The Stolen Cigar Case
By A. CO--N D--LE
I found Hemlock Jones in the old Brook Street lodgings, musing
before the fire. With the freedom of an old friend I at once threw
myself in my usual familiar attitude at his feet, and gently
caressed his boot. I was induced to do this for two reasons: one,
that it enabled me to get a good look at his bent, concentrated
face, and the other, that it seemed to indicate my reverence for
his superhuman insight. So absorbed was he even then, in tracking
some mysterious clue, that he did not seem to notice me. But
therein I was wrong--as I always was in my attempt to understand
that powerful intellect.
"It is raining," he said, without lifting his head.
"You have been out, then?" I said quickly.
"No. But I see that your umbrella is wet, and that your overcoat
has drops of water on it."
I sat aghast at his penetration. After a pause he said carelessly,
as if dismissing the subject: "Besides, I hear the rain on the
window. Listen."
I listened. I could scarcely credit my ears, but there was the
soft pattering of drops on the panes. It was evident there was no
deceiving this man!
"Have you been busy lately?" I asked, changing the subject. "What
new problem--given up by Scotland Yard as inscrutable--has occupied
that gigantic intellect?"
He drew back his foot slightly, and seemed to hesitate ere he
returned it to its original position. Then he answered wearily:
"Mere trifles--nothing to speak of. The Prince Kupoli has been
here to get my advice regarding the disappearance of certain rubies
from the Kremlin; the Rajah of Pootibad, after vainly beheading his
entire bodyguard, has been obliged to seek my assistance to recover
a jeweled sword. The Grand Duchess of Pretzel-Brauntswig is
desirous of discovering where her husband was on the night of
February 14; and last night"--he lowered his voice slightly--"a
lodger in this very house, meeting me on the stairs, wanted to know
why they didn't answer his bell."
I could not help smiling--until I saw a frown gathering on his
inscrutable forehead.
"Pray remember," he said coldly, "that it was through such an
apparently trivial question that I found out Why Paul Ferroll
Killed His Wife, and What Happened to Jones!"
I became dumb at once. He paused for a moment, and then suddenly
changing back to his usual pitiless, analytical style, he said:
"When I say these are trifles, they are so in comparison to an
affair that is now before me. A crime has been committed,--and,
singularly enough, against myself. You start," he said. "You
wonder who would have dared to attempt it. So did I; nevertheless,
it has been done. I have been ROBBED!"
YOU robbed! You, Hemlock Jones, the Terror of Peculators!" I
gasped in amazement, arising and gripping the table as I faced him.
"Yes! Listen. I would confess it to no other. But YOU who have
followed my career, who know my methods; you, for whom I have
partly lifted the veil that conceals my plans from ordinary
humanity,--you, who have for years rapturously accepted my
confidences, passionately admired my inductions and inferences,
placed yourself at my beck and call, become my slave, groveled at
my feet, given up your practice except those few unremunerative and
rapidly decreasing patients to whom, in moments of abstraction over
MY problems, you have administered strychnine for quinine and
arsenic for Epsom salts; you, who have sacrificed anything and
everybody to me,--YOU I make my confidant!"
I arose and embraced him warmly, yet he was already so engrossed in
thought that at the same moment he mechanically placed his hand
upon his watch chain as if to consult the time. "Sit down," he
said. "Have a cigar?"
"I have given up cigar smoking," I said.
"Why?" he asked.
I hesitated, and perhaps colored. I had really given it up
because, with my diminished practice, it was too expensive. I
could afford only a pipe. "I prefer a pipe," I said laughingly.
"But tell me of this robbery. What have you lost?"
He arose, and planting himself before the fire with his hands under
his coattails, looked down upon me reflectively for a moment. "Do
you remember the cigar case presented to me by the Turkish
Ambassador for discovering the missing favorite of the Grand Vizier
in the fifth chorus girl at the Hilarity Theatre? It was that one.
I mean the cigar case. It was incrusted with diamonds."
"And the largest one had been supplanted by paste," I said.
"Ah," he said, with a reflective smile, you know that?"
"You told me yourself. I remember considering it a proof of your
extraordinary perception. But, by Jove, you don't mean to say you
have lost it?"
