Nicholas Meyer Read Online Free Page B
Author: The Seven-Per-Cent Solution (pdf)
speculations of the night before. The house was already bustling with preparations for the day, and I arose with the intention of starting afresh, as it were, and seeing what came of that.
After changing and completing the process of dressing and shaving, I descended the stairs and had breakfast. Not even the papers were sufficient distraction: my mind was elsewhere already. I now recalled that I had taken Holmes's pulse and examined the pupils of his eyes the night before. But once again the same question came back to haunt me: had I really, or was this, too, part of the dream?
The question was too maddening to be endured, and, hastily concluding my breakfast, I went round to Cullingworth and asked him if he could see to my practise for the morning. He was happy to oblige (I had often assumed his at short notice), and without more ado I hailed a cab and set out for Baker Street.
It was still early in the morning when I stepped out onto the familiar stretch of pavement before 22IB
and paid the cabbie. I sucked in the morning air vigourously (for all that it was still rather damp), and rang the bell. The door was opened almost at once by our landlady, Mrs. Hudson. She seemed gratified beyond words to see me.
"Oh, Dr. Watson, thank heavens you've come!" she exclaimed without preamble, and astonished me by taking the sleeve of my coat and pulling me into the area-way.
"What is it—?" I began, but she cut me off with her fingers on her lips and looked anxiously up the stairs. Holmes's ears were of the keenest, however, and it was soon evident our brief exchange had been to some extent overheard.
"Mrs. Hudson, if that gentleman answers to the name Professor Moriarty," a shrill voice that was nonetheless recognizable as his called down from above, "you may show him up and I will deal with him! Mrs. Hudson?"
"You see how it is, Dr. Watson," the unhappy landlady whispered in my ear. "He's got himself barricaded in up there; won't take his meals, keeps the shutters closed all day—and then he steals out at night, after I've bolted the door and the slavey's in bed—"
"Mrs. Hudson—!"
"I'll go up and see him," I volunteered, patting her reassuringly on the arm, though in truth I did not feel particularly confident. So there was a Professor Moriarty, at least in Holmes's fancy. I mounted the seventeen well-trod steps to my old lodgings with a heavy heart. What a noble mind was here
overthrown!
"Who is it?" Holmes enquired from the other side of the door when I knocked. "Moriarty, is that you?"
"It is I, Watson," I responded, and when I had repeated this several times, he at length consented to open the door slightly and peered at me strangely through the crack.
"You see it is only I, Holmes. Let me enter."
"Not so fast." His foot jammed against the base of the door. "You may be he disguised. Prove you are Watson."
"How?" I wailed, for I had no idea, in truth, what it would require to satisfy him of my identity.
He thought for a moment.
"Where do I keep my tobacco?" he demanded abruptly.
"In the toe end of your Persian slipper." This answer, given so punctually, appeared to allay his suspicions to a degree, for his voice softened slightly.
"And my correspondence?"
"Is affixed to the mantel with a jack-knife."
He grunted an affirmation.
"And what were the first words I ever spoke to you?"
" 'You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive.' For heavens' sakes, Holmes!" I pleaded.
"Very well, you may enter," he replied, satisfied at last. He removed his foot from the door, opened it slightly, and pulled me in vigourously. The moment I had stepped across the threshold he closed the door behind me and threw several bolts and locks, none of which had ever been attached during my residence. I watched, transfixed, as he proceeded with these operations and then put his ear to the panel, listening for I knew not what. Finally, he straightened up and turned to me with an extended hand.
"Forgive me for doubting you, Watson," he
After changing and completing the process of dressing and shaving, I descended the stairs and had breakfast. Not even the papers were sufficient distraction: my mind was elsewhere already. I now recalled that I had taken Holmes's pulse and examined the pupils of his eyes the night before. But once again the same question came back to haunt me: had I really, or was this, too, part of the dream?
The question was too maddening to be endured, and, hastily concluding my breakfast, I went round to Cullingworth and asked him if he could see to my practise for the morning. He was happy to oblige (I had often assumed his at short notice), and without more ado I hailed a cab and set out for Baker Street.
It was still early in the morning when I stepped out onto the familiar stretch of pavement before 22IB
and paid the cabbie. I sucked in the morning air vigourously (for all that it was still rather damp), and rang the bell. The door was opened almost at once by our landlady, Mrs. Hudson. She seemed gratified beyond words to see me.
"Oh, Dr. Watson, thank heavens you've come!" she exclaimed without preamble, and astonished me by taking the sleeve of my coat and pulling me into the area-way.
"What is it—?" I began, but she cut me off with her fingers on her lips and looked anxiously up the stairs. Holmes's ears were of the keenest, however, and it was soon evident our brief exchange had been to some extent overheard.
"Mrs. Hudson, if that gentleman answers to the name Professor Moriarty," a shrill voice that was nonetheless recognizable as his called down from above, "you may show him up and I will deal with him! Mrs. Hudson?"
"You see how it is, Dr. Watson," the unhappy landlady whispered in my ear. "He's got himself barricaded in up there; won't take his meals, keeps the shutters closed all day—and then he steals out at night, after I've bolted the door and the slavey's in bed—"
"Mrs. Hudson—!"
"I'll go up and see him," I volunteered, patting her reassuringly on the arm, though in truth I did not feel particularly confident. So there was a Professor Moriarty, at least in Holmes's fancy. I mounted the seventeen well-trod steps to my old lodgings with a heavy heart. What a noble mind was here
overthrown!
"Who is it?" Holmes enquired from the other side of the door when I knocked. "Moriarty, is that you?"
"It is I, Watson," I responded, and when I had repeated this several times, he at length consented to open the door slightly and peered at me strangely through the crack.
"You see it is only I, Holmes. Let me enter."
"Not so fast." His foot jammed against the base of the door. "You may be he disguised. Prove you are Watson."
"How?" I wailed, for I had no idea, in truth, what it would require to satisfy him of my identity.
He thought for a moment.
"Where do I keep my tobacco?" he demanded abruptly.
"In the toe end of your Persian slipper." This answer, given so punctually, appeared to allay his suspicions to a degree, for his voice softened slightly.
"And my correspondence?"
"Is affixed to the mantel with a jack-knife."
He grunted an affirmation.
"And what were the first words I ever spoke to you?"
" 'You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive.' For heavens' sakes, Holmes!" I pleaded.
"Very well, you may enter," he replied, satisfied at last. He removed his foot from the door, opened it slightly, and pulled me in vigourously. The moment I had stepped across the threshold he closed the door behind me and threw several bolts and locks, none of which had ever been attached during my residence. I watched, transfixed, as he proceeded with these operations and then put his ear to the panel, listening for I knew not what. Finally, he straightened up and turned to me with an extended hand.
"Forgive me for doubting you, Watson," he
Readers choose
Lynne Connolly
Tony Black
Mike Hodges
L.C. Mortimer
Gloria Kempton
George Gissing
Elizabeth Berg
Christopher Dinsdale
Trevor Hoyle