The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part XI

by David Marcum

  It was not until the train drew up to Charing Cross and we stepped upon the platform that I reached into my satchel and passed him the tube of paper, tied with red tape. “I was able to open the safe on Friday night,” I said, handing it over to him. “Pray forgive my secrecy, but it was necessary to the way I operate. I may add, I noticed someone had stood before the safe sometime before two in the morning this morning, which is when I slipped down to the library. A man’s shoe, I would say. Not a boot. I made sure to be with the footman when he cleaned all the boots this morning, but of course, since the second footman collected them last night prior to bed, it was unlikely to find any with ashes in the treads, as footwear collected at nine in the evening is hardly likely to stand in the library at midnight.”

  “I have no doubt it was Rowland-Powell,” said Deering, his lighthearted nature settling over his features once more as he clasped the plans to him. “Either way, I’ll be sure to find out what happened, and make sure these stay in the right hands. Bad of you to make me worry so, but jolly good of you! I ought to have had more confidence in your capabilities.”

  “This was rather a complicated adventure,” I said. “Either way, I trust you to do the right thing. Will you be able to manage to get your luggage home?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m sure Adams is around here somewhere, and he and the porter will organize it all. And I’ll be sure to write and tell you all the jolly details. About the safe, not about my luggage,” Deering assured me. With a jaunty wave, he disappeared into the crowd at Charing Cross.

  I stood looking after him for a few moments, and then went to go retrieve my own bag.

  Inspector Lestrade stopped by for tea two days later. “We caught them both yesterday, right as he was attempting to pass the information to his contact. A bench in Hyde Park, watching the swans. Very casual, but we caught them. The contact tried to run, but we had surrounded them and he couldn’t get away. Thank you for the tip.”

  “I wouldn’t have touched the thing, if he hadn’t thought I was such a fool. My pride told me to show him otherwise. I suppose we all waste a lot of time on our pride - but it would have been a pity if the wrong people had access to such an invention.”

  “Once the idea behind it is known, I’m sure their own inventors would be able to make their own version, but it would take a year or two,” agreed Lestrade. “At least we have protected our start. Amazing what some people will do.”

  “Money, was it?” I asked.

  “Of course. He has no desire to apply himself in the service of Her Majesty’s Army,” said Lestrade. “He was comfortable with his lifestyle, which would be fine, as long as one possesses the income to maintain it. And debt drives a man to do things sane men wouldn’t dream of.”

  Lestrade rose, thanked me again, and took his leave.

  I looked at Watson’s empty chair - he was busy attending a patient, of course - and I wondered if he had been home enough to remark upon my own absence. This was the part that I enjoyed the most, the casual dénouement and fitting together of all the pieces. His reactions were always thoroughly satisfying as I pointed out the twists and turns of the clues of my latest adventure. But one cannot explain things to an empty chair, and it is tedious to spell it out, for it is the antithesis of adventure and action. I chide Watson on his sensationalism, but it is better than the dullness I fear my own efforts approach. I have no doubt I will give him these notes when his grief is not so sharp, and he’ll organize them into a more thrilling narrative.

  The first issue, of course, had been Deering himself. His signet ring, however, had proclaimed another identity: It had been monogrammed TAD, with the central initial, of course, representing the surname. It had taken very little research to discover that Adams, the supposed surname of the valet, was actually my client’s surname. This was borne out by the servants’ hall referring to both him and myself as Mr. Adams, as servants are referred to by their master’s titles and surnames. He expected me to be referred to as such, by people who did not know me, but knew, as a member of the family in such familiar circumstances, that he was unlikely to be addressed formally, and as a mere hovering hanger-on of the weekend’s activities, he was unlikely to be addressed by the other guests, who were there for official business, not for pleasure. What he had hoped to gain by this bit of obscurity, I could not begin to guess. However, it was compounded by the fact that a gentleman, even one fresh from a day of cricket, would have no card on him to give his address, and that he would have to scribble on the back of an envelope to disclose his address. And when such an address was not the Burleson Cricket Club, of which he was a member, or any other club of which he may have been a member, but a railway hotel! It was clear he wanted to make it as labyrinthine as possible to track him down in the future. There were too many layers of obfuscation to take him at his word, and useless lies at that, as it turned out he truly was the grandson of the Viscount Wolverly, and the thing could have been done, albeit with some amount of effort.

