Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Volume 13

by Marvin Kaye

  Shockingly, as noted earlier, Press accounts in those days were not always fully accurate. A newspaper called The Echo wraps up the murders of Enoch Drebber and Joseph Stangerson by noting:

  It is an open secret that the credit of this smart capture belongs entirely to the well-known Scotland Yard officials, Messrs. Lestrade and Gregson. The man was apprehended, it appears, in the rooms of a certain Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who has himself, as an amateur, shown some talent in the detective line and who, with such instructors, may hope in time to attain some degree of their skill. (STUD)

  That prompted Watson to write A Study in Scarlet to set the record straight.

  The twists and turns of the Sholto affair are covered in The Standard and other papers, starting with a story headed “Mysterious Business at Upper Norwood,” which mentions Holmes and Watson on its way to praising Athelney Jones. The false arrest of Thaddeus Sholto and the rest of the household does nothing to shake the newspaper’s faith in Jones. After reporting the release of Thaddeus and the housekeeper, The Standard confidently adds: “It is believed, however, that the police have a clue as to the real culprits, and that it is being prosecuted by Mr. Athelney Jones, of Scotland Yard, with all his well-known energy and sagacity. Further arrests may be expected at any moment.” (SIGN)

  In the very late “Adventure of the Retired Colourman,” this situation seems to have changed hardly at all. The bi-weekly North Surrey Observer gives full credit to Inspector McKinnon for solving the case. “Brilliant Police Investigation,” says the subhead on the story. It is quoted at length on the very last page of the Doubleday Complete Sherlock Holmes.

  It appears, though, that as the years go on the newspapers in general treat Holmes more favorably. At the time of “The Final Problem,” the married Watson seems to have been following Holmes’s career largely through the Press. He writes in the opening paragraphs: “During the winter of that year [1890] and the spring of 1891, I saw in the papers that he had been engaged by the French government upon a matter of supreme importance…”

  Even traveling in disguise and under a false name Holmes is good copy. After his dramatic return from the dead, he tells Watson in “The Adventure of the Empty House”: “You may have read of the remarkable explorations of a Norwegian named Sigerson, but I am sure that it never occurred to you that you were receiving news of your friend.”

  Like anyone who deals with the Press, Holmes knows that the only way to ensure complete accuracy is to write it himself. This he does early in his acquaintance with Dr. Watson, penning an article called “The Book of Life.” “From a drop of water,” he writes, “a logician could infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara without having seen or heard of one or the other.” Not knowing that his new roommate was the author, Dr. Watson’s reaction upon reading this is unambiguous: “What ineffable twaddle! I never read such rubbish in my life” (SCAN).

  Aside from his monographs, Holmes as writer is best known as the author of two of his own later adventures, “The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier” and “The Adventure of the Lion’s Mane.” In addition to these stories, he is almost certainly the author of two long letters to the editors of daily newspapers in which he attempts to solve puzzling crimes from his armchair. These are recorded in two short stories by Arthur Conan Doyle, published as part of his Round the Fire series in The Strand magazine in 1898 while Holmes was believed dead.

  In “The Man with the Watches,” we read: “There was a letter in the Daily Gazette, over the signature of a well-known criminal investigator, which gave rise to considerable discussion at the time. He had formed a hypothesis which had at least ingenuity to recommend it…” The strict logical framework of that letter, written in 1892, leaves little doubt as to identity of the “well-known criminal investigator” in question.

  And there can be no doubt at all as to the author of a letter to The Times of London on July 3, 1890, as reported in “The Lost Special.” The letter starts out with this tell-tale introduction: “It is one of the elementary principles of practical reasoning that when the impossible has been eliminated, the residuum, however improbable, must contain the truth.”

  In addition to clearly having the same author, these two letters have one other thing in common: They both set forth theories that are flat-out wrong. I think, therefore, that the reason Arthur Conan Doyle recorded these cases rather than Dr. Watson is quite…elementary.

