The Secret Files of Sherlock Holmes Read Online Free PDF

leapt out of the cab and, ordering the driver to take me to my address in Paddington, * called out as the cab drove off, ‘You must not be late for your appointment, Watson. I shall expect you at Baker Street for luncheon. Twelve o’clock sharp!’
    Rather than arriving late, I was a good hour and a half too early and I spent the intervening time until my patient arrived musing over the strange case of Mr Phillimore’s disappearance although I could make little of it.
    A locked wardrobe? A bread delivery man? A head-waiter who read The Times and had a liking for an occasional visit to a music-hall?
    None of it seemed to point to Mr Phillimore’s present whereabouts and I looked forward impatiently to the time when I could return to Baker Street and question Holmes over luncheon.
    On this occasion, luncheon was a simple meal of cold meat, bread and pickles which Holmes urged me to eat quickly as time was short.
    ‘Now look here, Holmes,’ I protested as I seated myself at the table. ‘You and I have shared many adventures and you have always taken me into your confidence. Do you or do you not know where Mr Phillimore is hiding and, if you do, how have you arrived at your conclusion?’
    ‘My dear old fellow,’ Holmes replied, carving away energetically at the cold beef. ‘I had no intention of keeping you in the dark. I myself was not sure of all the facts until this morning. But I am now fairly confident that I can find our vanishing head-waiter.’
    ‘How?’
    ‘From my observations of human nature; a most worthwhile subject, Watson, which every aspiring detective should make his lifetime’s study. I have frequently noticed that even themost hardened and experienced criminal has a particular routine or pattern of behaviour which, if only one can discover it, will lead to his arrest. Remember Harry Beecham, the notorious forger? He was constantly moving his equipment from one back street workshop to another so that the police had the deuce of a job keeping up with him. I eventually ran him to earth because he always went to the same barber in Shadwell to have his hair cut; had done for years and could not, it seemed, shake off the habit. Now, how much more likely is that precept to apply to Mr James Phillimore, par excellence a man of regular routines to whom familiarity of surroundings would be essential? He may have disappeared in Clapham but he has most certainly reappeared in some environment where he will feel almost as much at home.’
    ‘Oh, I see, Holmes!’ I exclaimed. ‘The boarding-house in Margate where he spent his week’s convalescence!’
    ‘Exactly!’
    ‘But how do you propose finding him? Margate is a popular seaside resort. It must contain hundreds of boarding-houses. Do you intend inquiring at each and every one of them? It could take days.’
    ‘Not days, Watson; merely a matter of a few hours. Mrs Bennet mentioned that the establishment had a foreign-sounding name. I suggest “
Mon Repos
” is a distinct possibility. I have noticed before that it is a favourite with seaside landladies although why they choose that particular nomenclature, when to run such businesses must be anything but restful, is beyond my comprehension. I cannot believe it is meant ironically. Landladies are not usually renowned for their sense of humour. We shall also look for a boarding-house which has a neat garden and a freshly-whitened front doorstep. I believe Mr Phillimore’s inclinations may very well run in those directions. Now do eat up, Watson. I have ordered a cab to take us to Victoria Station to catch the 1.15 to Margate.’
    We caught the train, Holmes passing the journey by chatting amiably about many different subjects – French literature, the quality of the acoustics in St James’s Hall, the best fish-restaurant in London; anything but the case in hand – until the train arrived at Margate.
    We took a four-wheeler from the rank outside the station, Holmes instructing the cabby to drive us