  From the first, I saw it as it was: Deering, or Adams, was trying to use me as a pawn. He knew his father had invented something of much value to any number of governments, but was unable to obtain a final draft prior to its being committed to a secure location. Rather than attempting to sell imperfect plans, he hit upon a plan by which he would enter upon an elaborate charade. He would allow me to steal the plans and substitute an inferior version, so that the substitution would not be noticed for some amount of time. When the substitution was remarked upon, as it invariably would be, suspicion would not fall upon Deering, but upon the stranger who had valeted him that one weekend. There would be no way to trace my identity, of course, as I had no identity separate from that of my master. Just as no one really cares about other people’s relatives, as Deering was jaded enough to opine, I suspected no one really cares about the antecedents of other people’s servants!

  I had broken into the safe, but did not effect my promised substitution. I merely reassured myself on one or two points, primarily as to how easily the two copies could be told apart without having both copies together, and whether there were any obvious distinguishing characteristics which differentiated the two. Thus it was that I held off until the last moment to give Deering his own copy back, to minimize the amount of time he would have to examine it closely, as well as to minimize any chance of the true final draft being removed from the safe during the course of the visit.

  The shoes that had trod upon the ashes had been Deering’s slippers. The traces still upon the soles in the morning had not been hard to notice! He had paced in front of the safe, and perhaps tried the handle, but it had been of no use, and he had not wasted his time for too long.

  The only variable I had left was the identity of Mr. Rowland-Powell. Inquiries had verified that Deering had told the truth on that point, as far as the number of odd goings-on happening when he was around. But a few discreet inquiries in certain channels had reassured me on that point, and some highly placed individuals had ordered me not to compromise his identity, or interfere with any work he might be undertaking, should our paths cross. It was no coincidence that he was at the trials at Bellingbeck Park, but he was authorized, approved, and vouched for at the highest levels.

  I was particularly pleased by my hypothetical question, which everyone had answered very readily, almost as an intellectual exercise. But the guilty party, with something to hide! His brain had frozen and his glibness had deserted him when faced with a question he was not prepared to answer - yet not an accusation he would have no hesitation in denying.

  It is not often that a criminal and a traitor not only invites me to become involved in his work, but pays me ten pounds to do so. But I had suspected Thomas Deering Adams was a fool from the moment he walked in my door.

  “By the way, Sherlock, I expected to see you round last week, to consult me over that Manor House case. I thought you might be a little out of your depth.”
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  “No, I solved it,” said my friend, smiling.

  “It was Adams, of course.”

  “Yes, it was Adams.”

  “I was sure of it from the first.”

  “The Greek Interpreter”

  The Giant Rat of Sumatra

  by Leslie Charteris and Denis Green

  Sherlock Holmes and The Saint

  An Introduction by Ian Dickerson

  Everyone has a story to tell about how they first met Sherlock Holmes. For me it was a Penguin paperback reprint my brother introduced me to in my pre-teen years. I read it, and went on to read all the original stories, but it didn’t appeal to me in the way it appealed to others. This is probably because I discovered the adventures of The Saint long before I discovered Sherlock Holmes.

  The Saint, for those readers who may need a little more education, was also known as Simon Templar and was a modern day Robin Hood who first appeared in 1928. Not unlike Holmes, he has appeared in books, films, TV shows, and comics. He was created by Leslie Charteris, a young man born in Singapore to a Chinese father and an English mother, who was just twenty years old when he wrote that first Saint adventure. He’d always wanted to be a writer - his first piece was published when he was just nine years of age - and he followed that Saint story, his third novel, with two further books, neither of which featured Simon Templar.

  However, there’s a notable similarity between the heroes of his early novels, and Charteris, recognising this, and being somewhat fed up of creating variations on the same theme, returned to writing adventures for The Saint. Short stories for a weekly magazine, The Thriller, and a change of publisher to the mainstream Hodder & Stoughton, helped him on his way to becoming a best-seller and something of a pop culture sensation in Great Britain.