  From this survey of the Canon and beyond, we have numerous concrete examples of why Holmes found the Press a most valuable institution. He used it for information, for disinformation, as a tool for finding people and things, and as a medium for broadcasting his ideas. Although in the early years the newspapers slighted his achievements in favor of the official police, that changed—for the most part—as he built his reputation…with the help of Dr. Watson.

  Watson must have been almost as well acquainted with the newspapers as his some-time roommate. For one thing, he often reads Press accounts out loud to Holmes, causing at least one scholar to question whether Holmes was illiterate. Most importantly, in at least thirteen stores—from A Study in Scarlet through “The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge”—Watson the writer tells the story in part by quoting a large chunk of copy from one or more newspaper accounts of the case. Perhaps Holmes was preaching to the choir when he lectured Watson about the value of the Press…if only you know how to use it.

  LIVING THE LIE, by Marc Bilgrey

  “Will you miss me, Dave?” said Sally, as she looked out the passenger side window of the light blue Packard.

  Dave held the steering wheel tightly and kept his eyes on the road. For a minute he forgot his name. Since he’d only had it for six months, it was an easy mistake to make. He kept telling himself it was Dave, like Davy Crockett, the hottest program on television.

  “Sure I’ll miss you,” said Dave, staring at a police car in the rearview mirror. His heart began beating faster. He watched the patrol car drive up behind him, then silently turn onto a side street and disappear. Dave let out a deep breath, glanced at Sally sitting next to him, then at a passing sign that read Train Station, ¼ Mile.

  “It’ll be the first time we’ve been separated,” she said.

  “Oh, come on, it’ll only be for a week. You make it sound like you’re going on a trip around the world.”

  “That’s what going back home feels like to me. And now with Mom being sick…” Her voice trailed off.

  “She’ll probably outlive us all.” The train station came into view. Dave glanced at the imposing, dirty, stone building, then slowed the car down as he navigated between taxis.

  “You won’t forget to feed Scooter, will you?”

  “How many times do we have to go over this? I’ll stop by your place every night and feed the cat, don’t worry.”

  “Okay,” said Sally, as they pulled up in front of a cab which was disgorging a group of tourists.

  Dave got out, opened the trunk, pulled out Sally’s suitcase and placed it on the sidewalk. Sally put her arms around Dave and kissed him.

  “I’m gonna miss you so much,” she said.

  Dave looked into her sparkling green eyes and said, “Just don’t be talking to any of those Midwest guys.”

  “Oh,” she said, playfully slapping him on the arm, “you’re impossible.”

  Dave kissed her cheek and said, “Me and Scooter’ll be counting the days.”

  She smiled, picked up her suitcase, turned around and walked into the station.

  On the drive back, Dave turned on the radio. The Platters sang, You’ve Got That Magic Touch. Dave thought about Sally. It occurred to him that he really would miss her. He was already starting to feel lonely. The feeling surprised him. He’d vowed to himself when they’d met that he wouldn’t get too involved. She was there to pass the time with, to have some fun with, interchangeable with a hundred other women. Though he had tried to maintain his emot
ional distance, he had realized early on that it was a losing battle.

  A police car with flashing lights appeared behind him. Dave felt his throat go dry as he gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. The police car passed him and then zoomed down the highway. Dave swallowed and relaxed his hold on the wheel.

  If it hadn’t been for Sally, he’d probably have left a month or two earlier. He knew he was pressing his luck. They hadn’t called him Doc for no reason. He’d been the brains, the logical one who thought things out. There was no place for emotion, he’d told them. And yet, here he was, ignoring his own advice.

  Dave slowed the car down as he passed a movie theater. There was a new Bob Hope picture playing. It looked good, but he decided he just wasn’t in the mood. He considered going back to his apartment. What was the point of that? Just to sit and stare at the four walls or watch his new television set? Besides, at this hour, all that was on was Howdy Doody or The Lone Ranger. He pulled up to a bar and found a parking space.

