by Bill Peschel
“Disappeared?”
“Vanished utterly, Mr. Holmes. Imagine my distress! Those manuscripts are the private property of one of the most exalted personages in the realm—a person, Mr. Holmes, so exalted that I hope the printer, when he comes to put this in type, will use capital letters whenever he refers to Her. I cannot possibly mention Her name, except to hint that it begins with V, and to say that She frequently resides at Windsor.”
“Goodness gracious sakes alive!”
“I know you would be astonished, Mr. Holmes, I know—”
At this moment the door suddenly burst open, and two men entered the room. I recognized one of them as Inspector Gregson; the other was unknown to me.
“Well, Gregson!” said Holmes, “what can I do for you?”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes,” said Gregson, “still theorizing as usual? I think I can save you some trouble. This is my friend and colleague, Inspector Smith. And this gentleman, I take it, is Professor Buchwirm, who has lost the Sheraton MSS. It is too bad you did not come to the old shop, Professor, to Scotland Yard. You would have saved time. Luckily your assistant Mr. Noodle, sent for me, and I proceeded with my customary energy.”
“Let us hear an account of your adventures, Gregson,” said Holmes, reaching for the laudanum pitcher and swallowing a couple of quarts.
“Yes, by all means,” said the librarian, “I am all eagerness to hear what success attended your efforts.”
“Well,” remarked the inspector, seating himself besides his associate on the couch, “on getting Mr. Noodle’s letter I took a cab for the library and instituted a search for the lost papers. Finding nothing, I asked all the members of the library staff what they knew about it. They knew nothing. One of them suggested that I look in the catalogue. I did so, but soon abandoned that method of search as too intricate even for an inspector from Scotland Yard. There are some things that are beyond the reach of mortal man. However, one of the library messengers remarked that a charwoman employed by the library had left the building only half an hour before the manuscripts were missed and instantly it occurred to my unerring intellect that she might know something about the matter. I sent the messenger to her lodgings with a note from me, and in less than an hour he returned with this slip of paper. My message to the woman said simply: ‘Where are the Sheraton Mss?’ and this is her reply.”
He handed the professor a bit of paper. We all gathered about him and read these words: “Kat has got them.”
“Marvellous!” ejaculated Professor Buchwirm, “I never thought of that cat. Doubtless you then had the cat searched?”
“I did,” replied Gregson, “and—”
“Pardon me one instant, my dear fellow,” said Sherlock Holmes languidly. “but even though the matter has not yet come to the notice of Scotland Yard, the ordinary spelling of the word ‘cat’ is with a ‘c,’ not a ‘k.’ The importance of the higher education in the detection of criminality is a matter on which I have already laid much emphasis, in fact, I have incorporated some of my views on the subject in a trifling monograph, which you may have seen, Professor.”
“That may all be true, Mr. Holmes,” replied the irritated inspector, “but how do you account for those facts? On the receipt of the charwoman’s note, I asked to be led to the library cat, and I found her eating some papers, which I instantly rescued. I now have the honor, Professor, to return them to you.”
So saying, Gregson drew some folded papers from an inner pocket and handed them to the librarian. That gentleman seized them with joyful cries, and, dashing across the room, grasped the inspector’s hand.
“How can I ever thank you, my dear sir?” he exclaimed; “you have preserved my reputation, you—”
“Just one moment, if you please,” said Holmes, who was now very nearly in a deep trance; “just one moment. If you will examine these papers through this powerful lens, you will be able to discern in large printed letters the words, ‘The Daily Mail,’ near the top. If you will continue the scrutiny with great care I think you will discover that these are not the Sheraton MSS., but a newspaper published here in London. You may be able to purchase a copy on the street, my dear Gregson, if you have the change with you, and are interested in the matter. The deciphering of manuscripts is an important part of the detective’s work, professor, and I thought I could not be mistaken when I saw on those sheets an advertisement of Beecham’s Pills—a remedy not in use, I believe, in the year 1102, when the Sheraton MSS. were penned. Take the glass, professor, and see if you do not agree with me.”
