by Bill Peschel
“Come in,” said Archibald pleasantly.
The tall man took a seat, laid his armament on the table, and said in a high-bred voice: “Young feller, who do you think I be?”
“I don’t know,” said Archibald, “you look like a Bell Telephone collector.”
“No,” said the man. “Hist! I am Sheerluck Jones, the great detective. Tell me all the facts.”
Archibald told him all he knew of the case.
“What number of shoes did that gal wear?” asked the detective.
“Why two, of course,” said Archibald, “do you think she’s a centipede?”
“I mean what size?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ha! a clue,” said Sheerluck. “What is she got up like?”
Archibald described her appearance, laying great stress on the pains she took to make her coiffure attractive.
“Her what?” asked the detective.
“Her coiffure,” said Archibald.
“What’s that?”
“Her hair.”
“Well why didn’t you say so. I speaks perfect English, but I ain’t much on them foreign lingos. What did she do with her hair?”
“She builds it up high,” said Archibald, “and puts on things they call puffs and rats.”
“What did you say,” said the detective, “RATS? Ha! I now have a clue.”
“Do you think you can help us?” said Archibald.
“Sure Mike” said Jones. “I shall proceed to throw some light on the subject.” He took a dark lantern from one of his secret pockets, and a dog from another, and saying, “Hist, follow me,” he walked out of the house.
Chapter III.
The Villain Foiled.
The streets were deserted—the people had gone to their beds, and the policemen were quietly sleeping. The dog sniffed the air, then started eastward, turned once or twice as if bewildered, and at last headed straight for the Ann Arbor High School. With a yelp he ran up the steps to the door. The detective opened it for him, he and Archibald following.
The excited animal ran up two flights of stairs and stopped, pawing and barking at the chapel door. They opened it and by the light of the dark lantern what a sight met their gaze!
Before them they saw Sophronia McSplinters, bound to a chair and with a sheet of fly-paper pasted over nearly her entire mouth. Her coiffure was badly disarranged, and fell to one side, reminding one of the leaning tower of Pisa.
Before they had time to unbind her, the door opened and Bill Jinks stood before them. Sheerluck Jones with great presence of mind got behind Sophronia, but Archibald felt so peevish over the way Jinks had acted, that he ran up and slapped him twice on the wrist.
Jinks, alarmed at this outburst, ran from the building and disappeared. They quickly released Sophronia and took her home to her people. Then Archibald, with tears in his eyes, said to the great detective: “Mr. Jones, I can never repay you for what you have done for us.”
“None of that, young feller,” said the detective. “You’ll pay me and pay me quick, or there will be trouble.”
“I was not thinking of money; I will pay you with pleasure.” So Archibald wrote him out a check on a Chelsea Savings Bank, and handed it to him and said: “Now before you go, Mr. Jones, I want you to please tell me how you accomplished this wonderful feat. First tell me: Why did Jinks hide Sophronia in the High School chapel?”
“That’s dead easy. He knew that no one ever goes there unless he has to, and she wouldn’t likely be found for several days.”
“But how did you know where to look for her?”
“Why, it’s jest me method of deduction. When you described that gal’s top-rigging didn’t you say she wore rats in her hair?”
“Yes, I believe I did.”
“Well, ye see that dog of mine is a rat-terrier.”
Little remains to be told, which is a good thing for the reader. Sheerluck Jones’s last words were: “I’ll get dat Bill Jinks yet. All dese great scoundrels sooner or later git into the United States Senate, and I’m sure to nab him sometime.” Then he left on the next freight train, and they have not heard from him since. Archibald thinks he is too busy trying to cash that check.
Shortly after that the young people were married. Sophronia now dresses her hair more reasonably and looks nearly human. They have begun house-keeping and have two and one-half pounds of REAL butter, four dozen eggs, and over seven pounds of pork, and best of all, Archibald, who never liked labor very much (as he said it interfered with mental concentration) has lately accepted a position as lineman with the wireless telegraph company.
The End.
Epilogue.
Is there any wonder that after reading this I should write to Nan and say that I had contracted tuberculosis and the match was off? Then I began to feel sorry for Nan at her prospect of losing such a good husband and went up to the house to talk it over. She wouldn’t see me, but her father met me, and glared at me like a bull dog at a cat. After a few incoherent remarks, I thrust the manuscript into his hands, saying: “Read it. Nan wrote that.”
The old gentleman, as he looked over it, began to grin, and then to laugh. “Why you idiot,” he said, “Nan never wrote that. She writes things about birds, and flowers, and that sort of stuff, and no woman would ever write a story, and have the heroine speak only three words. This has been written by that young rascal Jack.”
Very much ashamed of myself, I left the house, but as Nan hasn’t sent the ring back, I think I’ll be able to square myself yet.
1911
For centuries, Britain and France had been traditional enemies, while Germany was a collection of kingdoms and principalities that acted more like a chessboard for other warring parties.
Then in 1871, after Prussia crushed France in the Franco-Prussian War, a united German Empire rose under the guiding hand of Otto von Bismarck (1815-1898). He wanted Germany to have what the rest of Europe already had: colonies, a standing army, a fleet that could challenge the Royal Navy, and the right to make war when it saw fit. Beating France was the equivalent of the new sheriff walking into the bar and knocking out the leader of the local gang. Now everyone was wondering if there was another war coming.