  Inside the bar it was dark and reeked of stale cigarette smoke. He found an empty stool and sat down. An old man at the far end of the bar nursed a drink. The bartender asked Dave what he wanted. He ordered a beer and then chewed on a couple of pretzels from a bowl next to him. The jukebox was playing Doris Day singing “Que Sera Sera.”

  The bartender brought his drink, collected on it and then went to the other side of the counter. Dave took a sip of beer and looked at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He had dark circles under his eyes. And no matter how many times he saw his mustache and beard he couldn’t get used to them. He’d stopped shaving the day after he’d begun his new life. And even so, there’d been a few close calls.

  In Boston a year earlier, a man in a hotel lobby had called him by his old name. They’d gone to high school together. “You must be mistaking me for someone else,” said Dave. He left Boston that night. It was probably just an innocent, accidental meeting, but why take chances?

  One time, when he was living in Chicago, a newspaper ran an article on the case and printed his picture. He was out of town before the afternoon edition. That’s why it was so odd to stay where he was. He’d taken to moving even when there were no incidents. He took another sip of his drink and watched the bartender ring up a sale on the cash register. His thoughts drifted back to that day a year and a half earlier. The armored car, the bundles of neatly wrapped new hundred dollar bills. “See you guys back at the warehouse,” he’d said. Then he’d gotten into his car and driven away. He wondered how long it had taken them to realize that he wasn’t coming back. A day? A week?

  “This seat taken?” said a voice.

  Dave snapped out of his daze and look to his left as a burly man in a rumpled suit and tie sat down next to him. Dave shrugged.

  “Bartender,” said the man, “I’ll have a glass of your best whiskey.” Then the man turned to Dave and said, “When I say life insurance, what comes into your mind?”

  Dave got up, placed a quarter on the bar and headed toward the door.

  “Hey,” said the man, “you don’t have to be downright rude.”

  Dave walked out of the bar and back to his car. A minute later he was driving through the streets. He stopped at a red light and forgot where he was. He was used to it. After a while, every place started looking the same. The greasy spoons, the gas stations, the drive-ins.

  He hadn’t realized that it would be like this. When he’d taken the money he’d thought that he’d be able to retire and just lie by a pool somewhere, surrounded by palm trees and nubile young women in bathing suits, but it hadn’t worked out that way. A few days after he’d left, he’d gone to Florida, rented a house, bought a sports car, a boat, new clothes. A couple of weeks later, he noticed that one of the local cops seemed to always be driving around his house. That was when he realized that he’d never be able to sit in a chaise longue with a cold drink in his hand and watch the world go by. Oh, the money was safe. He’d buried it in a secret place, that wasn’t a problem, not for Doc. Nor was coming up with fake I.D. and a new life history. That wasn’t a problem, either. What was a problem was always having to look over his shoulder.

  Even Sally had noticed it. He’d told her that he was neurotic. Phobic was more like it. A fear of cops or feds, or anybody in a uniform, or in a suit and tie, who looked a little too serious.

  But what he was really worried about was the old gang. After what he’d done, he knew they’d never stop looking for him. When he hadn’t returned to the warehouse that night, it was no longer about just the money. He’d even thought about giving the money back, but he knew it wouldn’t solve anything. They’d still hunt him down. At least with it, he had a fighting chance.

  Dave stopped the car in front of a boarded-up nightclub and walked across the street to a small park. He sat down on a bench under a shady tree. A couple of teenagers in leather jackets went by. A woman wheeling a baby carriage strolled past, followed by a young couple holding hands.

  Dave thought about Sally again. He’d met her six months earlier at the diner where she worked. He thought she looked beautiful in her white waitress uniform. He started going back to the restaurant just to see her. Eventually he asked her out. She’d believed his story about being a financial consultant. At first Dave thought it was just a fling, a casual liaison in a strange town. Then, as the months went by, he actually wondered if he should tell her the truth. Finally, he decided that the best thing for both of them was to live the lie.

