On our knocking, however, the door was instantly thrownopen by a Hindoo servant, clad in a yellow turban, white loosefittingclothes, and a yellow sash. There was something strangelyincongruous in this Oriental figure framed in the commonplacedoor-way of a third-rate suburban dwelling-house.
“The Sahib awaits you,” said he, and even as he spoke, therecame a high, piping voice from some inner room.
“Show them in to me, khitmutgar,” it said. “Show them straightin to me.”
The Story of the Bald-Headed Man
We followed the Indian down a sordid and common passage, illlitand worse furnished, until he came to a door upon the right,which he threw open. A blaze of yellow light streamed out uponus, and in the centre of the glare there stood a small man with avery high head, a bristle of red hair all round the fringe of it, and abald, shining scalp which shot out from among it like a mountainpeakfrom fir-trees. He writhed his hands together as he stood,and his features were in a perpetual jerk—now smiling, nowscowling, but never for an instant in repose. Nature had given hima pendulous lip, and a too visible line of yellow and irregular teeth,which he strove feebly to conceal by constantly passing his handover the lower part of his face. In spite of his obtrusive baldnesshe gave the impression of youth. In point of fact he had justturned his thirtieth year.
“Your servant, Miss Morstan,” he kept repeating in a thin, highvoice. “Your servant, gentlemen. Pray step into my little sanctum.
A small place, miss, but furnished to my own liking. An oasis of artin the howling desert of South London.”
We were all astonished by the appearance of the apartment intowhich he invited us. In that sorry house it looked as out of placeas a diamond of the first water in a setting of brass. The richestand glossiest of curtains and tapestries draped the walls, loopedback here and there to expose some richly mounted painting orOriental vase. The carpet was of amber and black, so soft and sothick that the foot sank pleasantly into it, as into a bed of moss.
Two great tiger-skins thrown athwart it increased the suggestionof Eastern luxury, as did a huge hookah which stood upon a mat inthe corner. A lamp in the fashion of a silver dove was hung froman almost invisible golden wire in the centre of the room. As itburned it filled the air with a subtle and aromaticodor.
“Mr. Thaddeus Sholto,” said the little man, still jerking andsmiling. “That is my name. You are Miss Morstan, of course. Andthese gentlemen—”
“This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this Dr. Watson.”
“A doctor, eh?” cried he, much excited. “Have you yourstethoscope? Might I ask you—would you have the kindness? Ihave grave doubts as to my mitral valve, if you would be so verygood. The aortic I may rely upon, but I should value your opinionupon the mitral.”
I listened to his heart, as requested, but was unable to findanything amiss, save, indeed, that he was in an ecstasy of fear, forhe shivered from head to foot.
“It appears to be normal,” I said. “You have no cause foruneasiness.”
“You will excuse my anxiety, Miss Morstan,” he remarked airily. “Iam a great sufferer, and I have long had suspicions as to that valve.
I am delighted to hear that they are unwarranted. Had your father,Miss Morstan, refrained from throwing a strain upon his heart, hemight have been alive now.”
I could have struck the man across the face, so hot was I atthis callous and offhand reference to so delicate a matter. MissMorstan sat down, and her face grew white to the lips.
“I knew in my heart that he was dead,” said she.
“I can give you every information,” said he; “and, what ismore, I can do you justice; and I will, too, whatever BrotherBartholomew may say. I am so glad to have your friends here, notonly as an escort to you but also as witnesses to what I am aboutto do and say. The three of us can show a bold front to BrotherBartholomew. But let us have no outsiders—no police or officials.
We can settle everything satisfactorily among ourselves withoutany interference. Nothing would annoy Brother Bartholomewmore than any publicity.”
He sat down upon a low settee and blinked at us inquiringlywith his weak, watery blue eyes.
“For my part,” said Holmes, “whatever you may choose to saywill go no further.”
I nodded to show my agreement.
“That is well! That is well!” said he. “May I offer you a glass ofChianti, Miss Morstan? Or of Tokay? I keep no other wines. ShallI open a flask? No? Well, then, I trust that you have no objectionto tobacco-smoke, to the balsamic odor of the Eastern tobacco. Iam a little nervous, and I find my hookah an invaluable sedative.”
He applied a taper to the great bowl, and the smoke bubbledmerrily through the rose-water. We sat all three in a semicircle,with our heads advanced and our chins upon our hands, whilethe strange, jerky little fellow, with his high, shining head, puffeduneasily in the centre.
“When I first determined to make this communication to you,”said he, “I might have given you my address, but I feared thatyou might disregard my request and bring unpleasant people withyou. I took the liberty, therefore, of making an appointment insuch a way that my man Williams might be able to see you first. Ihave complete confidence in his discretion, and he had orders, ifhe were dissatisfied, to proceed no further in the matter. You willexcuse these precautions, but I am a man of somewhat retiring,and I might even say refined, tastes, and there is nothing moreun?sthetic than a policeman. I have a natural shrinking fromall forms of rough materialism. I seldom come in contact withthe rough crowd. I live, as you see, with some little atmosphereof elegance around me. I may call myself a patron of the arts. Itis my weakness. The landscape is a genuine Corot, and thougha connoisseur might perhaps throw a doubt upon that SalvatorRosa, there cannot be the least question about the Bouguereau. Iam partial to the modern French school.”
