Sherlock Holmes Great War Parodies and Pastiches I

by Bill Peschel

“Always smoking fine cigars, riding in automobiles, and dining at expensive cafes?” said the managing editor.

  “But how in the world could you know that, Mr. Bones, when you hardly glanced at the manuscript?”

  “My dear Watson,” said the managing editor, “how often must I impress upon you the value of observation and deduction in literary decisions? Here is a manuscript on the best quality of paper typed by an expensive machine. It carries a pronounced odor of tobacco—cigars at two for a quarter, I judge.

  “On the top left hand corner of the back page there is a slight discoloration made by some cordial. A chemical test would reveal which cordial, but we need not go to that trouble.

  “I have no doubt if I applied my lens to the envelope I should discover traces of the inner pocket of an automobile coat. Deduction—an author in prosperous circumstances, somewhat indulgent of the good things of life, who is pretty certain to follow the same course with his hero. As rollicking heroes are not at present suitable to the literary policy of our magazine a printed slip will suffice in this case, Watson.”

  “Really, Mr. Bones,” said the literary editor, “I begin to think you are a magician.”

  “Not at all, Watson,” the managing editor protested. “Merely the development of intuition as applied to manuscript decisions. For example, I see another manuscript in your pocket. From that, I gather the manuscript is worth consideration, otherwise it would not be in your pocket.

  “But there are points about it which have caused you to hesitate in forming an opinion or you would have handed it to me before this. You need not feel uneasy, Watson; I have already accepted the manuscript.”

  “Great Scott!” exclaimed the literary editor.

  “Nothing to be surprised at, Watson, if you could only grasp the elements of my method. To begin with, the crumpled appearance of the manuscript is encouraging. It has evidently been to many places and rejected on the absurd old-fashioned plan of reading. By the way, did you notice the clip on the manuscript?”

  “Honestly, I can’t say I did.”

  “Really, Watson, you surprise me. The author made it himself out of a hairpin. That shows constructive ingenuity of a distinctly novel character. The story has a clever twist if I mistake not.”

  “Yes, it certainly has a surprise at the end, but the style—”

  “And a faint odor of kerosene, I think, Watson. I am sure I can detect it even from this distance.”

  The literary editor handed over the manuscript in despair.

  “I am utterly unable to follow your literary analysis, Mr. Bones.”

  The managing editor smiled indulgently.

  “Precisely! A little keener scent, Watson, and you could catch a whiff of the midnight oil this poor fellow has burned over his work. Hastily typewritten, I see. That spells inspiration.

  “I note he has forgotten to sign his name at the end. Excellent! He was too absorbed in the story to remember such a trivial detail. An earnest, struggling author of an ingenious mind, and an earnest, struggling hero who accomplishes something worthwhile, aye, Watson?”

  “Yes, there is no fault to find with the hero.”

  “Capital, Watson! He will work hard to suit our requirements. Send him a voucher with a request for more contributions. It is quite unnecessary for me to read the manuscript. The twisted hairpin for a clip stamped the whole story as just what we want.”

  Detective Work on the Ferry

  “Herlock Sholmes”

  Behind this humorous letter lies a serious story of corruption, thievery, and assassination. For decades, the Democratic Party’s corrupt Tammany Hall organization held a stranglehold on New York City, stealing millions from the taxpayers and placing its supporters in low-work city jobs. When it engineered the mayoral election of 1910 in favor of William Gaynor, they expected that it would be business as usual. But Gaynor was a man with a reformist streak. He filled high-level posts with experts and refused to let nepotism or favoritism influence his decisions.

  Among his targets was the ferry service, then notorious for its corruption. Tammany placed many more ticket-takers there than were needed. Workers conspired to fudge the account books, while others fished sold tickets out of supposedly inaccessible boxes with wire and resold them, pocketing the difference. The ferry commissioner pledged an overhaul of the service. The day before this letter appeared, he called in 26 employees to face a civil trial on charges of corruption.

