by Otto Penzler
Here I observed a curious phenomenon. My friend Sherlock Holmes shrank. He became small before my eyes. I looked longingly at the ceiling, but dared not.
“Let us cut out the first four pages,” said the big man, “and proceed to business. I want to know why—”
“Allow me,” said Mr. Holmes, with some of his old courage. “You want to know why the public does not go to your opera.”
“Exactly,” said the other ironically, “as you perceive by my shirt stud.” He added more gravely: “And as you can only find out in one way I must insist on your witnessing an entire performance of the piece.”
It was an anxious moment for me. I shuddered, for I knew that if Holmes went I should have to go with him. But my friend had a heart of gold. “Never!” he cried fiercely. “I will do anything for you save that.”
“Your continued existence depends on it,” said the big man menacingly.
“I would rather melt into air,” replied Holmes proudly, taking another chair. “But I can tell you why the public don’t go to your piece without sitting the thing out myself.”
“Why?”
“Because,” replied Holmes calmly, “they prefer to stay away.”
A dead silence followed that extraordinary remark. For a moment the two intruders gazed with awe upon the man who had unravelled their mystery so wonderfully. Then, drawing their knives—
Holmes grew less and less, until nothing was left save a ring of smoke which slowly circled to the ceiling.
The last words of great men are often noteworthy. These were the last words of Sherlock Holmes: “Fool, fool! I have kept you in luxury for years. By my help you have ridden extensively in cabs where no author was ever seen before. Henceforth you will ride in buses!”
The brute sank into a chair aghast. The other author did not turn a hair.
The Sleuths
O. HENRY
IT IS UNLIKELY that a more beloved short story writer ever lived in America than William Sydney Porter (1862–1910), more commonly known as O. Henry. He never wrote a novel, but his miniature masterpieces encapsulated whole lives of ordinary people—his favorite subjects.
After being convicted of embezzlement, he spent time in prison, reputedly taking for his pseudonym the name of a kindly guard, and he wrote numerous stories about various crimes: robbery, kidnapping (“The Ransom of Red Chief” in 1910), extortion, safecracking (“A Retrieved Reformation” in 1903, commonly remembered as “Alias Jimmy Valentine” after the successful Broadway play and several film versions), and more. His book The Gentle Grafter (1908) was regarded so highly that Ellery Queen selected it for Queen’s Quorum, the list of the one hundred six greatest mystery short story collections of all time.
He wrote three stories in which Shamrock Jolnes appeared. The first, “The Adventures of Shamrock Jolnes,” was published on February 7, 1904; it featured observations and deductions by Jolnes but no crime. The last, “The Detective Detector,” was published on March 26, 1905; Jolnes appears, but center stage is dominated by the Master Criminal.
“The Sleuths” was first published in the October 23, 1904, issue of the New York Sunday World; it was first collected in Sixes and Sevens by O. Henry (New York, Doubleday, Page, 1911).
THE SLEUTHS
O. Henry
IN THE BIG CITY a man will disappear with the suddenness and completeness of the flame of a candle that is blown out. All the agencies of inquisition—the hounds of the trail, the sleuths of the city’s labyrinths, the closet detectives of theory and induction—will be invoked to the search. Most often the man’s face will be seen no more. Sometimes he will reappear in Sheboygan or in the wilds of Terre Haute, calling himself one of the synonyms of “Smith,” and without memory of events up to a certain time, including his grocer’s bill. Sometimes it will be found, after dragging the rivers, and polling the restaurants to see if he may be waiting for a well-done sirloin, that he has moved next door.
This snuffing out of a human being like the erasure of a chalk man from a blackboard is one of the most impressive themes in dramaturgy.
The case of Mary Snyder, in point, should not be without interest.
A man of middle age, of the name of Meeks, came from the West to New York to find his sister, Mrs. Mary Snyder, a widow, aged fifty-two, who had been living for a year in a tenement house in a crowded neighbourhood.
At her address he was told that Mary Snyder had moved away longer than a month before. No one could tell him her new address.
