by Otto Penzler
“You have brought me quite an interesting case, Professor,” he said, at length.
“But it is more than interesting, Mr. Holmes. It is astonishing. It is inexplicable.”
“If it were capable of easy explanation, it would cease to be interesting and, furthermore, you would not have spent the money on a cab-fare to visit me.”
“That, I suppose, is true. But what do you advise, Mr. Holmes?”
“You must give me a little time, Professor. Perhaps you will be good enough to answer one or two questions first?”
“Willingly.”
“This document states that your Committee is satisfied that no member of the staff is implicated. You are satisfied yourself on that point?”
“I am not s-satisfied about anything, Mr. Holmes. As one who has s-spent a great part of his life amongst books and libraries, the whole subject of the maltreatment of books is repugnant to me. Books are my life-blood, Mr. Holmes. But perhaps I have not your s-sympathy?”
“On the contrary, Professor, I have a genuine interest in such matters. For myself, however, I travel in those byways of bibliophily which are associated with my own profession.”
Holmes moved across to a shelf and took out a volume with which I had long been familiar.
“Here, Professor,” he continued, “if I may rid myself of false modesty for the moment, is a little monograph of mine Upon the Distinction Between the Ashes of the Various Tobaccos.”
“Ah, most interesting, Mr. Holmes. Not being a smoker myself, I cannot pretend to appraise your work from the point of view of scholarship, but as a bibliophile and especially as a c-collector of out-of-the-way monographs, may I ask whether the work is still available?”
“That is a spare copy, Professor; you are welcome to it.”
The Professor’s eyes gleamed with voracious pleasure.
“But, Mr. Holmes, this is m-most generous of you. May I b-beg that you will inscribe it? I derive a special delight from what are called ‘association copies.’ ”
“Certainly,” said Holmes, with a smile, as he moved to the writing-table.
“Thank you, thank you,” murmured the Professor, “but I fear I have distracted you from the main issue.”
“Not at all.”
“But what is your p-plan, Mr. Holmes? Perhaps you would like to have a look round the Megatherium? Would you care, for instance, to have luncheon to-morrow—but no, I fear I am engaged at that time. What about a c-cup of tea at 4 o’clock?”
“With pleasure. I trust I may bring Dr. Watson, whose co-operation in such cases has frequently been of great value?”
“Oh-er-yes, certainly.”
But it did not seem to me that there was much cordiality in his assent.
“Very well, then,” said Holmes. “The document which you have left with me gives the facts and I will study them with great care.”
“Thank you, thank you. To-morrow, then, at 4 o’clock,” said the Professor, as he shook hands, “and I shall t-treasure this volume, Mr. Holmes.”
He slipped the monograph into a pocket and left us.
“Well, Watson,” said Holmes, as he filled his pipe, “What do you make of this curious little case?”
“Very little, at present. I haven’t had a chance to examine the data.”
“Quite right, Watson. I will reveal them to you.” Holmes took up the sheet which the Professor had left.
“This is a confidential letter circulated to members of the Megatherium and dated November 1889. I’ll read you a few extracts:
“ ‘In a recent report the Committee drew attention to the serious loss and inconvenience caused by the removal from the Club of books from the circulating library. The practice has continued….At the end of June, the Club paid for no less than 22 missing volumes. By the end of September 15 more were missing….The Committee were disposed to ascribe these malpractices to some undetected individual member, but they have regretfully come to the conclusion that more members than one are involved. They are fully satisfied that no member of the staff is in any way implicated….If the offenders can be identified, the Committee will not hesitate to apply the Rule which empowers expulsion.’
“There, Watson, what do you think of that?”
“Most extraordinary, Holmes—at the Megatherium, of all clubs.”
“Corruptio optimi pessima, my dear Watson.”
“D’you think the Committee is right about the servants?”
“I’m not interested in the Committee’s opinions, Watson, even though they be the opinions of Bishops and Judges and Fellows of the Royal Society. I am concerned only with the facts.”
