Sherlock Holmes Edwardian Parodies and Pastiches I Page 4

  “That’s the way I want your answers,” said Bones, with a horrible look. “Now, then, did you ever see him write to any lady?”

  “Write to any lady! Vy, you foolisher person—I mean, oxcuse me—no!”

  “So far, so good,” said Bones. “There is a woman in the case.”

  “A woman?” I exclaimed in astonishment. “Why, he didn’t speak of any or write to any.”

  “Certainly,” cried Bones, with a glare of triumph in his feverish eyes, “certainly he didn’t! Rogue that he was! He concealed the fact only too well!”

  “Wasn’t he a little young to have predilections for the opposite sex?” I inquired cautiously.

  “My dear Hotson,” said Bones, “after your acquaintance with the case of the Rajah of Mauput’s son, who was only eleven years old and left his wife the way he did, you ought not to talk about age in that way.”

  “But, my dear Bones,” I protested, “that was in India, and this is London!”

  “There, there, Hotson,” he said in a patronizing voice, “you’re a good fellow, but remember I am the detective and don’t fall into the foolish methods of reasoning that those illogical Scotland Yard folks do.” Then, turning to the baker, he continued: “Did you ever see any money about him?”

  “I didn’t, vat I recollectshun—”

  “Enough!” said Bones. “He lavished and squandered his money on her; do you understand? On her!”

  “Jimminy Grachus, you donten say so!” exclaimed the astonished baker.

  “What mental pursuits was he engrossed in?” demanded Bones.

  “He vas nod a grocer, he vas a baker” answered the other.

  “Stupid! What studies was he interested in?”

  “Studies? He didn’t have much—”

  “Don’t tell me what he didn’t have, man! His every thought was animated by her; his every hope was centered on her; his every longing was directed toward her, in this mad, ay, perhaps criminal love!” roared Bones.

  “Vell, der son of a gun!” gasped the baker in amazement.

  “Is there a female missing from London or, in fact, any part of England?” asked Bones significantly.

  “How do I know? Der may be hunderts of dem.”

  “Hundreds of them!” exclaimed the detective. “He wasn’t collecting a harem, man?”

  The baker did not reply.

  “Are you aware of his ever having spoken of any place where he’d like to live?”

  “Spoken? Ha, ha, dot makes me smile—” began the man of dough.

  “Makes you smile, you idiot!” shouted Bones. “Well, I’ll change that smile for you unless you answer my question ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ and answer it quickly too.”

  “I never ditet hear him spoken in—”

  “Enough,” cried Bones triumphantly. “He wanted to live in Chicago, but was ashamed of it. The case is very simple, my friend: the young man has eloped with his lady love to Chicago, where second editions of Cyrano de Bergeracs and other highway robbers come from.”

  “Chicago,” cried the baker in horror; “vy, he’ll be eaten from Indians or burnt mit der stakes!”

  “I can’t answer for what they eat, but I don’t think they burnt much north of Kentucky as a rule,” said Bones, putting on his hat and coat, and politely bowing the little baker to the door.

  “If all my clients were as stupid as that fellow I’d have a pretty ugly time of it. To think that he wouldn’t even know whether there were any females missing from London!” he muttered in disgust.

  II.

  Some mornings after the incident just narrated, I dropped into Bones’ apartment; his room was in a shockingly disordered condition; books, papers, pamphlets and writing material were strewn about the floor in hopeless confusion. Bones was seated before a small table upon which a green shaded lamp was casting a dim light about the room, utterly unconscious of the fact that the sun was attempting to relieve it from its irksome task by vigorous attempts to break through the tightly closed blinds.

  “It’s daylight; why don’t you raise the blinds, lower the lamps and get some fresh air in here?” I asked.

  Bones started up as though awaking from a stupor; he rubbed his blood-shot eyes and ran his hand nervously through his dishevelled hair.

  “I’ve been working at a rather difficult problem, Hotson,” he drawled, stretching out his long thin legs. “I started at nine o’clock last night and became too absorbed to notice how rapidly the time was passing away.”