On coming out Mr. Meeks addressed a policeman who was standing on the corner, and explained his dilemma.
“My sister is very poor,” he said, “and I am anxious to find her. I have recently made quite a lot of money in a lead mine, and I want her to share my prosperity. There is no use in advertising her, because she cannot read.”
The policeman pulled his moustache and looked so thoughtful and mighty that Meeks could almost feel the joyful tears of his sister Mary dropping upon his bright blue tie.
“You go down in the Canal Street neighbourhood,” said the policeman, “and get a job drivin’ the biggest dray you can find. There’s old women always getting knocked over by drays down there. You might see ’er among ’em. If you don’t want to do that you better go ’round to headquarters and get ’em to put a fly cop onto the dame.”
At police headquarters, Meeks received ready assistance. A general alarm was sent out, and copies of a photograph of Mary Snyder that her brother had were distributed among the stations. In Mulberry Street the chief assigned Detective Mullins to the case.
The detective took Meeks aside and said:
“This is not a very difficult case to unravel. Shave off your whiskers, fill your pockets with good cigars, and meet me in the cafe of the Waldorf at three o’clock this afternoon.”
Meeks obeyed. He found Mullins there. They had a bottle of wine, while the detective asked questions concerning the missing woman.
“Now,” said Mullins, “New York is a big city, but we’ve got the detective business systematized. There are two ways we can go about finding your sister. We will try one of ’em first. You say she’s fifty-two?”
“A little past,” said Meeks.
The detective conducted the Westerner to a branch advertising office of one of the largest dailies. There he wrote the following “ad” and submitted it to Meeks:
“Wanted, at once—one hundred attractive chorus girls for a new musical comedy. Apply all day at No. ——Broadway.”
Meeks was indignant.
“My sister,” said he, “is a poor, hardworking, elderly woman. I do not see what aid an advertisement of this kind would be toward finding her.”
“All right,” said the detective. “I guess you don’t know New York. But if you’ve got a grouch against this scheme we’ll try the other one. It’s a sure thing. But it’ll cost you more.”
“Never mind the expense,” said Meeks; “we’ll try it.”
The sleuth led him back to the Waldorf. “Engage a couple of bedrooms and a parlour,” he advised, “and let’s go up.”
This was done, and the two were shown to a superb suite on the fourth floor. Meeks looked puzzled. The detective sank into a velvet armchair, and pulled out his cigar case.
“I forgot to suggest, old man,” he said, “that you should have taken the rooms by the month. They wouldn’t have stuck you so much for ’em.”
“By the month!” exclaimed Meeks. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, it’ll take time to work the game this way. I told you it would cost you more. We’ll have to wait till spring. There’ll be a new city directory out then. Very likely your sister’s name and address will be in it.”
Meeks rid himself of the city detective at once. On the next day some one advised him to consult Shamrock Jolnes, New York’s famous private detective, who demanded fabulous fees, but performed miracles in the way of solving mysteries and crimes.
After waiting for two hours in the anteroom of the great d
etective’s apartment, Meeks was shown into his presence. Jolnes sat in a purple dressing-gown at an inlaid ivory chess table, with a magazine before him, trying to solve the mystery of “They.” The famous sleuth’s thin, intellectual face, piercing eyes, and rate per word are too well known to need description.
Meeks set forth his errand. “My fee, if successful, will be $500,” said Shamrock Jolnes.
Meeks bowed his agreement to the price.
“I will undertake your case, Mr. Meeks,” said Jolnes, finally. “The disappearance of people in this city has always been an interesting problem to me. I remember a case that I brought to a successful outcome a year ago. A family bearing the name of Clark disappeared suddenly from a small flat in which they were living. I watched the flat building for two months for a clue. One day it struck me that a certain milkman and a grocer’s boy always walked backward when they carried their wares upstairs. Following out by induction the idea that this observation gave me, I at once located the missing family. They had moved into the flat across the hall and changed their name to Kralc.”
