The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories

by Otto Penzler

  Sheer Luck Again

  STANLEY RUBINSTEIN

  AS A PROMINENT lawyer specializing in literary and publishing matters, Stanley Jack Rubinstein (1890–1975) was the chairman of Burke Publishing and was instrumental in the formation of Andre Deutsch, a prominent British publishing house.

  He was also a well-known historian, with his best-known work, Historians of London (1968), subtitled An Account of the Many Surveys, Histories, Perambulations, Maps, and Engravings Made About the City and Its Environs, and of the Dedicated Londoners Who Made Them, covering the era up to 1900. His other major contribution to the history of London is the colorful historical work The Street Trader’s Lot, London: 1851. Being an Account of the Lives, Miseries, Joys & Chequered Activities of the London Street Sellers as Recorded by Henry Mayhew (1947), which is illustrated with twenty-five contemporary drawings representing various traders whose little stalls on crowded streets sold everything from oysters to Hindu tracts and birds’ nests.

  Evidence that the present parody was not Rubinstein’s only foray into the mystery-writing world is his own crime novel Merry Murder (1949), which features Inspector Rogers and Thomas Willmott.

  “Sheer Luck Again” was originally published in the April 1923 issue of The Detective Magazine.

  SHEER LUCK AGAIN

  Stanley Rubinstein

  OWING TO MY wife’s rooted objection to Sheerluck Combs, it was some little time since I had seen him, and I freely confess that it was with trepidation that I once more knocked upon the well-known door in Baker Street.

  “Come in!” cried the voice of my revered master. And before I could turn the handle: “Welcome back, my prodigal Whatson!”

  “How the dickens did you know it was me?” I gasped, forgetting my grammar in my admiration for my friend.

  Combs watched a cloud of smoke up the chimney.

  “Very simple,” he said. “Your hair-oil, my dear chap, preceded you. Since I saw you last I have written a little monograph on the peculiar odour and flavour of over a hundred and fifty different varieties of hair-oils. I could distinguish your favourite brand a mile off.”

  I started to shower laudatory terms upon my illustrious friend, who, I was delighted to find, had lost none of his powers of perception, but Combs stopped me with an imperative gesture.

  “Enough,” he said. “Father, son—that is, Whatson, I cannot tell a lie even to you. As a matter of fact, I was standing at the window as you came up the street.

  The simplicity with which he told the truth, even at the risk of losing a point, was wonderful. I gazed at my friend with an admiration which almost amounted to adoration.

  “I have come on business,” I said.

  “I know,” replied Combs.

  “How?” I cried in amazement.

  “You have just told me so,” he replied. “It is important business,” he added.

  “Wonderful!” I could not help ejaculating. “How could you know that?”

  Combs’s answer was brilliantly characteristic of his marvellous reasoning.

  “When an ordinary tidy man comes out without a tie on it denotes haste; haste in a man of your pronounced sloth denotes excitement; excitement in one of your temperament denotes importance. Simple deduction, my dear Whatson. You should really take up the study of elementary mathematics again; it refreshes the brain. I am inclined to the belief that you have lost something,” he added.

  I was too surprised to speak for a moment.

  “And how in the name of good fortune have you guessed at the reason for my coming here?” I gasped.

  Combs looked surprised for just the fraction of a second.

  “When an educated gentleman sniffs instead of blowing his nose, it is a pretty good sign that he has lost his handkerchief.”

  The man’s perception and knowledge of life was really remarkable.

  “I could tell you more about yourself,” he said.

  “Do.” I prompted him, ever eager for evidence of my friend’s methods.

  “You have taken to shaving with a safety razor,” he replied.

  It was true. My wife had presented me with one as a wedding present, and some months back had persuaded me to use it.

  “I am really at a loss to explain how you can detect that,” I said.

