Sherlock Holmes Edwardian Parodies and Pastiches I Page 6

  I was stupefied. As soon as I recovered breath, I cried out;

  “You must be a necromancer! A Mahatma! Except the quarrelsome disposition, which is false and will lead to unpleasantness between us if repeated, you speak as if you had known me all my life.”

  Dr. W — —, who had taken out a notebook and was writing hard, looked up and smiled admiringly on his friend, who turned to him, and asked:

  “Now, can you explain how I found all that out, W — —?”

  The doctor shook his head.

  “Dear me, you never get any brighter,” muttered the expert in a tone of disappointment. Then he turned to me.

  “I will explain. From your being at home in the middle of the morning, I inferred that you had no regular profession, and therefore that you must have private means. Your literary pursuits and their direction were revealed to me by that bulky manuscript on your desk which bears the title ‘The Principles of Shakespearean Punctuation.’ On your wall hangs a text, which leads me to suppose you are Evangelical; and as the words of the text are ‘Blessed are the Meek,’ I conclude that it was given to you by some friend who had observed your failing and wished to correct it. [This was nasty. The text was given me by my own sister. I have returned it to her.] I judge you to be a teetotaler, because my friend and I have been in your house half an hour, and you have not offered us a drink. That you were once friendly with a clergyman is proved by this photograph in your album, below which is written—‘With the Vicar’s Compliments’—and that your friendship has met with interruption I gather from the fact that a pencil has been drawn through those words, and has written beneath them the word ‘Serpent’.”

  I could hardly help laughing as he finished.

  “Really, Mr. H — — s, you must excuse my saying so, but all that is so childishly simple, that I am afraid I can’t give you credit for much astuteness in finding it out. But if you meant it merely as a hint that you are thirsty; why—”

  I got up and went to the sideboard.

  As soon as the refreshments had been disposed of, the specialist rose to go out to the scene of the crime, accompanied by his medical friend. I was coming, too, but he waved me back.

  “Your presence would only distract me,” he said. “I am about to make a microscopic investigation outside, and I wish to be alone, so that my brain may work freely, and my reasoning powers have full play.”

  I heard them open the front door and pass outside. Tortured by curiosity I went to the window and tried to see what they were doing. I could just catch a glimpse of the celebrated detective’s legs. He appeared to be kneeling on the steps, going over every inch in search of those minute indicia which escape the notice of ordinary minds but which reveal a whole complicated tragedy to the trained intellect of a literary detective. The fool W — — was standing on the garden path, notebook in hand, looking on with an expression of childlike reverence and every now and then taking down something which fell from his friend, but in accents too low for me to overhear.

  At last I could bear the suspense no longer. I had come out into the hall, resolved to find out what they had discovered, when my wish was anticipated by Mr. H — — s stepping softly in, followed by the inevitable W — — , and closing the door behind him.

  The great expert’s look was grave, almost to weeping. An expression in sycophantic imitation was assumed by the tiresome doctor.

  “Well, have you found out anything?” I asked with a beating heart.

  “Everything!” was the solemn answer. “Prepare for the worst. You have been boldly and shamelessly robbed by one who is evidently numbered among your most intimate friends, who had supper here only last night, and went away at twelve o’clock in a partially intoxicated condition, dressed in a covert coat and gaiters, and smoking Pioneer tobacco in a shilling briar. He is five feet eleven inches in height, aged thirty-eight, wears No. 9 boots, and earns a precarious livelihood on the Stock Exchange.”

  “Johnson!” I wailed, and sank senseless on a chair.

  My cry brought Susan from the kitchen with a rush. She was closely followed by a police-constable, who was hurriedly passing the sleeve of his coat across his mouth.

  The Baker Street consultant glanced at him with ineffable scorn.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded with ill-concealed jealousy.

  “I came here about Mr. Lobb’s mat,” stammered the officer. “It’s all right. I caught the gipsies the other side of New Cross.”

  The specialist gave a lordly wave of his hand.