Conan Doyle was not concerned. He was a Germanophile who had traveled there to investigate a tuberculosis cure and to study to become an eye doctor. Germany was the home of high culture, of Beethoven and Goethe. The country was squeezed between France and Russia; it couldn’t fight both of them at once. Besides, the Kaiser was Victoria’s grandson, just like the new king, George V. They were family.
Instead, Conan Doyle turned toward reforming the British Army, particularly with the advent of dirigibles and submarines, and he had no hesitation about telling newspaper readers what the Ministry of War should do about them. He was full of ideas, such as giving the troops bicycles to move them about faster. He even thought about the possibility of an invasion—“invasion literature” featuring Germany had been a successful genre since 1871—and suggested organizing squads of motorists to convey troops to the front in the event of a landing.
His interest in machinery led him to go up in a biplane. His delight in flying was tempered by the knowledge that there had been a fatal accident already that day. Then, while in the air, he realized that the plane was flying into a headwind and they were barely making way. But they landed safe, much to his relief.
An invitation to participate in a German-British road rally gave Conan Doyle an opportunity to indulge his interests: motorcars, travel with his wife (who would navigate), and conversation with the participating British and German officers. The race would take them from Hamburg to London to Edinburgh and back in 16 days. It would be a race based on endurance, not speed; divided into 150 miles-a-day legs with time for dinner and conversation each evening. Each two-person team would be paired with an officer from the other side.
The event was organized by Germany as a sporting way to test the mettle of the 90-car field, although there wa
s an undercurrent of competition and suspicion that Conan Doyle missed. He drove a French-built 16-horsepower landaulette, with the driver in one section and the passengers in another. The Germans drove 70-80-hp. Benz and Mercedes and raced to be first, despite the fact it was a timed race. In his memoirs, Conan Doyle described the British officers, some of whom were from the intelligence branch or who had been keeping an eye on Germany. They were not only sure that war was coming, but one predicted that it would happen after the Kiel Canal was widened in June 1914. “War came in August, so that they were not far wrong,” he wrote. But that was long after the war. At the time Conan Doyle told a friend, “I spent a week in Berlin and returned feeling easier about England … There is much to admire but little to fear.”
In October, Joseph Bell died. At the Edinburgh University infirmary, Dr. Bell had chosen the young Conan Doyle to be his clerk, charged with interviewing patients and leading them into the hall to be treated. Watching Bell diagnose a patient with a few quick glances, Conan Doyle compiled the stories that would inspire Holmes. Bell had been pleased with this modicum of fame and respect, and repaid it by campaigning for Conan Doyle in his unsuccessful 1901 run for Parliament.
Perhaps thinking of Bell and his alma mater, Conan Doyle finally started what he thought of as a “boys’ book” in the vein of H. Rider Haggard. He combined the recent discovery of ancient animal bones near his home in Crowborough, his work on the Congo, and Roger Casement’s impending journey up the Amazon to investigate a British trading company, with the memory of another professor from Edinburgh: Professor William Rutherford “with his Assyrian beard, his prodigious voice, his enormous chest and his singular manner.” Conan Doyle adopted his look, his strength, and his independent spirit and created Professor Challenger, another vivid hero. By December, he had finished The Lost World.
Publications: Holmes stories: “The Adventure of the Red Circle” (March-April), “The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax” (Dec.); Others: The Last Galley (April).
An American newspaper promoting its serialization of The Lost World.
The Mystery of the Missing Pawn
H. T. Dickinson
Although a chess board has never appeared in any of the canonical stories, nor cropped up among the furnishings of 221B Baker Street, it has not prevented chess fans from adopting Holmes as one of their own. Several games have been composed with Holmes participating. At least two of them were against his old nemesis Moriarty: “The Moriarty Gambit” (1962) by fantasy author Fritz Leiber, and “A Game at Chess” in the 1915-1919 volume. The 223B Casebook has two more non-Moriarty chess stories: “The Adventure of the Strange Sound” in the 1914 chapter, and “The Puzzling Adventure of the Misunderstood Monkey Business” in the 1915-1919 volume.
This one came from the January issue of The British Chess Bulletin, a monthly amateur publication that lasted only four issues. Nothing is known of its editor, H.T. Dickinson.
(With apologies to Sir A. Conan Doyle and The Strand Magazine.)
It was a dreary November evening. Rain was falling outside, and to the best of my recollection there was a mist abroad, but on that point I am a trifle hazy. Herlock Shomes was seated in his favourite chair with his violin under his chin playing snatches from the Merry Widow. I was seated on the floor, Shomes having the day before sawn one of the legs off my chair to use as a life preserver.
We had been sitting in silence, save for occasional moans from Shomes’ violin, when my companion suddenly broke it (the silence I mean—not the violin).
“Watson,” said he, “I perceive you have been to the Post Office this afternoon.”
“My dear fellow,” I exclaimed, “how could you possibly know that?”
