by Bill Peschel
“If you will call at this time to-morrow I shall be able to tell you something. Meanwhile one word of caution. Walk home in the middle of the road. Stay indoors till to-morrow; sleep as little as possible to-night, and it might be as well to have a watch dog in your room with you. Tip the officers on your beat, and finally be careful what you eat. Test all with litmus paper. Dr. Spotson will give you some and will tell you how to use it.”
Five minutes later I showed Mr. Banks out.
On my return I found Shomes impatiently pacing the room.
“This is a great nuisance, Spotson,” he said, “Banks interested me so much that I completely forgot I had important reasons for remaining in town.”
“Could I not do your work at this end?”
“You might,” said Shomes; and then he added ungraciously, “It’s a mere matter of routine or I would not trust anyone but myself. Yes, I shall have to leave it to you as the other matter won’t keep. I had better give you the facts of the case, so that you understand the importance of what I ask of you; but as long as I live it must be a secret. This is not for publication in your lifetime. I have your word?”
“Certainly, Shomes.”
“A month ago I had a visit from a Foreign Office official. Our Government intends making a forward move in Egypt but does not wish to have European complications in consequence. A short time ago a secret Treaty was made between France and Russia, putting in black and white what move on our part would result in concerted action on theirs. Before our government takes an irrevocable step they wish to see what the result would be to their relations with France and Russia. I have been commissioned to get a copy of that Treaty.”
I could not help showing the astonishment I felt, and Shomes resumed apologetically.
“At first I would have nothing to do with the matter, but they said Lord X. would take it as a personal favour, and it might be the means of averting a European war and so forth, and harped on the patriotic string until at last I agreed to do it. It has been a very simple matter so far as I am concerned. A half-hour’s conversation on financial matters with a friend of mine, a high official in the French police, is all the trouble I have taken. The copy of the Treaty should reach me to-day packed in a case of Zola’s novels which will be sent by a firm of French booksellers in Leicester Square. You must be here to receive it. Open the case to make sure the document is there, and wire me to the Leeds Post Office, so that I know all is well, but on no account lose sight of the document until I return. Don’t leave this room. l shall not feel safe about it until I have given it to the Foreign Office official who is to call at nine in the morning for it. You understand me perfectly, I hope.”
“Quite so. If the document comes you may rely I shall be waiting here with it on your return.”
Two minutes later Shomes had left the room to catch the mid-day train to Leeds.
With the help of a novel and a good lunch the time passed pleasantly enough. At three o’clock a small case arrived by messenger. I forced the lid open, and took out the volumes it contained. To my surprise, when I had withdrawn the last there was nothing below. A false bottom? I knocked the case apart. No, it was plain three-quarter inch wood, and there were only a few newspaper sheets of packing. Then the Treaty was not there after all! I took up the volumes. Ha! “La Debacle. Edition de Luxe” was suspiciously light. I opened it. It was a mere case, and inside was the document so precious to our Government. I replaced it, put the case on a shelf next to the last volume of the Strand Magazine, and placed the other volumes elsewhere. Then I scribbled a wire to Shomes couched in the enigmatical style he loved: “Frogs safe to hand. Tadpole included,” and having thrown it out of the window to one of Shomes’ street arabs for transmission, I resumed my book.
Barely an hour afterwards there was a knock at the door, and a stranger entered. He was irreproachably dressed in a frock coat and striped trousers. His black tie was pinned by a large pearl, and his linen was of the whitest. He had a bunch of violets in his button-hole.
“Mr. Shomes?” said he enquiringly.
“Mr. Shomes is out at present,” I replied. “My name is Spotson.”
A look of great disappointment overspread his face.
“This is singularly unfortunate,” he said. “I wished to see Mr. Shomes on a matter of the very highest importance. My name is Richards. I am from the Foreign Office.”
“I think I know your business, Mr. Richards,” I replied, “but Mr. Shomes does not expect you before to-morrow morning.”