  Gaynor’s attempts at change came at a personal cost. Two months before, a discharged dock worker shot the mayor in the throat. Gaynor recovered and returned to work. In 1913, Tammany refused to run him for re-election, but an independent group convinced him to run anyway. Six days later, he died of a heart attack.

  “He might as well have tried to make the stockyards of Chicago smell like a field of asphodel,” critic H.L. Mencken wrote years later. “In the end, worn out and embittered by the struggle, he died unlamented, and today political historians scarcely mention him.”

  Sept. 28, 1910

  To the Editor of The New York Times:

  Referring to the investigation now being conducted by the Department of Docks and Ferries, relative to conditions in the Municipal Ferry services. It would, perhaps, be well to also consider the probability of grafting by others than the employees, i.e., families and friends of employees, small politicians, &c.

  This was suggested to me upon observing in the Brooklyn Terminal of the Thirty-ninth Street Ferry that the brass hook attached to one end of the steel chain which is stretched across the passageway beside the turnstile was in a highly polished condition, denoting that it is handled many times daily. Of course, policemen and firemen in uniform are entitled to use this means of gaining entrance to the waiting room, but the brilliancy of the brass hook is in such marked contrast to that of the brass turnstile beside it, one cannot help but feel that its use may partly account for the falling off in receipts.

  “HERLOCK SHOLMES”

  Sherlock Holmes

  “Uncle Walt” (Walt Mason)

  Walt Mason (1862-1939) was a Canadian-born American newspaper columnist. After working at a number of newspapers, he ended up at the Emporia Gazette in Kansas, edited by the iconic Progressive advocate William Allen White. There, “Uncle Walt” created his “Rippling Rhymes” column. Its syndication across the country turned Mason into the nation’s most popular columnist. Written in the form of an article, it wasn’t until you began reading it that you realize the sentences rhymed, such as this example that appeared below in Uncle Walt: The Poet Philosopher.

  The Great Detective had returned; he’d been some years away, and I supposed that he was dead, and sleeping ’neath the clay. Ah, ne’er shall I forget the joy it gave me thus to greet the king of all detectives in my rooms in Baker street!

  “I notice, Watson,” Sherlock said, with smile serene and wide, “that since I left you, months ago, you’ve found yourself a bride.”

  I had not spoken of the fact, so how did Sherlock know? I tumbled from my rocking chair, his knowledge jarred me so.

  “It’s easy, Watson,” said the sleuth; “deduction makes it plain; you ate an egg for breakfast and your chin still wears the stain; you haven’t shaved for half a week—the stubble’s growing blue—your pants are baggy at the knees, your necktie’s on askew; your vest is buttoned crooked and your shirt is out of plumb; your hat has been in contact with a wad of chewing gum. You were something of a dandy in the good old days of yore—pass the dope, my dearest Watson; what’s the use of saying more?”

  Sherlock Holmes Redivivus

  “A. Cannon Doily”

  Disputes between universities and the towns they’re set in can be fraught with peril. In the Middle Ages, scholars in Paris and Oxford frequently took to the streets to battle residents. But town-gown clashes can take place on a more refined level, as in this article that appeared in the April 1st issue of The Townsman of Wellesley, Mass. The writer’s complaints about the amount of trash found on th
e campus of Wellesley University struck home. Two weeks later, the College News’ article on “Sherlock Holmes Redivivus” commented that “although the condition depicted in the article was probably exaggerated, yet it is doubtless true that we are very careless about littering … and we can never be too careful that the reputation of our college should not suffer from an individual thoughtlessness.” Redivivus, by the way, is a literary adjective meaning “reborn” or “brought back to life.”

  Sherlock Holmes, who had just returned from an extended tour of the globe, met Dr. Watson by appointment at the Wellesley Inn.

  After lunch the two old friends started for a walk about the village, renewing acquaintance after their long separation. Sherlock Holmes at once fell into his former habits of observation and investigation, stopping to pick up all sorts of objects that attracted his attention as he walked along. The friends had turned into the college grounds and had reached the borders of the lake before Holmes suggested resting for a few moments while he sorted out his collection.

