by Bill Peschel
Whalley knew that Homes was in the habit of giving a little exhibition of his powers on clients who came to consult him, and wondered if he would do the same by him. He didn’t have long to wait. Almost as soon as Homes first words of greeting were over, he said casually:
“I see, Mr. Whalley, that you have recently had a death in your family and that you keep a dog. I trust you enjoyed your recent little shooting trip into the Highlands.”
The doctor seized a notebook and began writing rapidly. Presently he stopped, glancing up inquiringly. Homes, perceiving this, went on:
“I might also add that you play billiards and are of a generous and forgiving disposition,” and he rubbed his hands in satisfaction over his astuteness.
“Marvelous,” rumbled Doctor Swatsem, in a deep, awed voice, and again began to write.
“For Heaven’s sake, Mr. Homes, Whalley cried, “where did you get all that?” There was not a word of truth in anything he had said, with the possible exception, Whalley told himself fondly, of his remarks about his disposition.
He waved his hand patronizingly.
“It is merely a matter of deduction. That is, a process of attaining a conclusion by means of a series of steps which follow each other naturally, as for example, in demonstrating a proposition in geometry. However, by remarkable power of insight, I am able to pass over the intermediate steps so rapidly that I appear to arrive at my conclusion instantaneously. But I take it that you wish to consult me about something.”
“Yes, Mr. Homes, I do,” was the reply. “Since you appear to know all about—me, it is unnecessary to go into any detailed explanations, and so I will simply say that since my arrival in London certain things have happened which it is impossible to ignore, and which worry and puzzle me in the highest degree. I am not nervous and am strictly temperate, yet from the second day of my sojourn here I have had the strange and uncomfortable feeling of being shadowed. Wherever I go I feel sure that someone is dogging my footsteps and spying on me.”
As he paused to get a fresh grip on his tale, the doctor, showing lively interest, opened his mouth for the first time since he had entered the room.
“I once—” he began.
“Shut up, Swatsem!” interrupted Homes. “Go on, Mr. Whalley.”
The doctor meekly subsided, and the visitor continued:
“Things went on in this way for several days, and it was not especially pleasant, I assure you. The affair came to a culmination last night, when I went to the theatre. All through the performance I felt some invisible eyes, boring into my helpless body, and I had a premonition of impending disaster. After the show, to a slight headache, I decided to walk back to my hotel for the benefit of the fresh air.
“Suddenly I heard rapid footsteps behind me and a man ran past, giving me a sharp glance as he did so. Some distance farther on, as I was passing a dark alley, three men leaped out. I defended myself for a moment, but they overpowered me and succeeded in putting a sponge saturated with chloroform under my nose. I came to at five o’clock this morning, and found myself lying on a park bench, fully a mile from the place of attack.”
Whalley paused again. Doctor Swatsem rose from his chair excitedly.
“Robbery! Did—”
“Shut up, Swatsem!” snapped Homes, savagely. “If it was mere robbery, it would have been a case for those bunglers at Scotland Yard, not for me.”
“You are right, as usual, Mr. Homes,” the interviewer said. “Though I had more than twenty pounds in my purse, that, as well as my watch, was untouched. Still, the rascals did take something, or rather do something, but it seems so foolish that I hesitate to mention it.”
Homes showed more interest, and remarked encouragingly:
“Much often depends on apparent trifles. Proceed, I beg you.”
“Well, please don’t think I’m crazy, but every button was clipped from my coat and vest, even to the ornamental buttons on the sleeves.”
Homes’ eyes began to glow, and the doctor was again unable to restrain his interest.
“By Jove! It must—”
“Shut up, Swatsem!” the great detective almost shrieked. Then, moderating his voice somewhat, he turned to his “client.”
“Could you get any idea of your assailants?”
“Not much, I fear. The affair was very brief, but I am sure of one thing: The men were German, as what few words they exchanged were in that language. Unfortunately, my knowledge was not extensive enough to understand what they said. One of them seemed to be a sort of ringleader.”
“Would you recognize this man if you saw him again?”
“Yes,” Whalley answered positively. “He was the man who ran past me, and I got a good look at him.”
“Describe him,” said Homes.
The representative of the Whoop did so, calling on his imagination for help, and it responded nobly. The detective jotted down on a slip of paper the important points of his description, and after asking Whalley what size collars he wore, added:
“Your little problem interests me greatly. Come back at this time to-morrow, and I trust to have some light on it. In the meantime, I advise you to be careful not to expose yourself needlessly.”
Eight o’clock next evening found Whalley again at Baker Street. Homes looked a little worried, and after a moment or two of silence said:
“I find your problem more difficult than I had supposed would be the case. The threads are badly tangled, but my efforts are proving as successful as could be expected under the circumstances. By the way, did anything new develop to-day?”
Whalley grinned wickedly to himself as he replied:
“Yes, a small incident did happen which ought to have some connection with the case. I bought a paper from a boy on the street this morning, and when I opened it out dropped one of the very buttons which had been cut from my coat.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Homes, his face clearing. “Let’s have it.”
“Yes, the button,” echoed the doctor in his heavy rumble. “Let’s have it.”