“That is so Mr. Spotson—Dr. Spotson, if I am not mistaken. We have all heard of you through your brilliant co-operation with Mr. Shomes in his work.”
“I am quite content merely to be known as the chronicler of my friend’s doings,” I replied. “I am sorry I can be of no use to you Mr. Richards. Mr. Shomes will not be back till very late, and nothing can be done in this matter before the time arranged to-morrow.”
“How very unfortunate,” he replied. “To-morrow will be too late. Mr. Shomes has no doubt told you the details of the delicate matter he has at present on hand for us?”
“Yes, I know all.”
“Then I need have no hesitation in saying that events in Egypt have come to a head rather sooner than we expected. This morning we received urgent wires from Cairo, and we have to send absolute and final instructions to-night in reply. A Cabinet Council has been hastily summoned for five o’clock to decide on the measures to be taken. It is of course of the highest consequence that our Ministers have full knowledge of the Franco-Russian Treaty before they come to a decision. Lord X. himself sent me here, hoping that Mr. Shomes would already be in possession of the Treaty.”
“I regret to say I cannot let you have it. Mr. Shomes left very distinct instructions on that point. He will give it you himself in the morning.”
“Then I gather that you have it,” said Mr. Richards with some excitement. “If so, Dr. Spotson, it would be scarcely less than criminal on your part to keep it back.”
“I am not answerable to you for my actions, Mr. Richards,” I replied sharply.
“Forgive me if I spoke hastily. I assure you I feel very deeply on the subject. I have just left Lord X., and if you knew the importance he attaches to the production of the Treaty you would understand my warmth. Your withholding it may cost the country thousands of lives and millions of treasure.”
The man’s earnestness impressed me with the gravity of the situation, and I felt the terrible responsibility that would rest with me did I act up to the letter of my instructions. Besides had not Shomes himself told me that patriotic motives and a desire to oblige Lord X. had induced him to meddle in the matter. Surely the same excuses held good for me.
I thought it over as well as I could, weighed the pros, and cons, of the situation, and finally decided it would, as Mr. Richards had said, be almost criminal on my part to let my country take a leap into the dark when I held the torch in my hand.
“Here is the document, Mr. Richards,” I said at length. “I can only hope I shall have no reason to regret having given it to you.”
“That you will never have, Dr. Spotson,” said my visitor earnestly. “I thank you not only personally, but in the name of Lord X. and the Government.”
I did not resume my novel for some time after he had gone. I had disregarded Shomes’ explicit instructions, and unless he considered that events justified it I saw the end of my friendship with that truly remarkable man. However, the more I thought on the matter, the more was I convinced that I had acted as Shomes would have done under similar circumstances, and a comfortable dinner helped to restore my equanimity.
It was eleven o’clock before I was again disturbed, A hansom rattled up, and then I heard Shomes’ quick footstep in the passage.
“Thank God!” he exclaimed as he saw me quietly reading before the fire, “I have had a scare to-day, Spotson, and no mistake. I was uncommonly glad to get your wire, uncommonly,” and he grasped my hands.
I wa
s surprised at this outburst on Shomes’ part, for he was the most reserved and unemotional man I ever knew.
“Well, what about Miss Arabella Dabb? Have you any evidence against her? Is Banks safe for to-morrow?”
“I’m afraid Mr. Banks is very safe,” said Shomes grimly, “but if I could meet him tonight he would hardly be so. It was all an infernal plant, a hoax, Spotson, to get me out of the way.”
“What!” I ejaculated.
“Miss Dabb has kept a little tobacco-shop for twenty years and has never been out of Leeds in her life,” continued Shomes. “She has never heard of this precious uncle of Mr. Banks; and no one else has either. The will was concocted yesterday by Mr. Banks, who dragged in the names of dead people taken from the newspapers. It was smart, very smart; I’ll give Banks the credit for that. He took me in completely.”
