by Otto Penzler
As for myself, I was spending a week in a farmhouse situated close to the village of Blobley-in-the-Marsh. Three miles from the gates of the farmhouse lay Fourcastle Towers, the ancestral mansion of Rear-Admiral the Duke of Dumpshire, the largest and strangest landowner of the surrounding district. I had a nodding acquaintance with His Grace, whom I had once attended for scarlatina when he was a midshipman. Since that time, however, I had seen very little of him, and, to tell the truth, I had made no great effort to improve the acquaintance. The Duke, one of the haughtiest members of our blue-blooded aristocracy, had been called by his naval duties to all parts of the habitable globe; I had steadily pursued my medical studies, and, except for the biennial visit which etiquette demanded, I had seen little or nothing of the Duke. My stay at the farmhouse was for purposes of rest. I had been overworked, that old tulwar wound, the only memento of the Afghan Campaign, had been troubling me, and I was glad to be able to throw off my cares and my black coat and to revel for a week in the rustic and unconventional simplicity of Wurzelby Farm.
One evening, two days after my arrival, I was sitting in the kitchen close to the fire, which, like myself, was smoking. For greater comfort I had put on my old mess-jacket. The winter wind was whistling outside, but besides that only the ticking of the kitchen clock disturbed my meditations. I was just thinking how I should begin my article on modern medicine for the Fortnightly Review, when a slight cough at my elbow caused me to turn round. Beside me stood Picklock Holes, wrapped in a heavy, close-fitting fur moujik. He was the first to speak.
“You seem surprised to see me,” he said. “Well, perhaps that is natural; but really, my dear fellow, you might employ your time to better purpose than in trying to guess the number of words in the first leading article in the Times of the day before yesterday.”
I was about to protest when he stopped me.
“I know perfectly well what you are going to say, but it is useless to urge that the country is dull, and that a man must employ his brain somehow. That kind of employment is the merest wool-gathering.”
He plucked a small piece of Berlin worsted—I had been darning my socks—off my left trouser, and examined it curiously. My admiration for the man knew no bounds.
“Is that how you know?” I asked. “Do you mean to tell me that merely by seeing that small piece of fancy wool on my trousers you guessed I had been trying to calculate the number of words in the Times leader? Holes, Holes, will you never cease from astounding me?”
He did not answer me, but bared his muscular arm and injected into it a strong dose of morphia with a richly chased little gold instrument tipped with a ruby.
“A gift from the Czar,” said Holes, in answer to my unspoken thoughts. “When I discovered the missing silver mine on board the yacht of the Grand Duke Ivanoff, his Imperial Majesty first offered me the Chancellorship of his dominion, but I begged him to excuse me, and asked for this pretty toy. Bah, the Russian police are bunglers.”
As he made this remark the door opened and Sergeant Bluff of the Dumpshire constabulary entered hurriedly.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, addressing me, with evident perturbation, “but would you step outside with me for a moment. There’s been some strange work down at—”
Holes interrupted him.
“Don’t say any more,” he broke in. “You’ve come to tell us about the dreadful poaching affray in Hagley Wood. I know all about it, and tired as I am I’ll help you to find the criminals.”
It was amusing to watch the sergeant’s face. He was ordinarily an unemotional man, but as Holes spoke to him he grew purple with astonishment.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” he said, “I didn’t know about no—”
“My name is Holes,” said my friend calmly.
“What, Mr. Picklock Holes, the famous detective?”
“The same, at your service; but we are wasting time. Let us be off.”
The night was cold, and a few drops of rain were falling. As we walked along the lane Holes drew from the sergeant all the information he wanted as to the number of pheasants on the Duke’s estate, the extent of his cellars, his rent-roll, and the name of his London tailor. Bluff dropped behind after this cross-examination with a puzzled expression, and whispered to me:
“A wonderful man that Mister Holes. Now how did he know about this ’ere poaching business? I knew nothing about it. Why I come to you, sir, to talk about that retriever dog you lost.”
“Hush,” I said. “Say nothing. It would only annoy Holes and interfere with his inductions. He knows his own business best.” Sergeant Bluff gave a grumbling assent, and in another moment we entered the great gate of Fourcastle Towers and were ushered into the hall, where the Duke was waiting to receive us.
