the red-headed league.
It was a cool autumn day when I decided to visit my friend Sherlock Holmes.
The walk was pleasant, and I was soon at Baker Street, but Holmes already had company.
His visitor was a large older man with hair as red as fire.
"'You're just in time, Watson,' said Holmes.
"'I believe you will find this gentleman's tale most interesting.
'It could prove what I have told you all along that truth is stranger than fiction' and that the smallest of crimes are sometimes the most interesting.
This is Mr. Jabez Wilson, who was telling me about some most unusual events.
Please, Mr. Wilson, be so kind as to begin again.
Before the red-haired man began to tell his tale, he pulled a newspaper from his coat pocket.
As he scared the newspaper, I looked at him carefully.
I tried to guess things about him the way my detective friend always did.
Holmes could see what I was doing.
He looked at me and said Watson, I see nothing either except, of course, that our Mr Wilson is a laborer, that he is a member of the organization known as the Freemasons, that he has visited China and that he has been writing a lot recently.
Mr. Wilson looked up from the newspaper with wide eyes.
"'How on earth did you know that, Mr. Holmes?
It's true I was a labourer.
I used to be a ship's carpenter, and the rest is all true, too.'
Holmes explained, "'The muscles of your right hand are larger than your left.
That tells me you used your hands in your walk.'
You are wearing a pin with the symbol of the Freemasons.
I see that the cuff of your right sleeve is very shiny and worn, a sign that you have spent a lot of time writing.
Also, he continued, there is a tattoo of a fish on your right wrist.
I have studied tattoos.
That one could only have been done in China.
I also see a Chinese coin hanging from your watch chain.
These things tell me you have been to that distant land.
I was always amazed by the store of facts in Holmes' head.
He might not know that the earth circled the sun or be able to name the author of a famous book, but he could tell you what country a certain tattoo came from.
Or he could study the ash of different cigarettes and tell them apart.
Mr. Wilson laughed loudly.
'I understand now, Mr Holmes, that first I thought you had done something difficult, but now I see how easy it was'.
"'Watson, remind me not to explain my methods in the future,' he said to me with a grin.
"'And now, Mr. Wilson, have you found the item in the newspaper?'
"'Yes, here it is.
This is what started it all.'
Wilson handed me the two-month-old paper.
He pointed to a small notice on the page, which I read.
To the Red-Headed League.
At the request of the late Ezekiel Hopkins of Lebanon Pennsylvania USA, employment is available to a red-headed man who was of sound body and mind and is above the age of 21.
The successful applicant will receive a salary.
Please apply in person on Monday at 11 o'clock to Duncan Ross at 7 Pope's Court, Fleet Street.
What on earth does this mean?
I asked.
Mr Watson Wilson said I have a small pawn shop where I buy and sell used items from people I barely make enough to live on.
I wouldn't even be able to pay my helper, except that he is willing to work for half of what I should be paying him, just so he can learn the business.
His name is Vincent Spalding, and he is a fine worker, my friend.
Only complaint is that he spends too much time with his hobby, photography.
He takes pictures, then spends hours in his dark room in the shop basement.
There is also a young girl in the shop.
She does some cooking and cleaning.
I'm not married and have no family, so it's just the three of us living quietly.
But then two months ago, he continued, Spalding showed me the notice you just read.
He said he wished he had red hair because he heard the job was easy and paid well.
He also heard that Ezekiel Hopkins was an American millionaire.
It seemed that Hopkins had red hair and was an odd fellow.
He had wanted his fortune to go to men with red hair, so when he died he left money to be given to them in this odd way.
Spalding explained that Hopkins had lived in London years ago.
It seemed he loved the place, so the money was left only for red-haired men from this city.
My assistant said that the offer seemed perfect for me.
"'So,' continued Mr. Wilson, "'we closed the shop and made our way to the offices of the league.'
Well, Mr. Holmes, when we arrived, the streets were filled with red-headed men.