“But how could it benefit Banks?”
“Banks, Spotson! Banks stands for the French government who have got wind of this Treaty business. They found it out on Sunday, for I see from this evening’s paper that my friend in the French police committed suicide yesterday morning. It was all a clever scheme on their part to get me away, so that they could search my rooms in my absence. Luckily you were here Spotson to baulk them. You’ve done me yeoman’s service, and I beg you to forgive any little display of temper I may ever have shown at what I regarded as obtuseness on your part. I took the first train back from Leeds and have called on Lord X. on my way from King’s Cross. I told him I would not be responsible for the safety of the Treaty overnight. The house may be blown up; anything may occur. The French Government will stick at nothing. A King’s Messenger will be here any minute for it.”
A cold shiver ran down my back at these words.
“But—but,” I stammered, “Lord X. sent for it this afternoon.”
Shomes bounded from his chair and stood glowering over me.
“What!” he yelled. “You did not let it go?”
“A Foreign Office man called to tell you that a special Cabinet Council had been hastily summoned for this afternoon, and that the production of the Treaty was a vital necessity. So I gave it to him from patriotic motives.”
“And now Banks is on his way to Paris with it!” thundered Shomes, livid with passion. Then he absolutely lost control over himself. He flung open the door. “Out you go, you confounded bungler!” he blazed forth. “Never let me see you again. If you stay another minute I won’t answer for the consequences.”
I made for that door, and as I left it I distinctly felt his boot touch me. I left the house breathless and hatless. I had never seen Shomes in such a terrible rage. He was, as I have said, usually the most unemotional of men.
As I reached the street a carriage drove up, and a smart military-looking man got out. I have always been curious to know what Shomes said to that King’s Messenger.
Such is a true account of Shomes’ one mistake, and of the only serious hitch that occurred in my relations with him. At another time I will recount the singular train of events that led to our reconciliation, and cemented a friendship that only ended with the death of this remarkable man. For that Herlock Shomes really is dead, I am sure, is believed by all reasonable men, and I treat with scorn the suggestion that he is simply hiding from the too-pertinacious curiosity of his faithful friend and biographer.
Why I Jilted Nan
Helen Gillespie
We have seen a few stories in this series written by schoolboys, but this is the only one written by a schoolgirl. This is from The Omega, the senior class annual from Ann Arbor (now Pioneer) High School in Michigan.
Helen Gillespie lived a life familiar to many women of her time. She was born in 1895 and spent much of her life at a small house her family built at 209 N. Ashley St. in Ann Arbor. The high school was only seven blocks from her house, and one could imagine her walking there. After graduation, she worked as a secretary at the University of Michigan. It was only a couple blocks south of the school, so she could have continued to walk there. She continued living at home and took care of her aging parents. To make ends meet, they took in two men as boarders. Of her two sisters, the eldest vanished early from the public records, while the younger one married a man nearly two decades older than her. He died a few years later, leaving no children, and she became a bookkeeper at a business in Detroit.
Helen Gillespie did a few things that appeared in print. During the ’20s, the Michigan Audubon Society listed her as a member in its newsletter. In 1933, she signed a petition asking the state to protect the black bear. Her parents both died in 1935, and she inherited the home. She continued to work at the university, rising to become secretary to the dean of the law school. She still took boarders; but only women. She retired from the university in 1961, having worked there for more than four decades.
That was the sum total of her life as we know it. She had been born when Queen Victoria was still on the throne, and saw two world wars, the Jazz Age, the Depression, and the rock ‘n’ roll nuclear age. In retirement, she lived through the hippie movement, the disco era, and the election of an actor as president. She died in 1983, leaving behind this story as her sole personal expression. It reveals an observant girl with the ability to turn a smart phrase. One wonders, with ambition and mentoring, what she might have accomplished.
Nan and I were engaged. I knew that she had delved somewhat into the realms of literature, but I had never read any of her productions.