  But he was ambitious. Always fond of the USA, he started to spend more time over there, and it was the 1935 novel - and fifteenth Saint book - The Saint in New York, that made him a transatlantic success. He spent some time in Hollywood, writing for the movies and keeping an eye on The Saint films that were then in production at RKO studios. Whilst there, he struck up what would become a lifelong friendship with Denis Green, a British actor and writer, and his new wife, Mary.

  Fast forward a couple of years... Leslie was on the west coast of the States, still writing Saint stories to pay the bills, writing the occasional non-Saint piece for magazines, and getting increasingly frustrated with RKO who, he felt, weren’t doing him, or his creation, justice. Denis Green, meanwhile, had established himself as a stage actor, and had embarked on a promising radio career both in front of and behind the microphone.

  Charteris was also interested in radio. He had a belief that his creation could be adapted for every medium and was determined to try and prove it. In 1940, he commissioned a pilot programme to show how The Saint would work on radio, casting his friend Denis Green as Simon Templar. Unfortunately, it didn’t sell, but just three years later, he tried again, commissioning a number of writers - including Green - to create or adapt Saint adventures for radio.

  They also didn’t sell, and after struggling to find a network or sponsor for The Saint on the radio, he handed the problem over to established radio show packager and producer, James L. Saphier. Charteris was able to solve one problem, however: At the behest of advertising agency Young & Rubicam, who represented the show’s sponsors, Petri Wine, Denis Green had been sounded out about writing for The New Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, a weekly radio series that was then broadcasting on the Mutual Network.

  Green confessed to his friend that, whilst he could write good radio dialogue, he simply hadn’t a clue about plotting. He was, as his wife would later recall, a reluctant writer: “He didn’t really like to write. He would wait until the last minute. He would put it off as long as possible by scrubbing the kitchen stove or wash the bathroom - anything before he sat down at the typewriter. I had a very clean house.” Charteris offered a solution: They would go into partnership, with him creating the stories and Green writing the dialogue.

  But there was another problem: The New Adventures of Sherlock Holmes aired on one of the radio networks that Leslie hoped might be interested in the adventures of The Saint, and it would not look good, he thought, for him to be involved with a rival production. Leslie adopted the pseudonym of Bruce Taylor, (as you will see at the end of the following script,) taking inspiration taking inspiration from the surname of the show’s producer Glenhall Taylor and that of Rathbone’s co-star, Nigel Bruce.

  The Taylor/Green partnership was initiated with “The Strange Case of the Aluminum Crutch”, which aired on July 24th, 1944, and would ultimately run until the following March, with Bruce Taylor’s final contribution to the Holmes canon being “The Secret of Stonehenge”, which aired on March 19th, 1945 - thirty-five episodes in all.

  Bruce Taylor’s short radio career came to an end in short because Charteris shifted his focus elsewhere. Thanks to Saphier, The Saint found a home on the NBC airwaves, and aside from the constant demand for literary Saint adventures, he was exploring the possibilities of launching a Saint magazine. He was replaced by noted writer and critic Anthony Boucher, who would establish a very successful writing partnership with Denis Green.

  Fast forward quite a few more years - to 1988 to be precise: A young chap called Dickerson, a long standing member of The Saint Club, discovers a new TV series of The Saint is going in to production. Suitably inspired, he writes to the then secretary of the Club, suggesting that it was time the world was reminded of The Saint, and The Saint Club in particular. Unbeknownst to him, the secretary passes his letter on to Leslie Charteris himself. The teenaged Dickerson and the aging author struck up a friendship which involved, amongst other things, many fine lunches, followed by lazy chats over various libations. Some of those conversations featured the words “Sherlock” and “Holmes”.

  It was when Leslie died, in 1993, that I really got to know his widow, Audrey. We often spoke at length about many things, and from time to time discussed Leslie and the Holmes scripts, as well as her own career as an actress.

