4 The Figure in the Window

Chapter 4 The Figure in the Window It felt just like old times when, shortly afterward, I found myself seated beside Holmes in a hansom cab, a revolver in my pocket and the thrill of adventure in my heart. Holmes was silent and thoughtful as the streetlamps flashed upon his pale face. I had no idea what kind of beast we were about to hunt down in the dark forest of criminal London, but his mood left me in no doubt that it was a dangerous one. Holmes stopped the cab at Cavendish Square. As he stepped out, he looked around carefully as if to ensure we weren't being followed.

My friend's knowledge of the smaller streets and alleys of London was remarkable. That night, he took us on a strange route through a network of mews and stables that I had no idea existed. At last, we emerged on Manchester Street, which led us to Blandford Street. Here we turned into a narrow passage and passed through a gate into a deserted yard. Holmes used a key to open the back door of a house.

The place was pitch dark, yet I sensed from the echoes of our footsteps on the bare floorboards that it was an empty house. I stretched out my hand to touch a wall and found the wallpaper hanging off. Holmes's cool, thin fingers closed around my wrist and led me down the long hall. Ahead I saw the dull gleam of a street-lamp coming through the fanlight over the front door. Then Holmes turned a sharp right and we entered a large, square, empty room. The room's corners lay in shadow, but the middle was faintly illuminated by light from the street coming through the dusty window.

"Do you know where we are?" Holmes whispered into my ear. "Why, that's Baker Street," I said, staring through the window. "Precisely. We're in Camden House, which stands opposite our old lodgings." "Why are we here?" "Because it offers an excellent view of our charming residence. Why don't you venture a little closer to the window, Watson? Not too close—it's important not to show yourself. That's perfect. Now, look up at our old rooms—the starting point of so many of your fairy tales. And tell me if, after three years, I still have the power to surprise you."

As I looked across the street at the familiar window, I uttered a cry of amazement. The blind was down and a yellow light was burning in the room. The silhouette of a man seated in a chair was clearly visible at the window. There was no mistaking the angle of the head, the squareness of the shoulders, and the sharpness of the features. It was the very image of Sherlock Holmes. I was so astonished that I grasped Holmes's shoulder to make sure the man himself was still standing beside me. He was quivering with silent laughter.

"Well?" he asked. "It's incredible!" I cried. "It's rather a good likeness, isn't it?" "I'd be prepared to swear it was you." "It's a bust in wax, created by a French artist I'm friendly with. I installed it during my visit to Baker Street this afternoon." "But why?" "Because, my dear Watson, I needed certain people to think I was there when I was really elsewhere." "You thought our rooms were being watched?" "I knew they were being watched." "By whom?" "By my old enemies, Watson. By the charming gang whose leader lies at the bottom of the Reichenbach Falls." "Then they know you're alive?" "Of course. You remember the witness who threw rocks at me when I was perched on that ledge? He and his comrades have been waiting all these years for me to return to London. They've