“An airy trifle,” answered he, waving his bow in dangerous proximity to my eye. “You received a bill from your tailor this morning, with an intimation that unless a remittance was immediately forthcoming, certain unpleasant things would occur. A worried look has been in evidence on your features ever since the arrival of that missive until about an hour ago, when you suddenly grabbed the bill, your hat and coat, and disappeared out of the door to return in twenty minutes with an expression of relief on your face, your watch chain dangling from your buttonhole minus the watch, and a money order counterfoil in your hand. The deduction was obvious.”
“You are a wizard,” I said.
“A wizard indeed,” said Shomes in derision. “And pray what is a wizard?”
“One who wizzes,” I replied facetiously, “and—” I got no further, for a heavy dictionary whizzed across the room with unerring aim and struck me on the side of the head. I jumped up intending to show Shomes the latest thing in jui jitsu, when the front door bell rang.
“Someone for me, Watson,” said Shomes. He was right, for the next minute our landlady was ushering into the room a portly individual with a nose, the hue of which suggested liquids stronger than water.
“Which is Mr. Shomes, the great detective?” asked our visitor.
“That’s me,” replied Shomes, with becoming modesty. “Please take a seat.”
The newcomer, having looked round in vain for a chair, seated himself on the table.
“You wish to consult me professionally?” said Shomes.
The man on the table having signified assent, Shomes leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and placed his fingertips together. “Please let me have the full particulars of your case,” said he.
“My name is Edwin Basker of Basker Hall,” commenced our visitor, “and I am a Chess player. I recently won the championship of Bermondsey, which hundreds of other players have endeavored to wrest from me. Now, like most great people, I have my fads and idiosyncrasies. I always like to play with my own chessmen. I cannot explain why, but whenever I play with my own set of chessmen I win, and when I play with anyone else’s I lose. Whenever I go to the Club, I always take my own set with me. Of course the other players laugh at me, and sometimes nasty things are said about it; indeed, on one occasion, I found one member of the club minutely examining my pieces to see if there was any mechanism concealed in them. Well, recently my championship has been seriously challenged, and you have no doubt seen in the papers that a match has been arranged for the Championship of Bermondsey, between myself and a player named Dan Kowski. Of course, in the ordinary way, there could be no doubt of the result of the match, but, Mr. Shomes, there is some underhand work going on. One of the pawns from my set of men has disappeared, and the match commences to-morrow. I cannot play without my own set of men, and to place an odd man on the board to make up the set would equally spoil my play. I could not bear the sight of a differently shaped and sized piece amongst my own lovely pieces. It would be inartistic, and my soul would rebel against it. Will you try to trace and recover the missing pawn for me? If you will do this, you have but to name your own reward. I will even give you a blank cheque to fill in any sum you please, Mr. Shomes.”
“As to filling in a blank cheque,” said Shomes, “that would depend on how much you have in the bank.”
“I implore you to help me, Mr. Shomes,” said Basker, passing over Shomes’ remark.
“Well, Mr. Basker, your case interests me, and I shall be happy to help you recover your property. I think we had first better visit the scene of the crime.”
“Certainly, Mr. Shomes. I have a taxi outside.”
“Then we can go at once. Put on your coat, Watson,” said Shomes.
A half hour’s ride brought us to Basker Hall, a noble mansion in the Old Kent Road. After an argument with the driver as to the amount of the fare, our client led us inside.
“This room on the right is my study,” said Basker. “It was from this room that the theft was committed.”
Without further ado we entered, and Shomes whipped out a yard measure, and commenced his investigations. He first of all measured the distance from the door to the chimney, then the distance from the whatnot to the coal scuttle, then he examined the key of the door with his lens, after which
he collected some ash from the ashtrays and examined it minutely. When these preliminaries were completed, Shomes asked to see the chessmen, from which the pawn had been abstracted.
Basker produced a box and raising the lid, displayed a large set of chessmen. He counted the pieces showing that there was a pawn missing.
Shomes’ yard measure was again brought into requisition. The size of the box was ascertained, the height of the kings, the length of the ears of the knights, and finally Shomes examined the rest of the pawns with his powerful lens. This done with, he turned to Basker.
“Do you smoke?” said he.
“No, Mr. Shomes,” replied Basker, “but my eldest son has recently taken to that beastly habit and—”
“He smokes a pipe,” interrupted Shomes.
“He does, and he—”
“He doesn’t carry a pouch.”
“No, Mr. Shomes, he buys his tobacco in those new-fangled cartridges.”
“ ’Tis even as I suspected,” muttered Shomes grimly. “Can you tell me where he keeps his cartridges?”
“Yes, certainly. In spite of my protests he keeps them in our old family teapot on the sideboard in the dining-room, as he says they keep better than in the box.”
“Please lead the way to the teapot,” said Shomes. Our client led us to the dining-room, and to an antiquated-looking utensil from the sideboard.
“This,” he said with pride, “is the teapot which the Baskers have had for—”
Without allowing Basker to finish his sentence, Shomes seized the teapot, and emptied the contents on the table. From amongst the tobacco cartridges he produced the missing pawn. Our client uttered a cry of joy, as his missing treasure came into light.