He was silent for a moment. "No; it has been stolen, it is true,
but I shall still find it. And by myself alone! In your
profession, my dear fellow, when a member is seriously ill, he does
not prescribe for himself, but calls in a brother doctor. Therein
we differ. I shall take this matter in my own hands."
"And where could you find better?" I said enthusiastically. "I
should say the cigar case is as good as recovered already."
"I shall remind you of that again," he said lightly. "And now, to
show you my confidence in your judgment, in spite of my
determination to pursue this alone, I am willing to listen to any
suggestions from you."
He drew a memorandum book from his pocket and, with a grave smile,
took up his pencil.
I could scarcely believe my senses. He, the great Hemlock Jones,
accepting suggestions from a humble individual like myself! I
kissed his hand reverently, and began in a joyous tone:
"First, I should advertise, offering a reward; I should give the
same intimation in hand-bills, distributed at the 'pubs' and the
pastry-cooks'. I should next visit the different pawnbrokers; I
should give notice at the police station. I should examine the
servants. I should thoroughly search the house and my own pockets.
I speak relatively," I added, with a laugh. "Of course I mean YOUR
own."
He gravely made an entry of these details.
"Perhaps," I added, "you have already done this?"
"Perhaps," he returned enigmatically. "Now, my dear friend," he
continued, putting the note-book in his pocket and rising, "would
you excuse me for a few moments? Make yourself perfectly at home
until I return; there may be some things," he added with a sweep of
his hand toward his heterogeneously filled shelves, "that may
interest you and while away the time. There are pipes and tobacco
in that corner."
Then nodding to me with the same inscrutable face he left the room.
I was too well accustomed to his methods to think much of his
unceremonious withdrawal, and made no doubt he was off to
investigate some clue which had suddenly occurred to his active
intelligence.
Left to myself I cast a cursory glance over his shelves. There
were a number of small glass jars containing earthy substances,
labeled "Pavement and Road Sweepings," from the principal
thoroughfares and suburbs of London, with the sub-directions "for
identifying foot-tracks." There were several other jars, labeled
"Fluff from Omnibus and Road Car Seats," "Cocoanut Fibre and Rope
Strands from Mattings in Public Places," "Cigarette Stumps and
Match Ends from Floor of Palace Theatre, Row A, 1 to 50."
Everywhere were evidences of this wonderful man's system and
perspicacity.
I was thus engaged when I heard the slight creaking of a door, and
I looked up as a stranger entered. He was a rough-looking man,
with a shabby overcoat and a still more disreputable muffler around
his throat and the lower part of his face. Considerably annoyed at
his intrusion, I turned upon him rather sharply, when, with a
mumbled, growling apology for mistaking the room, he shuffled out
again and closed the door. I followed him quickly to the landing
and saw that he disappeared down the stairs. With my mind full of
the robbery, the incident made a singular impression upon me. I
knew my friend's habit of hasty absences from his room in his
moments of deep inspiration; it was only too probable that, with
his powerful intellect and magnificent perceptive genius
concentrated on one subject, he should be careless of his own
belongings, and no doubt even forget to take the ordinary
precaution of locking up his drawers. I tried one or two and found
that I was right, although for some reason I was unable to open one
to its fullest extent. The handles were sticky, as if some one had
opened them with dirty fingers. Knowing Hemlock's fastidious
cleanliness, I resolved to inform him of this circumstance, but I
forgot it, alas! until--but I am anticipating my story.
His absence was strangely prolonged. I at last seated myself by
the fire, and lulled by warmth and the patter of the rain on the
window, I fell asleep. I may have dreamt, for during my sleep I
had a vague semi-consciousness as of hands being softly pressed on
my pockets--no doubt induced by the story of the robbery. When I
came fully to my senses, I found Hemlock Jones sitting on the other
side of the hearth, his deeply concentrated gaze fixed on the fire.
"I found you so comfortably asleep that I could not bear to awaken
you," he said, with a smile.
I rubbed my eyes. "And what news?" I asked. "How have you
succeeded?"
"Better than I expected," he said, "and I think," he added, tapping
his note-book, "I owe much to YOU."
Deeply gratified, I awaited more. But in vain. I ought to have
remembered that in his moods Hemlock Jones was reticence itself. I
told him simply of the strange intrusion, but he only laughed.
