The Red-Headed League, Part 5: Behind the SquareSaxe-Coburg Square was a small, shabby place, with rows of dirty brick houses around a little garden of weedy grass. Three gold balls and a brown board with “Jabez Wilson” in white letters, on a corner house, showed where our red-headed client did his business. Holmes stopped in front of it and looked it all over with shining eyes. Then he walked slowly up and down the street, looking closely at the houses. Finally he returned to the pawnbroker’s, hit the pavement hard with his stick two or three times, went up to the door and knocked. It was opened at once by a bright-looking, clean-shaven young man, who asked him to step in. “Thank you,” said Holmes. “I only wished to ask you how to get from here to the Strand.” “Third right, fourth left,” answered the assistant quickly, and he closed the door. “Smart fellow, that,” said Holmes as we walked away. “He is, in my opinion, the fourth smartest man in London, and for daring I am not sure that he is not the third. I have known something of him before.” “I am sure that you asked the way only so that you could see him,” said I. “Not him.” “What, then?” “The knees of his trousers.” “And what did you see?” “What I expected to see.” “Why did you beat the pavement?” “My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We are spies in an enemy’s country. Let us now explore the parts which lie behind the square.” The road round the corner was as different from the quiet square as the front of a picture is from the back. It was one of the main roads of the City, full of traffic and hurrying people. Holmes stood at the corner and looked along the line of fine shops and offices. “I should like to remember the order of the houses here,” he said. “There is the tobacco shop, the little newspaper shop, the Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant, and the carriage builder’s. And now, Doctor, we’ve done our work, so it’s time for some play.” We spent the afternoon at a violin concert at St. James’s Hall. Holmes sat in perfect happiness, gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to the music. But I knew him well. He was never so dangerous as after a quiet, dreamy afternoon like this one. “This business at Coburg Square is serious,” he said as we came out. “A considerable crime is being planned, and I believe that we shall be in time to stop it. But today being Saturday makes things more difficult. I shall want your help tonight. Come to Baker Street at ten. And, Doctor, there may be some little danger, so kindly put your army revolver in your pocket.” He waved his hand, turned, and disappeared into the crowd. I went home and thought it all over, from the red-headed man who copied the Encyclopedia to the visit to Saxe-Coburg Square. I had seen and heard everything that Holmes had, yet he clearly knew what was going to happen, and I did not. Where were we going tonight, and why did I need a gun?
