Free The Secret Files of Sherlock Holmes by June Thomson Page A

than the vehicle drew to a halt outside the building.
    Motioning to me to do the same, Holmes extinguished his lantern, thrust it into his pocket and turned back towards the shaft, our nearest means of escape.
    In the dim light filtering in through the glass panels in the door, I saw him seize the rope which dangled from the hoist and start to climb down it. A gesture of his head before it disappeared below floor level invited me to follow.
    It was many years, not since my school-days, in fact, that I had climbed a rope and the wound I had received from the Jezail bullet on the Afghan frontier * made any vigorous exercise quite painful on occasions. Nevertheless, I copied his example, clambering over the low grille and lowering myself after him into the blackness of the shaft.
    I found it a dizzying sensation, not knowing how deep it wasor where it might end, and it was with considerable relief that at last I felt my feet touch solid ground and Holmes’ hand stretched out to steady me.
    I had emerged into a stone passage, similar to the one upstairs but smelling more strongly of damp and disuse. Facing me was a heavy door, lined with green baize, to which Holmes, who had relit his lantern, drew my attention, shining the light across its surface.
    ‘Soundproofed,’ he said in a whisper. ‘Interesting, do you not agree, Watson? Why should anyone wish to soundproof a basement door in a furniture warehouse? Let us see where it leads.’
    It was unlocked and yielded silently as Holmes put his hand against it.
    Beyond lay a large room of such an extraordinary and unexpected appearance that I stood quite motionless for several moments, looking about me in utter astonishment. It was a large, vaulted chamber, well below street level and with no windows or even a grating through which natural light could penetrate, a feature which, together with the low arched ceiling, gave the place the claustrophobic atmosphere of a dungeon.
    But here any comparison with a prison or an underground cell ended, for the room was furnished like an expensive West End club or the smoking-room of a gentleman’s private residence. The stone floor was covered with sumptuous rugs and carpets, the walls with hangings, while upholstered sofas and leather armchairs were grouped round low tables, lavishly supplied with boxes of cigars and cigarettes.
    Holmes’ lantern picked out other details of the room, its light passing briefly over a carved sideboard loaded with glasses and bottles of wine and spirits, brass lamps with globes of engraved glass, waiting to be lit, and photographs of a salacious nature in which young women in a state of undress postured and smiled.
    Among these luxurious furnishings, an ordinary roll-top desk which stood against the near wall seemed a prosaic item but nevertheless attracted Holmes’ attention. Darting across to it, he pushed up its lid and began hurriedly to examine thecontents of the pigeonholes with which it was equipped, extracting several items.
    I heard him give a chuckle of satisfaction.
    ‘I think, Watson,’ said he, ‘that we have reached the heart of the labyrinth.’
    But before he could explain what he meant or show me the papers he was holding in his hand, he glanced up towards the vaulted ceiling, his aquiline features alert with an expression of keen attention.
    ‘Listen!’ he exclaimed.
    I strained my ears but could hear nothing.
    ‘What is it, Holmes?’ I asked.
    ‘Footsteps,’ he replied. ‘Our caller is on his way downstairs. Come, Watson! It is time we found ourselves a hiding-place.’
    This proved no difficulty. The hangings which covered the walls provided plenty of opportunity for concealment and we chose a corner near the door where the curtains, draped across the angle, afforded enough space for both of us, from which vantage point we could also keep the whole chamber under observation.
    Here we waited in total darkness for several long minutes before a sudden draught of cold air as the