We followed the Indian down a sordid and common age, ill lit and worse furnished, until he came to a door upon the right, which he threw open. A blaze of yellow light streamed out upon us, and in the centre of the glare there stood a small man with a very high head, a bristle of red hair all round the fringe of it, and a bald, shining scalp which shot out from among it like a mountain-peak from fir-trees. He writhed his hands together as he stood, and his features were in a perpetual jerk, now smiling, now scowling, but never for an instant in repose. Nature had given him a pendulous lip, and a too visible line of yellow and irregular teeth, which he strove feebly to conceal by constantly ing his hand over the lower part of his face. In spite of his obtrusive baldness, he gave the impression of youth. In point of fact he had just turned his thirtieth year.

"Your servant, Miss Morstan," he kept repeating, in a thin, high voice. "Your servant, gentlemen. Pray step into my little sanctum. A small place, miss, but furnished to my own liking. An oasis of art in the howling desert of South London."

We were all astonished by the appearance of the apartment into which he invited us. In that sorry house it looked as out of place as a diamond of the first water in a setting of brass. The richest and glossiest of curtains and tapestries draped the walls, looped back here and there to expose some richly-mounted painting or Oriental vase. The carpet was of amber-and-black, so soft and so thick that the foot sank pleasantly into it, as into a bed of moss. Two great tiger-skins thrown athwart it increased the suggestion of Eastern luxury, as did a huge hookah which stood upon a mat in the corner.

A lamp in the fashion of a silver dove was hung from an almost invisible golden wire in the centre of the room. As it burned it filled the air with a subtle and aromatic odor.
"Mr. Thaddeus Sholto," said the little man, still jerking and smiling. "That is my name. You are Miss Morstan, of course. And these gentlemen—"

"This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. Watson."
"A doctor, eh?" cried he, much excited. "Have you your stethoscope? Might I ask you—would you have the kindness? I have grave doubts as to my mitral valve, if you would be so very good. The aortic I may rely upon, but I should value your opinion upon the mitral."
I listened to his heart, as requested, but was unable to find anything amiss, save indeed that he was in an ecstasy of fear, for he shivered from head to foot. "It appears to be normal," I said. "You have no cause for uneasiness."
"You will excuse my anxiety, Miss Morstan," he remarked, airily. "I am a great sufferer, and I have long had suspicions as to that valve. I am delighted to hear that they are unwarranted. Had your father, Miss Morstan, refrained from throwing a strain upon his heart, he might have been alive now."
I could have struck the man across the face, so hot was I at this callous and off-hand reference to so delicate a matter. Miss Morstan sat down, and her face grew white to the lips. "I knew in my heart that he was dead," said she.
"I can give you every information," said he, "and, what is more, I can do you justice; and I will, too, whatever Brother Bartholomew may say. I am so glad to have your friends here, not only as an escort to you, but also as witnesses to what I am about to do and say. The three of us can show a bold front to Brother Bartholomew. But let us have no outsiders,—no police or officials. We can settle everything satisfactorily among ourselves, without any interference. Nothing would annoy Brother Bartholomew more than any publicity." He sat down upon a low settee and blinked at us inquiringly with his weak, watery blue eyes.
"For my part," said Holmes, "whatever you may choose to say will go no further."

I nodded to show my agreement.
"That is well! That is well!" said he. "May I offer you a glass of Chianti, Miss Morstan? Or of Tokay? I keep no other wines. Shall I open a flask? No? Well, then, I trust that you have no objection to tobacco-smoke, to the mild balsamic odor of the Eastern tobacco. I am a little nervous, and I find my hookah an invaluable sedative." He applied a taper to the great bowl, and the smoke bubbled merrily through the rose-water. We sat all three in a semicircle, with our heads advanced, and our chins upon our hands, while the strange, jerky little fellow, with his high, shining head, puffed uneasily in the centre.

"When I first determined to make this communication to you," said he, "I might have given you my address, but I feared that you might disregard my request and bring unpleasant people with you. I took the liberty, therefore, of making an appointment in such a way that my man Williams might be able to see you first. I have complete confidence in his discretion, and he had orders, if he were dissatisfied, to proceed no further in the matter. You will excuse these precautions, but I am a man of somewhat retiring, and I might even say refined, tastes, and there is nothing more unaesthetic than a policeman. I have a natural shrinking from all forms of rough materialism. I seldom come in with the rough crowd. I live, as you see, with some little atmosphere of elegance around me. I may call myself a patron of the arts. It is my weakness. The landscape is a genuine Corot, and, though a connoisseur might perhaps throw a doubt upon that Salvator Rosa, there cannot be the least question about the Bouguereau. I am partial to the modern French school."