  “I am glad to note,” said Dr. Watson, “that you have abandoned the use of your hypodermic. Do you find your faculties of close observation and intuitive reasoning in any measure impaired in consequence?”

  Holmes did not answer the question, but remarked, as he looked up at the college buildings, “I was never in Wellesley before. I observe that it is a woman’s college.”

  “What led you to that conclusion?” asked the doctor.

  Sherlock Holmes selected from his collection three hair pins that he picked up in his walk from the Inn, remarking as he placed them in the doctor’s hand, “Watson, why don’t you put that mind of yours to the task of why women who jab these pins in their head with such ferocity, do not get them in far enough to stay put?”

  Dr. Watson entered a memorandum in his note book.

  “It was said of Thoreau,” continued Holmes, “that in his walks along the shores of his beloved Walden Pond he could at any moment uncover an Indian arrowhead with a random kick of the soil. Some future Thoreau will uncover hair pins by the dozen anywhere within the Wellesley village limits in the same way.”

  “I also observe,” said Holmes, “that the young men who visit the college prefer the ‘Mecca’ brand of cigarettes, though the ‘Sweet Caporal’ and ‘Turkish Trophies’ have their advocates.”

  Before Dr. Watson could express his surprise at the great detective’ s wonderful powers of divination, Holmes handed him half a dozen empty cigarette wrappers from his collection made in this brief morning walk.

  “But there is a coarser streak in some of the men,” said Holmes sententiously, as he passed the doctor a soiled Sensible Chewing Plug wrapper.

  “I thought college girls preferred Page and Shaw’s confections,” remarked Sherlock a moment later. “My collection indicates, though, Somerset and Shrafft’s are close second and Peter’s Milk Chocolate seem to be neck and neck in the race,” and he handed to the doctor an assortment of wrappers of various forms and colors.

  Dr. Watson was so amazed at these exhibitions of his friend’s wonderful powers he could hardly speak as he watched the world’s greatest detective continue the work of sorting out the results of his morning’s walk.

  “Watson, the girls out here haven’t learned that it is an exploded idea that fish is a brain food,” continued Holmes as he handed the doctor an empty tin can stamped Parsifal Brand, Norway and Scottish Fish. “But they do accept your theory, doctor, that the grained and shredded breakfast foods, that must be thoroughly masticulated, are to be preferred to those that are swallowed whole as they come from the double boiler,” and Holmes produced a pasteboard box that had once contained a dozen “Shredded Wheat” Biscuits.

  Sherlock Holmes was in a seriously thoughtful mood as he selected the remnants of soiled paper bags and pasteboard boxes from his collection and asked the doctor if he wondered that the students sometimes broke down in their efforts to assimilate so much cake and fudge and so many éclairs and doughnuts with philosophy and psychology and ancient history and what not.

  The great detective had that faraway look in his eyes as he took in the broad expanse of the lake and was about to continue his walk when he picked up a little blue box which he handed to the doctor with the remark, “I had overlooked this Parlor Safety Match box. It is a delusion, Watson, there is no safety in any kind of match.”

  Poor Sherlock Holmes! He had become a Pessimist during his wanderings abroad.

  Dr. Watson, however laughed uproariously for he had contracted a happy marriage during his old friend’s absence in foreign countries. But what a conglomerate mess must litter the streets of Wellesley to produce such results in a short morning walk.

  Surelock Homes’ Waterloo

  George M. Johnson

  The term pulp fiction was coined to reflect the cheap paper the stories were printed on. Later, it was applied to the stories that were seen as formulaic, sloppily written, and hackneyed power fantasies. Yet pulp fiction, with its disreputable cousin comic books, created a pantheon of hero and heroines such as Conan, Tarzan, Sam Spade, Wonder Woman, and others that serve as our modern mythology.

