Ellery Queen: A Study in Terror

“Consider! When given a choice, have I not always sought out problems of an intellectual character? Have I not always been drawn to adversaries of stature? Jack the Ripper, indeed! What possible challenge could this demented oaf present? A slavering cretin roaming the streets after dark, striking at random.”

“He has baffled the London Police.”

“I venture to suggest that that may reflect the short-comings of Scotland Yard rather than any particular cleverness on the part of the Ripper.”

“But still―”

“The thing will end soon enough. I daresay that one of these nights Lestrade will trip over the Ripper while the maniac is in the process of committing a murder, and thus bring him triumphantly to book.”

Holmes was chronically annoyed with Scotland Yard for not measuring up to his own stern efficiency; for all his genius, he could be childishly obstinate on such occasions. But further comment from me was cut off by the ringing of the downstairs bell. There was a slight delay; then we heard Mrs. Hudson ascending, and it was with astonishment that I observed her entrance. She was carrying a brown parcel and a pail of water, and she wore an expression of sheer fright.

Holmes burst out laughing for the second time that morning. “It’s quite all right, Mrs. Hudson. The package appears harmless enough. I’m sure we shall not need the water.”

Mrs. Hudson breathed a sigh of relief. “If you say so, Mr. Holmes. But since that last experience, I was taking no chances.”

“And your alertness is to be commended,” said Holmes, as he took the parcel. After his long-suffering landlady left, he added, “Just recently, Mrs. Hudson brought me a parcel. It was in connection with an unpleasant little affair I brought to a satisfactory conclusion, and it was sent by a vengeful gentleman who under-estimated the keenness of my hearing. The ticking of the mechanism was quite audible to me, and I called for a pail of water. The incident gave Mrs. Hudson a turn from which she has still not recovered.”

“I don’t wonder!”

“But what have we here? Hmmm. Approximately fifteen inches by six. Four inches thick. Neatly wrapped in ordinary brown paper. Postmark, Whitechapel. The name and address written by a woman, I should hazard, who seldom puts pen to paper.”

“That seems quite likely, from the clumsy scrawl. And that is certainly done in a woman’s hand.”

“Then we agree, Watson. Excellent! Shall we delve deeper?”

“By all means!”

The arrival of the parcel had aroused his interest, not to mention mine; his deep-set grey eyes grew bright when he removed the wrappings and drew forth a flat leather case. He held it up for my inspection. “Well, now. What do you make of this, Watson?”

“It is a surgeon’s instrument-case.”

“And who would be better qualified to know? Would you not say also that it is expensive?”

“Yes. The leather is of superb quality. And the workmanship is exquisite.”

Holmes set the case upon the table. He opened it, and we fell silent. It was a standard set of instruments, each fitting snugly into its appropriate niche in the crimson-velvet lining of the case. One niche was empty.

“Which instrument is missing, Watson?”

“The large scalpel.”

“The post-mortem knife,” said Holmes, nodding and whipping out his lens. “And now, what does this case tell us?” As he examined the case and its contents closely, he went on. “To begin with the obvious, these instruments belonged to a medical man who came upon hard times.”

Obliged, as usual, to confess my blindness, I said, “I am afraid that is more obvious to you than to me.”

Preoccupied with his inspection, Holmes replied absently, “If you should fall victim to misfortune, Watson, which would be the last of your possessions to reach the pawn-broker’s shop?”

“My medical instruments, of course. But―”

“Precisely.”

“Wherein do you perceive that this case was pledged?”

“There is double proof. Observe, just there, through my lens.”

I peered at the spot he indicated. “A white smudge.”

“Silver-polish. No surgeon would cleanse his instruments with such a substance. These have been treated like common cutlery by someone concerned only with their appearance.”

“Now that you point it out, Holmes, I must agree. And what is your second proof?”

“These chalk-marks along the spine of the case. They are almost worn away, but if you will examine them closely, you will see that they constitute a number. Such a number as a pawn-broker would chalk upon a pledged ar-tide. Obviously, the counterpart of the number upon the pawn-ticket.”

I felt the choler rising to my face. It was all too evident to me now.

“Then the kit was stolen!” I exclaimed. “Stolen from some surgeon, and disposed of, for a pittance, in a pawn-shop!” My readers will forgive my indignation, I am sure; it was difficult for me to accept the alternative―that the practitioner would have parted with the instruments of a noble calling under even the most grievous circumstances.

Holmes, however, soon disillusioned me. “I fear, my dear Watson,” said he, quite cheerfully, “that you do not perceive the finer aspects of the evidence. Pawn-brokers are a canny breed. It is part of their stock-in-trade not only to appraise the articles brought to them for pledge, but the persons offering them as well. Had the broker who dispensed his largesse for this surgical-case entertained the slightest suspicion that it had been stolen, he would not have displayed it in his shop-window, as of course you observe he has done.”

“As of course I do not!” said I, testily. “How can you possibly know that the case has been displayed in a window?”

“Look closely,” said Holmes. “The case lay open in a place exposed to the sun; does not the faded velvet on the inner surface of the lid tell us that? Moreover, the pronounced character of the fading marks the time-span as an appreciable one. Surely this adds up to a shop-window?”

I could only nod. As always, when Holmes explained his astonishing observations, they appeared child’s-play.

“It is a pity,” said I, “that we do not know where the pawn-shop lies. This curious gift might merit a visit to its source.”

“Perhaps in good time, Watson,” said Holmes, with a dry chuckle. “The pawn-shop in question is well off the beaten track. It faces south, on a narrow street. The broker’s business is not flourishing. Also, he is of foreign extraction. Surely you see that?”

“I see nothing of the sort!” said I, nettled again.

“To the contrary,” said he, placing his fingertips together and regarding me kindly, “you see everything, my dear Watson; what you fail to do is to observe. Let us take my conclusions in order. These instruments were not snatched up by any of the numerous medical students in the City of London, which would assuredly have been the case had the shop lain on a well-travelled thoroughfare. Hence my remark that it lies off the beaten track.”

“But must it lie on the south side of a narrow street?”

“Note the location of the bleached area. It runs neatly along the uppermost edge of the velvet lining, not elsewhere. Therefore, the sun touched the open case only at its zenith, when its rays were not obstructed by the buildings on the opposite side of the street. Thus the pawnshop stands on the south side of a narrow street.”

“And your identification of the pawn-broker as of foreign extraction?”

“Observe the numeral seven in the chalked pledge-mark on the spine. There is a short cross-mark on the ascender. Only a foreigner crosses his sevens in such a fashion.”

I felt, as usual, like the fifth-form school-boy who had forgotten the words to the national anthem. “Holmes, Holmes,” said I, shaking my head, “I shall never cease to marvel―”