by Marvin Kaye
Now it was my turn. A grim smile came to my face as I prepared for my putt. Danny, acting as my caddy took out one of his favorite hickory-shafted putting cleeks and handed it to me. “Here, Doctor, try this one. You have a level shot, play it straight and it should go true.”
I nodded, my face serious with the competitive spirit as I got into position and made my putt. It was a less forceful stroke than my opponent’s. I intended a simple and straight stroke, but my ball immediately veered off, curving in a wide arc. I shook my head with dark trepidation and took a deep breath. I saw that Holmes held his breath also.
All four of us watched intently as my ball rolled in a wide arc, slowly moving closer and closer to the cup with what appeared to be the sureness of inevitability. I let out a tense breath. It looked like I just might make the hole. Then the ball suddenly encountered a rough patch on the green and by some devilish action hooked in front of Holmes’s ball and rolled to a dead stop. I tried to figure out what had just happened. My ball now lay between Holmes’s ball and the cup by barely over six inches — effectively blocking him from the cup.
“That’s the way, Doctor!” Danny, shouted with glee.
Old Tom Morris just laughed with uproarious mirth, “Aye, well played, Doctor Watson, it appears you’ve stymied Mr. Holmes quite nicely!”
“Stymied?” Holmes blurted. He was obviously not aware of this particular rule.
I was surprised myself by the turn of events but quickly realized it could be a potential game changer for me.
Old Tom explained, “Watson’s ball blocks your own from the cup, Mr. Holmes. It’s an old and valued rule of golf, called the Stymie. In golf you must hit your ball true to the hole. Hence, when another ball blocks your own, you are stymied. It’s your play, Mr. Holmes.”
“How can it be played, if Watson’s ball blocks mine?” Holmes asked.
“Indeed,” Old Tom said most sympathetically, “the balls be just over six inches apart — so Watson’s ball canna’ be lifted as per the rules. Your only option is to concede the hole, or negotiate the stymie. When a player be stymied he obviously can not putt straight for the hole, but if he strikes his ball so as to miss his opponent’s ball and yet go into the hole, he is said to negotiate the stymie. Well, Mr. Holmes?”
The Great Detective carefully regarded his options. They were woefully limited. “You have placed me in quite the pickle, Watson. I shall not concede the hole to you, so you leave me no alternative but to attempt, as Old Tom says, to negotiate this … stymie.”
“Bravo, Mr. Holmes!” Old Tom enthused warmly at my friend’s obvious pluck. “Here now, use this Jigger, it will give you the loft you need to play your ball.”
Holmes took the hickory-shafted Jigger and prepared to make his play. He took his time and hit the ball with a sudden and sharp lifting motion that lofted his ball into the air. I was shocked to see his ball ride over my own — a bare two inches in height and straight towards the hole. Then his ball kicked right into the hole — and bounced right back out!
Holmes’s ball slowly rolled away to rest a few inches from the cup.
It was heartbreaking. Danny grimaced while Old Tom shook his head good-naturedly at the mystical vagaries of the game. I stood there amazed by what I had just seen. Holmes for his part said not one word, his face had become a solid mask of stone. I decided it was not the right time for me to make any comment about what had happened.
It was my turn now. I took my time. With the utmost care I took my putt, lightly tapping my ball so it fell squarely into the cup with a soft plop. I sighed with relief and looked over at my friend.
Sherlock Holmes seemed to hardly believe what had happened. A moment later he mechanically tapped his ball into the hole, officially ending the game, and then he walked away in a rather sullen funk.
I had beat Holmes by one stroke, but my victory was bittersweet.
I thought I could hear my friend murmuring to himself as he walked off the green, something about how he had been right all along, that golf was a stupid game, a horrendous waste of time, and based solely upon luck rather than any true skill.
“You know, Watson, some day that damnable stymie rule will have to go,” he commented to me sharply as the four of us walked off towards the clubhouse.
Old Tom Morris cut in before I could reply, “Never, Mr. Holmes! Not while I live! Aye, golfing tradition, it surely be. One of the most sacred rules of the game.”