I never knew there were so many of us, and all these men were in search of the job.
I didn't think I had a chance, but Spalding told me the position was only for a man with hair as fiery red as mine.
So we pushed through the crowd to the office door and waited.
It wasn't long before we were inside.
In the office was a man with hair as red as mine sitting at a table.
He spoke with each man, one after another.
He asked them all questions and then told them they were not suitable for the post.
Finally, it was my turn.
Right away, the man seemed very interested in me.
He even asked everyone else to leave.
It complimented my hair to make sure I was right for the position.
He even grabbed it with both hands and pulled at it.
When I yelled in pain, he explained that he had to be careful.
He said that many men had worn red wigs or had dyed their hair.
Then he shook my hand and told me I had the job.
He walked over to the office window, opened it and yelled to the crowd that the position was filled.
"'His name was Duncan Ross,' said Wilson.
"'He told me I would need to work from ten in the morning until two in the afternoon.
'I explained that I had a shop to run.
'but Spalding told us he would be happy to look after the business for me?
"'I was told that my task would be to copy the Encyclopedia Britannica.'
I was to start the very next day.
And so there I was the next day, said Wilson.
And as odd as it sounds, everything was as promised.
Mr. Ross was there to get me started.
I began copying the encyclopedia, starting with the letter A.
Mr Ross left me alone at times and then at two o'clock he returned and told me I was finished for the day.
He paid me and I went home.
And so, Mr. Holmes, this continued week after week.
I did my copying between ten and two.
Every Saturday I was paid.
After a while, I did not see Mr. Ross very much.
This continued for eight weeks.
I wrote about 'archery and armour and architecture 'and I was hoping to get to the letter B, 'but today everything came to an end'.
"'Mr Wilson looked upset as he went on with his story.
"'This morning I went to the office as usual, "'but the door was locked.
"'A small sign hung on the door.
"'You can read it yourself.'
He handed Holmes the sign.
It read, The Red-Headed League is no more.
October 9th, 1890.
Mr. Wilson, said Holmes, your case is most unusual.
Please continue.
What did you do next?
I asked the landlord if he knew where Mr. Ross had gone, answered Wilson.
Landlord said he didn't know a Mr Ross, but he said that the red-haired gentleman who had rented the office had moved to a new office at 17 King Edward Street.
"'Well, I went to that address, Mr. Holmes, but it was a factory and not an office.
So I went home.
Spalding suggested that I would probably hear from the lead, but I decided to come here.
I thought perhaps you could help.'
"'You were right in coming to me, Mr. Wilson,' said Holmes.
"'This is a remarkable case.
It may be far more serious than you imagine.'
Tell me how long had your assistant Spaulding been working for you when he showed you the advertisement?
About a month, replied Wilson.
And how did you come to hire him?
Put in an advertisement in the paper, Wilson said.
Many people applied, but I gave Spalding the job because he was willing to work for half of what I was paying.
Can you describe him to me? asked Holmes.
He's small, but with a solid build.
He's a clean shaven, and he has a white mark on his forehead from an accident with acid.
Holmes sat up in his chair.
And his ears, are they pierced for earrings?
As a matter of fact, they are, Mr. Holmes.
I have heard enough, Mr. Wilson, my friend said.
Today is Saturday.
I hope to have an answer for you by Monday.
After Jabez Wilson had left, Holmes sat down in his chair and said to me Watson, I must ask you not to speak to me for fifty minutes.
With that, he closed his eyes and sat without moving.
I thought my companion had fallen asleep.
Then, suddenly, he jumped up from his chair.
Can your patience spare you for a few hours, Watson? he asked.
Yes, of course, I answered.
Good.
Good.
Then come with me, he said, and we headed out the door.
Before long, Sherlock Holmes and I were standing in front of Wilson's shop.
My friend walked up the quiet street, then down, looking carefully at all the houses.
He stopped in front of the shop again.