  But he couldn’t deny he had feelings for her that went beyond the physical. “Doc don’t feel, he just thinks,” was what one of the guys used to say. And for the most part it was true.

  “Bang bang!” yelled a child.

  Dave turned and saw two little boys wearing coonskin caps, and pointing toy muskets at each other. He got up and walked back to the car.

  A few minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot of a supermarket and got out. Now what the hell was it that Scooter eats? he thought, as he walked into the store.

  He found the cat food section and stared at the different brands. They all had colorful labels and cute names. Then he remembered that Sally had mentioned that she had stocked up on cat food before she’d left. What was he doing here? He shrugged. Maybe Scooter would want some kind of special treat. If Sally were Scooter’s mother, then he was an uncle, and wasn’t that what uncles were for, to spoil kids?

  Scooter was a shaded gold Persian that Sally had gotten as a kitten seven years earlier. She’d seen an ad in the newspaper about him. Scooter was the runt of the litter of purebred show cats. Scooter had been real sick and there was some kind of question about whether or not he’d live. Sally had taken him in and nursed him back to health.

  Dave would often watch the cat and study his behavior. Dave noticed a lot of things about Scooter. Like how right before it rained, Scooter would start jumping around and scratch the walls and stand up on his hind legs. Then, as soon as it did rain, he’d calm right down. Sometimes Dave would watch how Scooter would sneak up on a spider and then pounce on it and hold the insect under his paw.

  And Scooter was always happy to see him. Whenever he’d visit, Scooter would run over and rub up against his leg. Until he’d met Scooter, he hadn’t really liked cats, but Scooter was different. Scooter was a real friend. And he wasn’t that way with everyone. If Sally had someone over to fix the sink or a squeaky door, Scooter would run and hide.

  Dave picked up a few cans, went to the cash register and paid for them. Then he got back into his car and drove out of the parking lot.

  On the way to Sally’s house, he stopped the car by the bay, got out and watched the sailboats go by. He wondered if the people on them were happy. He took off his jacket and glanced at the sun. Even though it was going down, it was still as warm as it had been earlier in the day. Dave adjusted the gun in the small of his back. On hot days it felt heavier than
usual. He looked at the water in the bay and thought about tossing the weapon into it. It was something that had occurred to him many times before. He gave up the idea as he saw a police launch cruise past him. Then he turned around and got back into his car.

  A few minutes later, he pulled up to Sally’s house. She lived in a residential neighborhood on a quiet, tree-lined street. Dave walked up the path to the house, put the key into the lock, and opened the door.

  “Hey, Scooter, Dave’s here!” he said, stepping inside and closing the door. No response. “I’ve got treats for you,” he said, shaking the bag of groceries. Still nothing. Dave looked around the living room and saw Scooter under one of the chairs. Scooter tensed up. Dave stood silently. He listened, but didn’t hear anything. Then he placed the bag on the floor and pulled out his gun.

  As soon as he did he heard a floorboard creak in another room. His heart began pounding. He turned and noticed that one of the windows was open. He took a breath, then tiptoed to the sofa and crouched behind it. He said in a loud voice, “So, how you been Scooter? Good kitty, I’ve got some food for you.”

  Just then, a shadow appeared on the wall. It came from the direction of the bedroom. Dave kept talking. “Good boy. I know you like tuna.”

  A man wearing a dark coat and hat and holding a gun peered out from behind a wall. Then he stepped into the living room. Dave squeezed the trigger of his gun. There was a flash of light and a loud cracking sound as the man moaned, grabbed his stomach and fell to the floor.

  Immediately another man with a gun appeared. Dave shot him twice in the chest. He dropped to the carpet and stopped moving. Seconds went by. No one else walked out. Dave looked in the bedroom and then the kitchen, but they were empty. He went back into the living room and stared at the two men. One he recognized. He was the cousin of one of the guys in the gang.