“Hah!” Holmes snorted derisively, dismissing the entire affair. Then he looked at me and suddenly smiled with renewed good humour. “Well played, Watson. I must say, well played, indeed.”
“Why thank you, Holmes, that is very gracious of you. It was a close contest. I am sure you will do better on our next outing,” I said in an upbeat tone, trying to offer him some measure of support, but I knew the truth. I knew my friend. This was the first and last game of golf I or anyone else would ever play with Sherlock Holmes.
I shook my head in consternation as Holmes and I accompanied Old Tom towards his clubmaking shop off the 18th green. We had sent young Danny off, and now the three of us sat down enjoying a few pints, sharing stories about golf and life, and never once did we ever mention the stymie again.
HISTORICAL NOTE
Much of the background of this story is based on historical facts that deal with the Royal and Ancient Golf Club at Saint Andrews, in Scotland, the British Open trophy, better know as the Claret Jug, and the lives of Young Tom and Old Tom Morris. I also want to thank the real Dan Roberts, as well as the Gerritsen Beach Golf Museum Library for their assistance. The Stymie rule was finally taken out of golf in 1952. Before then, players could not lift their ball, but after 1952 they would use a marker on the green and then lift their ball so as not to obstruct an opponent’s ball. There are many who wish the Stymie was still in effect.
THE GIANT RAT OF SUMATRA, by “Paula Volsky”
ascribed to H. P. Lovecraft
The chill March fog shrouded London, choking the labyrinth of ancient streets, smothering forgotten courts and squares, lending solid masonry an aspect of vaporous insubstantiality. Baker Street was wreathed in detestable yellow haze, through which the gaslights glowed faintly, like the malignant Cyclopean eyes of moribund nightmares. The scene fille me with a cold, nameless apprehension, amounting to horror; a fleeting sense, perhaps, of frightful cosmic vastness pressing its gigantic weight upon the feeble protective barriers of human understanding. Man’s vision, scarcely encompassing the tiny sphere of his own existence, serves to shield rather than inform, and that is as it should be, as it must be. For a single clear glimpse of ghastly reality would doubtless shake complacent human sanity to its very foundation.
My spirits hardly improved as I approached 221B, for I dreaded what I should find there. The recent, successful resolution of the problem involving the archbishop’s indiscretion had deprived Sherlock Holmes of that intellectual stimulation so essential to his well-being. For some days past, my friend had lain silent and apathetic, sunk in the deepest of black depressions, scarcely stirring from the sofa. He had not, so far as I knew, resorted to the solace of the hypodermic syringe and cocaine bottle, and I could only pray for his continuing abstinence, for it grieves me beyond measure to witness the deliberate degradation of the marvelous mental faculties with which Nature has endowed him.
I let myself into our rooms, and a chemical reek at once assailed my nostrils. The sofa was unoccupied. Sherlock Holmes sat at the deal-topped table, its surface cluttered with motley paraphernalia. I could not guess at the nature of his experimentation, but saw at a glance that his countenance had regained its characteristic keenness of expression. He greeted my entrance with a carelessly affable wave of the hand, then turned his full attention once again upon the flasks and retorts before him. Delighted though I was by my friend’s return to his own version of normality, I did not venture to question him at such a time, for he would not have relished the distraction. Repairing to the tenantless sofa, I soon los
t myself in frowning cogitation. I do not know how long I sat there, before the sound of Holmes’s voice roused me from my brown study.
“Come, Watson, twenty-five guineas is not an impossible sum.”
I turned to stare at him, for twenty-five guineas was indeed the figure upon which my thoughts anchored.
“The price is not unreasonable, in view of the rarity of the work, and the potential value of the contents.” Holmes spoke with his customary detachment, yet could not perfectly conceal his gratification at my look of transparent astonishment. Though he fancies himself pure intellect, a flawlessly balanced calculating machine devoid of emotion, my friend is by no means free of human vanity.
“To what work do you allude?” I inquired, in the vain hope of confounding him.
“To Ludvig Prinn’s hellish masterpiece, De Vcrmis Mysteriis,’’ he replied, without hesitation. “You have striven long and hard to beat down Charnwood’s price, but the old man holds to twenty-five guineas.”