  “My dear Whatson, in the old days of your bachelorship you used to cut yourself with unfailing regularity every time you shaved; but now neither your chin nor your cheeks show any sign of those scars which I always used to think of as wounds honourably incurred in your daily wrestle with the razor. Your clean-shaven appearance is a sufficient sign that you have not ceased to shave, and your hand is, if anything, less steady than it used to be. In fact, if I did not fear to hurt your feelings, I should say that you had taken to drink.”

  I covered my burning face with my hands.

  “I swear it was through no fault of mine,” I cried.

  “Your excuses must wait,” said Combs coldly. “Let me hear what brought you here. State the facts as shortly as you can. I have not too much time. The case of the sugar king’s lost pianola took me longer than I care to admit, and I am behindhand with two or three other important cases I am engaged on.”

  A dreary film spread over his eyes, and but for the irregular twitching of his interlocked finger-tips one could have thought him dead.

  I cleared my throat and began.

  “After dinner last night I went up to my study and locked the door.”

  “Ha!” cried Combs. “You were afraid of something. What was it? You blush, man. What’s the matter?”

  “Well, you see——” I stammered.

  “I see nothing,” said Combs impatiently. “I am a sleuthhound—the sleuthhound,” he added, “not a mere spiritualist.”

  “Well, I must confess that my wife has turned vegetarian, and——”

  “And that the dinner she provided proving unfilling, you repaired to your study to supply the deficiency by consuming the sandwiches which you had thoughtfully bought during the day. Am I right?” he asked.

  “You are right—as you always are,” I replied. “And for once I can almost follow your mental reasoning. Having consumed the sandwiches and—er—the contents of my flask, I unlocked my desk with the intention of doing that which I had many times contemplated, but had never up till now had the time to do.”

  “Go on,” said Combs, “you interest me.”

  “My intention was to look through my notes of the cases in which I have been associated with you, and loose another selection upon an expectant and ever ready public.”

  Combs shrugged his eyebrows.

  “Upon the same terms as before, I assume,” he asked carelessly—“thirty per cent of the royalties to you, and—er—the balance to me?”

  “Willingly,” I said, trying to speak calmly, “but it can never be.”

  “Why not?” queried Combs curtly.

  “Because the papers have been stolen,” I said.

  “Merciful powers!” cried Combs, springing from his seat, and with arms outstretched he flung himself towards me.

  I verily believed that my last moments had come. But I had cruelly misjudged my friend, for he merely seized the ’cello which hung upon the wall over my head and began zigzagging, jazzing, and jigsawing all over the room. Up and down, in and out, the walls resounding to the wild music he extracted from the wonderful instrument, the gift of the Rajah of Shampoo, to whom Combs had once rendered some small service. At first it was a frenzied tune that he plucked from the strings, but as he became exhausted it gradually declined in violence, until, in the middle of a crooning lullaby, he flung the valuable instrument, the gift—er—yes, I mentioned that just now—into the wastepaper basket, and himself, a quivering mass, into his armchair.

  He hardly had the strength to sob, but sob he did, such sobs as I have never heard but once before, an occasion when, disguised as Sultanas, we entered the harem of the Sultan of Badladd to rescue from his clutches a lady of high and royal lineage.


  Presently he overcame his emotions.

  “Whatson,” he said, “I may in time learn to forget, but forgive—never. I relied upon you—you, my Boswell. However, tears avail me naught. I have been weak. I will be strong. Let me have the details. It may yet be time to save the papers.” And Combs was once more the sleuthhound, prepared to listen with that passive attention which he gave to the most impersonal of cases.

  “Having locked the door of my study,” I said, “I took out all my notes, perused them, and arranged them in two piles upon the table. Upon the left-hand pile I placed those in which our efforts were—er—not so successful as they might have been. You remember, for instance, the mysterious disappearance of the seven-chinned lady?”

  “I found the lady, but never recovered the chins,” said Combs. “I remember! And the circus proprietor refused to take her back without them. Go on!” he added.

  “And upon the right-hand pile,” I continued, “I placed all the data of some dozen cases which I thought might now be safely placed before the public.”

