“Have you read Gaboriau’s works?” I asked. “Does Lecoq come up to your idea of a

detective?”

 

Sherlock Holmes sniffed sardonically. “Lecoq was a miserable bungler,” he said,

in an angry voice; “he had only one thing to recommend him, and that was his

energy. That book made me positively ill. The question was how to identify an

unknown prisoner. I could have done it in twenty-four hours. Lecoq took six

months or so. It might be made a text-book for detectives to teach them what to

avoid.”

 

I felt rather indignant at having two characters whom I had admired treated in

this cavalier style. I walked over to the window, and stood looking out into the

busy street. “This fellow may be very clever,” I said to myself, “but he is

certainly very conceited.”

 

“There are no crimes and no criminals in these days,” he said, querulously.

“What is the use of having brains in our profession. I know well that I have it

in me to make my name famous. No man lives or has ever lived who has brought the

same amount of study and of natural talent to the detection of crime which I

have done. And what is the result? There is no crime to detect, or, at most,

some bungling villainy with a motive so transparent that even a Scotland Yard

official can see through it.”

 

I was still annoyed at his bumptious style of conversation. I thought it best to