  “So much for the intelligence of the police,” he sneered. “Where is Mr. Lobb’s mat, pray?”

  “I brought it back with me, sir.”

  I sprang to my feet, darted to the front door, and flung it open. There, in its familiar spot, with the dear old WELCOME staring on its honest face, it smiled up at me like an innocent child.

  The mat had been lying there for the last hour!

  I was disappointed in Mr. H — — s. In the reports in the magazine his language has never been other than that of a gentleman and a philosopher. I am sorry to say my experience puts him in a far less favourable light.

  P.S.—I had the greatest difficulty in restraining Johnson, when he heard of the affair, from going into Baker Street to “have it out with that beggar, H — — s.”

  The Stolen Cigar Case

  “A. C- - -N D- - -LE” (Bret Harte)

  Author of “Rodney Stone, and other Light Weights.”

  Like his literary rival Mark Twain, Bret Harte (1836-1902) spent time in San Francisco during the Civil War, and found early fame writing about the miners, gamblers, and eccentric inhabitants of the region. The success of his story “The Luck of Roaring Camp” led to a contract with The Atlantic Monthly, but he could not sustain his popularity. He spent the rest of his life in England, where he wrote poetry and stories, including, like Twain, a Sherlock parody.

  I found Hemlock Jones in the old Brook Street lodgings, musing before the fire. With the freedom of an old friend, I at once threw myself in my usual familiar attitude at his feet and gently caressed his boot. I was induced to do this for two reasons: one that it enabled me to get a good look at his bent, concentrated face, and the other that it seemed to indicate my reverence for his superhuman insight. So absorbed was he, even then, in tracking some mysterious clue, that he did not seem to notice me. But therein I was wrong—as I always was in my attempt to understand that powerful intellect.

  “It is raining,” he said, without lifting his head.

  “You have been out, then?” I said quickly.

  “No. But I see that your umbrella is wet, and that your overcoat has drops of water on it.”

  I sat aghast at his penetration. After a pause he said carelessly, as if dismissing the subject: “Besides, I hear the rain on the window. Listen.”

  I listened. I could scarcely credit my ears, but there was the soft pattering of drops on the panes. It was evident, there was no deceiving this man!

  “Have you been busy lately?” I asked, changing the subject. “What new problem—given up by Scotland Yard as inscrutable—has occupied that gigantic intellect?”

  He drew back his foot slightly and seemed to hesitate ere he returned it to its original position. Then he answered wearily: “Mere trifles—nothing to speak of. The Prince Kupoli has been here to get my advice regarding the disappearance of certain rubies from the Kremlin; the Rajah of Pootibad, after vainly beheading his entire bodyguard, has been obliged to seek my assistance to recover a jeweled sword. The Grand Duchess of Pretzel-Brauntswig is desirous of discovering where her husband was on the night of February 14, and last night”—he lowered his voice slightly—“a lodger in this very house, meeting me on the stairs, wanted to know ‘why they didn’t answer his bell.’”

  I could not help smiling—until I saw a frown gathering on his inscrutable forehead.

  “Pray remember,” he said coldly, “that it was through such an apparently trivial question that I found ou
t, Why Paul Ferroll Killed His Wife, and What Happened to Jones!”

  I became dumb at once. He paused for a moment, and then, suddenly, changing back to his usual pitiless, analytical style, he said: “When I say these are trifles—they are so in comparison to an affair that is now before me. A crime has been committed, and, singularly enough, against myself. You start,” he said. “You wonder who would have dared attempt it! So did I; nevertheless, it has been done. I have been robbed!”

  “You, robbed! You, Hemlock Jones, the Terror of Peculators!” I gasped in amazement, arising and gripping the table as I faced him.

  “Yes! Listen. I would confess it to no other. But you who have followed my career, who know my methods; you, for whom I have partly lifted the veil that conceals my plans from ordinary humanity,—you, who have for years rapturously accepted my confidences, passionately admired my inductions and inferences, placed yourself at my beck and call, become my slave, groveled at my feet, given up your practice except those few unremunerative and rapidly-decreasing patients to whom, in moments of abstraction over my problems, you have administered strychnine for quinine and arsenic for Epsom salts; you, who have sacrificed everything and everybody to me—you I make my confidant!”

