233. Spotted Stripes
He sat in his armchair, newspaper in hand, his fingers tracing patterns between his lips.
With Watson beside him, and the house indoors, smoking wasn't a good option.
Although he wasn't a heavy smoker, the feeling of being immersed in the haze was wonderful, as if he were in this world.
Just like the outside world, wasn't it?
The newspaper carried a murder case titled "A Study in Scarlet."
[Detectives Gregson and Lestrade solved a mystery in just two days! Crime busters!]
His expression was nonchalant, as if he had expected it.
"Is this alright? It's clearly your achievement." Watson looked at him questioningly.
"It's fine, you know, I have Watson, right? I think... I should learn from the misers of ancient Rome." He smiled calmly.
Let them laugh, why care? With immense wealth in one's heart, one can enjoy freedom alone.
He had already received the reward for solving this case; it was indeed a substantial sum.
He handed twenty percent of the reward to Watson.
"This is what you deserve as my assistant. Take it."
He placed the money in Watson's palm, then walked outside with his head held high.
With money, he walked with much more confidence.
However, not long after, he once again fell into a state of frantic despair with no cases.
Aside from resolving disputes with neighbors and finding lost items, those suspenseful cases seemed to be fading away from him.
If there's no place to use one's intelligence, then possessing intelligence becomes a cruel curse—at least, that's how he felt.
"Watson, could I be involved in the case you're investigating? Maybe I can help you. I don't want money, I want to show you how I can contribute." He pleaded with Watson in an almost pleading, humble tone.
Watson looked at him, bewildered. She'd never seen such a request before.
But after a moment's thought, Watson shook her head as the girl's expression gradually hardened.
"This case is too dangerous. The other party is an extremely dangerous individual. I can't put you in danger."
Hearing this, he immediately felt underestimated.
"The path to the truth is always fraught with obstacles and hardships. Aren't these part of being a detective's training? Although you can easily subdue a big guy like Mr. Hope, it doesn't mean you can subdue me!"
He picked up his cane, preparing to use his years of training in Patton's techniques to teach Watson a lesson…
"Ouch, ouch, ouch…Watson, I'm sorry, I was too arrogant."
A mere second later, he felt as if his arm was about to detach from him. He hadn't even seen when the other person had arrived.
Sensing the difference in their physical strength, he switched to reasoning and appealing to their emotions.
"Watson, can you bear to watch a Sherlock Holmes of the detective world die of boredom because there are no cases?"
"Why use your own name?"
Watson clearly noticed the grammatical error in his words; such self-praise would only elicit laughter.
"Because I have the ability."
He was that confident.
"If you were willing to publish the details of your case-solving in the newspaper, you would be much busier than you are now."
Watson seemed still resentful about the two officers stealing his credit, or rather, she didn't think it was a smart choice.
Ultimately, what detectives need most is fame; with fame, cases will naturally come to them.
"At that time, I was so poor I couldn't even afford food; I needed to solve my immediate problems first." He helplessly shrugged.
Surely he couldn't borrow money from Watson? Watson didn't look like a rich person.
Just as the two were arguing, the doorbell rang.
Looking towards the sound, he saw his landlady, Mrs. Hudson.
"Is your dog lost again?" he asked, seemingly used to it.
The dog often ran outside, but it would usually return by nightfall.
But considering Mrs. Hudson was getting on in years, and her worries were understandable, plus she was his landlady, he didn't mind helping her look for the dog.
"No, no, there's a case I've been asked to help with. I think you might be able to help the child," Mrs. Hudson said.
"A case? A case?!"
His eyes lit up, like a hunting dog that had spotted its prey.
"Yes, it's a rather strange and bizarre case. Let Helen tell you about it," Mrs. Hudson said, making way for him.
A beautiful woman approached, her face still showing some anxiety.
"Mr. Holmes, it's like this…"
Miss Helen began by recounting her background. Her father, a general in the artillery, had died young.
After his death, her mother married a doctor named Roylott in India.
When her mother remarried, she transferred her assets to the doctor's name, with the condition that she would receive a share when Helen and Miss Julia married.
Since returning to her homeland, her stepfather had become irritable. He befriended the Gypsies but refused to associate with the locals and kept an Indian cheetah and an Indian baboon.
Two years ago, her older sister died under mysterious circumstances just before her wedding. Her sister's dying words, "The Speckled Band," and the whistling and clanging of metal sounds that Miss Helen heard became the only remaining clues.
She had rushed to the scene immediately after hearing her sister's screams, but found no killer.
And so the case became an unsolved mystery.
"Last night, because I'm getting married soon and my room needs renovations, I stayed in my sister's room temporarily. But… I heard that whistling sound again, and I ran out in fright," Miss Helen said, still shaken.
He and Watson listened quietly to Miss Helen's account, already guessing that the murderer was most likely connected to her stepfather.
Moreover, based on Miss Helen's description, she probably thought so too, but couldn't find any evidence.
The two immediately set off for Miss Helen's residence.
They searched the place where she had stayed the previous night.
The room was simply furnished, with only a door connecting it to the outside and no windows.
But soon he noticed a strange rope by the bed.
Pulling the rope didn't ring a bell. Usually, ropes tied to the bed were used to call the housekeeper, but this rope wasn't connected to a bell.
Looking up, he saw that the connection point was discreetly concealed.
He immediately stepped onto a nearby table, trying to lift the covering, only to find that the rope was merely attached to a hook, and next to the hook was a small ventilation duct—someone couldn't have murdered through such a hole.
However, this hole didn't connect to the outside, but to her stepfather's room.
He stroked his chin, trying to move the bed to see if there were any clues underneath.
But strangely, the bed seemed to be firmly nailed to the floor; it appeared immovable, stuck in that spot.
He dusted off his hands and then went to Miss Helen's stepfather's room.
There were trampling marks on the chairs, a small dish of milk on the table beside them, a bed, and a safe.
Watson glanced at the safe, pursed her lips, and remained silent.
He casually walked to the bedside, nudged it with his knee, and the bed leg scraped against the floor with a screeching sound.
"Miss Helen, how about this? You said the annex on the right is empty, right? Then tonight we'll keep watch there. As soon as we hear a whistle, we'll rush out to rescue you. Remember, don't tell anyone we've been here."
"Okay…okay." Miss Helen nodded.
The two of them hid in the annex on the right, quietly waiting until nightfall.
Around three o'clock in the morning, a very faint whistle sounded.
He and Watson immediately rushed to Miss Helen's quarters and lit a match.
Miss Helen's terrified face was even more apparent in the firelight.
He picked up a rattan cane and lashed it hard against the 'rope' beside him, striking it several times.
Shortly afterward, the rustling sounds ceased, but soon a piercing scream erupted from next door.
He seemed oblivious, merely offering a brief reassurance to Miss Helen.
"Watson, call the police," he said to Watson.
Watson nodded and ran outside.
Soon afterward, Officer Gregson arrived and opened the door to his stepfather's room.
The horrifying scene inside nearly made him die on the spot.
A spotted snake was coiled around his stepfather's head, its tongue protruding from his hair, flicking its forked tongue as if threatening them.
The stepfather's face was pale; he was clearly dead.
…