"You will excuse me, Mr. Sholto," said Miss Morstan, "but I am here at your request to learn something which you desire to tell me. It is very late, and I should desire the interview to be as short as possible."
"At the best it must take some time," he answered; "for we shall certainly have to go to Norwood and see Brother Bartholomew. We shall all go and try if we can get the better of Brother Bartholomew. He is very angry with me for taking the course which has seemed right to me. I had quite high words with him last night. You cannot imagine what a terrible fellow he is when he is angry."
"If we are to go to Norwood it would perhaps be as well to start at once," I ventured to remark.
He laughed until his ears were quite red. "That would hardly do," he cried. "I don't know what he would say if I brought you in that sudden way. No, I must prepare you by showing you how we all stand to each other. In the first place, I must tell you that there are several points in the story of which I am myself ignorant. I can only lay the facts before you as far as I know them myself.
"My father was, as you may have guessed, Major John Sholto, once of the Indian army. He retired some eleven years ago, and came to live at Pondicherry Lodge in Upper Norwood. He had prospered in India, and brought back with him a considerable sum of money, a large collection of valuable curiosities, and a staff of native servants. With these advantages he bought himself a house, and lived in great luxury. My twin-brother Bartholomew and I were the only children.

"I very well the sensation which was caused by the disappearance of Captain Morstan. We read the details in the papers, and, knowing that he had been a friend of our father's, we discussed the case freely in his presence. He used to in our speculations as to what could have happened. Never for an instant did we suspect that he had the whole secret hidden in his own breast,—that of all men he alone knew the fate of Arthur Morstan.

"We did know, however, that some mystery—some positive danger—overhung our father. He was very fearful of going out alone, and he always employed two prize-fighters to act as porters at Pondicherry Lodge. Williams, who drove you to-night, was one of them. He was once light-weight champion of England. Our father would never tell us what it was he feared, but he had a most marked aversion to men with wooden legs. On one occasion he actually fired his revolver at a wooden-legged man, who proved to be a harmless tradesman canvassing for orders. We had to pay a large sum to hush the matter up. My brother and I used to think this a mere whim of my father's, but events have since led us to change our opinion.

"Early in 1882 my father received a letter from India which was a great shock to him. He nearly fainted at the breakfast-table when he opened it, and from that day he sickened to his death. What was in the letter we could never discover, but I could see as he held it that it was short and written in a scrawling hand. He had suffered for years from an enlarged spleen, but he now became rapidly worse, and towards the end of April we were informed that he was beyond all hope, and that he wished to make a last communication to us.

"When we entered his room he was propped up with pillows and breathing heavily. He besought us to lock the door and to come upon either side of the bed. Then, grasping our hands, he made a remarkable statement to us, in a voice which was broken as much by emotion as by pain. I shall try and give it to you in his own very words.

"'I have only one thing,' he said, 'which weighs upon my mind at this supreme moment. It is my treatment of poor Morstan's orphan. The cursed greed which has been my besetting sin through life has withheld from her the treasure, half at least of which should have been hers. And yet I have made no use of it myself,—so blind and foolish a thing is avarice.

The mere feeling of possession has been so dear to me that I could not bear to share it with another. See that chaplet dipped with pearls beside the quinine-bottle. Even that I could not bear to part with, although I had got it out with the design of sending it to her. You, my sons, will give her a fair share of the Agra treasure. But send her nothing—not even the chaplet—until I am gone. After all, men have been as bad as this and have recovered.

"'I will tell you how Morstan died,' he continued. 'He had suffered for years from a weak heart, but he concealed it from every one. I alone knew it. When in India, he and I, through a remarkable chain of circumstances, came into possession of a considerable treasure. I brought it over to England, and on the night of Morstan's arrival he came straight over here to claim his share. He walked over from the station, and was itted by my faithful Lal Chowdar, who is now dead. Morstan and I had a difference of opinion as to the division of the treasure, and we came to heated words. Morstan had sprung out of his chair in a paroxysm of anger, when he suddenly pressed his hand to his side, his face turned a dusky hue, and he fell backwards, cutting his head against the corner of the treasure-chest. When I stooped over him I found, to my horror, that he was dead.