  I arose and embraced him warmly, yet he was already so engrossed in thought that at the same moment he mechanically placed his hand upon his watch chain as if to consult the time. “Sit down,” he said. “Have a cigar?”

  “I have given up cigar smoking,” I said.

  “Why?” he asked.

  I hesitated and, perhaps, colored. I had really given it up because, with my diminished practice, it was too expensive. I could afford only a pipe. “I prefer a pipe,” I said laughingly. “But tell me of this robbery. What have you lost?”

  He arose, and planting himself before the fire with his hands under his coattails, looked down upon me reflectively for a moment. “Do you remember the cigar case presented to me by the Turkish Ambassador for discovering the missing favorite of the Grand Vizier in the fifth chorus girl at the Hilarity Theatre? It was that one. I mean the cigar case. It was incrusted with diamonds.”

  “And the largest one had been supplanted by paste,” I said.

  “Ah,” he said with a reflective smile, “you know that?”

  “You told me yourself. I remember considering it a proof of your extraordinary perception. But, by Jove, you don’t mean to say you have lost it?”

  He was silent for a moment. “No; it has been stolen, it is true, but I shall still find it. And by myself alone! In your profession, my dear fellow, when a member is seriously ill he does not prescribe for himself but calls in a brother doctor. Therein we differ. I shall take this matter in my own hands.”

  “And where could you find better?” I said enthusiastically. “I should say the cigar case is as good as recovered already.”

  “I shall remind you of that again,” he said lightly. “And now, to show you my confidence in your judgment, in spite of my determination to pursue this alone, I am willing to listen to any suggestions from you.”

  He drew a memorandum book from his pocket, and, with a grave smile, took up his pencil.

  I could scarcely believe my senses. He, the great Hemlock Jones, accepting suggestions from a humble individual like myself! I kissed his hand reverently, and began in a joyous tone:

  “First, I should advertise, offering a reward. I should give the same intimation in hand-bills, distributed at the ‘pubs’ and the pastry-cooks. I should next visit the different pawnbrokers; I should give notice at the police station. I should examine the servants. I should thoroughly search the house and my own pockets. I speak relatively,” I added with a laugh. “Of course, I mean your own.”

  He gravely made an entry of these details.

  “Perhaps,” I added, “you have already done this?”

  “Perhaps,” he returned enigmatically. “Now, my dear friend,” he continued, putting the note-book in his pocket, and rising—“would you excuse me for a few moments? Make yourself perfectly at home until I return; there may be some things,” he added with a sweep of his hand toward his heterogeneously filled shelves, “that may interest you, and while away the time. There are pipes and tobacco in that corner.”

  Then, nodding to me with the same inscrutable face, he left the room. I was too well accustomed to his methods to think much of his unceremonious withdrawal, and made no doubt he was off to investigate some clue which had suddenly occurred to his active intelligence.

  Left to myself, I cast a cursory glance over his shelves. There were a number of small glass jars containing earthy substances labeled “Pavement and Road Sweepings” from the principal thoroughfares and suburbs of London, with the sub-directions “for identifying foot tracks.” There were several other jars labeled “Fluff from Omnibus and Road Car Seats,” “Cocoanut Fibre and Rope Strands from Mattings in Public Places,” “Cigarette Stumps and Match Ends from Floor of Palace Theatre, Row A, 1 to 50.” Everywhere were evidences of this wonderful man’s system and perspicacity.

  I was thus engaged when I heard the slight creaking of a door, and I looked up as a stranger entered. He was a rough-looking man with a shabby overcoat, a still more disreputable muffler around his throat and the lower part of his face. Considerably annoyed at his intrusion I turned upon him rather sharply, when, with a mumbled, growling apology for mistaking the room, he shuffled out again and closed the door. I followed him quickly to the landing and saw that he disappeared down the stairs.