  When she died in 2014, Leslie’s family asked me to go through their flat in Dublin. Pretty much the first thing I found was a stack of radio scripts, many of which had been written by Bruce Taylor and Denis Green.

  I was, needless to say, rather delighted. More so when his family gave me permission to get them into print. Back in the 1940’s, no one foresaw an afterlife for shows such as this, and no recordings exist of this particular Sherlock Holmes adventure. So here you have the only documentation around of Charteris and Green’s “The Giant Rat of Sumatra”...

  Ian Dickerson

  February, 2018

  The Giant Rat of Sumatra

  BOB CAMPBELL (Announcer): Petri Wine brings you...

  MUSIC: THEME. FADE ON CUE:

  CAMPBELL: Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce in The New Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.

  MUSIC: THEME ... FULL FINISH

  CAMPBELL: The Petri family--the family that took the time to bring you good wine--invites you to listen to Doctor Watson as he tells us about another exciting adventure he shared with his old friend, Holmes. You know, I have an adventure to tell you about too... only it’s a different kind of adventure--an adventure in good eating. And to experience it, all you do is serve a Petri Wine with your dinner--either a Petri California Burgundy or a Petri California Sauterne, I’m telling you, you have no idea how much a glass of that good Petri Wine can do for even the simplest war time meal. Take that Petri Burgundy for instance. Try it with a good home made pot roast or Swiss steak. A slice of that tender beef and a glass of that good Petri Burgundy make a flavour combination that spells delicious in any man’s language. That hearty, full-bodied burgundy is a red wine really worth trying. And every bit as full flavoured is that swell Petri Sauterne. Petri Sauterne is a delicate white wine that can help make a simple seafo
od dinner a feast. And wait’ll you try a glass of that Petri Sauterne with Southern fried chicken--Oh boy! Yes sir, with food, nothing can take the place of that good Petri Wine.

  MUSIC: “SCOTCH POEM” by Edward MacDowell

  CAMPBELL: Well, that’s enough from me... how about you, Doctor Watson? I hope you have something very special for us in the way of stories tonight.

  WATSON: (OFF A LITTLE) Good evening, Mr. Campbell. Don’t stand there in the doorway as though you weren’t sure of your welcome. Close the door and come and sit down and make yourself comfortable. You know I always look forward to these Monday evenings.

  SOUND EFFECT: DOOR CLOSING

  CAMPBELL: So do I, Doctor.

  WATSON: (CHUCKLING) Yes, I think I can promise to make your hair stand on end with tonight’s story. I call it “The Weird Case of the Giant Rat of Sumatra”.

  CAMPBELL: Sumatra--that’s an island in the Far East, isn’t it? Somewhere near Java?

  WATSON: That’s right, but the setting of my story tonight is India--India the exotic and mysterious. Holmes and I were in Calcutta waiting for a ship to take us back to England. The great man had just solved the strange mystery of “The Sacred White Elephant of Parbutipur”.

  CAMPBELL: “The Sacred White Elephant of Parbutipur”? That sounds intriguing. What happened there?

  WATSON: (TESTILY) Really, Mr. Campbell. I can only tell you one story at a time. That adventure will have to wait for another of your visits.

  CAMPBELL: I’m sorry, Doctor. Go on with your story of “The Giant Rat of Sumatra”. You and Sherlock Holmes were in Calcutta waiting for a boat back to England, and that’s where things started happening, I suppose?

  WATSON: They did indeed, Mr. Campbell, though the whole adventure started casually enough. Holmes and I were staying at the Great Eastern Hotel, an imposing and colourful edifice overlooking Chowringee--the fashionable section of Calcutta. I’d been in India, you know, for quite a few years when I was in the Army and I rather flattered myself I could teach Holmes a thing or two about the country and its customs. But, somewhat to my chagrin, I soon discovered that Holmes was just as much as home in the country as I was. Perhaps even a little more so. On the night my story begins, Holmes and I had just finished an excellent dish of curried shrimps. We were sitting at our table and I was inhaling the bouquet of a pony of Napoleon Brandy *. A native orchestra was playing soft Oriental music and I was feeling completely relaxed and at peace as we sat there. Suddenly Holmes spoke.