The Adventure of the Dying DetectiveDoyle, Arthur Conan
General
The Adventure of the Dying Detective
Doyle, Arthur Conan
Detective and mystery stories; Holmes, Sherlock (Fictitious character) -- Fiction; Private investigators -- England -- Fiction
Our visitor sniggered.
"You do. You are, fortunately, the only man in London who does. Do you
know what is the matter with you?"
"The same," said Holmes.
"Ah! You recognize the symptoms?"
"Only too well."
"Well, I shouldn't be surprised, Holmes. I shouldn't be surprised if
it WERE the same. A bad lookout for you if it is. Poor Victor was a
dead man on the fourth day--a strong, hearty young fellow. It was
certainly, as you said, very surprising that he should have contracted
an out-of-the-way Asiatic disease in the heart of London--a disease,
too, of which I had made such a very special study. Singular
coincidence, Holmes. Very smart of you to notice it, but rather
uncharitable to suggest that it was cause and effect."
"I knew that you did it."
"Oh, you did, did you? Well, you couldn't prove it, anyhow. But what
do you think of yourself spreading reports about me like that, and then
crawling to me for help the moment you are in trouble? What sort of a
game is that--eh?"
I heard the rasping, laboured breathing of the sick man. "Give me the
water!" he gasped.
"You're precious near your end, my friend, but I don't want you to go
till I have had a word with you. That's why I give you water. There,
don't slop it about! That's right. Can you understand what I say?"
Holmes groaned.
"Do what you can for me. Let bygones be bygones," he whispered. "I'll
put the words out of my head--I swear I will. Only cure me, and I'll
forget it."
"Forget what?"
"Well, about Victor Savage's death. You as good as admitted just now
that you had done it. I'll forget it."
"You can forget it or remember it, just as you like. I don't see you
in the witnessbox. Quite another shaped box, my good Holmes, I assure
you. It matters nothing to me that you should know how my nephew died.
It's not him we are talking about. It's you."
"Yes, yes."
"The fellow who came for me--I've forgotten his name--said that you
contracted it down in the East End among the sailors."
"I could only account for it so."
"You are proud of your brains, Holmes, are you not? Think yourself
smart, don't you? You came across someone who was smarter this time.
Now cast your mind back, Holmes. Can you think of no other way you
could have got this thing?"
"I can't think. My mind is gone. For heaven's sake help me!"
"Yes, I will help you. I'll help you to understand just where you are
and how you got there. I'd like you to know before you die."
"Give me something to ease my pain."
"Painful, is it? Yes, the coolies used to do some squealing towards
the end. Takes you as cramp, I fancy."
"Yes, yes; it is cramp."
"Well, you can hear what I say, anyhow. Listen now! Can you remember
any unusual incident in your life just about the time your symptoms
began?"
"No, no; nothing."
"Think again."
"I'm too ill to think."
"Well, then, I'll help you. Did anything come by post?"
"By post?"
"A box by chance?"
"I'm fainting--I'm gone!"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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