The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors Read Free Page A

hair, while freshly brushed, is not so carefully coiffed as one might expect it to be. No self-respecting manservant or lady’s maid would permit their master or mistress to go out of an evening in such a state, not if they value their positions and take pride in their calling.”
    Watson sighed, a resigned expression on his face. He smoothed his mustache with his hand, a gesture of exasperation. “And the rest? How did you deduce all of that, dare I ask?”
    “Oh, no great mystery, really. The man’s suit of clothes is obviously Savile Row from the cut; custom made from good English cloth. It is not new. Ergo, he has visited our blessed plot before, at least once and for a long enough stay to have at least one suit, probably three or four, made to measure.”
    “Three or four? You know that with certainty, do you?”
    Holmes, who was fastidious in his dress and surprisingly fashion conscious, and the possessor of an extensive wardrobe now that his success permitted it, allowed a slightly patronizing tone to color his reply.
    “Formal attire would usually be a last selection; an everyday frock coat or ‘Prince Albert’ and more casual garments for traveling and forweekend country wear would customarily be the first, second, and third choices.”
    Watson looked pained, but he bravely, perhaps foolishly, continued: “You said he was a railroad man. How do you come by that, eh? And your conjecture that he is waiting for an urgent appointment, a business engagement, you said — and with someone beneath his station? How do you arrive at those conclusions?” He snorted. “Admit it, Holmes: pure guesswork, plain and simple!”
    “You know me better than that,” Holmes said, casually dabbing at his lips with a napkin. “I never guess.” His lips puckered in a prim smile.
    “Well then?” said Watson impatiently, drumming his fingers on the table.
    “It is manifestly clear that the gentleman is waiting for another individual because of his repeated glances toward the door — anxious glances which suggest that the other party is not only eagerly awaited, but of no small importance to the gentleman in question. That it is one individual and not more is supported by the obvious fact (so obvious, Watson) that the gentleman and lady are seated at a table for four, and there is only one other place setting in evidence. These conclusions are all supported by the additional observations that the man and his charming companion — his wife, I dare say, from his inattentive manner — have yet to order from the menu despite being at table for some considerable time, and the wretched fellow is well into at least his third whiskey and soda — with ice, I might add,” he said with a slight curl to the lip, “further evidence he is an American, should any be needed.”
    “As for the rest —” Holmes stubbed his cigarette out and continued: “That the man has a well-stuffed leather briefcase on the chair beside him suggests an engagement of a business nature. Why else would anyone bring such an encumbrance to a late evening supper? As for the engagement being with someone beneath his station...” Holmes sighedand gave Watson a somewhat patronizing look. “Really, Watson, this is getting tiresome. Obviously, our friends over there are wealthy enough to dine at the Ritz or the Cafe Monico. Why Simpson’s, as good as it is, with its simple English fare? Hardly what a wealthy American tourist or business magnate would choose unless he had good and sufficient reason to do so — such as not wishing to appear in a highly fashionable restaurant that caters to the crème of society with someone unsuitably dressed or of a lower station.”
    Watson raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Enough, enough; I should have known better than to doubt you. You have my most abject apologies. Now, for God’s sake let us get the bill and find our way home. I am suddenly very weary and want only my bed.”
    Holmes chuckled and snapped