“It is indeed true,” said the librarian, after a careful examination of the sheets, “but what shall I do now? The MSS. are still lost, I fear.”
“I may be able to recover them,” said Holmes, “unless, of course, you still prefer to leave the matter in the hands of the inspector.”
“I think,” said that officer, “we had better pursue independent lines of investigation. I am still retained by Mr. Noodle, and I shall return to the library.”
With that the two inspectors left our apartments, and the librarian soon followed, after being assured by Holmes that he need not worry.
As soon as he had departed, Holmes roused himself from lethargy.
“Quick, Watson!” said he, “look over those morning papers and see how many German spies are registered at the principal hotels. Ah, here it is—as I thought! Get your coat, and we will go out. No delay! You had best put your revolver in your pocket, Watson—this matter cuts very deep—very deep indeed! It is no exaggeration to say that the safety of the empire is at stake! Tell Mrs. Hudson to call a hansom, Watson, and be quick about it!”
PART II
Two or three of the most prominent librarians in the country, including Professor Oscar Gustafsen of Philander University, have written to the Transcript requesting the early publication of the rest of “The Adventure of the Lost Manuscripts,” the story in which Sherlock Holmes attempts to solve a library mystery. Although it is now the custom to string out these stories through as many numbers as possible, an exception will be made in this case, and the second and final installment is given herewith. Following the humane method of the magazines, a synopsis is offered for the benefit of those who missed it:
SHERLOCK HOLMES and Dr. Watson, sitting in their Baker Street chambers, receive a call from Jabez Buchwirm, librarian of the Houndsditch Public Libraries. The librarian reports the mysterious loss of the Sheraton Manuscripts—papers almost as valuable in their historical association as the original Magna Carta. The Sheraton Manuscripts are the personal property of the queen, but they have been deposited (for reasons understood only by the writers of detective romances) in Mr. Buchwirm’s library. Before the great detective has time to express an opinion, his old antagonist, Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard, butts in—or rather, we would say, intrudes upon the case, and announces that he has been retained by Mr. Noodle, the assistant librarian. He claims already to have recovered the lost manuscripts, and produces some papers on which the librarian seizes with glad cries.
Holmes, however, by means of his superhuman powers and a magnifying glass, shows that he knows more about detective work than Inspector Gregson (the pride of Scotland Yard) and more about manuscripts than Mr. Buchwirm, the learned librarian. After careful scrutiny he discovers that the papers brought in by Gregson are not the Sheraton Manuscripts (dating from the eleventh century) but a current copy of the Daily Mail. The inspector departs, baffled, but still on the job—or rather, it would be better to say, still intent upon his quest. The troubled librarian also departs (destination unmentioned) and then Holmes begins to display signs of energy. He calls for Watson to call for Mrs. Hudson (the faithful landlady) to call a cab. Then, bidding Watson to take his revolver with him, and remarking that the case “cuts very deep indeed” and that the safety of the empire is at stake, the two depart in search of the lost manuscripts.
They—or before we go on with what they do, we wish to pay a tribute of respect to the extraordina
ry and praiseworthy character of Mrs. Hudson, the landlady of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. That unusual woman permitted events of the most thrilling nature to transpire in her house—arrests, often with such violence as to resemble rough-and-tumble fights, faintings, attempted murders, and finally a total destruction of the entire edifice by fire. Yet she never complained, never murmured, rose like the phoenix from the fire, and on the return of Sherlock Holmes from the alleged grave, was quite ready to creep forward and back across the room on her hands and knees and wiggle a wax bust of Holmes in such a manner as to tempt one of his would-be assassins to blaze away at it with a rifle. Where can her like be found? Pinckney Street may be searched in vain for her prototype. All hail to Mrs. Hudson!