With his walking stick, he tapped loudly on the sidewalk.
Finally, he went to the shop door and knocked.
A young, clean-shaven man answered.
I'm sorry to bother you, said Holmes, but could you tell me how to get to the strand from here?
The man gave Holmes directions, then closed the door.
My friend turned to me and said, Watson, I know this gentleman.
There are few who are smarter or more daring.
Did you notice the knees of his pants?
No.
What did you see?
I asked.
Exactly what I expected to see, Holmes replied.
I pointed to the ground and asked, but why did you tap on the sidewalk?
Before I answer any more questions, we must explore some more.
I followed Holmes around the corner to the street behind Mr. Wilson's shop.
It was a busy avenue filled with traffic.
Do you see the buildings here, Watson?
I try to remember as much about the streets of London as possible, said Holmes.
There is Mortimer's tobacco shop, a newspaper shop, then the city and suburban bank, a restaurant and McFarlane's carriage shop.
Most interesting.
Then he turned to me and he said, There is nothing more to do here, my friend.
Shall we spend the afternoon enjoying a concert at St.
James Hall?
It is nearby and will be a welcome change.
His suggestion didn't surprise me, as I knew Holmes enjoyed music very much.
In fact, he was very skilled with the violin and often played for me.
As I watched him enjoying the concert, I thought about his various moods.
When he was hard at work on a case, he was serious, determined, and cold.
As he listened to the music that afternoon, he was lighthearted, happy and dreamy, as if he hadn't a care in the world.
But I also knew that his happy moods often meant he had solved a case.
If I were a criminal, I'm not sure which of Holmes' moods I would prefer.
Outside the hall, a refreshed Holmes turned to me.
Watson, I believe we are just in time to stop a serious crime.
I will need your help tonight.
Would you please bring your gun and meet me at Baker Street at ten o'clock?
Thank you, and now I have work to do.
As I watched Holmes hurry off, I began to think about the case of the red-headed leak.
I had heard everything that my companion had heard.
I had seen everything he had seen, but Sherlock Holmes saw that a serious crime was taking place, and I did not.
Where could we be going tonight?
What could we be doing?
What crime was being committed?
I would have to wait before finding out answers to these questions.
When I arrived at Baker Street that night, I found two horse-drawn carriages outside.
Inside, Holmes had already been joined by a police officer and another man.
Ah, Watson, I believe you know Mr. Peter Jones of Scotland Yard.
And this he said pointing to the other gentleman is Mr Merriweather, director of the city and suburban bank.
He will be joining us on our adventure tonight.
I hope our adventure won't be a wild goose chase, said Mr. Merriweather.
Don't worry, replied Jones.
I have worked with Mr. Holmes before.
He has helped Scotland Yard once or twice in the past.
He might very well make a good detective someday, Holmes said with a smile.
"'promise you both that tonight will be worth the trouble.
"'It will mean a large sum of money to you, Mr. Merriweather, "'and to you, Mr. Jones, "'it will mean the arrest of someone you've been after for many years.'
It's true, Mr. Merriweather, said Mr. Jones.
From what Mr Holmes has told me, the shop assistant, who calls himself Spaulding, is none other than John Clay, whom I've been after for a long time now.
He is a murderer and a thief.
There is no criminal in London I would rather put in jail.
Four of us left the apartment.
Mr. Jones and Mr. Merriweather took one carriage.
Holmes and I took the other.
We were soon at the bank we had seen that afternoon.
Mr. Merriweather led us into the building.
We followed him through a series of doors, corridors, and down a number of stairs.
Finally, we entered a large room full of crates and boxes.
This room seems remarkably safe from thieves, remarked Holmes.
Very safe, said Mr. Merriweather, tapping the stone floor with his walking stick.
What's this?
The floor sounds hollow.
Quiet, please, instructed Holmes angrily, or you will give us away.
My friend pulled out his magnifying glass and got down on his knees.
He examined the floor carefully.
