middle of a rectangular courtyard. At one end was an ashram that housed the chief priest and some Hindoo mendicants. I was sure that my quarry was living there in disguise.”
As he spoke now, Holmes became greatly agitated, for he was reliving the final events of his long tale with an even greater vividness than before.
“‘I walked slowly up the few steps to the temple compound. It was almost dark. There was the usual evening religious activity, the ringing of bells, offerings, the wailing of infants. As I entered the courtyard, I tried to locate my Gurkha confederates, but could not. I could only hope that they would arrive in time.”
Holmes acted the part of the English tourist, curious, befuddled, without direction, for he assumed that the culprit would find him easily. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he could see the usual conglomeration of human derelicts that is so often present at Hindoo institutions of this kind—the crippled, the limbless, the dumb, the starving. In the flashing of the oil lamps, he could also make out the temple, a gaudy hideous affair, covered with skeletons, images of horrible spirits, and monsters. In the main sanctuary itself stood the headless goddess herself. Suddenly, a young girl, one of the many derelicts, dumb, dressed in filthy rags, accosted him and began tugging at his coat, pulling him toward a large peepul tree that was situated at the back of the shrine. In the darkness he made out a figure seated in yogic posture under the tree. His face was hidden by a shawl draped over the upper half of his body. The dumb child pulled Holmes to him, and he motioned to him to sit down in front of him. Two oil lamps placed in front of him provided the only light.
“Welcome, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” The voice had a pronounced foreign accent, and he hissed my name through his teeth. “I was expecting you.”
“So,” said Holmes, “we meet again. If I am not mistaken, I sit before Karol Lissonevitch Rastrakoff, one-time member of the Oriental Institute at St. Petersburg, now secret agent for the Tsar in central Asia, an infamous figure throughout the murky underworld of Asia. We tangled in Tibet, Rastrakoff, and I would judge the contest a draw. Your message of blood was clear to me almost immediately, for your initials and part of your last name conveniently spelled ka and li , and rastra , the word for ‘nation’ in the native tongue. I shall not waste time or mince words: I want the return of the file, for which I am willing to offer a reasonable sum and your safe passage out of India.”
“Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes, please, dear sir, you move too quickly.”
As he talked, he lowered the shawl from his face, and Holmes saw once again the cruel countenance that recorded so many evil deeds.
“A most impressive jump into my rickshaw, Rastrakoff. My compliments.”
Rastrakoff smiled. “It was nothing,” he said, “with our training. But we have more important matters before us. First, let me explain to you that I have no desire to bargain for the file. It is already on its way to its intended destination. It was of the utmost importance to my employers, and I stopped at nothing to obtain it. The deaths of Maxwell and Hamilton were unavoidable, for they entered the office unexpectedly in the evening after hours. They interrupted me in my search. I was able to hide when they entered, but then they began a long interminable conversation, punctuated by Maxwell’s loud accusations. I had little time to waste, and at the height of their argument I shot them both, intending at first to make the crime into one of murder and suicide. I then found the file. It was while I was seeking it that I thought of the grand opportunity that had been thrown my way. The file, once I had it, was my triumph. But if I could cause the Viceroy to think of this murder as an act of terror against Britain, then I would have caused even greater havoc among our enemies. I decided then to make the
As he spoke now, Holmes became greatly agitated, for he was reliving the final events of his long tale with an even greater vividness than before.
“‘I walked slowly up the few steps to the temple compound. It was almost dark. There was the usual evening religious activity, the ringing of bells, offerings, the wailing of infants. As I entered the courtyard, I tried to locate my Gurkha confederates, but could not. I could only hope that they would arrive in time.”
Holmes acted the part of the English tourist, curious, befuddled, without direction, for he assumed that the culprit would find him easily. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he could see the usual conglomeration of human derelicts that is so often present at Hindoo institutions of this kind—the crippled, the limbless, the dumb, the starving. In the flashing of the oil lamps, he could also make out the temple, a gaudy hideous affair, covered with skeletons, images of horrible spirits, and monsters. In the main sanctuary itself stood the headless goddess herself. Suddenly, a young girl, one of the many derelicts, dumb, dressed in filthy rags, accosted him and began tugging at his coat, pulling him toward a large peepul tree that was situated at the back of the shrine. In the darkness he made out a figure seated in yogic posture under the tree. His face was hidden by a shawl draped over the upper half of his body. The dumb child pulled Holmes to him, and he motioned to him to sit down in front of him. Two oil lamps placed in front of him provided the only light.
“Welcome, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” The voice had a pronounced foreign accent, and he hissed my name through his teeth. “I was expecting you.”
“So,” said Holmes, “we meet again. If I am not mistaken, I sit before Karol Lissonevitch Rastrakoff, one-time member of the Oriental Institute at St. Petersburg, now secret agent for the Tsar in central Asia, an infamous figure throughout the murky underworld of Asia. We tangled in Tibet, Rastrakoff, and I would judge the contest a draw. Your message of blood was clear to me almost immediately, for your initials and part of your last name conveniently spelled ka and li , and rastra , the word for ‘nation’ in the native tongue. I shall not waste time or mince words: I want the return of the file, for which I am willing to offer a reasonable sum and your safe passage out of India.”
“Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes, please, dear sir, you move too quickly.”
As he talked, he lowered the shawl from his face, and Holmes saw once again the cruel countenance that recorded so many evil deeds.
“A most impressive jump into my rickshaw, Rastrakoff. My compliments.”
Rastrakoff smiled. “It was nothing,” he said, “with our training. But we have more important matters before us. First, let me explain to you that I have no desire to bargain for the file. It is already on its way to its intended destination. It was of the utmost importance to my employers, and I stopped at nothing to obtain it. The deaths of Maxwell and Hamilton were unavoidable, for they entered the office unexpectedly in the evening after hours. They interrupted me in my search. I was able to hide when they entered, but then they began a long interminable conversation, punctuated by Maxwell’s loud accusations. I had little time to waste, and at the height of their argument I shot them both, intending at first to make the crime into one of murder and suicide. I then found the file. It was while I was seeking it that I thought of the grand opportunity that had been thrown my way. The file, once I had it, was my triumph. But if I could cause the Viceroy to think of this murder as an act of terror against Britain, then I would have caused even greater havoc among our enemies. I decided then to make the
Similar Books
