The Red-Headed League, Part 4: The League Is Dissolved“To an end?” said Holmes. “Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my work at ten o’clock as usual, but the door was shut and locked, with a little square of card nailed to it. Here it is. You can read it for yourself.” He held up a piece of white card about the size of a sheet of notepaper. It said: “The Red-Headed League is dissolved. October 9, 1890.” Holmes and I looked at this short notice and at the sad face behind it, and we both burst out laughing. “I cannot see that there is anything very funny,” cried our client, turning red to the roots of his flaming hair. “If you can do nothing better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere.” “No, no,” cried Holmes, pushing him back into his chair. “I really wouldn’t miss your case for the world. It is most refreshingly unusual. What did you do when you found the card on the door?” “I asked the landlord. He had never heard of the League. The red-headed man, he said, was a lawyer called William Morris, who had moved out yesterday. He gave me the new address, but it was a factory that made artificial kneecaps, and nobody there had heard of Mr. Morris or Mr. Ross.” “You did very wisely to come to me,” said Holmes. “More serious matters may hang on this than you think. But first, one or two questions. This assistant of yours, who first showed you the advertisement: how long had he been with you?” “About a month then.” “Why did you pick him?” “Because he was handy and would come cheap.” “At half wages, in fact. What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?” “Small, strongly built, very quick in his ways. He has no hair on his face, though he’s nearly thirty. And he has a white mark from acid on his forehead.” Holmes sat up in his chair, very excited. “I thought as much,” he said. “Have you ever noticed that his ears are pierced for earrings?” “Yes, sir. He told me that a gypsy had done it for him when he was a boy.” “Hum!” said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. “That will do, Mr. Wilson. Today is Saturday, and I hope that by Monday we may reach a conclusion.” When our visitor had left, Holmes turned to me. “Well, Watson, what do you make of it all?” “I make nothing of it,” I answered honestly. “It is a most mysterious business.” “As a rule,” said Holmes, “the stranger a thing is, the less mysterious it proves to be. It is the ordinary crimes that are really puzzling, just as an ordinary face is the hardest to recognise.” “And now I shall smoke,” he said. “It is quite a three-pipe problem, and I beg you not to speak to me for fifty minutes.” He curled up in his chair with his thin knees drawn up to his long, curved nose, and sat there with his eyes closed and his black pipe sticking out like the beak of some strange bird. Then suddenly he jumped out of his chair like a man who has made up his mind. “Come, Watson,” he said. “We are going to Saxe-Coburg Square.”