“But the facts are simple, Holmes. Books are being stolen in considerable quantities from the club and the thief, or thieves, have not been traced.”
“Admirably succinct, my dear Watson. And the motive?”
“The thief’s usual motive, I suppose—the lure of illicit gain.”
“But what gain, Watson? If you took half a dozen books, with the mark of a circulating library on them, to a secondhand bookseller, how much would you expect to get for them?”
“Very little, certainly, Holmes.”
“Yes, and that is why the Committee is probably right in ruling out the servants—not that I believe in ruling out anybody or anything on a priori grounds. But the motive of gain won’t do. You must try again, Watson.”
“Well, of course, people are careless about books, especially when they belong to someone else. Isn’t it possible that members take these books away from the club, intending to return them, and then leave them in the train or mislay them at home?”
“Not bad, my dear Watson, and a perfectly reasonable solution if we were dealing with a loss of three or four volumes. In that event our Professor would probably not have troubled to enlist my humble services. But look at the figures, Watson—twenty-two books missing in June, fifteen more in September. There’s something more than casual forgetfulness in that.”
“That’s true, Holmes, and I suppose we can’t discover much before we keep our appointment at the Megatherium tomorrow.”
“On the contrary, my dear Watson, I hope to pursue a little independent investigation this evening.”
“I should be delighted to accompany you, Holmes.”
“I am sure you would, Watson, but if you will forgive me for saying so, the little inquiry I have to make is of a personal nature and I think it might be more fruitful if I were alone.”
“Oh, very well,” I replied, a little nettled at Holmes’s superior manner, “I can employ myself very profitably in reading this new work on surgical technique which has just come to hand.”
I saw little of Holmes on the following morning. He made no reference to the Megatherium case at breakfast and disappeared shortly afterwards. At luncheon he was in high spirits. There was a gleam in his eye which showed me that he was happily on the trail.
“Holmes,” I said, “you have discovered something.”
“My dear Watson,” he replied, “your acuteness does you credit. I have discovered that after an active morning I am extremely hungry.”
But I was not to be put off.
“Come, Holmes, I am too old a campaigner to be bluffed in that way. How far have you penetrated into the Megatherium mystery?”
“Far enough to make me look forward to our tea-party with a lively interest.”
Being familiar with my friend’s bantering manner, I recognized that it was no good pressing him with further questions for the moment.
Shortly after 4 o’clock Holmes and I presented ourselves at the portals of the Megatherium. The head porter received us very courteously and seemed, I thought, almost to recognize Sherlock Holmes. He conducted us to a seat in the entrance-hall and, as soon as our host appeared, we made our way up the noble staircase to the long drawing-room on the first floor.
“Now let me order some tea,” said the Professor. “Do you like anything to eat with it, Mr. Holmes?”
“Just a
biscuit for me, Professor, but my friend Watson has an enormous appetite.”
“Really, Holmes——” I began.
“No, no. Just a little pleasantry of mine,” said Holmes, quickly. I thought I observed an expression of relief on the Professor’s face.
“Well, now, about our p-problem, Mr. Holmes. Is there any further information that I can give you?”
“I should like to have a list of the titles of the books which have most recently disappeared.”
“Certainly, Mr. Holmes, I can get that for you at once.”
The Professor left us for a few minutes and returned with a paper in his hand. I looked over Holmes’s shoulder while he read and recognized several well-known books that had been recently published, such as Robbery under Arms, Troy Town, The Economic Interpretation of History, The Wrong Box, and Three Men in a Boat.
“Do you make any particular deductions from the titles, Mr. Holmes?” the Professor asked.
“I think not,” Holmes replied; “there are, of course, certain very popular works of fiction, some other books of more general interest, and a few titles of minor importance. I do not think one could draw any conclusion about the culprit’s special sphere of interest.”