"'For a long time I sat half distracted, wondering what I should do. My first impulse was, of course, to call for assistance; but I could not but recognize that there was every chance that I would be accused of his murder. His death at the moment of a quarrel, and the gash in his head, would be black against me.

La historia del hombre calvo

Seguimos al indio por un pasillo srdido y vulgar, mal iluminado y peor amueblado, hasta llegar a una puerta situada a la derecha, que abri de par en par. Quedamos baados por un resplandor de luz amarilla, y en el centro del resplandor se alzaba un hombre pequeo con la cabeza muy alta, una orla de pelo rojizo alrededor y un crneo calvo y reluciente, que sobresala del cabello como la cumbre de una montaa sobresale entre los abetos. Estaba de pie, retorcindose las manos y con los rasgos de la cara en constante agitacin: tan pronto sonrea como pona mal gesto, pero sus facciones no quedaban en reposo ni un solo instante. La naturaleza le haba dotado de un labio colgante y una hilera demasiado visible de dientes amarillentos e irregulares, que procuraba ocultar sin mucho entusiasmo pasndose la mano por la parte inferior del rostro. A pesar de su prominente calva, daba la impresin de ser joven. Y de hecho, acababa de cumplir treinta aos.
––A su servicio, seorita Morstan ––repiti varias veces, con su voz aguda y penetrante––. A su servicio, caballeros. Por favor, pasen a mi humilde santuario. Un pequeo rincn, seorita, pero amueblado a mi gusto. Un oasis de arte en el ruidoso desierto del sur de Londres.
Todos nos quedamos asombrados por el aspecto de la habitacin a la que nos invitaba a entrar. Pareca tan fuera de lugar en aquella fnebre casa como un diamante de la mejor calidad en una montura de latn. Las paredes estaban cubiertas por esplndidas cortinas y deslumbrantes tapices, recogidos aqu y all para dejar sitio a algn cuadro lujosamente enmarcado o a un jarrn oriental. La alfombra, de colores mbar y negro, era tan blanda y tan gruesa que los pies se hundan agradablemente en ella, como en una capa de musgo. Dos grandes pieles de tigre extendidas sobre la alfombra acentuaban la impresin de lujo oriental, a la que contribua una enorme hookah colocada sobre una esterilla en un rincn. Una lmpara con forma de paloma de plata colgaba de un cable casi invisible en el centro de la habitacin. Al arder, impregnaba el aire de un aroma sutil.
––Soy Thaddeus Sholto ––dijo el hombrecillo, sin dejar de temblar y sonrer––. se es mi nombre. Usted, naturalmente, es la seorita Morstan. Y estos caballeros...
––ste es el seor Sherlock Holmes, y ste el doctor Watson.
––Un mdico, eh? ––exclam, muy excitado––. Ha trado su estetoscopio? Podra pedirle..., tendra la amabilidad de...? Tengo serias dudas acerca de mi vlvula mitral, y si fuera tan amable... En la aorta puedo confiar, pero me gustara conocer su opinin sobre la mitral.
Le auscult el corazn como me peda, pero no escuch nada anormal, aparte de que era evidente que sufra un ataque extremo de miedo, ya que temblaba de pies a cabeza.
––Parece normal ––dije––. No tiene por qu preocuparse.
––Tendr que perdonar mi ansiedad, seorita Morstan ––dijo en tono afectado––. Tengo muy mala salud y hace tiempo que sospechaba de esa vlvula. Me alegra muchsimo or que mis sospechas eran infundadas. Si su padre, seorita Morstan, no hubiera sometido su corazn a tantas tensiones, tal vez estara vivo todava.
Me dieron ganas de cruzarle la cara, de tanto que me indign su cruel e innecesaria alusin a un tema tan delicado. La seorita Morstan se sent, completamente plida.
––Siempre tuve la corazonada de que haba fallecido ––dijo.
––Puedo darle toda la informacin al respecto ––dijo l––. Y lo que es ms, puedo hacerle justicia. Y lo har, diga lo que diga mi hermano Bartholomew. Me alegro de que hayan venido sus amigos, no slo para escoltarla, sino tambin para que sean testigos de lo que me dispongo a hacer y decir. Entre los tres podremos hacer frente a mi hermano Bartholomew. Pero que no intervengan extraos. Ni policas ni funcionarios. Podemos arreglarlo todo perfectamente entre nosotros, sin ninguna interferencia. Nada molestara tanto a mi hermano Bartholomew como la publicidad.