  “And then?” queried Combs.

  “I took two foolscap envelopes,” I said, “and addressed one to you and one to the publishers. I placed these face downwards on the table——”

  “I follow you with attention,” said Combs.

  “And shuffled them as if they had been dominoes. You see, I was undecided as to whether I should send the papers direct to the publishers or to you to peruse and, if necessary, revise. I knew, of course, that if you were not busy I should receive them back by return, but I feared lest in the rush of business you might overlook them.”

  “You were quite right,” said Combs. “I probably should have.”

  “So I selected this method of determining which course to adopt. I was just about to turn over one of the envelopes which would have determined the destination of the papers, when I happened to glance at the clock on the mantelshelf.”

  “And the time?” said Combs. “This is important.”

  “It was 10:23,” I replied. “I used to be, as you know, an abstemious man, but a prolonged vegetarian diet has lowered my stamina. In short, I seized my hat, coat, and umbrella, and ran round the corner to the Duke of Edinburgh to—er—refill my flask.”

  “Ah!” said Combs, and a long sigh escaped him. “Did you close the door behind you?”

  “The front door, yes; the study door, no,” I replied, “but I swear I was not away ten minutes, for, as you know, they turn you out—er—that is, close the doors at 10:30, and I came straight back. And as there are no roads to cross, there are no kerbs to trip over, either,” I added rather irrelevantly.

  “Did you find the front door open on your return?” asked Combs.

  “No; all was apparently as I left it. I let myself in with my latchkey and went upstairs to my study. The papers and the envelopes had vanished!”

  “Great Caesar!” cried Combs, and great beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. “You have placed a mighty powerful weapon into the hands of my enemies,” he added.

  “Alas, I know!” I replied. “But do not rub it in.”

  “Come,” said Combs, starting up, “there is no time to be lost. This is obviously the work of an opposition gang. I have had my eye upon them for a long time. They are an unscrupulous crowd, and will stick at nothing. Let us repair to the scene of the tragedy.”

  With Combs to think was to act, and in less time than it takes me to write it we were in the street and had hailed a passing taxi.

  “Where to?” queried the driver.

  I told him the address.

  “I ’aven’t enough petrol,” he said, preparing to move on.

  “You lie, George Blarnie, and you know it,” said Combs quietly.

  “ ’Ere, ’oo are you a-callin’ nimes, anyway? Lor lumme, if it ain’t Mister Sheerluck Combs! Jump in, yer worship! I’m sorry I didn’t reckergnise yer before.”

  As the cab sped Hampstead Heath–ward, Combs lolled back in the corner, his brow knitted in deep thought.

  “Have you formed any theories?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” replied Combs. “It is a capital offence to form theories before knowing all the facts. Besides, it is a waste of time. Have you communicated with Scotland Yard?” he queried.

  “How can you ask such a question?” I cried. “Such an action on my part would have betokened a lack of faith in your powers.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t thinking of the detective branch, but of the lost property office,” he rejoined nonchalantly. “But here we are. Have you any change on you, my dear Whatson? I have left my purse at home.”

  I paid the cabman, who touched his hat, with a wink.

  “You thort ter stop my little gimes,” he said, “but I’m still hat it, yer see. Only this form of daylight ’igh robbery is licensed, so yer can’t touch me. Good-d’y ter you, Mister Combs!” And he was off.

  “A terrible villain that,” said Combs. “He is one of the most expert bungalow-breakers in the kingdom. He was, you will recollect, the principal villain in the strange case of the commercial traveller’s oil-stove.”

  “I remember it well,” I replied.

  My house is a basement one of the ordinary terrace type, three stories high, and with eleven steps leading down to the back door, which opens on to a narrow area, from which the coal-cellar, which is situated under the pavement, is also approached. There is no exit from the rear of the house, and the back windows overlook the Regents Canal, which is only separated from the wall of the house by a narrow towpath.

