The Red-Headed League, Part 6: In the DarkAt ten o’clock I found Holmes at Baker Street with Peter Jones, the police agent of Scotland Yard, and Mr. Merryweather, a sad-faced bank director. “Tonight, Jones,” said Holmes, “you may catch the man you want most: John Clay.” “John Clay, the murderer and thief!” said Jones. “His grandfather was a royal duke, and he went to Eton and Oxford himself. I’ve been on his track for years, but I have never seen him.” We drove to the busy road behind Saxe-Coburg Square. Mr. Merryweather led us through a side door and down some stone steps into a huge cellar full of boxes. He struck his stick on the stone floor. “Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow!” “I must really ask you to be quieter!” said Holmes sharply. He knelt with a lantern and studied the cracks between the stones. “We have at least an hour,” he said. “They will wait until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed.” “It is our French gold,” whispered the director. “We borrowed thirty thousand gold coins from the Bank of France, and they are still here in these boxes.” Holmes covered his lantern, and we waited in total darkness. Jones had three men waiting at the front door of Wilson’s shop, the thieves’ only way out. Suddenly a spark of light appeared between the stones of the floor and grew into a yellow line. Then, without a sound, a white, almost womanly hand came up through the floor and felt about. It went down again. Then, with a tearing sound, one of the broad stones turned over. A clean-cut, boyish face looked out of the hole. The man climbed out and began to pull up a companion, small like himself, with a pale face and very red hair. “It’s all clear,” he whispered. “Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump!” Holmes had leapt out and seized him by the collar. The other man dived back down the hole. The light flashed on a revolver, but Holmes’s hunting whip came down on the man’s wrist, and the gun fell to the floor. “It’s no use, John Clay,” said Holmes calmly. “You have no chance at all.” “So I see,” the other answered coolly. “Your red-headed idea was very new and effective,” said Holmes. As Jones put the handcuffs on him, Clay said, “Don’t touch me with your dirty hands. I have royal blood in my veins. And kindly say ‘sir’ and ‘please’ when you speak to me.” Later, at Baker Street, Holmes explained. “The League had only one purpose: to get the pawnbroker out of the way for some hours every day. An assistant who works for half wages must have a strong reason for wanting the job. And this one kept vanishing into the cellar. He was digging a tunnel. I beat the pavement to find out which way the cellar ran, and when he opened the door, I saw that the knees of his trousers were worn and dirty from digging. Round the corner stood the bank. When they closed the League, I knew the tunnel was finished. And Saturday gave them two days to escape.” “You reasoned it out beautifully,” I said. “It is such a long chain, and yet every link rings true.”