  This appeared in the Oct. 15 issue of Top-Notch magazine, one of the biggest publishers of pulp fiction between 1910 and 1937. Early in its run, it focused on sports stories for teenagers such as the Frank Merriwell series. It’s most famous contributors included Jack London and Bertram Atkey (whose own parody appears in the 1905-1909 volume). In the 1930s, it focused on adventure stories with contributions from Robert E. Howard, L. Ron Hubbard, Lester Dent, and Harry Stephen Keeler.

  George M. Johnson (1885-1965) was born in Yankton, South Dakota. His family moved to New Haven, Connecticut, where George attended Yale. Two years after he graduated, he began his pulp fiction career with this story. Between 1910 and 1949, he published five novels as George Metcalf and more than a hundred short stories for pulp magazines such as Argosy All-Story Weekly, Thrilling Ranch Stories, The Open Road for Boys, and Street and Smith’s Love Story Magazine.

  It was with no small exultation that Joe Whalley learned that the cub reporter on the New York Whoop had been selected from all the men on its staff for the assignment of getting an interview with the world-famous detective, Mr. Surelock Homes, of Baker Street, London. The editor in chief had been booming the Sunday edition by featuring a series of red-hot stories on renowned detectives and the criminals they had caught.

  There had been no faking about these articles, and expense had not been considered in securing information.

  This was Whalley’s first really important piece of work, and he felt that it was to be a determining point in his newspaper career. He went at once to Adams, the assignment editor, for instructions. His remarks were brief:

  “You’re to write an article on Surelock Homes at work. Get in with him somehow, and see how he follows out a case. Here’s an order on the cashier for five hundred dollars. If you need more, cable. The Princess Victoria sails at noon to-morrow. Take her.”

  “I am to have a free hand in—” Whalley began.

  Adams waved him away.

  “Beg, borrow, or steal, but get the stuff,” and he turned back to his desk as a sign that he was through with the matter.

  “Whalley at once called up the steamship company, and engaged a berth that by good fortune had been reserved and just given up. Then he went to his lodging and packed up the stuff necessary for an ocean voyage.

  Once safely embarked, he began to consider how to get access to Mr. Homes, and could conceive of no better plan than to take an original case to him for solution. A careful perusal of the articles written by Homes’ colleague, Doctor Swatsem, showed that something bizarre and striking was needed to arouse the great detective’s interest.

  Finally he hit upon an idea which he was sure would appeal to him, provided its very foolishness did not give it away. He might have spared himself any fears concerning this, however, as subsequent events proved them to have been absolutely groundless.


  The first few days after his arrival in London were spent in making himself familiar with the town. Besides, it was necessary to give his “case” time to develop. It would be embarrassing, to say the least, should Homes discover that he had been in London but a couple of days, after telling him of events, which had taken a week to happen.

  Whalley rumpled his hair, disarranged his necktie, and tried to look worried as he rang the bell of the Baker Street lodging about eight o’clock one evening. A maid took up his card, and, returning, said that Mr. Homes would see him.

  Whalley’s knees were a trifle shaky as he pounded the stairs, but he conquered his nervousness and went on.

  As the door opened there came from within the most doleful sounds imaginable, and entering, the reporter saw two men in the room. “It was easy to recognize one of them as no less a personage than the great detective himself. He was gently sawing at an enormous bass viol, which accounted for the doleful noise mentioned, though doleful hardly describes the heart-rending sounds he was extracting from the awful instrument.

  The eyes of the second man were fixed on Homes with a look of rapt admiration and love. This look resembled, more than anything else, that which a faithful dog bestows on an adored but irascible master, from whom he hopes to receive a caress; yet being at the same time prepared to dodge a kick. Homes rose, extending his hand.

  “Glad to have the pleasure of making your acquaintance, Mr. Whalley.

  This is my friend and colleague, Doctor Swatsem. Swatsem, shake hands with Mr. Whalley.”

  “The world owes much to you, Doctor,” Whalley said fervidly, as they clasped hands.

  “Yes, Swatsem makes a tolerable Boswell,” Homes said, without giving the doctor a chance to put in a word.