Sherlock Holmes and the Knave of Hearts Read Online Free PDF

front of his own property. Verne, head down and clearly deep in thought, offered no acknowledgement.
    He reached the wrought-iron gate in the lichen-covered wall and was just about to open it when another man stepped out from behind one of the beech trees that lined the street.
    His face was obscured by a white mask with dark, sad eyes and a downturned mouth: the face of tragedy.
    In his left hand he held a pistol.
    Spotting the weapon, and momentarily wondering if his eyes were deceiving him, Watson exclaimed: ‘Good grief!’
    Having seen the same thing himself, Holmes was already looking for a break in the busy traffic so he could cross.
    Unable to find one, he decided to chance it anyway. He dashed out in front of an oncoming cab, and the trotting horse shied and reared up in its traces. Holmes leapt aside, raced on and narrowly escaped being crushed from the other direction by the wheels of a drayman’s wagon filled with heavy barrels.
    ‘Watch where you’re going!’
    ‘Look out, you fool!’
    As Holmes sprinted onto the opposite pavement, he heard the man in the mask yell:
‘Salaud!’
    Then the man fired his pistol.
    The weapon spat flame and stone chips flew from the cement frame around the gate. Startled, Verne looked around, perhaps wondering if he had mistaken the sound of the shot for a carnival firecracker or the report of an air rifle inside the shooting gallery tent.
    The masked man fired again.
    This time Verne felt a searing pain in his left leg. Crying out, he fell against the wall and slid slowly to the ground.
    As the masked man came closer, Verne shouted:
‘Stop him!’
    Across the street, his shocked neighbour heard him but fearing for his own life, hesitated to get involved.
    Holmes had no such compunction. Without stopping, he hurled himself at the gunman and they both crashed against the wall. As the man’s hat flew off, his light brown hair spilled across his mask.
    Holmes tore the gun from the would-be assassin’s hand, fully expecting him to resist. But he seemed strangely unaware that he had been thrown against a wall, much less that he had just attempted murder. Puzzled, Holmes dragged the man back to his feet and tore the mask from his face.
    As he had expected, he found himself looking into the face ofthe young man they had first seen at Boulogne-sur-Mer – the troubled watcher of raindrops.
    Up close, the remnants of a fading bruise could just be seen upon the young man’s chin.
    Now that the danger had passed, the neighbour regained his courage and came hurrying over to help. Still the would-be assassin just stood there, motionless, a sad, vacant look in his unfocused hazel eyes.
    Cursing him, Verne’s neighbour got him in an arm-lock and pushed him face-first against the wall. The impact drew blood. Still the young man offered neither resistance nor reaction.
    Catching his breath, Holmes turned to Verne. By now Watson had reached the fallen author and was carefully removing his left high boot and sock so that he could examine the wound. The bullet had struck Verne deep in the lower shin, a few inches above the ankle. It was an ugly wound and it was bleeding fiercely.
    A crowd had started to gather. As Watson removed his tie and set about fashioning it into a makeshift tourniquet, he caught a distinctive flash of purple off to his left. Glancing that way, he saw the attractive woman who had complimented him on his French at Gare du Nord standing among the curious, chattering passers-by. He nodded at her and then continued tending to his patient.
    Behind Holmes and Watson the gate in the wall now opened and a servant rushed out. Drawn by the sound of the shots, he looked at Verne and exclaimed:
‘M’sieur!
What has happened?’
    ‘He’s been shot,’ Watson said. ‘Summon an ambulance at once!’
    ‘As for you …’ snarled Verne’s neighbour, manhandling the vacant-eyed young man, ‘I ought to crack your head open!’
    ‘No, Fréson!’ cried Verne. ‘Do not hurt