a bit bigger than an eyeglass case. He opened the little case and withdrew a syringe. He gave a sigh as he sat down in his usual chair and rolled up his sleeve. I thought he might be ill, a diabetic perhaps. He seemed about to inject himself. I asked, as nonchalantly as I could, ‘What are you doing?’
    â€˜The case has gone stale, Wilson,’ he said. ‘It is evident that more information is needed before it can be solved. And I have learnt by long and often bitter experience that the needed information may never arrive. A telegram, a telephone call, an unexpected visitor may come at any instant and set me back on a track that I can follow. Meanwhile, I am powerless. I warned you that these moods come upon me at certain periods. Inactivity is death to me. If I have practical problems to tackle, theories to concoct, puzzles to untangle, I can be happy. At those times my mind soars like a hawk, seeking the smallest bit of motion to dive upon and feed my insatiable curiosity in hopes of solving the problem. But when information has been utterly exhausted, when the trail has gone stale, when I have no challenge, no mystery, no paradox, no danger, no dilemma, not even any physical adventure, my brain and all the earth become a desert of boredom and commonplace, and then my oasis – which I need in order to survive – is a seven per cent solution of cocaine.’
    â€˜Come now, come now!’ I said. I laughed heartily, albeit a bit tentatively. ‘I can’t believe what you are saying.’
    â€˜Old habits die hard,’ he said.
    â€˜If it is really cocaine in your syringe,’ I said, feigning indifference, ‘I suppose you should know that nowadays using cocaine is illegal.’
    â€˜Quite legal for me, though,’ he said. ‘I have a special dispensation from Scotland Yard.’
    â€˜Hah!’ I cried. ‘That is difficult to believe, my friend.’
    â€˜It is perfectly true, my dear Wilson. My cocaine supply was prescribed by a doctor and certified by legal hocus-pocus at the highest levels of Scotland Yard. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I am off to a lovely oasis, for it beckons me so enticingly that . . .’
    I touched his shoulder. ‘I hate to sound like a child, my friend, but please consider a moment – you have promised me