Se sent en un canap bajo y nos mir inquisitivamente, sin dejar de guiar sus ojos azules, miopes y acuosos.
––Por mi parte ––dijo Holmes––, lo que usted vaya a decirnos quedar entre nosotros.
Yo asent para mostrar mi conformidad.
––Perfecto! Perfecto! ––dijo Sholto––. Le apetece un vaso de chianti, seorita Morstan? O de tokay? No tengo ninguna otra clase de vino. Quiere que abra una botella? No? Muy bien. Confo en que no pondr objeciones al tabaco, al balsmico olor del tabaco oriental. Estoy un poco nervioso y mi hookah es para m un sedante maravilloso.
Aplic una cerilla a la gran cazoleta de la pipa, y el humo burbuje alegremente a travs del agua de rosas. Los tres nos sentamos en semicrculo, adelantando la cabeza y apoyando la barbilla en las manos, mientras el extrao y tembloroso hombrecillo de crneo alto y reluciente aspiraba inquietas bocanadas en el centro.
––Cuando decid comunicarle todo esto ––dijo––, podra haberle dado mi direccin desde un principio, pero tuve miedo de que no hiciera caso de mis condiciones y trajera con usted gente desagradable. As pues, me tom la libertad de concertar una cita de manera que mi sirviente Williams pudiera verlos antes. Tengo completa confianza en su discrecin y le orden que, si no quedaba satisfecho, no siguiera adelante. Tendr que perdonarme estas precauciones, pero soy hombre de costumbres reservadas, e incluso podra decir de gustos refinados, y no hay nada tan antiesttico como un polica. Me repugnan por naturaleza todas las manifestaciones de burdo materialismo. Casi nunca entro en o con la masa vulgar. Vivo, como usted ve, rodeado de una cierta atmsfera de elegancia. Podramos decir que soy un mecenas de las artes. Son mi debilidad. Ese paisaje es un autntico Corot y, aunque un entendido podra sentir ciertas dudas acerca de ese Salvatore Rosa, con este Bouguereau no puede caber la menor duda. Me encanta la escuela sa moderna.
––Perdone usted, seor Sholto ––dijo la seorita Morstan––, pero he venido aqu a peticin suya para enterarme de algo que usted desea contarme. Es ya muy tarde y me gustara que la entrevista fuera lo ms breve posible.
––En el mejor de los casos, creo que nos tomar algn tiempo ––respondi l––. Porque, naturalmente, tendremos que ir a Norwood a ver a mi hermano Bartholomew. Podemos ir todos y trataremos de convencerlo. Est muy enfadado conmigo por haber tomado la iniciativa que me pareca justa. Anoche tuvimos unas palabras bastante fuertes. No pueden imaginar lo terrible que se pone cuando est furioso.
––Si vamos a ir a Norwood, tal vez convendra salir ya ––me atrev a sugerir.
Sholto se ech a rer hasta que las orejas se le pusieron completamente rojas.
––As no adelantaramos nada ––exclam––. No s lo que dira si me presentara con ustedes as, de repente. No, tengo que prepararles, explicndoles cules son nuestras respectivas posiciones. En primer lugar, debo decirles que hay ciertos detalles de la historia que yo mismo ignoro. Slo puedo explicarles los hechos hasta donde yo los conozco.
Como ustedes habrn adivinado, mi padre era el mayor John Sholto, del ejrcito de la India. Se retir hace unos once aos y se instal en el Pabelln Pondicherry, en Upper Norwood. En la India le haba ido bien y se trajo de all una considerable cantidad de dinero, una gran coleccin de valiosas curiosidades y un equipo de sirvientes nativos. Con estos recursos se compr una casa y vivi con todo lujo. Mi hermano gemelo Bartholomew y yo ramos sus nicos hijos.
Recuerdo muy bien la sensacin que provoc la desaparicin del capitn Morstan. Lemos los detalles en la prensa y, como sabamos que haba sido amigo de nuestro padre, comentbamos el caso con toda libertad en su presencia. Incluso participaba en nuestras especulaciones sobre lo que podra haber ocurrido. Ni por un instante sospechamos que l estuviera al corriente del secreto; que slo l, entre todos los hombres, saba qu haba sido de Arthur Morstan.
