1 The Redheaded League

The Redheaded 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 are 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 scanned 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 that I was a laborer. 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 work. 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. At 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 Redheaded League: At the request of the late Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U.S.A., employment is available to a redheaded man who is 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 eleven o'clock, to Duncan Ross, at 7 Pope's Court, Fleet Street. "What on earth does this mean?" I asked. "Well, Mr. Watson," Wilson said, "I have a small pawnshop 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 Spaulding, and he's a fine worker. My only complaint is that he spends too much time with his hobby—photography. He takes pictures, then spends hours in his darkroom 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 is just the

three of us, living quietly. "But then, two months ago," he continued, "Spaulding showed me the notice you just read. He said he wished he had red hair because he had heard the job was easy and paid well. He also heard that Ezekiah 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. "Spaulding explained that Hopkins had lived in London years ago. It seems 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