Later, when I arose to go, he looked at me playfully. "If you were
a married man," he said, "I would advise you not to go home until
you had brushed your sleeve. There are a few short brown sealskin
hairs on the inner side of your forearm, just where they would have
adhered if your arm had encircled a seal-skin coat with some
pressure!"
"For once you are at fault," I said triumphantly; "the hair is my
own, as you will perceive; I have just had it cut at the
hairdresser's, and no doubt this arm projected beyond the apron."
He frowned slightly, yet, nevertheless, on my turning to go he
embraced me warmly--a rare exhibition in that man of ice. He even
helped me on with my overcoat and pulled out and smoothed down the
flaps of my pockets. He was particular, too, in fitting my arm in
my overcoat sleeve, shaking the sleeve down from the armhole to the
cuff with his deft fingers. "Come again soon!" he said, clapping
me on the back.
"At any and all times," I said enthusiastically; "I only ask ten
minutes twice a day to eat a crust at my office, and four hours'
sleep at night, and the rest of my time is devoted to you always,
as you know."
"It is indeed," he said, with his impenetrable smile.
Nevertheless, I did not find him at home when I next called. One
afternoon, when nearing my own home, I met him in one of his
favorite disguises,--a long blue swallow-tailed coat, striped
cotton trousers, large turn-over collar, blacked face, and white
hat, carrying a tambourine. Of course to others the disguise was
perfect, although it was known to myself, and I passed him--
according to an old understanding between us--without the slightest
recognition, trusting to a later explanation. At another time, as
I was making a professional visit to the wife of a publican at the
East End, I saw him, in the disguise of a broken-down artisan,
looking into the window of an adjacent pawnshop. I was delighted
to see that he was evidently following my suggestions, and in my
joy I ventured to tip him a wink; it was abstractedly returned.
Two days later I received a note appointing a meeting at his
lodgings that night. That meeting, alas! was the one memorable
occurrence of my life, and the last meeting I ever had with Hemlock
Jones! I will try to set it down calmly, though my pulses still
throb with the recollection of it.
I found him standing before the fire, with that look upon his face
which I had seen only once or twice in our acquaintance--a look
which I may call an absolute concatenation of inductive and
deductive ratiocination--from which all that was human, tender, or
sympathetic was absolutely discharged. He was simply an icy
algebraic symbol! Indeed, his whole being was concentrated to that
extent that his clothes fitted loosely, and his head was absolutely
so much reduced in size by his mental compression that his hat
tipped back from his forehead and literally hung on his massive
ears.
After I had entered he locked the doors, fastened the windows, and
even placed a chair before the chimney. As I watched these
significant precautions with absorbing interest, he suddenly drew a
revolver and, presenting it to my temple, said in low, icy tones:
"Hand over that cigar case!"
Even in my bewilderment my reply was truthful, spontaneous, and
involuntary. "I haven't got it," I said.
He smiled bitterly, and threw down his revolver. "I expected that
reply! Then let me now confront you with something more awful,
more deadly, more relentless and convincing than that mere lethal
weapon,--the damning inductive and deductive proofs of your guilt!"
He drew from his pocket a roll of paper and a note-book.
"But surely," I gasped, "you are joking! You could not for a
moment believe"--
"Silence! Sit down!" I obeyed.
"You have condemned yourself," he went on pitilessly. "Condemned
yourself on my processes,--processes familiar to you, applauded by
you, accepted by you for years! We will go back to the time when
you first saw the cigar case. Your expressions," he said in cold,
deliberate tones, consulting his paper, were, 'How beautiful! I
wish it were mine.' This was your first step in crime--and my
first indication. From 'I WISH it were mine' to 'I WILL have it
mine,' and the mere detail, 'HOW CAN I make it mine?' the advance
was obvious. Silence! But as in my methods it was necessary that
there should be an overwhelming inducement to the crime, that
unholy admiration of yours for the mere trinket itself was not
enough. You are a smoker of cigars."
"But," I burst out passionately, "I told you I had given up smoking
cigars."
"Fool!" he said coldly, "that is the SECOND time you have committed
yourself. Of course you told me! What more natural than for you
to blazon forth that prepared and unsolicited statement to PREVENT
accusation. Yet, as I said before, even that wretched attempt to
cover up your tracks was not enough. I still had to find that
overwhelming, impelling motive necessary to affect a man like you.