Homes was so interested that he forgot to tell his professional admirer to shut up; and the latter’s delight at the omission of the customary rebuke was almost pathetic.
Whalley handed Homes a button which he had chanced to pick up. He grabbed a magnifying glass from the table, and holding the button close to the lamp, began examining it with the greatest care. At length he carefully wrapped it up in tissue paper and put it in his pocket.
“This is of the utmost importance,” he said, “and is what I might term a missing link in the chain of evidence. Return to-morrow morning at ten, and I’ll produce the man behind the whole affair.”
The interviewer departed, jubilant at the success he was meeting. Learning that he could get a boat at 11:3o, he arranged to have his luggage sent to the wharf, and at half-past nine settled his hotel bill and directed his steps toward Baker Street. Homes was again busy with the bass viol, seeming to be in quite a jovial mood.
“Well, Mr. Whalley,” was his greeting. “I have your man.”
“You have him!” the other exclaimed.
“At least, I have him where I can get him. He’ll be here in fifteen minutes, and when he arrives you’ll hear his confession.”
“Confession!” the reporter gasped weakly.
“That’s what I said. Why not? The criminals I apprehend usually have nothing left to do but confess.” This in a very self-satisfied tone, while Doctor Swatsem beamed affectionately upon his hero.
“Before your man comes,” continued Homes, glancing at the clock, “there will be time for me to outline the main points of the case, if you care to hear it.”
Whalley felt a peculiar sensation as if the ground had suddenly dropped from beneath his feet, but managed to brace up. Homes did not wait for a reply, but seeing that the doctor had his writing materials ready, began:
“At the very first I realized that there was more in this than appeared on the surface. There had to be some explanation, since r
obbery was out of the question for the attack on you and its singular outcome. Did you ever hear of Prince Wilhelm Von Schabenadel? Here he is,” and Homes took a picture from the table and handed it to the Whoop man. The latter started up in astonishment. The prince was his double in all particulars.
“The prince,” continued Homes, “has been planning to make a visit in London, and the police have suspected that a gang of desperate characters under the leadership of a certain notorious ‘Devil’ Spitz, were going to make an effort to kidnap him. Owing to the surprising resemblance between you two and the fact that the conspirators were misinformed concerning the Prince’s plans, they mistook you for his highness. You were followed for several days, but not until the actual attack did they discover their mistake. They adopted that queer subterfuge of the buttons in the hope of throwing the police off the track of their real intentions as they would doubtless have done had you not come to me.”
“But, Mr. Homes,” Whalley began wondering how under the sun he was ever going to get out of the mess. A knock at the door interrupted him.
“Come in,” called Homes, and taking a revolver from the table drawer, he held it concealed beneath his dressing robe. The doctor was lovingly fondling a huge stick. A man entered the room, and stood looking at them. He was shabbily dressed and undeniably Teutonic. The reporter glanced at him, and for a moment thought he was dreaming. This fellow corresponded in every detail to the imaginary description he had given Homes two nights before.
“There’s your man,” said the detective. “Do you recognize him?”
Under pretext of examining the fellow more closely, Whalley slipped around to the door, securing the key, which fortunately was lying on the table. Then he addressed Homes, speaking very fast.
“Mr. Homes, I never saw this man before, and you’d better let him go, as there never was any attack. I’m a reporter on the New York Whoop and I came here to—”
At this point it seemed prudent to retire. Whalley succeeded in getting through the door, and, slamming it, turned the key just as a bullet from Homes’ revolver crashed through. He went down the stairs four at a time. A cab was standing in front. Tossing a gold piece to the cabby, Whalley shouted:
“Start up the street, and when you see a couple of lunatics come flying out of here, drive as if the devil himself was chasing you.”
He found a place of concealment in a convenient doorway, and none too soon. There was a series of terrific crashes upstairs, and then Homes came down like a cyclone, the doctor a close second. Homes had a revolver in each hand, and Swatsem had a revolver and his bludgeon. The reporter’s cabby followed his instructions to the letter.
“The cab, Swatsem, the cab,” shouted Surelock, and started in pursuit, long shanks flying like the pistons of a steam engine.
The two were soon out of sight, and Whalley entered a near-by barber shop, from which he emerged considerably changed. He paused a moment at the door, and glanced around to see if the coast was clear.
Neither Swatsem nor the detective was in sight, but he saw the seedy German sneaking out of their lodging with a suspicious-looking bundle. It was evident that he had made good use of the rare opportunity which their hasty exit had offered.
Whalley would dearly have liked to see Homes when he returned and found his valuables missing, but realized that he must deprive himself of that treat. It was then eleven o’clock, so there was no time to be lost. He took a cab to the wharf, chuckling as he recalled Surelock Homes’ mad Marathon after the empty carriage. There was one thing that he could have given almost anything to clear up—where in the wide, wide world did Homes find that German?
Whalley made the steamer about five minutes before it sailed. As the gangplank was being lifted an excited figure burst through the crowd. It was the doctor. Evidently Homes had not wasted much time in getting on the trail.
Boswell the Second spotted the interviewer as he stood on the upper deck, and, overcome by his emotions and exertions, could not speak, but silently shook his fists.