Shamrock Jolnes and his client went to the tenement house where Mary Snyder had lived, and the detective demanded to be shown the room in which she had lived. It had been occupied by no tenant since her disappearance.
The room was small, dingy, and poorly furnished. Meeks seated himself dejectedly on a broken chair, while the great detective searched the walls and floor and the few sticks of old, rickety furniture for a clue.
At the end of half an hour Jolnes had collected a few seemingly unintelligible articles—a cheap black hat pin, a piece torn off a theatre programme, and the end of a small torn card on which was the word “left” and the characters “C 12.”
Shamrock Jolnes leaned against the mantel for ten minutes, with his head resting upon his hand, and an absorbed look upon his intellectual face. At the end of that time he exclaimed, with animation:
“Come, Mr. Meeks; the problem is solved. I can take you directly to the house where your sister is living. And you may have no fears concerning her welfare, for she is amply provided with funds—for the present at least.”
Meeks felt joy and wonder in equal proportions.
“How did you manage it?” he asked, with admiration in his tones.
Perhaps Jolnes’s only weakness was a professional pride in his wonderful achievements in induction. He was ever ready to astound and charm his listeners by describing his methods.
“By elimination,” said Jolnes, spreading his clues upon a little table, “I got rid of certain parts of the city to which Mrs. Snyder might have removed. You see this hat pin? That eliminates Brooklyn. No woman attempts to board a car at the Brooklyn Bridge without being sure that she carries a hat pin with which to fight her way into a seat. And now I will demonstrate to you that she could not have gone to Harlem. Behind this door are two hooks in the wall. Upon one of these Mrs. Snyder has hung her bonnet, and upon the other her shawl. You will observe that the bottom of the hanging shawl has gradually made a soiled streak against the plastered wall. The mark is clean-cut, proving that there is no fringe on the shawl. Now, was there ever a case where a middle-aged woman, wearing a shawl, boarded a Harlem train without there being a fringe on the shawl to catch in the gate and delay the passengers behind her? So we eliminate Harlem.
“Therefore I conclude that Mrs. Snyder has not moved very far away. On this torn piece of card you see the word ‘left,’ the letter ‘C,’ and the number ‘12.’ Now, I happen to know that No. 12 Avenue C is a first-class boarding house, far beyond your sister’s means—as we suppose. But then I find this piece of a theatre programme, crumpled into an odd shape. What meaning does it convey. None to you, very likely, Mr. Meeks; but it is eloquent to one whose habits and training take cognizance of the smallest things.
“You have told me that your sister was a scrub woman. She scrubbed the floors of offices and hallways. Let us assume that she procured such work to perform in a theatre. Where is valuable jewellery lost the oftenest, Mr. Meeks? In the theatres, of course. Look at that piece of programme, Mr. Meeks. Observe the round impression in it. It has been wrapped around a ring—perhaps a ring of great value. Mrs. Snyder found the ring while at work in the theatre. She hastily tore off a piece of a programme, wrapped the ring carefully, and thrust it into her bosom. The next day she disposed of it, and, with her increased means, looked about her for a more comfortable place in which to live. When I reach thus far in the chain I see nothing impossible about No. 12 Avenue C. It is there we will find your sister, Mr. Meeks.”
Shamrock Jolnes concluded his convincing speech with the smile of a successful artist. Meeks’s admiration was too great for words. Together they went to No. 12 Avenue C. It was an old-fashioned brownstone house in a prosperous and respectable neighbourhood.
They rang the bell, and on inquiring were told that no Mrs. Snyder was known there, and that not within six months had a new occupant come to the house.
When they reached the sidewalk again, Meeks examined the clues which he had brought away from his sister’s old room.
“I am no detective,” he remarked to Jolnes as he raised the piece of theatre programme to his nose, “but it seems to me that instead of a ring having been wrapped in this paper it was one of those round peppermint drops. And this piece with the address on it looks to me like the end of a seat coupon—No. 12, row C, left aisle.”