That motive I found in the strongest of all impulses--Love, I
suppose you would call it," he added bitterly, "that night you
called! You had brought the most conclusive proofs of it on your
sleeve."
"But--" I almost screamed.
"Silence!" he thundered. "I know what you would say. You would
say that even if you had embraced some Young Person in a sealskin
coat, what had that to do with the robbery? Let me tell you, then,
that that sealskin coat represented the quality and character of
your fatal entanglement! You bartered your honor for it--that
stolen cigar case was the purchaser of the sealskin coat!
"Silence! Having thoroughly established your motive, I now proceed
to the commission of the crime itself. Ordinary people would have
begun with that--with an attempt to discover the whereabouts of the
missing object. These are not MY methods."
So overpowering was his penetration that, although I knew myself
innocent, I licked my lips with avidity to hear the further details
of this lucid exposition of my crime.
"You committed that theft the night I showed you the cigar case,
and after I had carelessly thrown it in that drawer. You were
sitting in that chair, and I had arisen to take something from that
shelf. In that instant you secured your booty without rising.
Silence! Do you remember when I helped you on with your overcoat
the other night? I was particular about fitting your arm in.
While doing so I measured your arm with a spring tape measure, from
the shoulder to the cuff. A later visit to your tailor confirmed
that measurement. It proved to be THE EXACT DISTANCE BETWEEN YOUR
CHAIR AND THAT DRAWER!"
I sat stunned.
"The rest are mere corroborative details! You were again tampering
with the drawer when I discovered you doing so! Do not start! The
stranger that blundered into the room with a muffler on--was
myself! More, I had placed a little soap on the drawer handles
when I purposely left you alone. The soap was on your hand when I
shook it at parting. I softly felt your pockets, when you were
asleep, for further developments. I embraced you when you left--
that I might feel if you had the cigar case or any other articles
hidden on your body. This confirmed me in the belief that you had
already disposed of it in the manner and for the purpose I have
shown you. As I still believed you capable of remorse and
confession, I twice allowed you to see I was on your track: once in
the garb of an itinerant negro minstrel, and the second time as a
workman looking in the window of the pawnshop where you pledged
your booty."
"But," I burst out, "if you had asked the pawnbroker, you would
have seen how unjust"--
"Fool!" he hissed, "that was one of YOUR suggestions--to search the
pawnshops! Do you suppose I followed any of your suggestions, the
suggestions of the thief? On the contrary, they told me what to
avoid."
"And I suppose," I said bitterly, "you have not even searched your
drawer?"
"No," he said calmly.
I was for the first time really vexed. I went to the nearest
drawer and pulled it out sharply. It stuck as it had before,
leaving a part of the drawer unopened. By working it, however, I
discovered that it was impeded by some obstacle that had slipped to
the upper part of the drawer, and held it firmly fast. Inserting
my hand, I pulled out the impeding object. It was the missing
cigar case! I turned to him with a cry of joy.
But I was appalled at his expression. A look of contempt was now
added to his acute, penetrating gaze. "I have been mistaken," he
said slowly; "I had not allowed for your weakness and cowardice! I
thought too highly of you even in your guilt! But I see now why
you tampered with that drawer the other night. By some
inexplicable means--possibly another theft--you took the cigar case
out of pawn and, like a whipped hound, restored it to me in this
feeble, clumsy fashion. You thought to deceive me, Hemlock Jones!
More, you thought to destroy my infallibility. Go! I give you
your liberty. I shall not summon the three policemen who wait in
the adjoining room--but out of my sight forever!"
As I stood once more dazed and petrified, he took me firmly by the
ear and led me into the hall, closing the door behind him. This
reopened presently, wide enough to permit him to thrust out my hat,
overcoat, umbrella, and overshoes, and then closed against me
forever!
I never saw him again. I am bound to say, however, that thereafter
my business increased, I recovered much of my old practice, and a
few of my patients recovered also. I became rich. I had a
brougham and a house in the West End. But I often wondered,
pondering on that wonderful man's penetration and insight, if, in
some lapse of consciousness, I had not really stolen his cigar
case!
-THE END-
Bret Harte's short story: The Stolen Cigar Case
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