  As I ascended the four stone steps up to the front door, and put my latchkey into the lock, fears assailed me for the first time; for Combs had not set foot in our house since my wife discovered the part he played in capturing those concerned in the bank robbery in Siam, as a result of which a second-cousin of hers by marriage had not yet returned to this country.

  Evidently Combs had the same fears, for as I opened the door he whispered to me, “Remember, I’m the plumber.”

  As we stepped into the house my wife crossed the hall.

  “The plumber, my dear,” I said. “He has—er—come to see me about his windpipe.” And I led the way straight up to my study, which is on the second floor and in the front of the house.

  I must confess that I had expected Combs to praise me for this brilliant impromptuism. But as soon as I had closed the door he burst out, “Fool, idiot, dolt! I’ve come to repair something, not to be repaired. I may have to make a thorough examination both inside and out. Are your patients in the habit of crawling around the house on all fours?” And he crossed to the door and locked it.

  “Now,” he said, “let us start our investigations. I will commence by interviewing your staff.”

  “Alas!” I replied. “We have no staff; it left to make munitions, and is now making eyes from the back row of the chorus.”

  Combs frowned.

  “I hate to have to suspect your wife so early in the proceedings, but your statement leaves me no alternative,” he said.

  “I can answer for my wife,” I replied. “She was at the picture palace all the evening. She knows nothing of this, and, indeed, must never know. Remember, if she so much as suspected who you were she’d go home to her mother at once.”

  “And you do not propose to inform her who I am?” queried Combs.

  “Not just yet, old friend,” I replied. Combs shrugged his shoulders.

  “Comme vous voulez,” he replied in an irreproachable accent. “You married men are much to be admired.”

  Then, dropping on his knees, he whipped out his tape measure and a large square magnifying glass.

  “The mise-en-scène has not been touched since last night,” I said. “There is the desk, and that is the table.” And I pointed to the pieces of furniture in question.

  “I wonder!” said Combs to himself, as he ceased for a moment crawling about the floor on all fours in order to draw a large note of interrogation in his note-book.

&nbs
p; “Ha!” he suddenly exclaimed, with his eyes nearly on the carpet. “Fresh mud.”

  “I don’t know how it can have come there,” I said guiltily. “I took off my boots before dinner last night, and did not come into this room until after.”

  “You must have brought it back with you when you returned from the Duke of Edinburgh,” said Combs, with a piercing glance.

  I hung my head in silence.

  His investigations concluded, Combs dropped into an armchair, and, lighting his pipe, was soon shrouded in thick smoke.

  Suddenly he sprang up, walked across the room to the telephone, and made a noise like a telephone-bell.

  “Go and tell your wife,” he said, “that a friend whose name you were unable to catch has rung up and wants her to go round immediately on urgent private business.”

  I went and found my wife, and repeated Combs’s message to her.

  “Has she gone yet?” Combs asked eagerly on my return. “I want to examine the house.”

  “I’m afraid not,” I replied. “She asked me how she was to know where to go if I hadn’t caught the name of her would-be hostess.”

  “Bah!” hissed Combs. “You always bungle everything. I must proceed upon my usual plan of examination.

  “If I run into your wife I shall repeat to her your absurd yarn about me being the plumber, and add that you have called me in to see the windpipes which you suspect of having developed a leak. Mind you support me in any questions you are asked.” And before I had time to nod assent he had left the room.

  I picked up a novel and tried to read, but I found my mind reverting to my tragic carelessness in having allowed my friend’s precious documents to be stolen. I cursed the day I was born, the day I was introduced to Combs, the day my wife became a vegetarian, and, because it happened to be the same day, the day I first tasted alcoholic liquor.

  I believe I must have dropped off to sleep, for I awoke to find Combs standing beside me. I could see at once that he had learnt nothing by his tour of the house.

  “I should say from the dust that none of the windows or the back door have been opened for a twelvemonth,” he said wearily.