“You think not? Well, I agree, Mr. Holmes. It is all very b-baffling.”
“Ah,” said Holmes suddenly, “this title reminds me of something.”
“What is that, Mr. Holmes?”
“I see that one of the missing books is Plain Tales from the Hills. It happens that I saw an exceptionally interesting copy of that book not long ago. It was an advance copy, specially bound and inscribed for presentation to the author’s godson who was sailing for India before the date of publication.”
“Really, Mr. Holmes, really? That is of the greatest interest to me.”
“Your own collection, Professor, is, I suspect, rich in items of such a kind?”
“Well, well, it is not for me to b-boast, Mr. Holmes, but I certainly have one or two volumes of unique association value on my shelves. I am a poor man and do not aspire to first folios, but the p-pride of my collection is that it could not have been assembled through the ordinary channels of trade….But to return to our problem, is there anything else in the Club which you would like to investigate?”
“I think not,” said Holmes, “but I must confess that the description of your collection has whetted my own bibliographical appetite.”
The Professor flushed with pride.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, if you and your friend would really care to see my few t-treasures, I should be honoured. My rooms are not f-far from here.”
“Then let us go,” said Holmes, with decision.
I confess that I was somewhat puzzled by my friend’s behaviour. He seemed to have forgotten the misfortunes of the Megatherium and to be taking a wholly disproportionate interest in the eccentricities of the Wiskerton collection.
When we reached the Professor’s rooms I had a further surprise. I had expected not luxury, of course, but at least some measure of elegance and comfort. Instead, the chairs and tables, the carpets and curtains, everything, in fact, seemed to be of the cheapest quality; even the bookshelves were of plain deal and roughly put together. The books themselves were another matter. They were classified like no other library I had ever seen. In one section were presentation copies from authors; in another were proof-copies bound in what is known as “binder’s cloth”; in another were review copies; in another were pamphlets, monographs, and off-prints of all kinds.
“There you are, Mr. Holmes,” said the Professor, with all the pride of ownership. “You may think it is a c-collection of oddities, but for me every one of those volumes has a p-personal and s-separate association—including the item which came into my hands yesterday afternoon.”
“Quite so,” said Holmes, thoughtfully, “and yet they all have a common characteristic.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“No? But I am waiting to see the remainder of your collection, Professor. When I have seen the whole of your library, I shall perhaps be able to explain myself more clearly.”
The Professor flushed with annoyance.
“Really, Mr. Holmes, I had been warned of some of your p-peculiarities of manner; but I am entirely at a loss to know what you are d-driving at.”
“In that case, Professor, I will thank you for your hospitality and will beg leave to return to the Megatherium for consultation with the Secretary.”
“To tell him that you can’t f-find the missing books?”
Sherlock Holmes said nothing for a moment. Then he looked straight into the Professor’s face and said, very slowly:
“On the contrary, Professor Wiskerton, I shall tell the Secretary that I can direct him to the precise address at which the books may be found.”
There was silence. Then an extraordinary thing happened.
The Professor turned away and literally crumpled into a chair; then he looked up at Holmes with the expression of a terrified child:
“Don’t do it, Mr. Holmes. Don’t do it, I b-b-beseech you. I’ll t-tell you everything.”
“Where are the books?” asked Holmes, sternly.
“Come with me and I’ll show you.”
The Professor shuffled out and led us into a dismal bedroom. With a trembling hand he felt in his pocket for his keys and opened a cupboard alongside the wall. Several rows of books were revealed and I quickly recognized one or two titles that I had seen on the Megatherium list.
“Oh, what m-must you think of me, Mr. Holmes?” the Professor began, whimpering.
“My opinion is irrelevant,” said Sherlock Holmes, sharply. “Have you any packing-cases?”
“No, but I d-daresay my landlord might be able to find some.”
“Send for him.”
In a few minutes the landlord appeared. Yes, he thought he could find a sufficient number of cases to take the books in the cupboard.