“To what am I indebted for the honor of this visit?” said His Grace, with all the courtly politeness of one in whose veins ran the blood of the Crusaders. Then, changing his tone, he spoke in fierce sailor language: “Shiver my timbers! What makes you three stand there like that? Why, blank my eyes, you ought to—” What he was going to say will never be known, for Holes dashed forward.
“Silence, Duke,” he said, sternly. “We come to tell you that there has been a desperate poaching affray. The leader of the gang lies insensible in Hagley Wood. Do you wish to know who he was?”
So saying, he held up to the now terrified eyes of the Duke the tail feather of a golden pheasant. “I found it in his waistcoat pocket,” he said, simply.
“My son, my son!” shrieked the unfortunate Duke. “Oh Alured, Alured, that it should have come to this!” And he fell to the floor in convulsions.
“You will find Earl Mountravers at the crossroads in Hagley Wood,” said Holes to the sergeant. “He is insensible.”
The Earl was convicted at the following Assizes and sentenced to a long term of penal servitude. His ducal father has never recovered from the disgrace. Holes, as usual, made light of the matter and of his own share in it.
“I met the Earl,” he told me afterwards, “as I was walking to your farmhouse. When he ventured to doubt one of my stories, I felled him to the earth. The rest was easy enough. Poachers? Oh dear no, there were none. But it is precisely in these cases that ingenuity comes in.”
“Holes,” I said, “I admire you more and more every day.”
The Sign of the “400”
Being a Continuation of the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
ROY L. McCARDELL
ROY L. McCARDELL (1870–1940), who referred to himself as “Old Doctor McCardell,” began writing and selling his pieces at the age of twelve. He was a journalist, humorist, and writer of book reviews, songs, poetry, sketches, articles, the stage play The Gay Life, and more than a thousand movie scenarios. Puck, the first successful American humor magazine, published his adolescent works. After Arthur Brisbane recruited him to The Evening Sun, he went on to work at various magazine and newspapers, including the New York World. He joined the Puck staff in his adult life and served as the editor of multiple magazines and newspapers, including the New York Morning Telegraph and Metropolitan Magazine.
In the 1890s, he suggested to Ballard Smith at the New York World the idea of a weekly colored comic supplement on Sundays. This idea soon came into fruition when The Yellow Kid, created by Richard F. Outcault, came into being. The Yellow Kid is famous for its inspiration of what is known as yellow journalism—the kind that uses bold headlines to sell newspapers but doesn’t necessarily report fact-supported news. The Yellow Kid helped increase the World’s circulation from 140,000 to 800,000 within six months.
McCardell is generally regarded as the first person to be put on salary by a motion picture studio. At the turn of the twentieth century, he was hired by the American Mutoscope and Biograph Company to produce stories and scenarios for films, and wrote more than a thousand scripts, including the Theda Bara vehicle A Fool There Was in 1915.
His prolific writing career rewarded him on several fronts, including with prize money
as the winner of at least two major competitions—one thousand dollars for a scenario he submitted to the Morning Telegraph and ten thousand dollars for his serial scenario, The Diamond from the Sky, acquired by the American Film Manufacturing Company.
“The Sign of the ‘400’: Being a Continuation of the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes” had been credited to R. K. Munkittrick for many years, but recent research unearthed its true authorship. It was first published in the October 24, 1894, issue of Puck. McCardell’s only foray into the world of Holmes and Conan Doyle, it appears to be the first Holmes parody written by an American.
THE SIGN OF THE “400”
Being a Continuation of the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
Roy L. McCardell
FOR THE NONCE, Holmes was slighting his cocaine and was joyously jabbing himself with morphine—his favorite 70 per cent solution—when a knock came at the door; it was our landlady with a telegram. Holmes opened it and read it carelessly.
“H’m!” he said. “What do you think of this, Watson?”
I picked it up. “COME AT ONCE. WE NEED YOU. SEVENTY-TWO CHINCHBUGGE PLACE, S. W.,” I read.