Now, having offered this little garland of roses to the landlady, let us get back to the great detective and the good Dr. Watson, for a really ridiculous amount of time has already been wasted while that hansom was being called, and unless something is done pretty soon the thieves will get away with the Sheraton Manuscripts, take them to America and sell them to Mr. J.P. Morgan.
Here we have Holmes and Watson, then, in a cab, just turning the corner of Baker and Regent streets (and if they haven’t a corner, we don’t care at all). They are both irreproachably clad in frock coats and top hats—just the most convenient costume in the world for tracking criminals in, and if it were not for the lean, eager face of the great detective you would not guess in what desperate business he is engaged.
His lean, eager face is tilted languidly back at this moment, however; his eyes are closed, and he is dreamily humming some little thing by Grieg or Dvorak, or somebody else to make the reader of this believe that the writer is familiar with the best music. At last he stops humming—just as the hansom passes Liberty’s —opens his eyes, and addresses Dr. Watson. Now, we are off at last.
“My dear Watson, did you notice anything peculiar about the cab-driver before we got in this cab?”
“Yes,” I replied. “I observed him closely.”
“And what did you notice, may I ask?”
“Well, he wore a derby hat, and had a rather red nose.”
[Note by the Editor: “Englishmen don’t wear derby hats; they wear bowlers.”]
[That is all right—how do you know that this cabman is an Englishman? Perhaps he is an American. Some mystery here—but wait a little.]
“Very keen of you, Watson,” replied Holmes, “very keen indeed, but as most of the London cabbies wear hats, and all of them have red noses, these facts are not by themselves sufficiently remarkable for purposes of detection. You are improving, Watson, you are undoubtedly improving, but did you chance to observe that this cabby had a rifle under one arm, a belt of cartridges around his waist, the unmistakable bulge of an automatic pistol under his breast pocket, and a bowie knife in his teeth? Did you also chance to see the light Gatling gun which he had in front of him, on the roof of the cab?”
I was forced to confess that these details had escaped me.
“Well, well,” Holmes returned, “all trifles, no doubt, but the trifles may sometimes prove of transcendent importance. You remember that it seemed a trifle to Gregson when I noticed that the Duchess of Porchester’s pet cockatoo had suffered a slight loss of appetite. Yet from that observation I deduced the facts which led to the arrest of Reginald St. George and the clearing up of the Blisworth glass-eating conspiracy.”
“I remember it perfectly,” said I, “but what do you deduce from the heavily armed condition of this cab-driver?”
“He apprehends some danger,” said Holmes, “but I shall be able to speak with greater confidence after we get to the library. I hope the building will not be closed! You notice that I did not take the librarian with us?”
“I did, and supposed you had some good reason for it.”
“Quite so. There is not room for three in a hansom, and he did not look as if he could pay for a four-wheeler. I certainly did not care to do so. But, hullo! Hullo! This must be Gregson at work! Dear, dear, what a time they are having!”
Our cab had stopped suddenly just as we turned into Trafalgar Square. [Query by the Editor: “What? On the way to Houndsditch?”]
[You leave me alone, will you?]
The entire square was filled with constabulary and soldiers. Five or six hundred members of the police force, armed now with revolvers, surrounded the Nelson Monument. Farther along, and drawn up so as to encircle one of the hotels and extend far down the Strand, were two brigades of soldiers. Skirmishers who were deployed poured a steady fire at a small building, while from the vicinity of the National Gallery three or four siege guns dropped explosive shells into the same building. The troops were in command of Lord Kitchener, and Winston Churchill had charge of the police.
[Note by the Editor: “Isn’t this an anachronism? Kitchener wasn’t a peer in 1892, the date of your story.”]
[Read my essay on “The Value of the Anachronism in Literature.”]
“Ah!” said Holmes, rubbing his hands briskly, “our friend Gregson seems to have turned out the forces in good shape. I suppose he thinks he has caught the men who stole the Sheraton Manuscripts at last. Here he is now!”
The inspector was indeed approaching our cab.
“Ah, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, it’s you is it? Glad to see you, Dr. Watson! But you are a little too late—we’ve got the rascals treed without your assistance.”