  “Is it a new case?” I inquired with interest.

  “Comparatively so; you recall the murder of the miserly old woman in Brocton Row last week, when the house was burnt down, her money stolen, and nothing left save her little mongrel dog to tell the story?”

  “Yes, and according to the Telegraph the little dog carried on terribly at her burial,” said I.

  “We’ll come to that feature later,” replied Bones significantly; “those Scotland Yard fellows are still hunting for the murdered woman’s husband, who was sent to prison ten years ago on testimony and tips furnished by her after a drunken quarrel between them. He was released a few days before the murder was committed. . . . ha, ha! They’re hunting all over the continent for the murderer, but I’ve got him, Hotson, got him safe and sound in that little closet.”

  I rose from my chair and felt for my revolver. “Aren’t you afraid to keep him here alone with you?” I asked with some anxiety.

  “Not in the least,” said Bones coolly.

  “Of course you have him chained and manacled?”

  “He hasn’t even a thread on him.”

  I looked at Bones in blank astonishment, not knowing whether to admire his bravery or to deplore his utter foolhardiness.

  “Why, he’s said to be a big burly brute who has spent most of his life in prison and a most dangerous wretch,” I cried.

  Bones laughed. “Tut, tut, Hotson, nothing but the rubbish of those Scotland Yard amateurs. He’s not a big burly brute at all; in fact he don’t weigh over twenty-five pounds and is as meek as a lamb.”

  I listened to Bones like one stupefied. His words seemed to me as those of a madman. Great heavens! Could it be that his massive brain had at last succumbed from the frightful strains under which he had been laboring these many years?

  The thought was too horrible for contemplation.

  In abject despair I finally exclaimed: “Bones, you don’t mean to tell me that he don’t weigh over twenty-five pounds? Why, a baby soon gets that heavy.”

  “He don’t weigh any more than a baby,” answered Bones.

  “Ah, he’s dying from starvation,” I cried excitedly; “the murderous dog has determined to starve himself to death to escape the gallows.”

  “On the contrary, Hotson, he is in perfect physical health and never weighed so much in his life; come here and look for yourself.”

  “No,” I cried, “I don’t care to see him.” The tears were in my eyes. My poor friend was certainly insane.

  “What are you afraid of?” said Bones. “He won’t do anything more than bark.”

  “Bark!” I cried in horror. “Then he’s got the hydrophobia. O Bones, Bones, my poor unfortunate man, why did you ever work so hard and bring yourself to this condition? Can’t I do something for you before it’s too late?”

  “Certainly,” said Bones coolly, “you can sit down and not act like a madman, and rave about hydrophobia when I tell you that the dog is liable to bark a little; most sensible folks can contemplate a little spaniel’s bark without going into paroxysms. Haven’t you ever heard a dog bark without the hydrophobia?”

  “A dog? What dog?” I gasped.

  “Why, the dog we’ve been talking about, man! The dog that committed this horrible murder!”

  “Great Scott! I thought you were talking about her husband?” I cried.

  “Hotson, Hotson,” said Bones slowly, and looking searchingly at me, “I’ve noticed of late that you are falling off; I have said nothing, fearing to offend yo
u. Perhaps you might give up a habit, Hotson. You know what liquor did for Kinslay, Hotson?”

  I was about to make some vigorous reply, but remembering his condition I kept silent, wondering what next would happen.

  “Step out here and I will show you.” He led the way to the small back room and opened the door. On the floor were two ugly little curs sound asleep; they were lying comfortably on their sides just as any dogs would, save that their paws were resting on delicate little grooves which were connected by wires to something hidden in the other corner of the room. Near the dogs’ tails was a delicately adjusted paddle which must have moved every time the tails wagged.

  Bones stood silent for a moment and gazed on the scene with pride.

  “Those stupid Scotland Yard fools are looking for the culprit in Paris, Vienna, and heaven knows where, while I have him here sleeping so quietly and yet so fearfully, as the machine shows.