One evening as I was leaving the house, her younger brother Jack said to me in the hall: “Here is the manuscript of one of Nan’s stories. Would you like to read it?”
I took it with me and this is what I read:
THE RIVAL LOVERS—A RAT-LING ROMANCE.
Chapter I.
Sophronia McSplinters was so ravishingly beautiful that whenever she came out on the street the man in the moon pushed the clouds aside so he could look at her.
She drew three-fifty per as a clerk. Four years ago she only received three dollars a week, and Sophronia figured that at this rate in sixteen years she would be making five dollars a week, which is enough for anyone to live on if they have lots of money besides. Each week she presented to her struggling family fifty cents, and spent the remainder in switches, May Irwin puffs, Marcel waves, Psyche knots, and rats, to hide amid her raven tresses.
Sophronia, as might be expected, had many admirers. One was a fine young man named Archibald Beresford, who had come to the town to work his way through school, and let it here be said that Archibald was not afraid of work—he could sleep beside it. The consequences were that Archibald had been a Freshman for three years. but he could dance just beautifully, and he had a lovely voice over the telephone.
Sophronia’s other admirer was Bill Jinks, a clerk in a department store. Bill Jinks was a villain. He smoked cigarettes. shot craps, ate with his knife, and called the midday collation “dinner” instead of “luncheon.” Sophronia couldn’t stand anything like this, and Bill had not the ghost of a chance.
One evening, just as the sun was setting in the west (which is the proper place for it to set), Archibald Beresford walked haughtily into the store where Bill Jinks was counter-jumper.
“How much is that candy?” he asked, staring superciliously at Jinks.
“It’s ten cents a pound,” said Jinks, “this is bargain day.”
“I’ll take a whole pound,” said Archibald, laying the dime on the counter with a lordly air.
Jinks, green with jealousy, weighed out ten ounces, for he knew that the candy was intended for Sophronia. Archibald then strode majestically out of the store and over to Webb’s, for he knew that ten cent candy always tastes better from a sixty-cent box.
Shortly after this, Sophronia passed the store in which Bill Jinks pretended to work. Jinks put on his hat and coat and followed her. He saw her enter the elevator at the Glazier Building, and, listening intently, he could tell that the elevator went to the top floor before it stopped. Taking the elevator on its next trip he
followed her. He found her looking out of an open window. Why she was there no one can tell. “It’s one of the mysteries of life,” as William Jennings Bryan says.
“I guess it’s up to me,” said Bill. Then, walking toward her, he sank on one knee, pressed both hands over his heart and said: “Sophronia, will you marry me?”
“Sure,” said Sophronia.
“When?” asked Bill.
“February thirty-first,” said Sophronia.
This enraged Bill Jinks. He rose to his feet and looked so threateningly that Sophronia, stepping hastily backwards, fell through the open window, and began, according to the law of gravitation invented by Sir Isaac Newton, to fall to the earth below. This was the sight that met the horrified gaze of Archibald Beresford, coming from Webb’s candy store.
But Sophronia was not to die yet, for after gazing calmly at the scenery for a few seconds, she turned gracefully over and struck the sidewalk head first. It will be remembered that Sophronia’s head was well protected by hair and other things. Her skull was also very thick or she would not have been working for three-fifty per., so she was not injured and was able to walk home with the assistance of Archibald.
Chapter II.
The Abduction.
It was Archibald’s custom to call every evening at Sophronia’s residence, much to the disgust of the rest of the family. On the next evening sad news awaited him. Sophronia had disappeared—vanished as completely and mysteriously as do the funds in the Michigan State treasury under a Republican administration.
Archibald was in despair, but he could find no trace of her. As a last resort he telegraphed for the aid of a detective.
The next evening as he sat in his hall-bedroom someone knocked at the door. On opening it a man confronted him—a tall man with dark hair, dark complexion, and dark linen. In each hand he held a large revolver, and between his teeth was a bowie knife.