Sin embargo, s que sabamos que sobre nuestro padre se cerna algn misterio, algn peligro concreto, porque le daba miedo salir solo y tena empleados a dos luchadores como porteros del Pabelln Pondicherry. Williams, el que les ha trado aqu esta noche, era uno de ellos. En sus tiempos fue campen de Inglaterra de los pesos ligeros. Nuestro padre nunca nos dijo de qu tena miedo, pero senta una extraordinaria aversin hacia los hombres con pata de palo. En una ocasin lleg a disparar su revlver contra un hombre con pata de palo, que result ser un inofensivo vendedor ambulante que iba de casa en casa. Tuvimos que pagar una elevada suma para silenciar el asunto. Mi hermano y yo creamos que se trataba de una simple mana de nuestro padre; pero los acontecimientos posteriores nos hicieron cambiar de opinin.
A principios de 1882, mi padre recibi una carta de la India que le caus un gran sobresalto. Al abrirla, estuvo a punto de desmayarse en la mesa del desayuno, y desde aquel da estuvo enfermo hasta que muri. Jams pudimos descubrir lo que deca aquella carta, pero mientras la tena en las manos pude ver que era breve y estaba escrita con muy mala letra. Desde haca varios aos, nuestro padre padeca de dilatacin del bazo, pero a partir de entonces empeor rpidamente y hacia finales de abril supimos que no haba esperanzas y que quera hacernos una revelacin postrera.
Cuando entramos en su habitacin, estaba incorporado en la cama con ayuda de varias almohadas y respiraba con dificultad. Nos pidi que cerrramos la puerta y que nos situramos uno a cada lado de la cama. Entonces, cogindonos de las manos, nos cont una historia extraordinaria, con una voz quebrada por la emocin y el dolor a partes iguales. Voy a intentar repetrsela a ustedes con sus mismas palabras:
Slo hay una cosa ––nos dijo–– que me pesa en la conciencia en este momento supremo. Es la manera en que me he portado con la pobre hurfana de Morstan. La maldita codicia, que ha sido mi principal pecado durante toda mi vida, la ha privado del tesoro, cuando le corresponda por lo menos la mitad del mismo. Y sin embargo, yo tampoco lo he aprovechado. Qu cosa tan ciega y estpida es la avaricia! La simple sensacin de poseerlo me resultaba tan agradable que no poda soportar la idea de compartirlo con nadie. Veis esa diadema con cuentas de perlas que hay junto al frasco de quinina? Pues ni siquiera de eso fui capaz de desprenderme, aunque lo haba sacado con la intencin de envirselo. Vosotros, hijos mos, le daris una parte justa del tesoro de Agra. Pero no le enviis nada, ni siquiera la diadema, hasta que yo haya muerto. Al fin y al cabo, hay quien ha estado tan mal como yo y se ha recuperado.
Voy a contaros cmo muri Morstan ––continu––. Llevaba aos enfermo del corazn, pero no se lo haba dicho a nadie. Yo era el nico que lo saba. Cuando l y yo estbamos en la India, por una extraa serie de acontecimientos, lleg a nuestro poder un importante tesoro. Yo me lo traje a Inglaterra, y cuando lleg Morstan, aquella misma noche vino derecho aqu a reclamar su parte. Vino andando desde la estacin y le abri la puerta el viejo y leal Lal Chowdar, que en paz descanse. Morstan y yo tuvimos una diferencia de opiniones sobre el reparto del tesoro y nos cruzamos palabras muy fuertes. En un ataque de ira, Morstan se puso en pie de un salto y, de pronto, se llev la mano al costado, se le oscureci el rostro y cay hacia atrs, golpendose la cabeza contra la esquina del cofre del tesoro. Cuando me inclin sobre l, descubr horrorizado que haba muerto.
Me qued mucho tiempo sentado y medio atontado, preguntndome qu poda hacer. Naturalmente, mi primer impulso fue pedir ayuda; pero me daba perfecta cuenta de que era muy probable que me acusaran de asesinato. El que hubiera muerto durante una disputa y la herida que tena en la cabeza eran indicios muy graves en m contra. Por otra parte, era imposible realizar una investigacin oficial sin que saliera a relucir la historia del tesoro, que yo estaba firmemente decidido a mantener en secreto. El me haba dicho que nadie en el mundo saba dnde haba ido. Me pareci que no haba ninguna necesidad de que alguien lo supiera jams.