“Why, it’s from Athelney Jones,” I remarked.
“Just so,” said Holmes; “call a cab.”
We were soon at the address given, 72 Chinchbugge Place being the town house of the Dowager Countess of Coldslaw. It was an old-fashioned mansion, somewhat weather-beaten. The old hat stuffed in the broken pane in the drawing room gave the place an air of unstudied artistic negligence, which we both remarked at the time.
Athelney Jones met us at the door. He wore a troubled expression. “Here’s a pretty go, gentlemen!” was his greeting. “A forcible entrance has been made to Lady Coldslaw’s boudoir, and the famous Coldslaw diamonds are stolen.”
Without a word Holmes drew out his pocket lens and examined the atmosphere. “The whole thing wears an air of mystery,” he said, quietly.
We then entered the house. Lady Coldslaw was completely prostrated and could not be seen. We went at once to the scene of the robbery. There was no sign of anything unusual in the boudoir, except that the windows and furniture had been smashed and the pictures had been removed from the walls. An attempt had been made by the thief to steal the wallpaper, also. However, he had not succeeded. It had rained the night before and muddy footprints led up to the escritoire from which the jewels had been taken. A heavy smell of stale cigar smoke hung over the room. Aside from these hardly noticeable details, the despoiler had left no trace of his presence.
In an instant Sherlock Holmes was down on his knees examining the footprints with a stethoscope. “H’m!” he said; “so you can make nothing out of this, Jones?”
“No, sir,” answered the detective; “but I hope to; there’s a big reward.”
“It’s all very simple, my good fellow,” said Holmes. “The robbery was committed at three o’clock this morning by a short, stout, middle-aged, hen-pecked man with a cast in his eye. His name is Smythe, and he lives at 239 Toff Terrace.”
Jones fairly gasped. “What! Major Smythe, one of the highest thought-of and richest men in the city?” he said.
“The same.”
In half an hour we were at Smythe’s bedside. Despite his protestations, he was pinioned and driven to prison.
“For heaven’s sake, Holmes,” said I, when we returned to our rooms, “how did you solve that problem so quickly?”
“Oh, it was easy, dead easy!” said he. “As soon as we entered the room, I noticed the cigar smoke. It was cigar smoke from a cigar that had been given a husband by his wife. I could tell that, for I have made a study of cigar smoke. Any other but a hen-pecked man throws such cigars away. Then I could tell by the footprints that the man had had appendicitis. Now, no one but members of the ‘400’ have that. Who then was hen-pecked in the ‘400,’ and had had appendicitis recently? Why, Major Smythe, of course! He is middle-aged, stout, and has a cast in his eye.”
I could not help but admire my companion’s reasoning, and told him so. “Well,” he said, “it is very simple if you know how.”
Thus ended the Coldslaw robbery, so far as we were concerned.
It may be as well to add, however, that Jones’s arrant jealousy caused him to resort to the lowest trickery to throw discredit upon the discovery of my gifted friend. He allowed Major Smythe to prove a most conclusive alibi, and then meanly arrested a notorious burglar as the thief, on the flimsiest proof, and convicted him. This burglar had been caught while trying to pawn some diamonds that seemed to be a portion of the plunder taken from 72 Chinchbugge Place.
Of course, Jones got all the credit. I showed the newspaper accounts to Holmes. He only laughed, and said: “You see how it is, Watson; Scotland Yard, as usual, gets the glory.” As I perceived he was going to play “Sweet Marie” on his violin, I reached for the morphine, myself.
Codeine (7 Per Cent)
CHRISTOPHER MORLEY
ONE OF THE greatest bookmen in the history of American letters, Christopher Morley (1890–1957) was a novelist, poet, short story writer, journalist, dramatist, and literary critic. Virtually all his work had a gentle kindness of spirit and deep-seated morality. More than any other subject, however, his work exulted in books and the joys they could impart. He was an editor of Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations and a judge for the Book-of-the-Month Club for nearly three decades.
His first novel, Parnassus on Wheels (1917), is a tender romance about a bookseller and the horse-drawn bookshop with which he travels throughout New England. A near-sequel is The Haunted Bookshop (1919), which is a bit more sprightly and involves the same gently heroic bookseller and an assassination attempt on President Woodrow Wilson.