  “Listen,” he continued with great animation, “while I read you his register, as compared with the other dog, who is of undoubted respectability, and whose integrity and good faith is vouched for beyond question. I was working on these figures as registered by the machine when you came in.

  “First, we’ll take the nervous twitchings of his four paws, which would be greater or less, according as his nightmares (or should I say night dogs?) were comfortable or disturbed. Now, Hotson, the dog who has committed a horrible crime will be haunted by the memory of that terrible affair in his dreams; those dreams will make him go into all kinds of nervous convulsions. Now, what does the dog that is innocent do Hotson? He sleeps as peacefully as a child. But the other one, the villain, his twitchings, convulsions, and struggles are frightful. And, wonderful to behold, the ways of his tail are absolutely nothing as compared with the virtuous dog’s who has happy dreams. The machine shows it in both cases, and you can draw your own conclusions. Look here, see these figures!” He held up a mass of figures which I pretended to be interested in.

  “Couldn’t the suspected dog’s convulsions, twitchings, and all that be reconciled with indigestion as well as with the remorse of murder?” I asked, laying down the paper.

  “There, there you go, Hotson, just like those idiotic Scotland Yard folks, with your false reasoning and improper conclusions. And even taking your own position, why should an innocent dog be troubled with indigestion?”

  He looked at me triumphantly, as though that settled the matter for ever.

  “But, Bones, my dear fellow,” I protested, “even admitting that the animal could burn down the house and conceal the money, what would be a dog’s object in all this?”

  “His object, Hotson—what have I to do with his object? The detective’s duty is to apprehend the criminal; let Caesar Lombroso and Dr. Nordau bother themselves about his object.”

  He glared at me quite ferociously, and as I am one of those who believe that discretion is often the better part of valor, I simply said: “I guess, perhaps, you’re right, Bones.”

  He walked back into his study, leaving the animals to their peaceful and disturbed slumbers.

  “By the way,” I inquired, “did you ever hear any further about the missing boy?”

  “Missing boy? There was no missing boy,” he answered in a half-hearted manner.

  “What!” I exclaimed in surprise. “No missing boy? No female companion? No elopement to Chicago?”

  “No, nothing at all; the lad happened to be walking past a saloon in Whitechapel when some kind of a drunken row took place near the door. The police, as usual, arriving too late to apprehend the real disturbers, determined to arrest some one and so grabbed the boy.”

  “Well, why didn’t he explain to the officer?”

  “That’s the rub,” said Bones. “The poor lad happened to be deaf and dumb and could explain nothing either to the police or to the stupid judge, who he next morning committed him for contempt of court for refusing to answer questions.”

  “How did you discover all this?” I inquired.

  “Why, the little baker came and told me; he searched all the stations until he found the boy and explained the matter to the authorities. If the stupid fool had told me at our first interview that the lad was deaf and dumb—”

  “Why, I think he did try to say something about the matter, but you interrupted him every time,” I explained laughingly.

  “You may be right, Hotson; I don’t recall the details just now,” he said, “but I do try to hold folks down to the essentials in relating their troubles to me, otherwise they are so apt to roam on to things that are ‘irrelevant, incompetent, and immaterial,’ as the lawyers have it.”

  The Adventure of the Pink Pearl

  Anonymous

  When Conan Doyle went to South Africa to assist the British effort in the Boer War, it made sense to send Sherlock there as well. This story was one of eight featuring spy-hunting Sherlock Gnomes and army doctor Totson that were printed between March and May in Scraps magazine.

  ood gracious, major, you never brought it with you! What a risk!”

  These words fairly bounced from Gnomes, so hotly were they uttered. It was seldom, indeed, that he allowed himself to express surprise, and rarer still did excitement get the better of his imperturbable dignity, but the incident which drew forth such energy certainly justified it.