My astonishment increased. “Really, Holmes, in a more credulous age, these displays of apparent clairvoyance might have brought you to the stake.”
“Nonsense, my dear doctor. A very simple matter of observation. When you entered, several minutes ago, you were carrying a parcel, whose size and shape proclaimed the recent purchase of a book. The fresh mud upon your shoes, and the moisture clinging to your overcoat revealed that you had walked home. Two bookstores stand within walking distance of our lodgings, and of those two, only Charnwood’s, in Marylebone Road, remains open at this hour. The shop specializes in antique literary rarities. It was not long ago, Watson, that you voiced your theory that certain ancient works of occultism, rich repositories of forgotten or forbidden lore, hold formulae of potent restoratives unknown to modern medicine. Amongst the bizarre obscenities polluting the pages of Abdul Alhazred’s Necronomicon, the Comte d’Erlette’s infamous Cultes des Goules, or the abominable Liber Ivonis, may lie a remedy for the brain-fever, or so you postulate. Alhazred knows no remedy, however, for your incurable optimism.”
“There is reason to believe —” I commenced, somewhat nettled.
“I am prepared to concede an improbable possibility,” he cut me off imperturbably, and resumed his interrupted analysis. “Of the works I have mentioned, two of them — the Necronomicon, and Liber Ivonis — are virtually unobtainable. Cultes des Goules, in the unlikely event of its availability, would surely prove prohibitive in cost. Thus I conclude De Vermis Mysteriis to be the work in question.”
“Quite right, but that does not explain —”
“You have failed to secure the prize, however,” Holmes continued, with an air of apathy. “Your scowl, your preoccupation, your general aspect of dissatisfaction suggest an unsuccessful attempt to content yourself with a lesser acquisition. Twice within the last quarter hour, you have removed your wallet from your pocket, weighed it in your hand, sighed deeply, and put it away again. Clearly, the root of your indecision is financial. You have, upon occasion, paid as much as twenty guineas for works you deem professionally useful — but never more. The cost of Prinn’s grotesquerie must exceed twenty guineas, but not by much, else you would instantly have dismissed all thought of purchase. Charnwood habitually prices his first editions in multiples of five guineas. It is more than probable that the volume in question is offered at twenty-five.”
“Correct, in every particular,” I confessed. “Bravo, Holmes. As always, when you explain your reasoning, it all seems very clear, very obvious.”
“Tiresomely so. I should fear complete stagnation, were no better mental exercise available. Fortunately, a matter of potentially greater interest has presented itself.” From the welter atop the table, he plucked a sheet of paper. “This note arrived some hours ago. What do you make of it, Watson?”
Here, I suspected, was the cause of my friend’s abrupt recovery of spirits.
Accepting the paper, I read:
*
Dear Mr. Holmes,
I am anxious to consult you upon a matter of gravest urgency. It is not an exaggeration to observe that innocent lives will be lost if the missing party is not soon located. My own efforts in that regard have failed, my actions have been noted, and I fear that time is running short. The luster of your fame is such that I must place my trust in your abilities. Therefore, I shall call at half-past seven this evening, in the hope that you will favor me with a reception.
Sincerely yours,
A. B.
*
“Singular.” I returned the note to its owner.
“Quite. But what does it reveal to you?”
“Very little,” I confessed. “The writer, be it man or woman, communicates considerable agitation —”
“Make no mistake, it is a man,” Holmes assured me.
“How do you know?”
“Notice the decisive quality of the downstrokes, the vigour of the characters, the authority of the punctuation. A man’s hand, unmistakably.”
“Of some education —” I essayed.
“Excellent, Watson. At times I almost suspect you less barren of deductive power than you so often contrive to appear. Now, justify my faith. Where was he educated?”
“I cannot begin to guess,” I replied, mystified.
“Good. One should never guess, it is an atrocious habit. Note the spelling. ‘Luster.’ And worse, ‘favor.’ Note the tone of extravagant, uncurbed emotion. The correspondent is clearly an American. Despite the orthographic crudities, his literacy marks him as a denizen of the comparatively civilized eastern coastal region of that nation.”
“We shall see soon enough. It is half past seven.”
