Free Warlock Holmes--A Study in Brimstone by G.S. Denning

one Joseph Strangerson, his secretary. Further, they had information as to where the two had been staying—Madame Charpontier’s boarding house in Toruay Terrace—although they had checked out the evening before the crime. The paper even detailed the last time Drebber and Strangerson had been seen together: just after quarter past nine on Friday night, arguing on the platform at Euston Station. The two men had then walked off in separate directions. On a whim, I flipped through the paper until I found the schedule for the trains. Likely as not, the two of them had just missed the Liverpool train. The question was, where had they gone after missing the train? Why not head back to the boarding house together? I was forming a strategy of investigation, when Holmes—sitting in his armchair by the window, picking cabbage from his shirt front—muttered, “Oh dear. It looks as if Grogsson has read the paper this morning.”
    Rushing to the window, I beheld the massive form of Torg Grogsson coming down the street. He was beaming broadly, face alight with self-satisfaction, in spite of the fact that he was practically naked. His left fist was closed around the collar of a battered corpse, which he dragged to our door, before ringing the bell. Presently, Mrs. Hudson began her second screaming fit of the morning and a moment after that, Grogsson himself flung open our sitting-room door and shouted, “I win!”
    He triumphantly tossed the body into the center of the room. Only when it gave a groan of protest did I realize the man was still alive. I bolted to my bedroom for my medical bag and then back to attend to him, while there was still time. One side of his face was half stove-in. I later learned that Grogsson had hit him—only once, with his fist—very nearly killing the man.
    “Torg find killer,” Grogsson declared, jabbing himself in the chest with his thumb. “Is best ’tective evar!”
    No. The man on my floor was younger, shorter and entirely less threatening than the killer had been. I had no idea who he might be, but I knew who he wasn’t.
    “Good job, Grogsson,” said Warlock. “I had hoped Watson and I would capture him, but you’ve bested us entirely. Come in, why don’t you, and tell us how you did it.”
    Torg Grogsson proudly recounted his morning’s adventure, but I will not relate the conversation. It was so riddled with grammatical and pronunciation errors, so horribly tainted by the most rudimentary attempts at speech, that I hope it is never committed to paper. Instead, I shall offer you my own version of events, reconstructed as best I could manage from Grogsson’s account, witness statements and the police report that Madame Charpontier later filed against him.
    It seems Grogsson had arisen at roughly half past seven that morning and proceeded to read the paper (a feat I still can barely bring myself to believe him capable of). When he came to the mention of Madame Charpontier’s boarding house on Toruay Terrace, he became particularly excited; he knew the place. In his eagerness to apprehend the killer, he had neglected to dress and bounded into the street in his nightwear. Unfortunately, this consisted only of underpants, his bowler hat and a tie. After twenty minutes of running through the streets of London, howling his battle cry, he arrived at Madame Charpontier’s. Or rather, near it. He’d forgotten exactly which door was hers, so he frightened a number of her neighbors by bursting in upon them, before chancing upon the correct address.
    Madame Charpontier was not overly glad to make his acquaintance, nor was her daughter, Alice, who was also present. This daughter must have been quite pretty, for Torg spoke of her much more than the story warranted, sometimes leering like a maniac, other times tracing delicate patterns in the air with his goat-sized hand, as if softly stroking her cheek. I was sure there was just the hint of a tear in his eye.
    At first, communications were