  We had arrived the evening before at Bloemfontein, and having spent the night in fairly comfortable quarters, Gnomes and I, being unoccupied during the morning in question, had been engaged in observing the manners and customs of the inhabitants of a capital which had recently surrendered to an invading army. When breaking the journey, so to speak, for refreshments at a hotel in Market-square, we got into conversation with Major Spark, of Omdurman repute, who, in relating an occurrence at the battle of that name, had called forth the astonishment of my friend.

  “You seem to think the pearl is valuable,” said the major as we strolled down the somewhat crowded thoroughfare.

  “Valuable!” repeated Gnomes. “If it is a pearl of great size, as you say it is, and likewise pink, it is about the rarest thing on earth, and would bankrupt more than a merely wealthy man to purchase. But although you have told us that you brought it over when you came from Egypt with Kitchener’s staff, instead of placing it in safety, you have not recounted how it came into your possession.”

  “Well, it was this way,” said the major. “When we—you will, no doubt, remember the charge of the 21st Lancers—cut through the Khalifa’s army, our fellows made for shelter in a hollow, but I, having had my horse shot under me, was left somewhat in the rear. I moved slightly round to the right in order to effect a junction, and came upon several emirs that were lying in a heap behind a sand-hill, all dead excepting one, who was in a very bad way. Seeing me approach, he made a motion as if for a drink of water; so I took out my flask and gave him some diluted with a little brandy. He appeared very thankful, but could not express himself; as neither of us understood the language of the other. To show his gratitude, however, or perhaps in appreciation of my bald head and Mohammedan forelock, he gave me the pearl in a small cedar box, which, as I have said, I have with me here, or rather at my diggings, and which I shall be very pleased to show you, provide you take the trouble to come so far.”

  This recital was followed by Gnomes with great interest, and as it promised something quite out of the ordinary we very willingly accompanied the major to his “diggings,” which, upon arrival, we found to be an unoccupied cottage of three rooms, all upon the ground floor, and with a small garden abutting at the back, situated upon the extreme outskirts of the town. We passed in safety the muddy garden path, which had been converted into an unpleasant bog by the heavy thunderstorm of the early morning, and shortly afterwards entered the little bedroom occupied by the major.

  “Now,” said the latter, advancing towards a rough wooden slab over the fireplace which answered the purpose of a mantelshelf, “you shall have a look at this—Good heavens, it is gone!”

  “Stolen?
” added Gnomes.

  “I fear so; it was there not three hours ago in the cedar box.”

  “Did any one know of your remarkable gem?” queried my friend.

  “Only two persons that I’m aware of,” replied the major; “one a private named Jenkins, whom we left at Kimberley (he came across from Egypt in the same transport, and I showed him the pearl while we were stopping at Cairo); and the other a young fellow belonging to the Cape Rifles, who has shared this place with me since we have been here, but who is now on outpost duty. It must be the latter. I’m awfully sorry, as I had taken a great fancy to him.”

  “Did he ride a bicycle with a red Seddon tire on the front wheel and a Clincher on the back?” said Gnomes, with his usual directness.

  “No; he does not ride a machine at all,” the major answered. “Whatever made you ask that question?”

  “Because the man who stole the jewel this morning during the time you were out arrived and departed upon those tires,” returned my friend.

  “What an extraordinary thing!” exclaimed the major. “Now you mention it, Jenkins, who came with me from Omdurman and remained behind at Kimberley, is a scout. I remember seeing him on his bike, and the front tire was red. However did you arrive at all this?”

  “By the wheel-marks on the garden path,” replied my friend sharply. “I observed as we came in the arrow-heads of the Seddon and the straight furrows of the non-slipping Clincher plainly indented in the mud. He must have been here this morning, or the impressions would have been washed away by the thunderstorm.”

  “But the bike and the man are in Kimberley.”

  “The bike and the man, together with the pearl, are on their way to Delagoa Bay, and will probably get to Germany if we don’t make haste,” said Gnomes, with a suspicion of savageness in his tone. “What was Jenkins like?”