Then he stood up and turned to me.
Watson, he said, by now you have guessed that we are in the basement of the city and suburban bank.
What you don't know is that this bank recently received a large shipment of gold from the Bank of France.
In fact, the crates in the room are filled with gold.
Unfortunately, we are not the only ones who know this.
That is why we are here tonight.
And now, said Holmes, we wait.
Please hide behind these crates.
We must be prepared for anything.
Watson, have you your gun?
Excellent.
If you hear a shot, do not hesitate to fire back.
Holmes closed the cover of the lantern and the room went completely black.
We waited in the silence.
My arms and legs began to ache as I crouched behind a crate.
We waited for over an hour, but it felt much longer to me.
Suddenly, a faint spark of light came from the floor.
The spark grew larger until we could see it was light shining through a hole in the floor.
All opened and a hand came into sight.
The hand pushed a large stone to one side, then the face of a man appeared.
The man pulled himself up and turned to help another man.
The second man had a full head of very red hair.
At that moment, Sherlock Holmes jumped out and grabbed the first man.
The red-headed man jumped back in the hole, just beyond the reach of Jones.
The first man pulled out a gun, but Holmes knocked it out of his hand and it fell to the floor with a clatter.
It's no use, John Clay, said Holmes calmly.
We have you.
So I see.
John Clay replied with a grim smile.
But you've let my partner escape.
On the contrary, said Holmes, there are three policemen at the other end of your tunnel.
I'm certain they have him by now.
Mr. Jones, would you be so kind as to put Mr. Clay in handcuffs?
You will address me as sir, if you don't mind, said Clay.
And you will say, please, I have royal blood in my veins, after all.
Well, then, said Jones, would you please, sir, follow me upstairs?
A carriage is waiting to take your highness to the police station.
That's better, said Clay smugly.
He bowed to the three of us as Peter Jones led him away at Baker Street.
Holmes filled me in on the details of the case.
You see, Watson, the reason for the red-headed league was clear to me from the start.
The league and the copying of the encyclopedia were all an excuse to get Mr Wilson out of his shop for a few hours every day.
First, Mr. Clay made sure he got a job with Mr. Wilson by offering to work for half-pay.
Then he and his red-haired partner put the ad in the paper.
Mr. Clay made sure that Mr. Wilson saw the ad and applied for the position.
But how could you guess what they were up to?
I asked.
I knew there was nothing of value in the shop itself.
Then I recalled that Mr. Wilson said his assistant spent a lot of time in the basement.
In fact, he would stay down there for many hours a day.
It was clear to me that he was digging a tunnel to another building.
When Mr. Clay came to the door, the worn and dirty knees of his pants told me I was correct.
Holmes continued.
Mr. Wilson's shop was on a street with nothing but houses.
I knew Clay wasn't tunnelling to any of them.
When I tapped on the sidewalk in front of the shop, I was testing for a tunnel.
When I did not detect one, I knew that the tunnel was at the back.
Now, to where was he digging?
Holmes said.
When I saw the street behind the shop, I saw the city and suburban bank right away.
It was right across from the back of Mr. Wilson's shop.
I knew the bank was the target of Mr. Clay's efforts.
But how did you know they would move tonight?
I asked.
Clay and his partner closed the office of their red-headed league, Holmes explained.
This told me they no longer needed Mr. Wilson out of the shop.
It meant they had finished the tunnel.
Next I guessed that they would spring into action as soon as possible.
I was sure that they would move tonight, Saturday night.
That way the robbery would not be noticed until the bank opened on Tuesday morning.
By then Mr. Clay, his partner, and the gold would be long gone.
Well done, I said with admiration.
It was a long chain of events, from the newspaper ad to tonight's arrest, and each link was figured out perfectly.
The people of London should be grateful to you, Holmes.
I don't do it for the thanks, my dear Watson, said Holmes with a slight smile.
It is the challenge that is important to me.
