Warlock Holmes--A Study in Brimstone by G.S. Denning Read Free Book Online Page A

Lestrade, who practically moaned, “Rare. This is rare. Such blood would sustain any human into whom it was suffused. This blood is the purest; bringing life to all, death to none. Oh, rare…”
    A search of the man’s pockets revealed more clues. He had personal cards; they listed no occupation, but gave his name as Enoch Drebber. He had a wallet, with several banknotes still in it (until Grogsson snatched them), so theft was clearly not the motive. Nor had the killer taken much care to obscure the victim’s identity.
    “I think he was American,” I mused. “See here, he carried his wallet in his back pocket, in the American style, rather than in his breast pocket. And look, it is stamped with the motif of a bull’s head within a star. I can think of no people barbaric enough to fashion such a monstrosity; none but the Texans.”
    Yet, the best clue—and also the most baffling—was the paper in his mouth. I drew it out, employing my surgical practice of slow and steady hands. It is well I took such care, for the artifact was fragile in the extreme. It was wax paper, yellowed and brittle with age. It bore the marks of having been carefully folded and kept for some time. Unrolling and then unfolding it, I beheld the faded logo of Hall and Sons’ Bakery, St. Louis, Missouri.
    “That!” Warlock cried. “Give me that! I had nothing until now, but this—this is precious to someone.”
    “How can you tell?” I asked.
    “Oh… well… you know… observation?”
    Since his tone was so desperate, I elected to bail him out. “I see. You suppose its good condition, despite its fragility and age, means someone has gone to pains to see it preserved, thus proving that it is not rubbish, but treasure to them?”
    “Quite right, Watson, quite right,” Warlock said, with a relieved sigh. He turned the paper over and over in his hands, folded it gingerly and placed it in his breast pocket, saying, “He should not have left it; I’ll have him now.”
    Precisely how he intended to lure the murderer with a baked-goods wrapper was beyond the reach of my reason. Then again, I realized that reason would only carry me so far, in this present company. I began to examine the room and, after only a moment, gave a cry of discovery.
    “Look here!” I called to my companions. “Here, scrawled on the wall, in blood. It’s a word! Somebody has written ‘
Rache
.’”
    “No!” insisted the vampire Lestrade. “Not possible. It was not there before; I would have smelled it.”
    “I shouldn’t pay much attention to that,” Warlock said. “It has nothing to do with the murder.”
    I was quite taken aback and demanded to know, “How can you say that, Holmes? ‘
Rache
’ is German for ‘revenge’! Surely this is a fine clue!”
    “No. It isn’t,” he said.
    “Revenge.” Grogsson smiled; it was one of his favorite words.
    “This was not here when you came in,” Lestrade insisted.
    “It must have been,” I said. “None of us has been near this wall. And anyway, why would we wish to write ‘revenge’ in German, in blood, on a wall?”
    Holmes turned on me, wagging his finger, and said, “Dr. Watson,
if
you recall, before you moved in with me, I distinctly warned you that certain objects, notably walls, are likely to bleed in my company. When I listed my faults as a living companion, I told you to expect bloody messages to appear in German, Latin and Sanskrit.”
    “Excuse me, you did not!”
    “Oh. Did I not?” replied Holmes, with a sheepish look. “I ought to have. Anyway, it’s nothing to do with the murder. Lestrade, you can have it, if you like.”
    “I’ll not be touching that,” he said, staring at it as if it were… well, the word ‘revenge’ scrawled in blood. In retrospect, I suppose revulsion should have been a common reaction and unusual only for Lestrade.
    “Ahem… well… I suppose we must try to determine who he was,” I suggested, indicating the body of Enoch Drebber.
    “Easier said