Shamrock Jolnes had a far-away look in his eyes.
“I think you would do well to consult Juggins,” said he.
“Who is Juggins?” asked Meeks.
“He is the leader,” said Jolnes, “of a new modern school of detectives. Their methods are different from ours, but it is said that Juggins has solved some extremely puzzling cases. I will take you to him.”
They found the greater Juggins in his office. He was a small man with light hair, deeply absorbed in reading one of the bourgeois works of Nathaniel Hawthorne.
The two great detectives of different schools shook hands with ceremony, and Meeks was introduced.
“State the facts,” said Juggins, going on with his reading.
When Meeks ceased, the greater one closed his book and said:
“Do I understand that your sister is fifty-two years of age, with a large mole on the side of her nose, and that she is a very poor widow, making a scanty living by scrubbing, and with a very homely face and figure?”
“That describes her exactly,” admitted Meeks. Juggins rose and put on his hat.
“In fifteen minutes,” he said, “I will return, bringing you her present address.”
Shamrock Jolnes turned pale, but forced a smile.
Within the specified time Juggins returned and consulted a little slip of paper held in his hand.
“Your sister, Mary Snyder,” he announced calmly, “will be found at No. 162 Chilton street. She is living in the back hall bedroom, five flights up. The house is only four blocks from here,” he continued, addressing Meeks. “Suppose you go and verify the statement and then return here. Mr. Jolnes will await you, I dare say.”
Meeks hurried away. In twenty minutes he was back again, with a beaming face.
“She is there and well!” he cried. “Name your fee!”
“Two dollars,” said Juggins.
When Meeks had settled his bill and departed, Shamrock Jolnes stood with his hat in his hand before Juggins.
“If it would not be asking too much,” he stammered—“if you would favour me so far—would you object to——”
“Certainly not,” said Juggins pleasantly. “I will tell you how I did it. You remember the description of Mrs. Snyder? Did you ever know a woman like that who wasn’t paying weekly instalments on an enlarged crayon portrait of herself? The biggest factory of that kind in the country is just around the corner. I went there and got her address off the books. That’s all.”
Holmes and the Dasher
A. B. COX
ONE OF THE most ingenious and influential author
s of the golden age of detective fiction (the two decades between the world wars), Anthony Berkeley Cox (1893–1971) has been sadly neglected, unknown to all but serious aficionados of the mystery genre. He founded London’s prestigious Detection Club, reserved for only the best of the best authors of mystery fiction.
His professional writing life began with humorous stories, articles, and books using A. B. Cox as the byline, producing sketches for Punch, many later collected as Jugged Journalism (1925), and such trifling novels as Brenda Entertains (1925) and The Professor on Paws (1926). His first detective novel, The Layton Court Mystery (1925), published anonymously, introduced Roger Sheringham, one of the more original, and more fallible, amateur detectives of the era.
In The Second Shot (1930), Sheringham provides irrefutable logic to identify the killer, only to have the real murderer explain why he committed the crime. A similar scenario plays out in Cox’s most famous book, The Poisoned Chocolates Case (1929). His primary achievement in these clever tours de force was to establish the importance of psychological evaluation—of the criminal, the detective, and even of the victim.
This was a major step toward the modern detective story, which is more concerned with the why of a crime than the who or the how. This was brought to its greatest heights in the first two books that Cox wrote under the Francis Iles pseudonym. Malice Aforethought (1931) is based on the real-life Armstrong case in which a cowardly doctor kills his detestable wife. The murderer is known from the start, much like an episode of the Columbo television series, but the reader’s interest is held by how the crime is planned and whether it will go unpunished. Julian Symons wrote, “If there is one book more than another that may be regarded as the begetter of the postwar realistic crime novel, it is this one.”
Even more significant is Before the Fact (1932), a psychological study of a potential murderer as seen through the eyes of his intended victim. The novel served as the basis for the great Alfred Hitchcock film Suspicion (1941), though the ending was changed to protect Cary Grant’s image of movie innocence.