There was a knock at our door, and our landlady entered. “A lady to see you, sir,” she informed my companion. I repressed a smile.
“Show her in.” Sherlock Holmes displayed no sign of discomfiture.
Mrs. Hudson withdrew. Moments later, a woman walked into the room.
“A. B.” was unusually tall, lanky and large-boned, her height evident despite a curiously stoop-shouldered posture. Her garb was darkly simple, her shoes nondescript, her gloved hands empty. Of her features, little could be discerned. A wide hat draped in heavy veiling completely obscured her face and hair. I thought her age to be around forty years, but that was an estimate based largely upon instinct, as there was little visible evidence by which to judge.
Seating herself in the chair that Holmes placed, she spoke in a low, slightly hoarse tone, unrevealing as her costume. “It is good of you, Mr. Holmes, to receive me upon such short notice, and at such an hour. I am sensible of the courtesy.”
“Your note piqued my interest,” Holmes returned briskly. “As you have been at pains to stress the urgent nature of the situation, I would advise you to state your name and case without delay.” His visitor’s veiled face turned to me for an instant, and he added, “You may speak freely before Dr. Watson.”
“It is better for all concerned,” A. B. returned, “if I keep my name to myself. That is for your own protection as well as mine. Briefly, the facts are these. I am an associate of Professor Sefton Talliard, chairman of the Department of Anthropology at Brown University, in Providence, Rhode Island. Professor Talliard has been missing for some months. His enemies are diabolical, his life is greatly endangered, and it is certain that he had no choice but to flee the United States. There is reason to believe that he has hidden himself in London. It is imperative that I locate this man, as I possess certain intelligence that may preserve his life, and the lives of his surviving colleagues. I am a stranger to this city, however, and ill-equipped to conduct a search. Mr. Holmes, the matter is vital. Will you lend your assistance?”
“By no means,” Holmes replied, to my surprise, for I had expected the peculiarity of the entire affair to excite his curiosity.
“I entreat you —”
“Do not trouble yourself. It is useless to suppose me willing to accept a client disinclined to disclose the true facts of his case. In any event,
what confidence might you reasonably place in the powers of a consulting detective hoodwinked by so amateurish a charade?”
My friend’s acerbic observation quite bewildered me, but the visitor appeared prey to no such confusion.
“I am justly rebuked. Mr. Holmes, pray accept my apologies for an attempted deception motivated less by inclination than apprehension.” So saying, A. B. doffed wide hat, veiling, and wig, to reveal a man’s face; angular, long of jaw and tall of brow, dominated by a pair of great, feverishly brilliant eyes. There was about that face, with its pallour and its monklike asceticism, a suggestion of ancient lineage, inbred and distilled to the very essence of neurasthenia. When he spoke again, his voice was undisguised, its masculine character and American accent evident. “Nothing I have related has been false, yet I have hardly dared divulge all. Now I will tell you the truth, and I will hold nothing back. Be warned, however — the tale is lurid in nature, and may at times strain your credulity.”
Holmes inclined his head, an expression of extraordinary concentration transforming his hawklike features.
“My name,” commenced the visitor, “is August Belknap. I am — I was — a professor of anthropology at Brown University. Last year, a small group of my colleagues — five of us, including Professor Talliard — elected to devote our long summer vacation to study and research in some foreign clime. Though the academic specialties of its members varied, a common interest in the religious ohservances of divers primitive peoples united our group. Material worthy of attention might have been found in countless remote locales. However, we were unanimous in our conviction that certain prehistoric mysteries of extraordinary character persisted yet upon the island of Sumatra.
“Our vacation coincided with the dry season in the East Indies,” Belknap continued. “We arrived in June to discover what seemed at first a nearly unspoiled tropical fairyland, where the equatorial forests rise almost at the water’s edge, bamboo grows in dense thickets, huge ferns and brilliant flowers flaunt their luxuriance everywhere. Understand that this was a first impression. Presently, the overpowering profusion of vegetation, the steaminess of the perfumed atmosphere, the unremitting intensity of light and shade — the extremity in all things — began to wax oppressive, even repellent. But this sense did not develop at once.