“They are in there, are they?” I asked, pointing to the house, in which at that moment four lyddite shells exploded simultaneously.
“There they are,” he answered, “or, rather, I should say, there he is. Yes, sir, Mose the Muffin Man, the most dangerous criminal who ever came out of Russia, is in that building at this moment, with the Sheraton Manuscripts in his pockets. But we will have him yet, even if we have to send to the Colonies for help!”
“But do you think,” Holmes inquired, “that your force is sufficient? There may be bloodshed with such a desperate man at bay, unless you overpower him.”
“Four dreadnoughts are coming up the river,” said Gregson, “and a strong body of suffragettes are ordered to make a flank attack from Northumberland Street. Hark! They are going to charge! Isn’t it a magnificent sight?”
It was indeed superb. Three regiments advanced at that moment and took the house at the point of the bayonet. They burst open the front door, dashed in—and brought out a crippled man in an invalid’s wheelchair!
“Well, I’ll be blowed!” said Gregson. “Who can that be?”
“It looks, my dear inspector,” said Holmes, quietly, “very much like that crippled beggar who sells matches in Baker Street. Surely you do not mean to claim that he is your Russian criminal!”
“There’s some mistake here!” said the infuriated Gregson, now baffled for the second time within an hour.
“I fear there is,” returned my friend, “and Watson, if you will be good enough to tell our driver to proceed, we will continue on our way to the library. Very pretty display of soldiers, though, Gregson, very pretty indeed! How well those Highlanders march! Goodbye, Gregson, and if you capture any more criminals this afternoon, do let me hear of it. I should enjoy seeing the Colonials arrive.”
For half an hour our hansom traversed the London streets. Holmes sat in a reverie, while I noted the regions we passed through, and thought of the many curious and tragic incidents connected with them which Holmes had investigated with me as his companion. There was the house in Upper Brixton [Editor: “Oh, Lord!”], the house in Upper Brixton connected with the singular case of General Poindexter and the Serpent Worshippers. There was the villa in St. John’s Wood in which the pretender to the throne of Bulgaria met his sudden and mysterious death. There was the low, squalid alley not far from St. Paul’s [Editor: “Was this a seeing-London tour?”], the low, squalid alley, I say, in which Holmes lived for two weeks in the winter of ’89 while he was investigating the peculiar circumstances connected with the disappearance of the beautiful Mrs. Lydford and the poisoni
ng of the Brazilian envoy.
While I was musing over these bizarre and terrible cases, our cab stopped and Holmes jumped out.
“Here we are at the library,” he said. “Follow me, Watson, and we will be at the bottom of this mystery before long, I think.”
We hurried into the building and Holmes accosted the first attendant we saw.
“I wish to speak to Mr. Buchwirm, the librarian,” he said.
“Your ticket?” inquired the official.
“My what?”
“Your ticket, countersigned by two householders of London—you are not permitted to use the library without it.”
“Do you know who I am? I do not want to use the library. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I wish to see Mr. Buchwirm instantly.”
The attendant cowered.
“Oh, yes, sir! Thank you, sir! Right this way, sir! Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!”
Holmes cuffed the man slightly, and he went away murmuring:
“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!”
“There is no time for fooling,” exclaimed Holmes abruptly. “This is the librarian’s room, I think. Come on, Watson!”
He opened the door. I followed him into a small apartment. Mr. Buchwirm, whom we had seen last at the rooms in Baker Street, sat at a desk in the center of the room. He hurriedly put some papers into his pocket as we entered.
“Ah, Mr. Holmes. I trust you have found the Sheraton Manuscripts by this time?”
“Yes, Mr. Librarian, I’m glad to say that I have!”
“Indeed! Then pray let me have them as soon as possible.”
“Certainly, Mr. Buchwirm. I am delighted to do so. Ah, allow me—”
And Holmes leaned over and deftly removed from the librarian’s inner pocket the papers which he had concealed there.