Aficionados of Sherlock Holmes will forever be in Morley’s debt on several fronts. First, before there was a Baker Street Journal, the one literary home for Sherlockian essays, anecdotes, and other information (real and imagined) was in Morley’s “The Bowling Green” column for the New York Evening Post, beginning in 1920, and then for The Saturday Review of Literature from 1924.
Doubleday hired Morley to write the introduction to the Memorial Edition of The Complete Sherlock Holmes in 1930, the year Arthur Conan Doyle died. “In Memoriam” remains arguably the single greatest essay ever written about Holmes and Watson. A few years later, in 1934, he was the prime force behind the formation of the Baker Street Irregulars, one of dozens of clubs he organized, the most famous for many years having been the Three Hours for Lunch Club.
“Codeine (7 Per Cent)” was first published in the November 1945 issue of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine; it was first published in book form in To the Queen’s Taste, edited by Ellery Queen (Boston, Little, Brown, 1946).
CODEINE (7 PER CENT)
Christopher Morley
I HADN’T SEEN Dove Dulcet, former literary agent and amateur detective, for a long time—not since he went into Naval Intelligence in ’39. But last winter the Baker Street Irregulars, that famous club of Sherlock Holmes devotees, invited him to be a guest at their annual dinner. Dulcet is shy and would have preferred not to speak, but of course he was called on and made a very agreeable little impromptu which I supposed the B & O from Washington had given him time to think out.
What Dulcet did was propose a toast to Sherlock Holmes’s unknown sister. She was a good deal younger than either Mycroft or Sherlock, he suggested. The basis of his fancy was Sherlock’s famous remark to Miss Hunter when she was offered that dubious position as governess at the Copper Beeches. “It is not the situation which I should like to see a sister of mine apply for,” said Sherlock Holmes. Dulcet maintained that no man would say that unless he actually did have a sister; and offered ingenious suggestions why Watson had never mentioned her.
The Irregulars, who were getting a bit noisy by then (it was late in the evening), accused Dulcet of being “whimsical,” and chaffed him a good deal. There’s something in Dove’s innocent demeanor, his broad bland face and selvage of saffron-colored hair under
an ivory scalp, that encourages good-natured teasing. He was twitted about the supposed inefficiency of our Intelligence Services—how G2, for instance, was caught actually moving its offices on D-Day, with all its phones and devices cut off so they didn’t even know what was happening. He replied that maybe that was exactly what G2 wanted people to think; perhaps they had Planned It That Way. He suggested gently (he speaks in a voice so soft that people really keep quiet in order to listen) that sometimes the Intelligence people work longer ahead than we suppose. I noticed that he paused then a moment, as though he had more to say and thought better of it. “And now, gentlemen,” he concluded, “you’ll pardon me if I excuse myself and retire. I’ve got one of those delicious fin de siècle rooms here at the old Murray Hill and I can’t wait to get to it. You know the kind of thing, a big brass bedstead, and lace drapes, and a rose-colored secretary with wonderful scroll work.” Of course this gave the stags a laugh, and I caught a small private wink from him as he sat down. So presently I followed him up to his room.
“That was an ingenious surmise of yours,” I said, “about Holmes having a sister.”
“No surmise at all,” he said. “I knew her. Or rather, to be exact, I know her daughter. Violet Hargreave; she works for me.”
“Good heavens!” I exclaimed. “Hargreave? The New York Police Department? As mentioned in The Dancing Men?”
“Of course. Violet’s mother married Sherlock’s friend, Wilson Hargreave. She was Sibyl Holmes, one of the Holmeses who stayed in this country. I didn’t want to mention names at your dinner. In our kind of job you don’t do it. When I went into Intelligence I took Violet with me. She’s absolutely indispensable. Wonderful gift for languages; we use her mostly as an agent overseas.”
If I had asked further questions Dove would have shut up; he always says that the first shot you take in Government work is a transfusion of clam-juice. But we are very old friends and he trusts me. He poured me a drink and then fetched his wallet from under his pillow.