  With my mind full of the robbery, the incident made a singular impression upon me. I knew my friend’s habit of hasty absences from his room in his moments of deep inspiration; it was only too probable that with his powerful intellect and magnificent perceptive genius concentrated on one subject, he should be careless of his own belongings, and, no doubt, even forget to take the ordinary precaution of locking up his drawers. I tried one or two and found that I was right—although for some reason I was unable to open one to its fullest extent. The handles were sticky, as if some one had opened them with dirty fingers. Knowing Hemlock’s fastidious cleanliness, I resolved to inform him of this circumstance, but I forgot it, alas! until—but I am anticipating my story.

  His absence was strangely prolonged. I at last seated myself by the fire and lulled by warmth and the patter of the rain on the window, I fell asleep. I may have dreamt, for during my sleep I had a vague semi-consciousness as of hands being softly pressed on my pockets—no doubt induced by the story of the robbery. When I came fully to my senses, I found Hemlock Jones sitting on the other side of the hearth, his deeply concentrated gaze fixed on the fire.

  “I found you so comfortably asleep that I could not bear to awaken you,” he said with a smile.

  I rubbed my eyes. “And what news?” I asked. “How have you succeeded?”

  “Better than I expected,” he said, “and I think,” he added, tapping his note-book—“I owe much to you.”

  Deeply gratified, I awaited more. But in vain. I ought to have remembered that in his moods Hemlock Jones was reticence itself. I told him simply of the strange intrusion, but he only laughed.

  Later, when I arose to go, he looked at me playfully. “If you were a married man,” he said, “I would advise you not to go home until you had brushed your sleeve. There are a few short, brown sealskin hairs on the inner side of your forearm—just where they would have adhered if your arm had encircled a seal-skin sacque with some pressure!”

  “For once you are at fault,” I said triumphantly; “the hair is my own as you will perceive; I have just had it cut at the hairdresser’s, and no doubt this arm projected beyond the apron.”

  He frowned slightly, yet nevertheless, on my turning to go he embraced me warmly—a rare exhibition in that man of ice. He even helped me on with my overcoat and pulled out and smoothed down the flaps of my pockets. He was particular, too, in fitting my arm in my overcoat sleeve, shaking the sleeve down from the armhole to the cuff with his deft fingers. �
��Come again soon!” he said, clapping me on the back.

  “At any and all times,” I said enthusiastically. “I only ask ten minutes twice a day to eat a crust at my office and four hours’ sleep at night, and the rest of my time is devoted to you always—as you know.”

  “It is, indeed,” he said, with his impenetrable smile.

  Nevertheless, I did not find him at home when I next called. One afternoon, when nearing my own home I met him in one of his favorite disguises—a long, blue, swallow-tailed coat, striped cotton trousers, large turn-over collar, blacked face, and white hat, carrying a tambourine. Of course, to others the disguise was perfect, although it was known to myself, and I passed him—according to an old understanding between us—without the slightest recognition, trusting to a later explanation. At another time, as I was making a professional visit to the wife of a publican at the East End, I saw him in the disguise of a broken-down artisan looking into the window of an adjacent pawnshop. I was delighted to see that he was evidently following my suggestions, and in my joy I ventured to tip him a wink; it was abstractedly returned.

  Two days later, I received a note appointing a meeting at his lodgings that night. That meeting, alas! was the one memorable occurrence of my life, and the last meeting I ever had with Hemlock Jones! I will try to set it down calmly, though my pulses still throb with the recollection of it.

  I found him standing before the fire with that look upon his face which I had seen only once or twice in our acquaintance—a look which I may call an absolute concatenation of inductive and deductive ratiocination—from which all that was human, tender, or sympathetic, was absolutely discharged. He was simply an icy algebraic symbol! Indeed, his whole being was concentrated to that extent that his clothes fitted loosely, and his head was absolutely so much reduced in size by his mental compression that his hat tipped back from his forehead and literally hung on his massive ears.