The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures - Mike Ashley [111]
“Yes,” said the professor a trifle dazed. “But what course of action do we take now? How can we find the man?”
Instead of immediately replying, Holmes held up his hand for a moment, which caused both the Professor and I to lean forward expectantly, sensing Holmes had seen something of great relevance within the room. I tried to follow that razor sharp gaze; however, I discerned nothing amiss. Holmes continued briskly: “Leave that to me, Professor. I will alert my contacts and they will search every gin shop, ale house and railway arch until the man is found. Dwarfish, you say, with bushy red hair and sideburns?”
“Yes.”
“Come, Watson. There’s no time to lose.”
The professor was clearly anguished at being abandoned there to the mercy of the madman for yet another night. “But what if he returns tonight?”
“He will not?”
“You can be so sure?”
“Yes .”
“How?”
“Explanations must wait until tomorrow.”
I’d begun to rise from the sofa when I witnessed a most peculiar thing.
Holmes advanced to the door, as if eager to make his exit. Yet after opening the door to the hallway he abruptly turned volte face and then recrossed the room. Swiftly, silently he picked up The Times newspaper which had been lying on the table, and opened it noiselessly.
The professor from his chair, and I from the sofa, watched in utter bewilderment as Holmes quickly fanned the newspaper so as to separate the pages into a billowing white cloud of loose leaves.
My bewilderment turned to astonishment as Holmes produced a box of safety matches from his pocket, deftly struck one, then applied the brilliantly flaring match head to the corner of the newspaper.
The dry paper caught instantly.
With a look of triumph Holmes flung the burning newspaper into the firegrate where, instantly, the still substantial updraft of air drew the flames, smoke, fiery pages and all up into the cavernous throat of the chimney back.
Professor Hardcastle gaped in astonishment, his hands clutching the arms of his chair so fiercely they shook.
He must have thought my friend quite mad.
Indeed, I, too, began to suspect that world famous brain had begun to suffer the ill-effects of the furiously hot June day, when all of a sudden I heard a terrific scraping and thumping sound.
Not one moment later an object looking very much like a bundle of rags fell heavily from the chimney and into the grating in a splash of sparks and ashes from the still burning newspaper.
Hardly believing my two eyes I witnessed a pair of filthy arms erupt from the rag bundle. Before I could exclaim, an equally filthy pair of hands grasped Sherlock Holmes by the wrists.
“Professor!” called Holmes, wrestling the creature emerging from the rags. “Now is the time to test your gardener’s loyalty. We need his strong arms in here – now!“
Recovering from my astonishment, I rushed to my friend’s assistance as he endeavoured to draw forth from the fireplace a hissing, spitting demon of a creature, that kicked wildly with a pair of bare feet, its toes quite ink black with soot.
“Careful, Watson! He has a razor!”
Holmes, bracing his foot against the iron fire grating, gripped the two filthy wrists and pulled hard, taking care so the barber’s razor clutched in one evil looking hand did not pare his own flesh.
With a furious roar a head appeared from the flaps of cloth.
Beneath a shock of red hair was a white face set with two eyes that burned with the ferocity of lamps.
The creature was more ape than man; nevertheless, I grabbed hold of the madman’s collar and Holmes and I together hauled him from the fireplace. All the time he hissed and spat in a way that aroused in me equal portions of amazement and horror.
“Watson, grab the fellow’s wrist. Hold it … tightly, man. He’ll take off our heads with that razor. There … hold him. Tsk! Careful, this creature bites. Now where is … ah, there