Whalley waved him a farewell, and as the gap between the boat and the wharf slowly widened, he shouted:
“So-long, Swatsy, old boy. Shut up!”
Sherlocko the Monk
Gus Mager
Sherlock Holmes appeared in comic form as early as 1893, when Jack Butler Yeats—the poet William Butler’s brother—presented The Adventures of Chubblock Homes. Many have tried since, the most successful of them drawn by Gus Mager (1878-1956) for the Hearst newspapers.
Sherlocko surfaced on Dec. 9, 1910, as one of many characters whose names ended in “o” in Mager’s Monk strip. Launched in 1904, Monk appears to have been inspired by the antics of Italian organ-grinder monkeys (“monk” being a common abbreviation for them). Originally, the characters were monkeys, but dressing, acting, and talking like humans, and over time Mager redrew them into human forms.
The enthusiastic response to Sherlocko led Mager to drop the other characters. Sherlocko the Monk ran until 1913 when Mager was hired by the New York World. Forced either by Conan Doyle’s lawyer or Hearst (who owned the Sherlocko name), Mager renamed the strip Hawkshaw the Detective. The strip ran from 1913 to 1922 and from 1931 to 1952.
Mager’s Monk also appears as a footnote in Hollywood history, for one of its characters inspired a friend of the Marx brothers, then a vaudeville act, to give them new names: Groucho, Harpo, Chico, Zeppo, and Gummo.
The Adventure of the Rubber Pipe
E.J. Line
A mysterious death, a young woman in distress, and a secret society: These were the ingredients for several canonical Holmes stories. It shouldn’t be surprising that when The Captain magazine, subtitled “A Magazine for Boys and ‘Old Boys,’” held a short-story competition that its winner would draw on those elements as well. The result was published in Twenty-Five Detective Stories. Of its author, E.J. Line, we know nothing, not even if he was a boy or an “old boy” (which means a former student of an English private school).
The sun was well up towards the meridian when I awoke after our arduous exertions of the previous night and early morning, ending satisfactorily with the capture of the notorious forger Evans. But the terrible strain on his mental faculties and the exhausting pertinacity with which he clung to his clue and finally developed it into something tangible enough for the official police to handle, had in no way prostrated Shilah Coombes, for the dreary groaning and wheezy modulations of a bassoon from our mutual parlour told me how, true to his custom and natural instincts, the great Detective had entirely subordinated the professional man to the hobby-hunter.
Coombes believed there was a great fixture for the bassoon as a concert instrument, and every moment of relaxation between the many cases which filled his portfolio was spent in an endeavour to prove that the weirdness of Wagner could be presented properly in solo form only on the instrument of his choice. He had just finished a particularly trying chromatic run and laid down the instrument as I entered.
My eyes, I noticed, as I looked in my dressing-glass, were none too bright, and bore that tired appearance which is the aftermath for those of us who reverse nature and devote the sleeping hours to work or pleasure, but Coombes was as fresh as though he had passed a normal night, nor was I surprised to hear that he had been up since six o’clock putting some finishing touches to his brochure on “The Possibilities of the Bassoon.”
“Good morning, Thatson,” he exclaimed. “I am glad you have come in. There will be a client in a few moments.”
Used as I was to his powers of deduction and unerring divination, I expressed no surprise, and only directed at him a questioning raising of my eyebrows.
“Young lady over the way,” he replied. “I have been watching her for a quarter of an hour. She has something on her mind, but she isn’t certain whether her suspicions are sufficiently convincing to make her consult me. But she will come. Her desire for help to ease her fears will triumph. Just as I said,” he concluded, and I saw the lady walk across the stre
et.
A minute later she was announced. A lithe figure plainly and neatly clad in black; a girl in years, but a woman in experience, and one who had evidently passed many hours in suffering and grief.
Her agitation was great, and had it not been for the impetuosity which had nerved her to the ordeal she would have collapsed. “Mr. Coombes,” she exclaimed, “something dreadful has happened this morning. My father, the best and truest friend I had in the world, has been found dead in his bed. I don’t know what to think. It is so dreadful and so strange.”
The calm, impassive face of my friend created feelings of assurance in her, as it has so often done in many other poor distracted beings, and she became quieter.
“Tell me the whole story. You may speak before my friend, Dr. Thatson. He assists me greatly in these investigations. Am I right in supposing that you have not been long in England, and are living away out on the other side of London?”
The look of anguish quickly fled before one of surprise and interrogation. “We have never met before, so how do you know? But it is quite true; we came from Paris to Bromley about two months ago. A man named Brenson came with us, and though he has been very kind and thoughtful, I have never really liked him. My father seemed in good health, but this morning when I went to call him as usual, at six o’clock, I could get no answer, and Mr. Brenson came to my help, and burst open the door, and then we found my poor father lying dead in bed, but just as though he was asleep. He was quite cold, and had evidently been dead some hours. The doctor we called in declared heart failure to be the cause of death. But I wish you would come and see the room, for I fear I don’t know what.”
Coombes promised to go, and made an appointment for six o’clock that evening, taking a careful note of the address.
“What will be your fee?” she asked falteringly.