“Professor Wiskerton,” said Holmes, “is anxious to have all these books packed at once and sent to the Megatherium, Pall Mall. The matter is urgent.”
“Very good, sir. Any letter or message to go with them?”
“No,” said Holmes, curtly, “but yes—stop a minute.”
He took a pencil and a visiting-card from his pocket and wrote “With the compliments of” above the name.
“See that this card is firmly attached to the first of the packing-cases. Is that clear?”
“Quite correct, sir, if that’s what the Professor wants.”
“That is what the Professor most particularly wants. Is it not, Professor?” said Holmes, with great emphasis.
“Yes, yes, I suppose so. But c-come back with me into the other room and l-let me explain.”
We returned to the sitting-room and the Professor began:
“Doubtless I seem to you either ridiculous or despicable or both. I have had two p-passions in my life—a passion for s-saving money and a passion for acquiring b-books. As a result of an unfortunate dispute with the Dean of my faculty at the University, I retired at a c-comparatively early age and on a very small p-pension. I was determined to amass a collection of books; I was equally determined not to s-spend my precious savings on them. The idea came to me that my library should be unique, in that all the books in it should be acquired by some means other than p-purchase. I had friends amongst authors, printers, and publishers, and I did pretty well, but there were many recently published books that I wanted and saw no m-means of getting until—well, until I absent-mindedly brought home one of the circulating library books from the Megatherium. I meant to return it, of course. But I didn’t. Instead, I b-brought home another one….”
“Facilis descensus…,” murmured Holmes.
“Exactly, Mr. Holmes, exactly. Then, when the Committee began to notice that books were disappearing, I was in a quandary. But I remembered hearing someone say in another connexion that the b-best defence was attack and I thought that if I were the first to go to you, I should be
the last to be s-suspected.”
“I see,” said Holmes. “Thank you, Professor Wiskerton.”
“And now what are you going to do?”
“First,” replied Holmes, “I am going to make certain that your landlord has those cases ready for despatch. After that, Dr. Watson and I have an engagement at St. James’s Hall.”
—
“A trivial little case, Watson, but not wholly without interest,” said Holmes, when we returned from the concert hall to Baker Street.
“A most contemptible case, in my opinion. Did you guess from the first that Wiskerton himself was the thief?”
“Not quite, Watson. I never guess. I endeavour to observe. And the first thing I observed about Professor Wiskerton was that he was a miser—the altercation with the cabman, the shabby clothes, the unwillingness to invite us to lunch. That he was an enthusiastic bibliophile was, of course, obvious. At first I was not quite certain how to fit these two characteristics properly together, but after yesterday’s interview I remembered that the head porter of the Megatherium had been a useful ally of mine in his earlier days as a Commissionaire and I thought a private talk with him might be useful. His brief characterization put me on the right track at once—‘Always here reading,’ he said, ‘but never takes a square meal in the club.’ After that, and after a little hasty research this morning into the Professor’s academic career, I had little doubt.”
“But don’t you still think it extraordinary, in spite of what he said, that he should have taken the risk of coming to consult you?”
“Of course it’s extraordinary, Watson. Wiskerton’s an extraordinary man. If, as I hope, he has the decency to resign from the Megatherium, I shall suggest to Mycroft that he puts him up for the Diogenes.”
The Adventure of the Noble Husband
PETER CANNON
ALTHOUGH BEST KNOWN for his scholarly writings about H. P. Lovecraft and fictional works based on the famed horror writer’s Cthulhu Mythos, Peter Cannon (1951– ), currently an editor at Publishers Weekly specializing in mystery fiction, has also produced several works involving Sherlock Holmes. His short novel Pulptime: Being a Singular Adventure of Sherlock Holmes, H. P. Lovecraft, and the Kalem Club, as if Narrated by Frank Belknap Long, Jr. (1984) combines two of his fields of interest.
