Death on a Pale Horse - By Donald Thomas Page 0,70

and saloon bars only in the search for lost souls. If one day I find you there, sir, I shall hold out my hand to you.”

We now went through a foolish charade in which the three of us got up and left the sergeant at his desk in the lobby of Landor Mansions. Inspector Lestrade turned towards Victoria Street and the Criminal Investigation Division of Scotland Yard. As soon as he was out of sight, Holmes swung round towards the apartment block we had just left.

“Quickly, Watson, before our only dependable witness disappears! Sergeant Gibbons is a man to be trusted, you may depend upon that. We must speak to him now without our friend Lestrade in attendance.”

Presently we were back in the room behind the commissionaire’s desk, occupying the same chairs from which we had risen a few minutes earlier.

“I promise you that you have nothing whatever to fear from us,” Sherlock Holmes said reassuringly to Albert Gibbons. “The record of your military service speaks for itself.”

Despite this assurance, the sergeant was far more nervous now than he had ever been under Lestrade’s questioning.

“Sir?”

“Do you know in which room of Carlyle Mansions the body of Captain Sellon was found?”

“Yes, sir, the sitting-room of number 49. Slumped over the desk. Sergeant Haskins told me that much this morning. Very sorry I was to hear about it, sir.”

There was a long pause before Holmes added,

“You are familiar with that room.”

“Sir?”

“My words were a statement to you, Gibbons, not a question. At what time was it that you entered apartment 49 of the opposite block, perhaps using a copy of the key, possibly duplicated in the manner you described to Inspector Lestrade just now? Was it before the shooting this morning? or was the captain already lying dead by the time that you made your intrusion?”

“Sir? Who says I was ever in any room over there—or in that building at all?”

“I do,” said Holmes firmly. “Captain Sellon was a serving officer of the Special Investigation Branch, Provost Marshal’s Corps. As I am sure you know. You, unless I am much mistaken, were in his confidence. Mr. Dordona is in ours. Indeed, he is our client. We are, if you will excuse the cliché, all in this together. So we will now have the truth, if you please. You have my word again that whatever truth you tell me will not hurt you, but that a falsehood will destroy you.”

Sergeant Gibbons looked from one to other of us, but Sherlock Holmes allowed him no respite.

“Please remember that Inspector Lestrade is looking for a neck to fit a noose. Very well. Did you enter that room before Captain Joshua Sellon was killed—before he arrived there, indeed? Or was he already lying dead when you let yourself in this morning with a key that had been copied for that purpose?”

“I was.…”

“One moment, if you please. You have told us, just now in the presence of Mr. Lestrade, that you are familiar with the methods used to copy such a key. But you did not copy a key to that room, did you, because you had already been given one? Almost certainly by Captain Sellon. Is that not so? Capital. Tell me whether you were in time to exchange any words with Captain Sellon before he was shot dead.”

This questioning about Sellon and the key was one of those occasions when my heart missed a beat because I could not see how Holmes could know so much. From time to time in such exchanges he would take what seemed to be a gambler’s chance with shots at random. But if luck was on his side, it was because during every phrase he uttered, he watched his victim’s response like a hawk or a cobra. Then he would add one thrust to another as he saw his adversary’s self-assurance falter.

Albert Gibbons said, “You are Mr. Sherlock Holmes, sir. I know that.”

“Of course you do. Kindly answer the questions.”

“And then you, sir, are Dr. John Watson?”

“Indeed. You and I met some months ago, when you brought my colleague a note from Inspector Gregson.”

Instead of replying to any of the questions, Sergeant Gibbons got up and went to a small bureau in his commissionaire’s office. He opened the lid and lowered it on to its supports. His hand slid into an empty cubby-hole that might have held papers or envelopes. There was a slight jerk as a spring gave way. Then he drew his hand back and moved out